Medusa

In which a familiar face tells her own story.



We who are known as monsters are also the children of gods. Phorcys, my father, lived in the deep waters where whales fear to dive while my mother Ceto longed for breakers off the shore. My sisters and I, we were fierce and lovely as the wine dark sea. We who are known as monsters are also the playthings of the gods. Poseidon lusted for me as I was a piece of the waters that was not his. My freedom and beauty was all the fuel is rage and lechery needed. So he forced himself on me, a crime in need of punishment. So I was punished.




Behold the justice of the gods, living alone in her waterside cave. Behold this justice, and never see again, never speak again.



I hunger. I want to be kissed. I long for a man's loving embrace. I long for tender fingers on my breasts, my shoulders, my neck, my face, and through my hair which hisses now, bringing up hungers of it's own, filling me with my serpent self. I hunger. I long to devour the flesh of fish and beasts, to sink fangs into men and swallow their cruel, wicked bodies, to make them pay for their crimes against me. I want to feed. I hunger.



All I have here is this garden of sculptures. Bright eyed youth meet the end of their journey when the lay eyes on me. Here is my fair lover, here is my feast: I pillar of stone. I brake my teeth on it, I rub my skin raw on it, and my hunger goes forever unabated.



The gods never tire of playthings. He may come yet-the curly haired young cousin of mine meant to finally put an end to my hungers. He will be, without a doubt, the son of a god. Intoxicated with his own cleverness, strength, divine guidance, he will lop of a few heads of the family tree. Then he, too, will fall. Perhaps he will know, in time, the name of monster.
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