Zeus was sitting on the edge of the bookshelf. He was fed up with it all. “Enough of these myths, they ruin the honesty of good things.” He mumbled as he stood up to stomp around and fume a bit more like only one of his stature could. “Relax, they always made you look good. Don’t make such a big fuss about them.” Came a faint voice from among the dusty books, only to be followed by a tiny flash and a yelp.

The bookshelf was an oblong four-foot black piece of almost-real teak. The leaves of the fern bellow will reach the shelf in a year or two if left untouched. Zeus hated this. No way that this no good weed shall reach the top of the sky. He mildly tolerated the dust on his books. Except on Tome Six. That one should be spotless. Except for those particular singe marks and of course for those few missing pages. But other than the loose threads, a couple of seemingly perpetually wet spots. Oh, don’t forget the inescapable layer of dust. Zeus was always pissed about that. The Tomes were leather-bound, of course, with a cheap golden looking finish. There were a couple of pinkish softcover books with friendly and giggly lettering on their spines wedged between Tome Three and Four. Zeus seemed unusually conflicted about these and almost invisibly started to blush every time somebody asked him why these particular books seemed less dusty than the rest. He would declare that Zeus wasn’t all knowing and that he hated it. What ‘it’ meant in this context remained unclear. The rest of the room wherein this bookshelf was situated was far away. Sometimes they could see lights flicker or hear ominous thundering that went on for millennia. Zeus claimed that the Titans were the cause of this, but he always became paranoid if he would be left alone for too long.

Today was different, just like yesterday or tomorrow will be. Zeus was fuming, that was more than regular. That Tome Six had a tiny new singe on its side was a bit more extraordinary, but nothing you would roast a Cherub for. What made today different was the fact today would be a real day. “Why can’t they just, you know end where we stop telling them?” Zeus sat down again, sounding a bit more tired than angry now. “Every time, it starts out good, then turns bizarre and wildly interesting with a dramatic ending and then it just simmers on into forgotten agony like Dyonisus’s cooking skills.” The faint voice tried again, this time sounding more cautious and maybe even like it has prepared himself with a piece of straightened metal wiggly thing that looked like it has been used before in such situations. “You got to give him credit for trying at least.” It remembered to let the wiggly thing stand on its own without him holding on to it. “I don’t see what the big deal is anyway, Zeus. People know the good stuff, the rest is afterlife. Isn’t it? See them as your personal diary, or garden as you seem to treat them.” It made itself ready and grabbed his ears, they always tingled for hours if he didn’t. The wiggly thing fell over. It didn’t even make a sound or anything that might be of comedic effect. It just fell over and he was looking at it, almost expectantly. Not even a spark. Zeus sighed and looked toward the books on his shelf. Looked downward towards that overreaching, self-righteous fern that was slowly mocking him. It wasn’t how it used to be. When there weren’t so many Tomes. When they weren’t so dusty. When Tome Six wasn’t only an outstanding masterpiece hidden among the rest, but the one that became by deeds and tales. The more there appeared the less they mattered. This Zeus damned bookshelf was his curse. They gave him a headache, but the only thing followed from those was a zapped Herm and that was far from less entertaining than what Athene did on an off day. Full armor, he thought, that was true, but it’s not like anybody ever mentioned the backward shinguards. Then he heard the scribble again. Zeus jumped to his feet and padded over as fast as he could. He hated Tome Nine for this, it was such a punch to his stature.

Herm wedged himself into the Last Tome, the Myth must go on and he must and mustn’t do his duty. ‘Zeus was sitting on the edge of the bookshelf. He was fed up with it all. “Enough of these myths, they ruin the honesty of good thing.” He mumbled as he stood up to stomp around…’ Herm then stopped to the sound of something falling over something else and cursing. Herm was quite satisfied with Tome Nine, it added a well-needed lightheartedness to it all. ‘…and fume a bit more like only one of his stature could.’ If he could only get more done every time he got in there. If he could only understand instead of acting like, well like he always acts. Maybe that should be something for the next Tome. ‘The graceful years of Zeus’. It had a certain ring to it that he liked. Especially if he disregarded the static in his ears. He should have learned by now; wire first, talking second.

The bookshelf hang in its room. The room was filled with soft warm light today. Water came pouring at the stems of the fern onto the soil plateau that it grew from. It never questioned where it came from, but enjoyed the feeling as it soaked the ground around its roots. They were a bit cramped up and sometimes it wished that the day of release would come again and the soil would loosen up so that his poor old roots may shoot further. But it enjoyed the water, his roots sucking it in. As it got pumped up through his stem and out towards the tips of his leaves. He felt fresh again. A light breeze moved it’s leaves aside and some more water drizzled onto that the last dry spot on his shady side. He liked it when such a breeze came around on such an occasion. It was good.

Zeus bent the wiggly thing double and threw it aside. He didn’t know where Herm got that thing from, but Hephaestus would learn to smite in a day if he ever saw him flutter around with it.  “Where was that wretched child again?” murmured Zeus as he walked past the Tomes, listening as he went.




That night, a book fell to the ground next to a potted fern. Somewhere a satisfied smile hung in the air.


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