I just realized that I have NEVER posted any of my fiction-writing in here, mostly because I just dabble in it. Creative non-fiction is more my cup of tea, if you know what I’m saying. If you’re curious, here’s a piece I recently revised for my creative writing class that I’m particularly proud of. Feel free to cut it apart. I’m a big girl, I can handle critique. 🙂
Believe me, I’m quite aware that it’s not everyday that you’re chained to a rock, nude, breasts saying "hello!" to the world as my worthy savior Perseus is coming into view, stage right, atop a nobly un-winged-yet-still-capable-of-flight-I’m-not-even-going-to-ask-questions-okay-digression-over steed of seemingly infinite glory. It also seems as if the ever-so-sweet Perseus knew that Valentine’s day was just around the corner as he was so considerate to pick up a gift for yours truly; a beheaded Medusa’s grotesquely contorted and transfixed head.
Oh, I just might sigh from this display of fervent male affection. It’s fabulous to see how the Valentine’s day industry has evolved over the years. Contorted snake-haired heads to nut filled chocolate clusters and a CD full of smooth jazz. Perseus, being a chivalrous prince and all , is also seemingly knowledgeable of good timing as well. He’s dropping off his present just as the my questionably nude and brazen self is being attacked by an uncontained encroaching sea-dog hybrid, Cetus, that is looking to get up in all of my business. And I’m not okay with any of that!
But first let’s get to my outfit, or lackthereof. Could there ever be a more terrible day to wear…practically nothing at all? I know that the reason that I’m here is because of my braggart of a mother kept saying how beautiful I was, but hey, a nude girl is still entitled to a bit of shame.
I never thought that at the age of eighteen I would be where I’m standing now; nude, alone, my shaking limbs attached to this barren and unforgiving cliff. But I guess I can be thankful that I’m not apart of that group of nude women who find themselves dancing seductively atop a table for chauvinistic male pursuers. It can always be worse. At least my male pursuer isn’t banging on a table, his eyes glazed over with unrequited false passion, his mouth glazed over with drool and lust.
Oh, no. He’s apart of those few men, those who remember Valentine’s day, who will pick you up from your Cliff of Imminent Doom even when Sports Center is on, regardless of if you have any clothes on. Who will try not to notice your feigned, forced, false appreciation of their Valentine’s lackluster gift to you of a blood-spewing serpent-covered gorgon head. It’s the thought that counts, right? Who will endlessly agree with your prideful, bragging, heavy-set mound of a mother, her jowels jiggling excitedly as she goes on and on about how beautiful you are, even if that is exactly what got you in your predicament in the first place. He’ll just nod adoringly, as you choke down bits of dry spanakopita at the dinner table, embarrassed that your mother would bring up this story, again.
He’s used to crazy families, believe me. You don’t get crazy like you get "hey-my-grandson-has-been-predicted-to-be-my-murderer-let’s-throw-him-and-his-mother-into-the-sea-in-a-chest-made-of-wood" crazy. All I can hope is that by the time we get to the baklava course of our meal at dinner tonight my mother’s flabby arms aren’t wiggling in the direction of my childhood photos, beckoning us all to follow her to my old childhood photos, where there are even more pieces of evidence of my nudity, splashing around in my fluorescently colored kiddie pool, unaware of the shame that usually goes along with nakedness. My childhood self would giggle if she knew where my nakedness has gotten me at the age of eighteen.