Quench the Fire
By J.M. Snyder
Beneath the mountain there is no sense of
time.
All that marks the passing minutes are the
flickering flames of his forge and the steady one-two rhythm
his hammer makes as it hits the steel. The god mortals call
Hephaestus stands before his anvil sheathed in only a dingy
loincloth and an asbestos apron that protects the hair on his chest
and legs from the fires around him. His strong arms work in unison,
one holding the unfinished end of the steel bar he’s drawing out
into a staff, the other clenched tight around the hammer’s handle.
The dark hair atop his head curls from the heat, the ends dripping
with sweat that courses down his back and face in beads, blazing
through the soot and grime masking his skin. Every so often he
shifts his weight f
