Glorious Exploits

by Ferdia Lennon

“Fear not, for I come not to torment, though you do deserve tormenting. I come to engage you in a theatrical performance!”

“It’s poetry we’re doing,” he whispers. “It wouldn’t mean a thing if it were easy.”

Hunger, what an odd thing it is. Is the source of all love a lacking? Is that what creates emotion? Not a presence but an absence. Do you need to be emptied to be filled?

That even though he’d done and suffered all those horrible things, he was still good; whether the gods cared didn’t matter. And I remember as a kid feeling that this was awfully sad and beautiful. There was dignity even in the worst that could happen under this sky, and I felt less alone.

I don’t hate you. How could I? Even though I know you came to make us slaves. I can’t hate you. I believe any city that gave us those plays has something worth saving.

It’s beautiful, certainly, but Gelon always needed something else. Most people believe in the myths ’cause we attach them to real places, and it adds to what’s already there, but with Gelon, it’s the contrary. He believes in what’s right in front of him through the stories we tell.

Hubris, methinks.

The gods have brought me low, just like Heracles, yet thinking this raises my spirits some, and though it hurts like a bastard, putting a spin on the pain makes it my own.

Anything is possible, and it always has been. For the world was once just a dream in a god’s eye, and the man who gives up on himself makes that very same god look away.

But I think I’m happy. I know I am. Sometimes I feel like crying, but I reckon that’s ’cause at last things are happening, and I care how they unfold.

“To tragedy.” “To tragedy!”