The God of Clay and Fennel Fire: A Retelling of The Golden Goose

Chapter II: Gods of Reckless Ways

Prometheus stood on the flat roof of his home, the orange stone burning the soles of his feet. He looked out on the plot of land he had chosen. The northern and eastern edges were forested with the ocean to the west and steep cliffs to the south. It was perfect.

His creations would be happy here. They would build an earthly Olympus and live like the gods themselves. They were going to take their form; might as well take their customs as well. They would probably form a better society in any case.

He sighed contently and jumped down from the house into the dust below. A small cloud billowed around his feet and he entered his home. It was dark and damp. A nice reprieve from the desert-like conditions outside.

He lit a candle and sat back down at on his stool.

The house was small and unimpressive. A small cot was pushed into a corner, a small square table pressed up beside it. The rest of the house was filled with mounds of clay and dispersed tools. Hammers, nails, chisels...everything a master sculptor could need.

And Prometheus was a master. In the corner of the room stood a clay figure of the greatest quality: tall and lithe, its arms able, its legs strong. The first man.

Mankind. It was a beautiful word. Humanity. It was almost poetic, a neutral term. A blank canvas on which his creations could forge their own identity. There would be classes and vocations. Each man, a master at his own craft. There would be brothers and friends, loyalty forged within their very being. And their blood would run red, a sign of their mortality as opposed to the golden blood of eternal life that flowed even within Prometheus' veins.

It would be beautiful, each man striving to make his mark while he still could. The motivator of mortality. These men would accomplish great things.

Prometheus reached for the pile of clay at his side and grabbed a handful of moist, sticky mud. He slathered it on the shoulder of the figure before him. This man would be shorter, stronger. With the variety of goals and the variety of characters that his men would have, it was only appropriate that their physical shells would be a mirror of their state. It all tied in together.

Prometheus gently smoothed out the shoulder, adding more clay until it rippled with un-awakened muscle. He could almost see it: this man would be a warrior, protecting his city from the gods who would without question grow jealous. He would most likely die in battle, a battle cry his final words.

A knock echoed off the wooden door and Epimetheus walked in.

Prometheus didn't look up. Epimetheus folded his hands behind his back and began walking around the room, whistling.

He walked to the corner. "Only one?"

Prometheus didn't respond.

Epimetheus was still for a moment before continuing on in his inspection. Prometheus heard the squeak of springs as Epimetheus sat on his cot and bounced for a moment. It was silent. Then the squeaking began again, as if the younger brother was testing it out.

And then it was over. The whistling began again. And then a curse as he stepped in a pile of wet clay. The discard pile. Prometheus threw out whatever was too moist to hold onto the metal frame of his creations.

He felt a heavy breath on his shoulder.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Wasting a lot of time. It's a single shoulder, Prometheus. It doesn't have to be as perfect as mine. At this rate, it will take you weeks, if not months to finish."