Theophilus couldn’t remember which god had sentenced him to paint the same goddamn crane over and over until the world’s end. Apollo or Hephaestus? Chronos maybe? One of those moody fuckers.

The god (whichever) had commanded thus: This crane shall be painted with pigments and oils mixed by your own hand. Each feather must be faithfully rendered—and no impressionistic minimalist bullshit, either. At each day’s end, all will vanish. You must begin afresh with the next sunrise. This shall be your task for all eternity.

Exactly how Theophilus had blasphemed, the deity never disclosed. Like all things god-related, you accepted their punishments—though everyone knew they were a bunch of narcissistic bed-wetters.

The furious crane, now indentured as Theophilus’ eternal model, thought the human a worthless buffoon. He’d rather have been eaten by Zeus than be tethered to this hapless artist. His once noble beak now inhaled only turpentine, and his wings were heavy with oil and despair. 

For millennia, Theophilus and the crane awakened each day in the drafty hunter’s blind on the banks of a nameless river to perform their accursed task. The hut, lashed together from dry branches and desiccated rushes, had once been a haunt for Artemis while hunting doe-eyed young men. She’d long since abandoned it, leaving behind some dirty tunics, a single gold sandal, a stack of dog-eared magazines and a scattering of Olympian brand unfiltered cigarettes. Paint fumes seeped ever deeper into the detritus and dry tinder.

The necessary pigments, crushed by Theophilus’ own weary hands, were dull indeed: White. Gray. Black. A smear of lipstick, crimson for the stupid thing’s head. Why not a colorful peacock rather than a crane? Gods were cruel.

The crane, choosing his pose for the day—the one power granted him—glared at Theophilus. He pivoted Full Frontal, his erect beak pointing directly at the painter’s eyes. Try this, you talentless hack. 

One-point perspective, the drastic foreshortening—Theophilus knew he possessed not the skill to render this. And guessed also that this truth was well known by the crane.

Enough! cried Theophilus to the crane, throwing his bowl of gray pigment to the floor. We two, Artist and Bird, must unite to change our fate! Death is preferable, is it not? The crane rolled his eyes at the term artist, but shrugged, abandoning his impossible pose and looking about for inspiration.

Amid the scattered cigarettes, Theophilus discovered a box which read: Olympian Matches: Flame of the Gods. He drew one out and showed the crane. Gods be damned, this codependency must be ended by us both. 

Theophilus struck the match as the crane spread his great oily wings, fanning the small fire to a roaring inferno that shone red in the waters of the nameless river, the thundering explosion sending dark smoke towards Olympus. 

As they were consumed by flames, the two fervently prayed not to awaken yet again in the hunter’s blind—but also knew that their chances were about 50-50. The fucking gods could be merciless.