Realising he had a PR problem with his hard work / no short cuts message, Uncle Saturn took his local Hallowe’en party by storm when he arrived as Britney, werking and twerking the room.
To his horror he realised that if he had put on a pair of hotpants and a questionable backing track earlier, he may well have gotten through sooner to the shortcutters, the linehoppers and the just plain lazy. He wasn’t convinced those who had spent the night grinding against him had really picked up what he was putting down.
He knew Chiron would be there bleeding and was not surprised to see he made no effort to disguise his pain or his tears or stem the flow of claret. He watched as others covered in fake blood turned away muttering about fake news and realised that by default, Chiron too had become a member of that cosmic club best avoided.
He cast his mind back to the eclipse. Saturn and his devilish old mate Pluto had spent the eclipse tripping balls on the desert moons at the back end of the galaxy thanks to Uranus, who arrived late on a lightning bolt with a bag full of transformers. As the sun came back up for the second time that day and the high sunk with the darkness, they had got to grumbling and laughing about humans and their aversion to change.
Saturn pushed his fake chest out, squared his shoulders and made his way through a sea of drooling vampires and sexy witches to Chiron, barely weeping in the corner. It was their third meeting this year and he no longer looked on the centaur with disdain. He had come to realise that they had more in common than he first thought.
He crashed down beside his mate, who slung his arm about his gruff new friend’s addled rings. Together they watched the heaving humanity on the dance floor, mired in anaesthetic but still feeling their pain as they plastered smiles and costumes and band aids all over it. The music was getting louder. And worse. Chiron looked across and sighed as something tugged at his heart. He asked Father Time how much longer this was going to take.
Saturn smiled the weary grimace of one whose work was never done. “They each have to get it in their own sweet time. Some of them never will and many of them already have.”
He grinned now at the centaur.
“They just don’t know what to do with your arrow.”
Words c. Kerrie Basha, 2017