: On Meeting Midas

16:36 2nd Jan 2012

Notes: 30

Tags: prose short story creative writing original content spilled ink

On Meeting Midas

His suit lay in folds of gold leaf, rustling like autumn foliage under foot. Like a man wrapped in rolls and rolls of tin foil, but of gold, not tacky silver.

He stood in my kitchen, wiping his shoes on the mat, making a heavy metallic ‘clunk’ with each movement of his foot. I smiled nervously at this glistening God of Gluttony. Watching mutely, as he cast a critical glare of distaste on my red tiles: ‘I want to make them gleam.’ Said his amber eyes.

I pulled the sleeves of my jumper down over my wrists to cover any bare skin. Plunged my hands into my pockets. His face was a picture of amusement, he recognised my fear. Nonchalantly, he removed a glove of gold chain-mail. He presented his index finger before my petrified face, making my eyes criss-cross. Then he sauntered to the kitchen sink. Barely touching his filigree fingertips to it, it turned from cold grey to warm gold.

”Tea?” My voice choking on shock.

He transformed a rickety, wooden chair at the head of the table into a throne.

He smirked.

With a trembling tea cup and saucer, I slid the steaming contents towards him.

He held up the tea cup and it morphed instantly. Then I heard a crackle as the boiling tea became molten gold, bubbling away then solidifying as he brought the rim of the cup to his bronzed lips. Never spilling a drop.

His arrogance, replaced with agony. My fear, with infinite pity.

I stretched a hand across the table to comfort him, then thought better of it. There is no salvation for him.