And the Sky and the Ground and the Cold, Cold Air

He sat on the floor of his apartment. The wind whistled through the window, cold and taunting. He had no furniture. The carpet in the corner was torn up a little at the edges, but his bleeding fingers had failed at the task in the end, leaving crimson smears on the padding. He stared outside. There were sirens now, on the street where his furnishings were piled and smashed from the fall. He had not achieved lift. He was still too heavy.

He looked around. The bare apartment contained nothing else.

He stood. He breathed in.

He began to run.

Atlas

I wake up every night, gasping and sweating. My ribcage heaves, crushed flat. It's like a bowling ball on my chest. An elephant. It's the heaviest weight you can imagine.

I wish I'd never answered that stupid invitation. They told me I was a descendant of the gods, that I had divine blood in my veins. They told me I should be proud. I had a heritage. All those children of Zeus and Aphrodite and Hermes, glittering with power and beauty and miraculous gifts.

Who was my father? I asked. What will I inherit?

Do you like weightlifting? they said.