Why Aphrodite doesn't get invited to parties

Cronus loitered at the end of North Pier. He loitered in the company of a pair of scratty pigeons. One of them had a gammy leg. It limped around the sodden wooden boards and eyed the god with suspicion. Cronus chucked the last bit of a fresh doughnut onto the grey bench beside him and watched the birds flutter up to fight over it. They took in turns to throw the morsel into the air, breaking little pieces off each time until it was gone. The birds looked back up to the god then but he wasn’t watching them anymore. He’d turned back to the foamy sea.

The north-westerly was whipping up the Irish Sea into a codswallop stew. It frothed and belched between the barnacled legs of the antique pier. Cronus could sense his father in the maelstrom. In the male storm. He could see Uranus’ semen whipped up in the tips of each raging wave. His testicles rolling back and forth in the currents like a pair of gruesome beach balls.

When the sea beat against the land and the salt peppered every surface, Cronus walked on the pier. The pier was closed to all but a god and a handful of reckless pigeons but Cronus enjoyed the solitary ennui. He gulped down the gritty remains of his over-priced coffee and cast the paper cup into the sea. The god walked around the Victorian sun lounge, between plastic chairs and cast iron rails. The pigeons watched him from a sheltered spot beneath the dirty glass roof.

On a table beside the vacant stage a pint glass contained an amber substance, most likely lager. It was half empty.

Paranoia.
That little voice.
The niggle.

Cronus looked back over his shoulder towards the raging sea, his collar beating up against his cheek. The wind screamed through cracks around the windows and under the eaves. Cronus put a hand to his abdomen and felt the small, hard lump between his rib cage and his right hip. Nothing to worry about. Something undigested. A nothing. He pulled this sickle from his pocket and ran his finger down the keen blade but again found the will lacking. To castrate your father is a natural task but to plunge a blade into your own flesh? That took a specific perversion of mind which he couldn’t achieve.

Cronus sheathed the blade and wrapped his coat tight around his body. He plunged his hands into his pockets and began to walk away from the salty memories. Cronus, son of Uranus, strode down the sodden boards toward a grey and careless town. In his belly his children sobbed, forgotten in the darkness. The safest place for them, for children can come to no harm once consumed. Children can do no harm once eaten. Rhea, their mother, would see his logic in the end.

Cronus frowned at the pain from his abdomen as he mounted the locked gate and jumped down on the other side. Six children sired, six children consumed. One father castrated and Cronus free to enjoy the wind at his whim. Cronus walked purposefully towards the bus stop. He was feeling peckish again. Peckish with a pinch of the horn. Today seemed as good a day as any to drop in on his sister/wife and see if she fancied making any more of the little sods.