Beneath you will find a short story that I wrote for my favourite module in university, which explores the connection between mythology and the creative process. ​

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Aquarius: A constellation of the zodiac. Water-carrier. Ganymede, the loveliest of all mortals, young prince of Trojan, was abducted to Mount Olympus by an eagle, Aquila, under the command of Zeus. He was appointed as a cup-bearer, so he might be among the immortals, for the sake of his beauty.

 

He always smokes after sex.

 

When the sun ascends, driving off the last few drops of starlight and moonlight, he sits on our bed, holding a burning cigarette, its smoke drifting off lazily in the cold morning air. Sitting against the gradual light of dawn beside him, he smiles gently when our eyes meet.

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Around ten o’clock, we cook breakfast, crowding together in our small kitchen, the smells of burnt bacon and fried eggs wafting through the sound of boiling coffee.

As we eat, we talk of art, our other passion – of death and a redheaded maiden embracing, or lonely stars above the Rhône.

 

We met one winter evening seven years ago in London, two young men sitting side by side in front of Tintoretto’s The Origin of the Milky Way, holding our sketchbooks and pencil and observing carefully its colours and details.

 

It took one simple line to flip the hourglass:

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‘Excuse me, would you mind lending me your pencil sharpener?’

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We kissed for the first time on a late summer night – our paintings and sketches spread all around on the floor – I licked my teeth when we parted, tasting tobacco and mint.

 

Staring into his eyes, I watched quietly as they dilated, unraveling their hidden universe – what could lie beyond them? Was there a lonely heart waiting to be filled? Or hidden secrets longing to be found? Outside the opened window, a few stars had found their way – Polaris had risen above the shadows, shining the brightest.

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But now he is gone.

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A car accident – he was riding his bike, newly repaired after our trip to Cornwall – a truck had come out of nowhere, mowing him down without a moment’s thought.

 

Now he has returned to the sky, back to the Milky Way, dissolving with the constellations. As I watch them set his coffin down into the opened hole, I cannot even find the strength to weep, realising the truth, the reality: mortals such as we, why do we even dare to dream of immortality with flesh so brief and frail? How are we so pathetic to claim eternal love, when we exist as temporarily as a mayfly? When one lifetime is only equivalent to a star’s single breath?

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Sitting in our old bedroom, I lit up a cigarette and begin – images of my lover lingering deathlessly in pencil and oil paint.