Olympus | A flash fiction story
71 of 💯
I am the goddess of capitalism. Every day, I look down from the top of the tower I built to show the world — quite literally — who’s on top. I look at their sad finite lives while I enjoy all the life extension money can buy.
And yet, all the pleasures I enjoy in Olympus — the best food, a sea of beautiful bodies ready to pleasure me, the finest entertainment — it’s all empty, bland, insipid. My life is meaningless without her.
Every night, I stare at an anachronism — an icon in the shape of a phone — while living another. This isn’t the age of romance, that time is long gone. Yet here I am, a goddess asking herself if she should just call her human lover — or rather, ex-lover — and invite her for a cup of tea in Olympus.
The part that hurts the most is I pushed her away to keep my divinity, to keep the illusion that I was above humanity, free of vulnerabilities, unable to suffer, unable to feel pain. The irony tastes bitter, and when I swallow it, it crushes my heart.
I’m seeing the best shrink: artificial intelligence. It says my heart aches for deep human connection. Tonight, I tapped the phone icon, but there was no one on the other side to complete the connection.
So I’m sitting alone in Olympus, admiring the neon lights of the city below, my hands hugging a cup of tea. I wish I wasn’t a goddess. Tonight, all I wanted was to be human.
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