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  He speaks the words of the gods, that heaven is not a place, nor a mindset, or even an opportunity. We’re all sinners anyway. My mother was a sinner, my father a sinner, and now I’m a sinner too. There is nothing we can do to change our damned fates. Damned to blood red labyrinths and tear stain paths of blood rushing down the copper mirrors. We were all just sinners. 

    My love speaks the word of gods, that there is nothing after death. Absolutely nothing. My love preaches that all we have is what we have now and the little freedoms we can take with us. Love, that’s the big one, that love is our only true freedom. I always laugh and say, 

    “Hate works the same way my dear. And you will live forever, so who’s to extinguish your light?” 

    We are not free, we will never be free.  Freedom is a foreign word, the monster roars day and night and I believe that I haven’t slept in weeks. There is a woman who looks like a goddess and she visits me when the days get short. The woman comes into my workshop now and tells me that my love misses me. I laugh and say, 

    “He is always with me, the sun is always with me.” She thinks I’m insane. (Some nights I think I am too. It scares me, lying in the dark the roars still reverberating through my skull.)

    My love whispers visions of wings and wax into my dreams, I can hear the screams night and day now, and feel the ghost of his hands whisper “I love you” against my cheek.

    I make wings in the dark and I laugh when I take flight under the bright sun. The moon would have forgiven me. She would have let me go. My lover was never merciful.

    The fall never hurts, in any lifetime. I know it’s coming now but I still build the wings and I still take flight. There is nothing we can do. Sinners pay the price after all. Apollo whispers to me that I am the only one he let’s know this.

    “So that you can live forever too.” He whispers, fervent against the scars on my back, but I know better than this. Love is never meant to be forever.

    We’re all just sinners, damned to these blood red fates. 

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He could have the world, but he could never have them. The boy with skin made of iron, who had the world knelt at his feet. He could have been a god, but he could never have them. 

     Patroclus is first, brilliant, gorgeous, ambitious. A childhood “friend”, a close “companion”. Achilles knows that he is not supposed to fall in love with him, as he isn’t really a girl, but he sees the blue of Patroclus’s eyes and he craves them. The ladies talk and gossip with him, talking about nothing at all. They ask when he’s going to get married and his mother sends him a secretive glance telling him not to reveal his true gender. 

Achilles falls in love with Patroclus like a moth to a flame, tragedy was in their future, and he knew it. 

Iphigenia was next, beautiful, radiant, naive. A princess, promised to him in a trick. Achilles is supposed to fall in love with her and it happens suddenly, on a walk next to the beach, her cerulean eyes the same colour as the waves. ( And Patroclus’s , he thought bitterly.) The ships  get stuck in Aulis, a curse for killing Artemis’s sacred deer. They demand a sacrifice. She stills his hands, ready to die for her people. (He still wishes that she had fought her fate like he fought his.)

It takes four men to hold him back when Iphigenia is taken away from him, it takes two more to bring her to her knees, and one more to slice her throat. Her eyes gaze endlessly, but her stare would never capture the breaking of Achilles' heart.

Their wedding altar is stained red with the blood of her father’s betrayal. 

    It takes four seconds for Achilles to swear that he will kill Hector, it takes two more for him to cry, and one more to want to die. He sees bronze armour and Patroclus dying, the spear shoved straight through his heart. Much like Achilles’s own, when he hears Patroclus’s final words.

    “Achilles!” He had screamed. (That scream would haunt him in his sleep until the day he died.) 

    His armour is stained red with the blood of one of the two people he’s ever loved. 

   He had the world, but he could never have them.

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    The Day the Gods Set Sail For Troy

    The day the Acheans set sail for Troy, the sun withered the ground, Mother Gaea wept and cried, and Cassandra screamed into the night with a harsh cry, 

    “City of Ilium! Let my proclamation be heard! The Acheans sail on our city, seeking to win back wretched Helen’s hand. I see our doom, cursed Trojans, I see our destiny. We are doomed, this war will send numerous souls hurtling down to the house of death. They will feed our children to the dogs, take our women, and kill our sons. I have seen our fate, my brother’s child, laid in the dust. My brother too, dead, buried down to the house of Hades, my galant brother Hector, slain by Achilles’ hand.” 

    The day the Acheans set sail for Troy, Helen woke in a cold sweat, in her bed alone. She screamed and screamed until someone knocked at the door. He ran in the room and Helen jumped back in fear. 

    “Helen you’re alright, you’re safe,” Hector said to her. 

    “Hector, I saw- I saw the future, Troy in flames, you dead at Achilles’ feet, your infant son thrown from the walls. Hector! Listen to me! Take me back to Sparta! I will be the ruin of Troy, please take me back!” He simply sat down next to her and sang her to sleep, a lullaby that his mother had sung to him when he was just a child. Hector wouldn’t take her back, he couldn’t take her back , she deserved more, more than Menelaus, more than his coward brother Paris, she deserved- she deserved someone more than him.  

    The day the Acheans set sail for Troy, the women screamed and cried, but no one would believe them. A woman cursed to See but also blind, and the herald of destruction for the city of Ilium. 

    The day the Acheans sailed for Troy, the walls were already destined to come down. The day they sailed for Troy, the city was already doomed. 

    The day the gods sailed for Troy

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My fate was never my choice, even as the daughter of Zeus. It was left to vindictive deities and quarrelsome divas. It was left to three old women, the Moirai, who control all of destiny. (I often prayed that my choices were my own, up until that damned night when we sailed for Troy.)

 Jealous Athena cursed me. Vengeful Hera did too. But the worst of all was gloating Aphrodite, blazing through the palace with Paris hot on her heels. I never loved him, I was supposed to, I could feel Aphrodite’s wicked magic working it’s way through my veins. It burned but I resisted. Paris was promised my love and I tried my damned hardest to keep him out of my bed. Menelaus was coming for me, I knew for a fact that a thousand ships were going to sail in my name.
    I was smart, smarter than what they believed me to be. I was cunning and quick witted, Paris tried for twenty summers to get into my bed, and Aphrodite tried for twenty summers to implant that false love in my heart.
    Hector, breaker of horses, was the only one I could trust in that damned city of Ilium. His father King Priam too. There are many nights where I would lie in bed, weeping and sobbing as I cried out for my husband and native land, that Hector would slip away from the banquets and his own wife and son to help me. He would sit by my bedside and talk for an hour or so about his son, the newest horse he had broken, childhood tales, or anything at all. There are many days I wished that Hector was the one who had taken me from Sparta, kind, brave, Hector, who always knew exactly what words to say, and my friend forevermore. 

How I wept for him on that day where Man Killing Achilles struck him down and dragged him around the walls taunting us, his sisters, wife, and mother. I will never forget the fire burning in Cassandra’s eyes when she screamed at me. I just stood there and cried. 

“He- I loved him too, Cassandra,” she choked on a sob, and held me close. (It was the closest I had ever felt to having a true sister in that wretched Troy.) 

So we buried Hector, the love that I wished was mine. 

My fate was never my choice, who I loved was never a choice, and we buried the one man I had ever loved under the cold dark Earth. My father said he would wait for me. That even when I was no longer beautiful he would wait for me, in a palace in Elysium beside the sea. 

My fate was never my choice, but I chose to love him, Hector, the one waiting beside the sea, beyond war, beyond tragedy, beyond Earthly matters, and beyond the divine. 

We buried Hector, the love of my life, in a mound beside the sea. 

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“Icarus,” he breathes. The name tastes like honey combs on his lips, it fits him, ‘ the boy who reaches for the sky .’ Icarus, Icarus, Icarus, he repeats in his head. Icarus burns like a dazzling flame and there is a spark, a potential, for divinity and Apollo latches onto that spark and holds it close. He could be mine, he thinks. (But he could have anything he wants, he is a god after all. But he wants Icarus to choose him, it is a strange feeling.) 

“Icarus,” he says. The boy in question looks at the sun, but mistakes his name as the whistling of the trees. Icarus wants to believe, he yearns for divinity and he can feel the ichor pleading to break free from this mortal husk. He wants to be a god, to love like a god. (Apollo craves to give him the feeling of holiness he so desperately desires.)

“Icarus,” he whispers fervent against his lover’s neck. The boy turns his head and smiles at him. He giggles and Apollo is bursting with joy. His sunshine, home to him at last. (Apollo wishes he could tell Icarus the truth, but loving a god was always a tragedy.) 

“Icarus!” he screams. He races towards the waves, praying to someone, anyone, anyone holier than himself, praying they would save the only boy he’s ever truly loved. He screams as he sees the smile Icarus sends him, and he could faintly hear the whispered gasp of his name when Icarus hit the sea. (He wishes he could tell Icarus he was holy, he was divine, and the wax melted on his shoulders were drops of ichor, to him at least.) 

“Icarus,” he cries. The only one he ever truly loved sank into the depths. 

“Icarus,” he cried.

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Iphigenia walk, walk with your head held high. Seek the light, the sweetness of the light that blinds you when you see the altar of sacrifice, not marriage. Stride towards your marriage, or your doom. (There was never any real difference. You were a goddamn sacrifice to the god anyways.)

Achilles rage, rage for the loves you have lost. Rage for the girl you lost to the goddess and the boy you lost to the war. Fight for their memory, for their love. Achilles scream, scream curses at those wretched gods, who brought ill fate upon the Achaeans. Rage for Patroclus that child who wanted to be a god. Rage for Iphigenia that girl taken a lifetime too soon. 

Apollo pray, pray to anyone holier than yourself. Pray for them to save him. Scream his name when he smiles at you with one last goodbye on his blistered lips. Save that one feather that you could reach, a parting gift instead of a hello kiss. 

Alexander scream, scream curses at the guards trying to drag you away. Scream at the pyre as it burns. Scream at the gods when they deny him entry into their ranks. Cry for him, Alexander, cry for the only one you ever loved. Your sword will cry with tears of blood instead of water. 

Helen weep, weep for the fate you have wrought upon this city. Weep for Hector, the only man you chose to love, weep for him golden haired Helen. Weep for the women taken, only for you to be brought home draped with jewels instead of shackles. 

Cassandra seethe, seethe at the warnings you delivered, all fraught with that horrible curse. Apollo is cruel. Seethe at the fate you will bear, head laying on Agamemnon's hearth. 

Weep children of Prometheus, weep for the fate of those not unlike yourself. Weep for the goddess of sacrifice, weep for the rage that sent many Achaeans hurtling down to the house of death, weep for the god more manlike than the rest, weep for the great commander, weep for the face that launched a thousand ships, and weep for the girl cursed to see. Weep for them, children of Prometheus, and recognize your own damned fates. Our swords will cry with tears of blood instead of water. 

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Bloody feathers clutched in your hands, golden laurels cutting into your brow, blisters popping on your shoulders, lightning burning patterns into your skin.

    The gods are dying, and maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe Apollo will sit in bars and sing at open mic nights, his golden eyes capturing the neon glow. Maybe Artemis will sit in the back of that very same bar, looking for date rape drugs and protecting women. (She doesn’t have to be a god to protect her girls. Bloody knuckles, red not gold, prove that.) Maybe Aphrodite cries, cries with delight in the afterglow of their own religious experience. (She will always be there, just not in the same ways, anymore.) 

    Olympus has fallen, and perhaps Zeus clings onto what is left of his crumbling marble throne. His children had succeeded in overthrowing him, just not the divine children he had planned for, just mortals and their wretched disbelief. Hopefully, Hera had left him long ago, her chosen family was worth more than her blood family anyway. She was free. 

    Ares has marched on his cities, wishing he was never born the god of war. What did Aphrodite feel, when her love ransacked her home? Maybe they still weep about it in their rooms, their own temples to the oldest religion they know. 

    Maybe Athena will organize protests, and march for civil liberty, education, and for feminism. Maybe she will realise that her femininity was never a curse. That she was “not like other girls” because the only girls she had ever been shown were just caricatures of make-up and bust placed on porcelain dolls. 

                    The gods are dying.

    Apollo coughs and throws up a silent prayer to someone holier than himself, “Let me see him, just one last time.”

    And the stars send down one bloodied feather, and Apollo drifts off to sleep amongst the stars, one last time.

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 There was never goodbye, but it was the end anyways. A single feather drifts in a halo of golden tears, a prayer torn from blistered lips just a second too late. A single tear runs down the face of two men meant to be gods. A single drop of blood, taken by the tides, a stygian oath of fidelity. A single scream, dripping out of bleeding lips, one that makes armies retreat and battles cease. 

    There was never goodbye. There were screams and piercing gazes that met stormy eyes just a second too soon. (A second later he would have been dead.) There was laughter and daylight and stories of old, but there was never goodbye. There were wedding veils and white snowflakes stained crimson with blood. There were cerulean eyes and half-met glances. Sneaking away from your parents after the sun had gone down, seeing halos made of neon twirl in radiant defiance, and yet we are empty. There is never goodbye, there is only ever farewells, meant to save the spaces between us, to fill the emptiness when you are away. 

 There was never goodbye, Krasivaya. There was our torn youth, taken a moment too soon. There was arranged marriages and best friends. There were tattered purples and desperate cries. Iron thrones kept cold by the permafrost of duty. Thrones are dreadfully lonely places, for those such as ourselves. 

    There is never a goodbye kiss, never a last pining glance, never one last ‘I love you”, and certainly never a spoken word. There is slaughter, and burning cities to the ground. There is war, famine, and plagues all borne down in your name. There is fire. 

    There is never goodbye, just our tragic damned farewells, cast in melted gold, and set in frozen wax. There is never goodbye, just our tragic damned farewells, meant to fill the spaces between. 

      There is never goodbye, just one last farewell, and the space between hello and goodbye. 

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 It seems to me that the most human of emotions is hope. Not love, not the joy and sorrow that people like to wax poetic about. It is hope. It is optimism, the belief that things will always get better. The belief that we will someday be whole again, that the endgame is somewhere to live with people who love us.

    It seems to me that the most moving of emotions is the desire to create. The desire to make the beauty that this world so desperately desires. The beauty that we crave, the haunting melodies of those flitting serenades. The appeal of that certain type of romance that is only found in libraries after dark, full of old classics and the promises of a brighter future. 

    There is certain romance to these spring airs, a romance that tells me everything will be okay. That the harsh grip of winter’s frosted grasp and the heavy heat of summer’s breath are at a cross roads, a perfect median. That the smell of flowers and the breath of love are only a few short days away, that we will reach the last day of school, that we will see the romance of these youthful summers. 

    Hope guides us all, I think, it guides romance, it guides romanticism, it drives change. It spins the wheels of tomorrow, drives the wheels of destiny. It drives me into your arms, stupid hopes based on dead futures and glimpses of what is to come. 

    Yet, I want to create. I want to dance, I want to sing, I want to write, I want to let the world know who I am, and I want you to know who I am. I want to destroy the old and make way for the new. I want to be someone new, someone who learns and discovers and puts the effort into what is unknown. I want to know . I want to know everything , how the universe works, what makes us human, what is the purpose, who am I? I want to know every emotion the spectrum and greet them like an old friend, I want Aphrodite to hold my hand, Athena to read my books, and Eris to taint my soul. I want to swallow the sun whole. I want Apollo to read me poetry in the sunlight on a beach, I want to run with Artemis wild in the woods, I want to believe. I want to know everything. 

    And if that is hubris than so be it. The flight was always worth the fall. 

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 In one version Iphigenia walks to the altar head held high, a veil of chiffon placed firmly on her head; a herald to the crown that will one day rest there. Her lover was not set for Troy, not in love with another, and not fated to die at the hands of that wretched Hector. 

 In another Iphigenia screams as she is torn from Achilles’s watchful gaze, it takes many men to hold Achilles back, for she was one of the two people he had ever loved. Patroclus is there too, trying all he can to help his love and the girl he loves too. 

There is another world where she runs to the altar, where Achilles screams and Patroclus weeps. She tells them she loves them and that this was for her people, and for all of Greece. 

 Some say she misunderstood what they were fighting for, that Helen was not enough of a cause for her to sacrifice her life.

 She knew what she was fighting for, her marriage to Achilles was, in the beginning, the same thing, her life to be used in the game of politics and war. (For she was sentenced to die either way, one as a sacrifice to the gods, and the other as a goddamn sacrifice to Achilles. She would have preferred the latter, Achilles was at least noble.) 

 In some stories she screamed for Achilles to save her. Some stories she knew what she was destined for, sometimes she fought it, sometimes she embraced it. (“How sweet it is to look upon the light”.) 

 In some versions there are marriage veils and the town of Aulis is never a second thought. These are the rare endings, the happy ones, where Achilles, Patroclus, and Iphigenia are free to love in peace. (Two married in name, and three married in spirit.) 

 In most versions there is a tragedy, a need for favourable winds, a fatal arrow to the heel, a boy dressed in a god’s armour. Goddess of sacrifice, man killer, child of hubris. 

    The marble altar is stained crimson. 

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Dear Apollo, 

 I believe that falling was my greatest triumph. You, Apollo were never meant for mortal eyes or mortal love, and neither was I. We were destined to crash and tear each other apart, to fall and to burn. Or maybe that was just me, I can never remember. Loving you was never meant to be a happy ending. I knew this, I knew the way your hands traced the scars on my back and the way your eyes burned with celestial fire, and I knew the voice of angels, but only ever meant for me. I knew you Apollo, I knew of tragedy, and of grief. I knew myself too, I knew that ambition and love would be my undoing. I was ready for it too, I was ready for the inevitability of the crash and I knew I would never see him again. I never knew if you truly loved me, however, and that is my biggest regret. 

    The fall didn’t hurt much, just pain and tears evaporating the second they hit my skin. It was a flash of golden tears and an unholy scream, a flash of blue sea and the gasp that left my lips. Then Poseidon and Hades claimed me out of your grip, and I can hear the Muses singing a dirge of my ‘tragedy’. It was never a tragedy. 

    If anyone else finds this letter, at the bottom of the sea or washed up onshore, just tell Apollo I love him. Tell him it was never his fault, and that I am just the boy who wanted to kiss the sun one last time. 

 And Apollo? I believe that falling was not my greatest triumph, my greatest triumph was loving you. 

                            Sincerely, 

                                Your Icarus

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TW: abuse

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   There is a siren who lingers in the woods, she is the mother of all monsters yet somehow she's the worst of them all. You find her in every nightmare and love her in every daydream. 

  “It hurts, please stop,” you beg them, and yet the blood on your cheek seems sweet somehow. The air seems electric and the stench of vodka radiates from their lips, lips that bare teeth sharper than knives. The wine you drink tastes metallic and while you lay on the floor you realize it is the crimson life slowly dripping down your chin. 

  The siren lingers in the corner of your vision and sometimes she is the most ethereal of beings. The next she is the women pirates cast from the ships, transformed into sirens by anger and desperation, their songs still burning hoarse from the salt in their lungs. 

  The siren tells you everything is right somehow, 

  “It’ll be okay my dear, as long as you love them.” You believe her and you shouldn’t have. 

  There is a siren who lingers in the woods, and she calls you to her with her golden voice older than time,

  “My child come here, we will be happy together.” 

  Your mind comes and goes these days, you work on autopilot as the one you loved became a monster. The siren got into their head, made them a monster. She drives men and beasts to do terrible things, unspeakable things all in her name. She promised them happiness, and it yet always ends in tragedy. 

  She has a voice sweet and soft, and you wonder why there are blood stains taking the path of tears along her cheeks. 

  She the siren who lingers in the woods, the mother of monsters, and that includes you. 

  She is the siren who lives in the woods, the mother of monsters,  and her name is Love.

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“And he knew her, Pallas Athena and those terrible eyes shining.”- Iliad 1.200

    I have known those shining eyes, her eyes that burn so bright. Eyes like steel that burn her irises into my eyelids. I have seen those eyes so many thousand times, seen the loving glances, seen the heart-shaped eyes, and they were never meant for me. 

    Her omniscient eyes burn like fire and I swear they can see the very depths of my soul. They burn, and her smile blinds. Her touch burns like fire, and she smells like the smoke of the Pythia, making hazy visions dance across my sight, apparitions of the love I have desired. She will never know of the effect she has on me. This love is secret. It must never be revealed, for I would rather have the sweet river of her friendship than the burning fire of her rejection. 

    In my dreams and in those Pythian visions she is made of laughter and her eyes do not burn so terribly bright. I look at her as if she had spear and Aegis in hand, Glaukopis Athena. She was the goddess and I was a supplicant knelt at her feet. In those moments she is my everything, my laughter, my sunshine, my l’ange de petite mort, and my Pallas Athena, terrible eyes shining. 

    In some dreams we are in this wretched town, stolen kisses and forbidden love, holding hands on a ‘dare’ and loving on a truth. We fall asleep watching Netflix on that too narrow bed, and laugh throwing cheetos into each others’ mouths until we fall against the pillows with one last whispered ‘I love you’s’. 

  In some we are from thousands of years ago, the Aegean wind blowing through her hair, fragments of poetry stuck to shards of pottery. She leans out the window and calls me in for dinner. We go swimming in the summer, sweltering underneath the Grecian heat. We wander through the Agora, grinning as sweet fig juice drips down our chins.

  In all the dreams her eyes burn like fire, grey eyed Glaukopis. Her eyes will burn into mine in every Pythian vision and in every stinging reality. 

 My Pallas Athena, with terrible eyes shining, I wouldn’t care if you burned me alive

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  I want to swallow the sun whole, more than Icarus on the wing, more than Arachne gilded thread gleaming, and more than Medea cackling from up on high. I want to swallow the sun whole, standing in the showers at the birthtime of the buds. I want to avenge her, marble altars running red with the blood of his betrayal. I want to live forever, not some witless woman, but the queen I am. I want to live forever. 
  Icarus was nothing more than a boy, he was not hubric because he was a child. He was high on youth and the sweetness of the sun. He had a god’s hands at his back, a silver tongue whispering in his ear. He was not hubric, but I am. 
  Arachne was nothing more than a girl, she was not hubric because she was truly better than Athena, the grey eyed goddess took offence. She was high on fame and the exhilaration of being better than a goddess. She had more talent than Athena. She was not hubric, but I am. 
  Medea was part goddess, a witch. She was not hubric because Jason was. Jason, the golden boy, sitting on his throne so high. He promised and then broke it anyways. She wanted revenge for her love and her life. She was not hubric, but I am. 
  I want to swallow the sun whole. I want to live forever, and that I shall. I killed him for revenge, for my daughter, and I will gladly admit it. 
 “May the curse on this house last forever!” I shrieked, blood stained hands raised high above my head. They will try me as if I were some witless woman, but I am no longer her, I am the Avenger, famous, and I will live forever. They were not hubric, but I am. 
 “Thus he died, and all the life struggled out of him, and as he died he spattered me with the dark red and violent driven rain of bitter-savoured blood. To make me glad, as gardens stand among the showers of God in glory at the birthtime of the buds,” and I raised my bloody hands to the sky, calling on Themis, “Goddess! Justice has been dealt. Remember whose right hand dealt the final blows, it was I!”

They were not hubric, but I am. And I am going to swallow the sun whole.

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 If there’s such a thing as heaven what does it look like? I’d reckon it’d look like that field trip to Valleyfair in 8th grade, the sun bright and our smiles brighter. His chocolate eyes would be bright with laughter and her grey eyes would burn me alive. He’d look me in the eyes and dare me down the tallest slide in the park, and she would drag me by the hand to the deep end of the wave pool, she could just barely touch and I, in all my shortness, clung to her trying not to drown. She laughed as I held onto her bicep like a vice grip. They were perfect.

 I reckon that heaven might look like the last day of school in 6th grade, my best friends’ laughter echoing in the classroom, blue pixie stick dust on the desks and nostalgia already setting in. He’d look at me and smile, his hazel eyes crinkled around the edges with laughter. 

 Or maybe heaven would be the night I went to her house and we danced to pop-rock songs until we fell down with laughter. Where I fell in love for truly the first time. Heaven would look like her eyes and feel like her hugs. How she feels like home, even if she’ll never know that. Earlier we were at the fair and we rode fair rides together until twilight crept into dusk and the neon lights began to reflect in her grey eyes. The Sizzler was my favourite ride, for reasons that will remain unknown. The Ferris wheel was also a personal favourite, we’d laugh and point out our favourite graffiti, point out everything that was going on on the ground, and talk for what seemed like forever. 

  Heaven is spending time with them, no limits, no drama, just enough time with the ones I love. Heaven is blue pixie stick dust, skinned knees, football pants stained green, waterslides, “Uma Thurman” blasting out of her Captain America speaker, fair rides, funnel cakes, and dares. Heaven smells like her perfume, grass stains, cookies, the sweet youthful romance of summer when everyone seems to fall in love, and the bittersweet smell of nostalgia. Heaven is the world viewed through rose coloured glasses, backseat choirs, kaleidoscope eyes, inside jokes, and burning eyes. Heaven is chocolate eyes, best friends, and inside jokes. 

Heaven is them, and it always will be.

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 My life is about to take a very fast downwards spiral. My name is Medusa Allan. Now, I know what you’re thinking, “Medusa? Isn’t she that evil snake lady?”. There’s where you’re wrong, I am not that Medusa. I, in fact, live in the 21st century, or well I did, until the my friend and I’s little soiree into Grecian magic. 

 It all started on my families dig in Greece, just after my sixteenth birthday. We were atop the Acropolis in Athens when I stumbled onto something a little too good to be true, it was a tablet. The tablet itself was plainly carved and from the Mycenaean age at the latest. 

 My parents are both archaeologists, and wanted me to follow in their footsteps, so I know quite a bit of Greek. The tablet, however, wasn’t even written in Greek it was so old, it was written in Linear B. My Linear B is quite horrendous, so I ran the tablet to my parents. They were looking at a shard of pottery. (Ah, archaeology. That’s half the job.)

 “Mom! I found this thing, it’s in Linear B, so you should read it,” I pretended to gossip to Mom but still kept going loudly, “because we all know Dad’s the incompetent one when it comes to languages!” 

 “I heard that!” he said, mock offended. My dad’s major was linguistics, he teaches Linear B, and my mom can only vaguely stumble through it. So yeah in reality I handed the tablet to my dad. He looked over it for a minute, fingers tracing the markings. His dark brows were furrowed in concentration. He looked up at me and said, 

 “It’s a tablet containing prayers and spells for Potina Athana. It was Athena’s name in the centuries before the Homeric Period.”

 “I know Dad, I read through your lesson plan on the gods of early Mycenae remember?” 

 “Oh, right. Well before we have to give this over to the Athenian authorities you should give it a good go at translating it into Greek so we can study it when we get home,” he said. I looked at him and pulled out my phone.

 “You do realize we can take pictures and read the actual script later right?” I said, raising an eyebrow for good measure. Man, smart people can be so dumb sometimes. 

 “Oh, right,” he laughed. Dad pushed back his dark brown hair and adjusted his glasses, “still, M, this should be your homework for the day. Do this and I won’t make you do Calc until we get back to the States?” He offered me. See I’m “homeschooled”, I travel the world with my parents. It’s a special deal we have with the high school I was supposed to go to, I travel the world with my parents, and they give me the credits like I was actually in high school. The only thing they demanded was that I take supplemental math classes. They suck, so much. I’m almost done with school two years early. I’m taking college classes too, full ride through Columbia. By the time I’ve technically graduated high school I’ll be done with the first semester of my undergrad, as I have to actually go to school there starting my second semester.

 “Sure, as long as Calc can go fuck itself for another two weeks,” I shook his hand and my mom glared at me 

 “Medusa!” she mock scolded me. They tried to get me to stop swearing so much, but after spending half my life at dig sites, I cuss like a sailor. A filthy mouthed one too.

 My dad laughed and glanced up from the shard of pottery they had gone back to examining. He pushed Mom a bit and laughed, 

 “Like you aren't any better, dear! I still remember how you asked me on a date the first time!” I’ve heard this story so many times, honestly they tell it like every day. So, my parents were best friends at a dig site in Alexandria about a month after they both had gotten their Phds. It was the hottest day of summer in Egypt , so my mom had changed into her swimsuit, ran into my dad’s hotel room, and said the following, 

  “Luis! If we don’t go swimming right this fucking second my ass is going to melt off!” 

  “Alexandra, is it made of plastic?” 

  “No.” 

  “Then it won’t melt off.” 

  “Shut your mouth, smart ass.” 

  “Make me then,” and then they kissed, and the rest was history. They actually had their wedding at that hotel in Alexandria, they were too busy to get married so they waited until I was about six.

 I really do see myself in my mom, we have the same green eyes, I’m basically a carbon copy of her, except for the fact that my hair is dark brown and my mom’s is a caramel colour. We also do both swear a lot. People will remark that I got that from my dad and I’ll just shoot them a disbelieving look, my mom just doesn’t swear around people she doesn’t know. My dad on the other hand, doesn’t give a damn. He’s one of the most highly respected linguists in the world and he’s married to one of the best archaeologists in the world, he doesn’t need their opinions. He’s my hero. I’m joking of course, my hero is and forever will be Dr. Zahi Hawass. I watched all the documentaries as a kid, so many times. Just kidding, my parents are still my heroes, I just really liked those documentaries. 

 My parents had gone back to muttering about the age of the shard of pottery, and I was left with a monumental task. This would be a pain in the ass, Linear B is just the worst . There was no delaying the inevitable, however, and I got to work.

 It must’ve been a strange sight, a sixteen year old girl holding a strange stone tablet, laptop and notes spread around her, muttering to herself in three different languages, and swearing up a storm in all three. 

 It took awhile but I finished up the translation, and my dad was correct it was a tablet containing hymns and spells to Potina Athana. That raised a question however, as the tablet is clearly older than the first mention of Athena in any other Mycenaean text, and we believe that Athena got her name from the city not the other way around. So that poses the question, how old is Athens really? So I took the tablet to my dad, maybe he had more answers than I did. He usually does. 

 “Hey Dad, you were right but can you date this? It looks earlier than Athens itself, any ideas?” I said. 

 “Hm, this poses an interesting idea. What if Athens or Athena are older than previously thought? Obviously there is some controversy to that with the whole Doric migration and the spread of an Indo-European language…” I cut him off before he went off on another tangent.

 “Okay Dad! That is quite enough, can you take this to the Museum for me? I’m going to go be a teen for a bit,” he was still muttering to himself when he stuck out his hand and turned around. Oh and by saying I’m going to “go be a teen” that means I’m going to go find the hottest teenager within a mile and try to make out with them in a corner. It’s a game I play because true dating is hard when you only go back to NYC for the holidays. It just doesn’t work, so I play the game because I’m 16 not dead. 

 So I set off around the Acropolis, scanning for a cute person who looked fairly local and alone. The Acropolis was beautiful as always, and I felt hot and sweaty under the Grecian heat. The olive trees barely had fruit on them and it would be at least September until they were ripe. The wind was a slight breeze and it cooled me down to an acceptable level. I knew I wore my crop top for a reason. (Which I know isn’t proper dig clothes but it’s so freaking hot out.) 

 My plan of making out with the hottest person I could find is interrupted however by literally running into an old friend. Alexander Heimiker is probably my worst enemy and probably also my best friend. He is the most Type-A person I have ever met, teacher’s pet, and most uptight son-of-a-gun I know. At one year older than me he’s 17, and also a foot and a half taller than me. Meaning I ran headfirst into his chest, his weirdly solid chest. When I asked the universe for someone hot to make out with, Aleks was not what I meant. 

 He steadied me and grimaced, probably bracing for the sheer amount of words about to be thrown his way. I talk a lot apparently.

 “Heimiker! What are you doing here? I thought this dig was specifically funded by Columbia? Did your dad transfer back?” I asked. Both my parents worked at Columbia, Aleks’ father worked at Columbia when we were kids, and then he transferred back to Berlin three years ago.

 “Come on Allan, I thought you were supposed to be a genius?” he said raising a brow at me. He looked down at me with humor in his chocolate eyes. Oh, no…. It couldn’t be!

 “Oh, god no! Please tell me you didn’t transfer to Columbia, because if I have to spend the next four years of my life with you I might as well find the bleach already,” he laughed. He fucking laughed! The nerve on that boy! This was worse than anything he had ever done to me! This is worse than the Red Icing Debacle of 2010, worse than the Cards Against Humanity Kerfuffle of 2015, and yes worse than the I Kissed My Best Friend Now I’m Not Going To Talk To Her For Years Catastrophe of 2018! I swear I am going to murder him! The sheer audacity of what he has just done!

 “Well, Allan, the bleach is under the cupboard, but have some style! I hear jello bleach shots are very en vogue right now,” he said. It was the correct way to use that meme, but he ruined it with the en vogue comment, it’s 2021 not 1986. 

 “Ok, now if you excuse me I need to go find the hottest person on this Acropolis, a nice corner, and make out with them. So at least I’ll have one good moment before I inevitably jump off the Acropolis, only due to the sound of your voice,” I retorted. In reality his voice was a nice warm baritone sound, and after hearing it for so many years it was quite soothing and familiar. He must never hear about that, however. If he did I would shrivel up and die of embarrassment. 

 “I’m right here, Allan, and there’s a corner behind the Erechtheion we could use,” he winked at me, this bastard winked at me! 

 “But are you the hottest person on this Acropolis? No! So that doesn’t fulfill my last wish. I clearly said the hottest person on the Acropolis,” I said. I had my hands on my hips and I was looking up at him. 

 “You can’t make out with yourself, Medusa .” 

 “Fuck you, Alexander .” 

 “Gladly.” He turned to go back to the dig. I grabbed his arm.

 “Wait! Are you really going to Columbia next year?” I asked him, I guess it would be nice to have some one I might consider a friend in an entire university of older people. 

 “Yeah, my dad convinced me that I could get a better education in the States than in Germany. Plus I wanted to go to Columbia so I could see the agony on your face when you realize that your parents are your professors, and that I’m going to be there too. It’ll be hilarious!” He said. I let go of his arm like it burned me.

 “Aleks, you do realize that my parents have been my professors since I was old enough to talk right? And that it’ll take no work to ace their classes because I’ve graded papers for them before?” I said, laughing.

 “Oh, but they are so going to embarrass you. I’m going to too, it’ll be glorious,” he grinned like an evil maniac, and man I really wanted to punch his face. Screw him for always being right.

  “Anyways, do you want to go back to the dig site or play tourist with me for a bit?” I asked him. I mean, I might as well seeing we’re the only two teenagers that I can see on the Acropolis and he used to be my best friend. It’s not like I entirely hated him. 

 “Let’s play tourist for a bit. Oh! We could go on a tour and correct the tour guide if she’s wrong, in a respectful way of course, we’re not hooligans.”

 “Aleks, dear, no one had said hooligans since 1943, and even then it was archaic.” 

 “Screw you Emie.” 

 “Gladly, honey.” 

 We walked to the nearest tour group and merged into line with them. The tour guide was a tall woman with blonde hair and a kind smile and I knew her immediately, it was Sarah. I used to take her tour nearly everyday in the summer when I was a kid since I was too young to work at the dig. She would give me lollipops and basically babysit me while my parents worked. Aleks would come along sometimes too. Sarah noticed us and smiled. I waved back and then settled in.

 I looked at Aleks, taking in the way his brown hair shined in the sun. He was German, on his dad’s side at least. So it was a little unusual that he looked the mirror opposite of his dad, Aleks was tan with brown hair and brown eyes dark as night and his dad was blonde and green eyed. His mother was Italian though, if I remember right  she was a supermodel or something like that and Aleks never knew her. Apparently she left Aleks with his dad after being born and his dad didn’t even know she was pregnant. Her supermodel genes shined through though, Aleks was by no means unattractive. 

 “Aleks,” I whispered, “you realize that since this is Sarah’s tour we can’t mess around right?” 

 “Unfortunately,” he whispered back.

 “We can still make snide comments to each other, I know that’s a favourite pastime of yours,” I shot back at him. 

 “Only for you darling,” he quipped, looking me in the eye. We both blushed and looked away. I am not going to fall in love with Aleks. Medusa your life isn’t a movie, I thought to myself. (Oh boy, did I not know what was coming for me next.)

 We shuffled around the Acropolis for nearly an hour, making little comments to each other, 

  “Aleks, look someone painted a dick on one of the temple blocks.” 

  “Emie, you are by far the most immature woman I have ever met.” 

  “Of course my dear.” 

 Or, 

  “Oh come on Aleks, we have a vague suspicion of what happened to the Athena Parthenos.” 

  “If you say Romans I will punch you.” 

  “Okay but my money’s still on Ro-” 

  “Finish that sentence, darling, and I will tell your mother.” 

  “Hey! You know my dad is the one that agrees with me!” 

  “Exactly!” 

  “Dickhead.” 

  “Conspiracy theorist.” 

  “That was too far.” It was the most fun I’ve had in three long years. 

 When the tour was over and we talked to Sarah for nearly half an hour, the sun was setting. We were walking by the Erechtheion and the golden hue of the sunset reflected off Aleks and he appeared like he was glowing. He was everything I wanted, and me being the most impulsive person on planet Earth acted on it. 

 “Hey Aleks?” he looked at me concerned, “I hear the Erechtheion is a great place to watch the sunset.” 

 “What happened to making out with the hottest person on the Acropolis?” 

 “Well babe, it’s a little hard to make out with yourself, so I guess I’ll just have to settle for second place.”  He looked at me placed his hand on my cheek and laughed,

 “I hear second is the best.” And we kissed while the sun went down.

Chapter Text

The High Priestess

        Marble altar, 

devoted to the Goddess.

                Marble altar, 

    copper     in the corners. 

                        Marble altar, 

            devoted to you. 

    “Priestess, High priestess, I have not one question but two. Is it true? Is it true that I once left you ruined, broken, bruised? 

    Priestess, High priestess, there are no further questions.” 

        “Since when did this become a court case?” 

        “Since before I met you.” 

The defence rests, the prosecution stands. No further questions, your honour. 

    You’re on trial for me, on the hill of Ares. We defend ourselves here, 

my ghost, 

your hand, 

the knife you slit my throat with, 

and the smile you wore during it. 

    Was it worth it? 

            Circe?  

                Medea? 

                    Iphigenia? 

The defence rests, the prosecution stands. No further questions, your honour. 

    “Murderess, High Murderess, I have not one question but two. Is it true? Is it true that you once left me ruined, broken, and bruised?” 

    “Since when did this become our legacy?” 

    “Since before I met you.” 

    “Priestess, High Priestess, I have but one final request. Wash the blood off the altar, we know the truth. We all were just trying to be holy. We all were just trying to be you

Chapter Text

Sappho Tell Me

Sappho, is such a horrible desire right?

To love Pallas Athena, her eyes so bright?

Sappho there must be such a horrible cure? 

For such love impure?

Sappho, is there way to see her desire right?

When her gaze sets pythian visions alight?

Will there be a way for her love to be true,

for she loves not two?

Sappho, are there ways to let Athena play?

Play at love instead of war, let her mind stray?

To let her learn of art instead of sport, and 

lead her desire damned?

Sappho, can we enlist golden Apollo? 

To make her laugh not so terribly hollow? 

Can we borrow the sun to set grey alight?

For her burning sight?

Sappho tell me true, 

The many things I must do

For her to love me 

Devotion 101

I want to compare 

Her eyes to a storm 

His biting words to the frost

painted by winter's breath 

It's so much more 

Than love and devotion 

could ever whisper true 

How sweet would the grave 

be, if she were the one to dig it? 

Would it fit me perfectly, 

Osiris's golden coffin?

Would I jump right into the fray 

If Hector's eyes sought mine in the day?

All I have are putrid thoughts 

Of desire, enough to burn 

Like those little ants 

Under the magnifying glass 

Or Icarus on the wing

Is desire enough to come undone? 

Is it enough, hands pruned, 

heart in supernova, 

hair in tornado, 

is desire enough

To achieve the one goal, 

To live forever, 

To live forever, 

To live forever, 

Must we achieve that goal, 

for sadness drags us on that route

her hair long ago combed, hands supple as youth?

Must Aphrodite be so sublime, 

so terrible, so more divine?

Is it not enough to live 

for the now and only for now?

To live for her hands tracing me?

Her eyes latched to mine?

Must we live forever?

A Conversation Between a Mother and Her Daughter

Was my sacrifice in vain? 

Clytemnestra mother,

In Atreus's house 

Did evil win?

Tell me true 

Of our 

Curse

Iphigenia daughter

He died for all his sins 

And as he went down

He last screamed out 

A curse, no

A name,

Yours

Clytemnestra Mother mine

How did my father die 

Were the hands yours, or

Small Orestes

How did that 

Man meet

Death?

Iphigenia daughter

Those wretched hands were mine 

Bitter savored blood 

Like flowers in  

The showers 

Of the 

Spring

Clytemnestra Cursed Wretch 

How could the queen kill king

Was my death in vain

It was to cleanse

Orestes 

Avenge 

Me

Iphigenia you don't 

Comprehend the pain that

I went through in years

When he was on

The Trojan 

Battle

Field

Clytemnestra I was a 

Daughter led to slaughter 

Like a bull in the 

Time of the spring 

Was my choice 

To die 

Young

Tell little Orestes to 

Avenge my sacrifice

Of saving the whole

Of Mycenae

With six last

Bitter 

Words

“I do not refuse to die”

Chapter Text

There’s something about this, the colour of rage, love, and ambition, all the same. 
It’s the colour of Clytemnestra when her revenge was realized, the flush on her face, the colour of her lips, the reflection of the torchlight in the bronze blade. It’s the colour of the bath water, and the look in her eye. (Triumph, the Avenger triumphant again.) It’s the shade of blush that flushes the face when you meet their gaze, (did you first think of love or hate?).

    It’s the last thing Icarus saw when Apollo had kissed his lips, and burnt out his retinas. Crying lightning, the animals that claw at the throat. It’s picking at a sore for too long. Different 
shades for different emotions.

  Love. More golden than the rest, a Valentine’s day cast in a hazy glow like an angel had placed its halo upon your head. Love for me, always looked like sunny skies and my favourite bikini top. (To be truthful, Love looks more like the night sky, stars and his laughter, ridiculous conversations and umber eyes. Plate mail and head to toe denim, don’t ask.)

  Hatred. It’s dark, or brighter than a supernova, no in between. It burns like fire or rots the soul out from the inside. It’s the colour of Medea jumping into her chariot, the flames of dragon’s breath. Brickhouses, friendships worn down nearly broken, and clothes torn beyond repair. A dichotomy, love or hatred, hubris or sloth. It burns, like mushrooms the speckled ones that kill you quickly. 
  The most prominent colour in all of literature, it’s the colour of the rage of Achilles, Clytemnestra’s vengeance turned into a hue and the glinting of rubies. The veil of Helen and the hair of Menelaus. My tank top and your lips. Rage or love. Why must even colours present dichotomies?
  Roses to poppies, love to opium. Coca-Cola to blood, sweetness to iron.
  Even umber can turn horrible in the right lighting. Violence, dreams of dying. Darling, am I dying now? I can’t keep coughing of this dye, can’t keep throwing up the bronze. For you, my love, this is all for you. My rage and your love. It’s always been my colour, the lipstick in my bag, the shirt on my back, and the colour of my pen, or my ambition, I’m sure they’re the same thing. 

     Red, everything is red. The veil of Helen, the hair of Menelaus, and the blood of another Iphigenia. The reflection of the torchlight on the blade. My bikini top and your lips.

Chapter Text

I do not wish to write of love again, nor hatred, but they are all I know, two sides of the same shield, mirror polished to look upon the beast. 

 Aphrodite, look into the shield. What do people do for love? What do people do for hatred? Compare that list, Hathor, Isis, compare that list to the other. Love of country, love of family, love of romance. Love of hatred. What would you do for love as the hero? Would the world be more important, or would you damn the others and do it for them? What would you do for love as the villain? Would the world be more important, or would you relinquish power for them? 

What would you do for love? 

 Deep down I know the answer. 
I want to say that I would save the world, 
and fail to save them, because I love the world, but I know that I wouldn’t go through with it. 
 
Deep down I know the answer. 
I want to say that I would take anything for myself, 
and fail to love them, because I love power, but I would give up anything for them. Anything. 

 Aphrodite, look upon the face of the beast. Athena already has, 
known it’s soul from the day she sprung from Zeus’s head, 
she has seen the face of the monster, has known she will know neither.

 We know our hearts are destined to turn to bone.

    I know what you think, Inanna, late at night when your lover has fallen asleep, when you are left alone again, cold and empty, 
like the rest of us. Love makes more monsters than heroes after all.
Late at night, Goddess, when your lover has fallen asleep and you are alone again. 
When you pull out your phone and hover your finger over Athena’s name, think of this, think of the question you dread the answer too, and give her a call. 
Decalcify her heart, Goddess, and repent. Think of the question that haunts you and repent.
Love and hatred, the claws of the beast.

Is love not a monster too?