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Tag Archives: Mythology
She knew her neighbour was Greek, she had been told that was why she had all the statues. It was one thing to have a bird bath or perhaps a small sculpture in your garden, but it was another thing to have a small army throughout your yard. She would have complained to the community association but they all seemed to be afraid of her. Maybe it was the stone statues she had guarding her door. Although not carbon copies of each other, each had a menacing body guard or cop look.
Most of the people in this neighbourhood had at least a touch of class, not a pink flamingo or garden gnome to be seen, considering it was southFloridathat was pretty impressive.
She looked out of her window and spotted a new statue, one that kind of looked like the postman. She had had enough, it was time to have a little face-to-face with this gaudy woman.
Cybil marched past the new figurine, she barely noticed the parcel he was holding was marked:
She rang the doorbell several times and waited. “Go away, I am not to be seen!” A voice said from inside.
Cybil was not going to be turned away. “Come and face me, I need to talk to you about the state of your yard!”
A series of clicks and the door opened.
“So the last person that lived here, what happened to them?” He asked the realitor.
“The neighbours said they were tired of all of the lawn ornaments.” She said.
“Well I find them quite charming.” The wife of the prospective buyer replied. “Especially this one.” A middle aged stone figure stared at her. “I just wish she’d be turned away a little.”
Medusa the Sculptor
He was once known as Alexandros of Antioch, I simply knew him, or thought I knew him, as Alex.
It was not uncommon for us to take lovers, like all creatures we have our needs and having them fulfilled by those like us was not an easy task. The gods connived and plotted, there was no such thing as sex for the sake of sex, a mortal lover, on the other hand, had no such plans. They were content lay with a god, make love to a god and be showered with the affections of a god; that was enough. Mortal’s power struggles were nothing of concern to us.
Alex was a gentleman, with hard but tender hands, artist’s hands. He was a sculptor, but only the rudimentary type, making grave markers, both ornate and plane. He claimed to have been a sculptor of statues and figurines, but none of any I have seen.
“Why have you not sculpted me Alex?” I asked one day. We laid upon the soft ground, him tired, yet satisfied, myself satiated yet not yet fully satisfied.
“I have not yet found the motivation.” He replied.
I stood. Naked against the warmth of the sun, the perfection that only a god could contain exposed to the trees and rocks, and to him. “Perhaps this motivates.” I responded.
“You have been sculpted many times Aphrodite, why by me?” He asked.
“For I am your lover and you are an artist, these moments are fleeting for you. Do you not wish to capture my beauty before it is too late?” I responded. “Do you not want the world to see my beauty and know that it was you who captured it?”
“Why are you gods so vain?” He asked. “Do you have no modesty?”
“Perfection requires no modesty, but you would not know. You are an imperfect lover and man, I shall find another.” I fled, angered.
“Wait!” He called. I continued. He gave chase, finally catching me near the Amphitheatre of Milos. “Aphrodite.” He grabbed my arm, I turned and hit him, knocking him to the ground. My cold stare was my undoing. It was then that I realized who Alex was, yes he was a brilliant sculptor but he did not sculpt with his hands, but rather with his heart and with his eyes. His hair began to grow and wriggle and his form changed from that of a mortal man to the shapely outline of a woman, a woman that I knew too well. My own anger and vanity was my undoing, before I fully realized upon whom I was looking my likeness was sculpted. Sculpted not at the hands of Alexandro of Antioch, as my captures at the Louvre would tell you, but by the treacherous god Medusa. The punishment for my vanity.
Medusa and the Grave Digger
Hristos whistled a tune; it was an old song that his Yia-yia used to sing for him.
He dug and whistled.
“To whom does this plot belong?” Startled, he began to turn. “Please do not.” She warned him.
“Sotirios.” He stuttered, “Kalogeropoulos.”
“Was he a handsome man?” She asked.
“I… I do not know.” He replied. The marble top of the tomb burst open. He heard her move towards it through the crisp leaves.
“He will do.” She said, retrieving the body.
He waited until he was sure she had gone, before removing the sprinkling of coins she’d dropped into the empty coffin. Something moved across his feet. It was a snake. It slithered quickly through the grass in her direction… suddenly, he realized who she was, and froze.
Light was breaking and an owl was making his last call, time to leave, and not too soon.
The family was gracious in their acceptance of the statue. It displayed prominently in their grand entrance as a reminder of the former patriarch of the family, so perfect in detail that it was as if Papou Kalogeroploulos himself had been turned to stone.