rayaso | Introduction

PHEAR ME

I shouldn’t need to write this, and after reading it, I’m sure you’ll agree. Once, everyone knew me, but time passes and memories fade – a lot. My father still gets work, but his sons, not so much. I am Phobos, god of fear. Fall down before me and shield your eyes lest I descend upon you and freeze your soul!

I could talk like that once, with a voice that rent the heavens and caused mighty warriors to cast down their weapons and flee in terror. Now, I am barely a whisper, filling some small corner of your mind. I never went away, I just diminished.

Phobos, god of anxiety, really doesn’t impress that many people; and many of those that I plague take Xanax, which isn’t fair. A simple sacrifice would be better. Any burnt offering would do – I prefer goats or chickens, but I would also take a nice roast beef. I’ll even bring the wine. People have forgotten the old ways.

I do have a moon named after me, which is nice. I circle Mars with my brother Deimos. I hate the Romans. My father isn’t Mars, it’s Ares. Get it straight. How can you have two Greek sons circling a Roman father? For the love of Zeus, how did things get that bad? Anyway, at least I’m the larger moon. Deimos hates that. My moon is also faster. He hates that even more!

As the sons of the god of war, Deimos and I would follow our father into battle, driving our chariots and spreading fear in his wake. I loved that chariot, red with gold wheels and some nasty spikes on the axles. If my horses didn’t trample you, the spikes would grind you up. Ah, those were the days!

To be honest, Dad had a rather short temper, so there was always a war someplace. Steal a woman, and see what that got you. Ten years of war and a wooden horse, that’s what. I never could figure that one out. After all, when Helen was a girl, Theseus stole her from Zeus, her father. Then Menelaus won her in a contest. He couldn’t be bothered to go himself, so he sent his brother.

Why should Menelaus care if Helen got taken by Paris, except that Paris was such a wimp? Clearly, this should have been a case of finders, keepers.

Not for the Greeks. This was a matter of honor! My father loved honor. It made for the best wars.

Dad always brought us along. I was the god of panic and flight, and Deimos was the god of terror and dread. Powerful stuff, wouldn’t you agree? Deimos always thought that Dad loved him more, because terror was better than panic, but I knew that wasn’t true. Deimos might have made the warriors afraid of Dad, but I was the one that got them running!

But now, I’m just anxiety and I don’t bother people that much, although with that American election, I’m getting some work.

Too much of my job has been reduced to plaguing people with deadlines. Especially writers . . . I love writers! I no longer have a chariot, but I do have writer’s block. Creativity dries up, fingers freeze on the keyboard, and you stare endlessly at a blinking cursor as time ebbs away! It’s not much, but it’ll do.

I also bother people about other things, like spiders or slugs or heights. All the small fears that other people laugh at. Worried about a spider crawling in your mouth while you sleep? Can’t walk in your garden barefoot because you might squish a banana slug? Yes, that is all my doing.

But I love worrying writers the most. Why? Because they abandoned me.

No one writes about us anymore. Where are the epics, the lyric poems and plays? We used to be the center of the universe; now we’re lucky to be mentioned in a comic. But we’re still here. You may not recognize us, but we are. There is still love and death, war and wisdom, and all my other relatives. We have different names, but we’re survivors.

Just remember me when the deadline approaches and you’re still struggling for inspiration, as the panic grows, infecting your life. You didn’t banish Phobos, not at all. Look at the blank screen, the hated cursor! Know that I am here! But if desperation becomes too great, there is a solution. Just make the proper sacrifice and you’ll be rid of me. Until the next time.