"Come out!" Frustration coated his words as he slashed at the ruined columns that had once rose to the, now rotting, ceiling. Another pillar crumbled and fell from its base, crashing loudly against the stone floor. "Stop hiding, you cowardly serpent!" His voice echoed through the temple and ricocheted off the surrounding walls, a malevolent boomerang.

My home was dark, just dark enough to hide my cowering form. Tears streamed as I coiled this … tail around me. The grey vipers that had long since replaced my hair writhed closer to one another. I wept as I drew my sword closer to my trembling body. It wouldn't be long now. His footsteps drew closer as well as my imminent death, but they sounded odd. The scuff of his sandals... he was walking backwards. I heard his piercing laughter all around me as if it had sucked away every last bit of air. Thickening it. Suffocating me slowly.

My ribcage heaved beneath the weight of my breastplate as I looked toward the source of the sound. I saw him at last. His sword was not drawn, not facing me yet he knew. He had already planned his strike, his hand moving to the hilt.

"P-Perseus, plea-" and that was it. I had no time to scream. I hadn't had the strength in myself to uncoil my terrified body before he had turned and decapitated me. As my soul separated from my corpse, my tail had wildly whipped around as if it still contained life. I saw my face, for the first time since the day I was cursed, I saw my sorrowful face in the reflection of his shield. The tears had been etched into my cheeks even into death. The path from my grey, stone-hued eyes down to my neck... I could still feel the tightness now as I sunk down to Erebus.

I was raised from infancy in the ways of mortality. I was raised to love the Gods. I was fearful of their power, but gracious for their gifts. I vowed celibacy and dedicated my future to Athena, herself, in hopes of being seen in her favor. Bullshit. When Poseidon rose from his watery depths, Athena turned herself from me. I was forsaken. I was cursed. The name 'Medusa' was forgotten among them, and I was left to exist behind scaly skin and slithering locks.

From the day I had been cursed, I knew this day was eminent. When my curled, raven locks were replaced by venomous snakes, I knew that I was no longer a human being, but a monster for a hero to conquer. I waited years, bitterly turning men to stone, but today, that all ended.

As my spirit sunk to the dark and dreary shore of Acheron, I ran my fingers over the powder sand. This is where I would be for the next thousand years. No man would lay coins over my rotting eyes up above, I would be stuck here for all of eternity... wandering.

I turned my head, so I could lay my cheek against the cold sand. It was dark here, far darker than my cascading temple from above. The place I had once called home. I could faintly see the rippling of the dark waves with dense fog settling above it.

I listened to the ebb and flow of the river, thinking how I had finally arrived here. Perseus and every “hero” before him couldn’t be blamed. I searched my mind for memories of Athena and Poseidon, wondering how long they had thought about what they had done to me. A blink of an eye and they had moved on from me, off to change the fate of another lost soul.

Not anymore, I had an eternity to rectify their unjust actions. An eternity to remind them of the girl with the snakes for hair and the eyes cursed, no, sculpted to entomb.

Sunday February 10th, 2019

I implore you to have pity on Adeline Crane. The 87-year old retired office assistant had developed debilitating bilateral cataracts that not only blurred her vision but made her eyes rather sensitive to glare and intense light. For this reason, she kept her home low lit with heavy antique burgundy drapes always drawn. She was, and forever had been, ideal.

I try to be silent when she enters the house today. With the gentle creak of her shoes tapping against floorboard, I lull into their metronomic thrum. She ruefully whispers to herself as her cane clatters into the umbrella stand. I could not help but release a sharp wince.

Her gaze darts to the kitchen. Feeling her way through the oak-laden cavern of this cave of a home, she manages to find her hand on the handle to the aperture above the sink and feebly tugs it shut.

I catch a glimpse of her shuddering. I sway behind her and gently pull the knitted shawl over her shoulders a little tighter.

Wednesday February 13th, 2019

Once a month, Adeline’s daughters forge an effort to pack up and stop by the home for lunch. This week, Emily Crane-Williams is the only family able to make the pilgrimage.

She arrives at half past one, announced by the softest of knocks. Atop an engorged belly rests a striking white vase. She mentions that she has brought grandpa’s ashes, as the vase settles amidst the dust atop the fireplace. Gold lettering lines the bottom of the vase, I stand to read it: “Now and Forever. Addie and Alfie.”

Addie. I whisper, enjoying the sound traveling through my lips.

Thursday February 14th, 2019

I watch as Adeline sits at the dimmed dining room table. Today, she has a series of photographs splayed across the table. Polaroids of a life I had never seen.

She stared blankly over them, as if trying to focus with her failing sight. I looked over the photos she had. Addie and Alfie Wedding, 1953. Alfie and the Girls, 1968. Then I see it. Addie is dressed in a black satin night dress and she is smiling.

There are a pair of men’s shoes in the corner. Shoes I had never seen. I groaned as her hand absentmindedly lingered over this photo. Addie, 1955. I swipe my hand over the table, knocking away the photographs.

“Who’s there?” Her voice is shaken, eyes darting around the barren kitchen, “I will call the police!”

Adeline. How much of you did you hide from me -- I mean, Alfred? Who knew about this? Her palm pressed against the table as a gasp escaped her lips.

She was fragile when she fell, the thrum of her heart fluttering as she wheezed. The final photograph fluttered onto her chest as she laid on the floor.

Adeline Ann Crane, aged 87, departed this Earth on Valentines’ Day 2019. Loving mother and survived by numerous grandchildren. She will join her husband Alfred Crane.

That afternoon, I tripped over a rotting skull. A dishevled, disembodied canine skull with its yellowed fangs scattered haphazardly across the frosted trail.

I looked at the jumbled array of bones for a while. The trees swayed gently above, scattering glittering remnants of the early morning’s snowfall over the exposed grave. I stood there, wondering if I was testing my stomach by allowing my eyes (perhaps even encouraging them) to look onwards.

He told me to take a picture. He said how cool a photograph of it would look posted up on online. I was ashamed when I took out my phone and slid the two toned filter over it, as if every particle of my mind wanted to ask the decaying corpse for permission.

In class the following afternoon, he passed me a note. Remember the fox?

I was very young when my mother first tried to teach me about bravery. I still remember being unable to process the pedantic nature of procuring responsibility for fate. I still don’t think I buy it. I wondered then what the fox had done to deserve such a showcase of death. Passerbys stepping over the remains, without noticing his humble resting place.

On our first date, we sat down by the pond. Our feet swirling the stagnate water moss while our hands buried deep into a bag of pretzels, coyly brushing fingertips as we talked.

I remember looking at him sidelong, careful not to let his eyes catch mine. He’d run a hand through his hair and my feeble heart would swell.

By our first year of high school, we would find ourselves skipping Algebra class to go make out by the pond. We thought we were brave then. We thought we could be one of those cool kids you see in the movies, you know? Skipping class, stealing our parents liquor and smokes, we thought we were on our way to invincibility. I thought we were on our way to be Bonnie and Clyde.

Between each breath, he’d break away from my lips just long enough to point in any direction. That’s an Oak. His finger would circle around quickly, like a compass. And so is that one. I would wait patiently for his attention to turn back to me, careful not to seem too eager. Heaven forbid.

Sophmore year was when we stopped going to Literature class, but this time he wouldn’t be there as I settled onto the bank of the pond. I didn’t think I was brave anymore as I tried my best to bury my feet into the silt.

I remember waiting in the threshold of his room at the hospital. I looked at his jumbled array of bones for a while. The nurses hurriedly whirring behind me, clacking their shoes against the floor of this sterile, white coffin. I stood there, wondering if I was testing my stomach by allowing my eyes, no, encouraging them to look onwards.

I remember the swell of ferocity as I left the cobblestone prison. On the ride home, I replayed the look of his fragile, bird-like frame. The sound of his mother’s shaken voice as she explained the motor vehicle that hit him at 35 miles per hour. I remember I hadn’t said anything, I could only think of the faint metronomic thrum of his heart.

I didn’t cross the room to touch him. A better me would have tripped over my rotting bravery that afternoon. A better me would have rested a palm against his chest, I should have looked him in the eyes. That’s an Oak.

A better me is still trying. I rest my palm against my own heavy chest this time, placing another fern over his granite stone resting place. And so is this one.

it wasn’t the bowl

or the left over pots that were too far gone

that littered the kitchen, with stains that catch each glimmer of light

like remnants of coal,

or a forgotten birthday

it wasn’t the bowl

nor the footsteps at break of dawn

trekking muddied, slurred, broken dreams forth to bite

like wading through a sinking hole,

or the sting of a drunkard

it wasn’t the bowl

whose oatmeal stains would be rinsed on

and would swirl down the drain and out of sight

but it wasn’t just a bowl.