Stories need a roof over their heads too
There were three of us, once upon a time, but only one that mattered. I, Medusa. The youngest of three sisters, the Gorgons. Mortally beautiful, so the tales tell. Or beautifully mortal, depending on who was looking. I got more than I ever bargained for, however, in exchange for my beauty. I caught a god’s eye. Crowned by a goddess, I was. The very one I served loyally and without question. A crown of living snakes was my reward. And eyes that could turn to stone.
It is a special moment, a moment of leggerezza, levity in Italian, a moment long sought after, sipping my hot cappuccino on the deck of the ship just out of port. The bar of our ferry is packed with tourists, yet I smirk knowingly, almost a local, I think. As an Italian explained to me once, you do not drink cappuccinos after noon. It’s 10 am or so and I count my cup a small, well-earned victory. Naught but a private joke shared between us. A notch on our oft-traveled belt no one will notice.
I rest on this beach. It has become a ritual, see, sitting every day in the exact same spot. It is perhaps a stone’s throw to the sea (if there were any lying around), yet I do not bother leaving my resting place. Quite content to remain where I am. Been here for what feels like an eternity now. And I most certainly am a creature of habit, if nothing else.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
Or so they say.
I beg to differ. Never quite noticed the weight. Until it no longer sat on my brow, that is. Like a maimed man, I feel now, without it. Phantom pain is my sole companion, when we used to be one, before. Would anyone argue I miss the comfort of my crown, then? The cool touch of metal. The weight of wealth. Power, too. The piercing, dazzling realness of it only a hundred different cut jewels can bestow. Aye, crowns always suited me. Felt right at home, seated atop my hair of silver.
Well, then. A few days ago, the one year anniversary has come and gone for Blank Page Down. A year of writing and sharing stories with the world (you)! Good times. Not that I planned to celebrate this in any way, but it’s an opportune moment to take a look back at what’s been and share some fun facts about this blog. Read on after the jump.
“That’ll do for one sitting, Bree,” Jaqo said. He reclined in the plush, high-backed armchair, then went about routinely cleaning his inkjector.
Breezelocks, or Bree, as her friends called her, skipped over to the mirror. One of the few vanity items she owned, it was a cracked and smudged thing. Mattered little to her now, of course. She twisted this way and that, brushing away her black, unruly dreads, to admire the latest bit of Jaqo’s precise needlework. Was excited about the addition to the collection.
I’m not much of a movie-goer. Lately my cinema sorties have been too few and usually far between. Used to be a time when it was different. I’d often go out with my brother, checking out the latest flick everyone was talking about (or inversely those which people hadn’t yet started talking about). We were picky back then, refusing to go see just any movie. I’m still like that, I reckon, only worse.
So, last Friday we did what everyone else is doing and went to see Star Wars: The Last Jedi. Now, this will not be a review of the film (it was very good), nor will it contain any spoilers. I’ll tell you why I liked it. Probably not for the same reasons you did. This will be a think piece on heroes. And how they are all one day destined to ride off into the sunset.
Reckon can’t do much worse than waking up in the morning with naught but two coppers in a pocket and a lute to yer name. The coin is good enough to buy a small apple, at best. Sure won’t buy respite from me stomach for too long.
I am a creature of habit. For instance, I like my sugar with coffee & cream (props to those who identify the pop music reference). Every morning after I wake up I need a solid 2 hours of doing whatever needs doing, until I’m halfway presentable. If not, I end up like a Gremlin tossed into water (nasty, understand). My wife regularly pokes fun at me for it. And rightfully so. However, this time all by my lonesome has a purpose other than me desperately needing it to resemble a human being.
I rode in a coach across the countryside, on a road wholly undeserving of the appellation. A beaten track amid the fields ‘twas, more like. Barely wide enough for our carriage to pass. Not that there was much traffic the other way at the hour. Nondescript. Anonymous, very much so, as any other dust-ridden, hole-filled stretch of land this side of the zero fucks the gods gave.