i love terry
Please donate to this shelter! I know someone who works there and they said they could really use money to pay for the cats’ medical bills, since they take in cats that are disabled and would probably not survive at a regular shelter, so please help some cats in need!!
"Breathe looks like a thin, cropped tank top with mesh panels to keep the user cool. While it's normally tight fighting, Breathe contains a smart alloy material called Nitone that, when electrified, loosens the garment. It's battery operated and can be adjusted with a remote controller, so the user can discreetly change how tight the binding is -- there's no need to change their clothing or go into a private space in order to take a break. There's also an optional feature that will automatically loosen the device when the user is playing a sport."
On February 4, sitting in his own car in his own neighborhood, talking to a female passenger, Monroe Bird was shot in the neck by a security guard, Ricky Stone, a 52-year-old white man. The bullet pierced the C3 vertebrae in his neck. Standing 6 feet, 8 inches, Bird, a gifted athlete, is now unable to move his arms or legs and relies on a ventilator to breathe.
Heres what you need to know:
This really hurt my heart.
I just cannot with the world anymore. I avoid the news sometimes cause it is so hurtful. But I also need to be woke.
Wooooooow
What the hell Fam !
They ‘took down my number and appreciate my call’ but claim that due to law they cannot discuss.
Has anyone started a petition? This is ridiculous
“young adult dystopian novels are so unrealistic lmao like they always have some random teenage girl rising up to inspire the world to make change.”
a hero emerges
And just like in the novels, grown men and women are going out of their way to destroy her. Support our hero.
And it’s not even like it doesn’t happen regularly.
Teenage girls are amazing.
Sometimes they’re not even teenagers
Reblog every time a girl is discredited/ignored
Who they are:
This isn’t a coincidence. Revolutions almost always happen when the population of a country is at its youngest and that’s a lot more true nowadays with social media.
Anyway if you haven’t checked out the #AbledsAreWeird hashtag on Twitter you are MISSING OUT.
My contribution to this is a girl asking ‘leg day?’ when she saw me struggling to walk. I told her I had a disability and she said ‘you’re good’. ?????
@deafeningsketchgalaxyhound I cannot believe you have HIDDEN THIS IN MY REPLIES I laughed so hard when I got this email notification you have no idea 😂
So many people have asked if i use my cane for, like, an aesthetic. It’s not fancy or decorated, its a $15 cane from walmart.
I’m a forearm crutch user, but I recently went to a fancy dress ball and used a fancy cane instead. Not only did most people assume it was for the aesthetic, there were actually people there USING THEM FOR THR AESTHETIC!
It was so annoying. Every time I wanted to use the stairlift I had to hike up my dress to display my leg braces so the attendant could see I’m Actually Disabled and not just another jerk with a cane.
Wow, what if you needed a cane but didn’t have leg braces? They would have denied you access to the stairlift? WTAF.
@ that one time i got a tic in science class last year and he got mad at me and i said “oh i’m sorry i have Tourette’s i can’t control it-“ and he deadass said “WHOS TOURETTE?? DONT BLAME HER ON THIS-“
boy.
I was at a Pizza Hut once with my crutches and I was in a corner so I propped them in the corner (out of the way but I could pick them up. And no joke the waitress stayed at my table for 20 freaking minutes askin me over and over if she could take my crutches to the coat room. Here are the replies I gave often repeated but a short list:
- no, I need them to move and they aren’t in the way. Thanks.
- No thanks, I cannot move without them and i prefer not to flag you down to go to the bathroom so…
- I need them please don’t take them.
- are you fine with me flagging you down every five minutes to fetch them so I can go to the bathroom or get myself a coke? No? Leave them
And eventually…
- okay, if there is a fire or terrorist attack are you prepared to say now in front of witnesses that you will go to the coatroom, bring me my crutches and then leave for safety? No? Then leave them.
She didn’t get it even after that.
My friend was embarrassed and told me just to let her (no longer friends because it turned out she was horrid) and eventually at the 25min mark the waitress stormed to her manager, had a go at him, only for him to have a go back.
She returned and asked if I wanted the buffet or to order. The buffet you have to go up and get on your own. I was in freaking crutches. So I explained again….her reply?
“But it’s cheaper”
So I explained again.
Another ten minutes later I managed to get her to write down my order.
I would have left but said friend didn’t want to. Again red flag.
i use forearm crutches. we were waiting outside a restaurant and i asked if there was somewhere i could sit, so the hostess led me inside to an empty table. the whole way there, she kept her arm around me to “help” (i put that in quotes because she was doing a pretty bad job of it) me walk and i just?? that’s what the crutches are for, ma’am
I can usually hide when I’m having a “hand curling into a claw day” from nerve damage just by putting my hand in my pocket, but no matter how many times I explain that I only need my cane SOMETIMES, whenever I’m without it, it’s, “Oh, so you’re all better now?” And next time I need it, “What happened? I thought you didn’t need the cane anymore.” I’ve given up on explaining, so now I just make up ridiculous stories. “Yeah, alien invasion. Got tagged by a disintegration ray.” Or “My real leg is in the shop. I’m just using a cane while I get used to the rental.”
(I wouldn’t mind so much except that the people asking are so often people I have already explained it to.)
someone once asked if i was actually autistic bc i was actually talking 🙄
able bodied people really fucking struggle with the concept of feeling sick forever. They’ve never been sick forever, just a few days or maybe a few weeks. Trying to suggest that feeling sick can last FOREVER, that you will feel poorly/be injured FOREVER and ALWAYS need support with it… something short circuits. If you have a good day it means you’re almost over your ‘illness’ to them because they can’t imagine a life where the ‘illness’ never stops. Doesn’t matter if its nerve damage, physical, mental, digestive - they just cant picture actually struggling.
This whole obsession with wheelchair users struggling on foot down the aisle at their wedding or across the stage for graduation is 100% powered by ableism.
“The heartwarming story of how one woman worked for 8 months straight so she could escape the horror that is being in wheelchair for a few short minutes to struggle slowly and painfully down the aisle on her special day.”
“the horror that is being in a wheelchair” bitch it’s hella better than struggling slowly & painfully down the aisle ffs
“Despite being permanently paralyzed, her one goal since her accident has been to walk across the stage for graduation. The whole crowd gave her a standing ovation and broke into tears when she dragged her paralyzed legs across the stage with the help of leg braces and a walker to collect her diploma, after which she immediately sat back down in her wheelchair, which she will use to move around for the rest of her life.”
How the hell is this an inspirational story? This person needs better goals. And a therapist.
They’re toxic in an even greater way because as a disabled person, I didn’t realise till I was reading this how much I had internalised that. I genuinely have had feelings of fear and shame about using a chair or a walker if I get married. And why? Because I’m constantly seeing “heartwarming” stories about disabled people who shed their mobility aids for that moment. Why the hell am I afraid of using them to get married? Anyone who marries me or attends the wedding will know I need them and love me regardless.
Bless this post for making me realise I’d internalised that shit.
idea: incorporating mobility aids into wedding fashion. decorating your wheelchair with flowers and lace as intricate as the dress itself. maybe one of those longass cape things idk what they’re called? on the back, idk if those would work with wheels wrt not getting tangled, but then again idk how they work with legs either. braces and canes thatre color-coordinated with your suit or dress. wedding outfits that include and are DESIGNED FOR wheelchairs/canes/braces.
I’ve seen wedding photos from several brides who decorated their power chairs with flowers for their wedding and it was BEAUTIFUL.
This post made me realise how much I desperately want to be able to not use my stick at my wedding next year and how fucked up that is
Some examples of how I decorated my wheelchair for my wedding (I’ve kept flowers on it ever since.) I highly recommend keeping yourself comfortable and happy on special occasions, however much that means including your mobility aids!
I love it!
concept: wheelchair as cinderella carriage with the fancy spiral/vine wheels
also BRING BACK FANCY FASHION CANES AND WALKING STICKS like seriously why did that stop being a Thing
You can definitely get fancy canes. FashionableCanes.com is one good source.
Flaunt your mobility aid!
Fashion designers and style gurus who do not incorporate wheelchairs and people who use them into their designs are cowards.
A fawn curled up beside a fake deer which is used for target practice.
A lot of people are super upset by this, so here is a reminder from someone who has worked professionally with deer:
A fawn tucked down alone like this is almost never an orphan.
Fawns are extremely small, and their best defense is to stay hidden as often as possible. Unless they are nursing or moving to a new spot, tucking themselves down in grass or against bigger objects is their best defense.
What would be an easy giveaway to a lurking predator that there is a vulnerable baby nearby? A much larger, much more visible adult female deer!
To protect her baby, a female deer will avoid the baby most of the day (except to nurse it or move it), and she will keep an eye on the baby from a distance to make sure everything is alright.
If you approach a fawn (or god forbid pick it up and take it home), I’d bet money that 9.5 times out of 10, mama is alive and well, watching you from a distance, desperately hoping you’ll move on without hurting her baby.
It’s not orphaned, it’s not abandoned.
Working in wildlife, if there is one thing I could magically make the entire human population know, it would be this information.
Every summer, people show up at wildlife rehabbers, state park offices, ranger stations, and even deer farms, with allegedly orphaned fawns that they’ve “saved.”
Tragically, we pretty much have to destroy these animals every time.
Deer farms legally cannot take in wild deer because of the extremely dangerous risk of disease transmission to their livestock population (look up chronic wasting disease). Contact with a wild deer could doom their animals and their livelihoods.
I have worked on deer farms and in wildlife rehab.
Deer are extremely difficult to raise, rehabilitate, and release. Mostly, it’s impossible. Often, they simply refuse to eat from anything but their mother, and we have to decide between letting them waste away for three days or so, or euthanizing them.
Deer are also overpopulated in many states now, and we can’t afford the resources to raise them. There are species more in need of our assistance.
If you see a fawn all alone, unless it’s next to its dead parent, it’s not an orphan.
I am begging you to leave it be.
In this case, this fawn is almost certainly fine. It’s just hunkered down like it should be, waiting for Mama.
But it does make for a great photo!
They’re also shooting for 100% renewable plastic sources by 2030! All of the soft plant/leaf elements in sets right now and going forward are made out of bioplastic made from sugarcane, and they’re working on getting the regular hard plastic bricks out of that, too.
They’ve done it, actually! The full bricks are in the prototype stage now, and are expected to be 100% biodegradable without the need for a commercial compost facility. It’s very cool. Right now they’re testing the durability and playability of the bricks and seeing what needs to be revised/reworked on their final model.
So its that easy huh
To donate £5 to the charity supporting the male victims of domestic abuse, text the message: MKDV46 to 70070
At first I though this was a joke
Don’t ignore this Tumblr
Yet they still do even when it’s right in their face.
This reminds me of how a friend of mine was abused by the mother of his child. She was mentally unstable and used to berate him constantly and would smack him in the head all the time. It really pissed me off. Then one night she threw hot coffee in his face and tried to stab him with a screwdriver. The cops hauled him off to jail because she made up a sob story that painted herself as the victim. Once he left her, he stayed with me and it was a nightmare. She stalked him and me. She would drive by my house obsessively at all hours of the day and night (her muffler made a weird sound so I know it was her). She started showing up at my job, showing up at the places I frequented around town, and filling up my voicemail with dead air. The cops were no help. One day she got bold enough to talk her way into my home by conning my elderly grandmother, whom I was taking care of, while I was out. She went in my room and went through my stuff (creepy), then found him napping on the couch and attacked him. My grandmother witnessed the whole thing. He grabbed her by the arms, forced her out the front door, and locked it. The cops were called again. They said they’d go and ‘talk’ to her.
The next day we were watching a movie and there was a knock at the door. The police had come to arrest him. She filed a complaint against him and shown off some bruises on her arms from the altercation that she swore were completely unprovoked. My grandmother saw the whole thing since she was in the living room too and testified on his behalf. He still ended up serving jail time. No one takes male domestic violence victims seriously. They only see males as perpetrators.
This is important. Just… everyone needs to see this.
This is why we needed feminism - this is why we know that feminism works
I just want to reiterate this stuff, because I legit get the feeling there are a lot of younger women for whom it hasn’t really sunk in what it is today’s GOP is actively trying to return to.
Did you go to a good college? Shame on you, you took a college placement that could have gone to a man who deserves and needs it to support or prepare for his wife & children. But if you really must attend college, well, some men like that, you can still get married if you focus on finding the right man.
Got a job? Why? A man could be doing that job. You should be at home caring for a family. You shouldn’t be taking that job away from a man who needs it (see college, above). You definitely don’t have a career – you’ll be pregnant and raising children soon, so no need to worry about promoting you.
This shit was within living memory. I’M A MILLENIAL and my mother was in the second class that allowed women at an Ivy League school. Men who are alive today either personally remember shit like this or have parents/family who have raised them into thinking this was the way America functioned back in the blissful Good Old Days. There are literally dudes in the GOP old enough to remember when it was like this and yearn for those days to return.
When people talk about resisting conservativism and the GOP, we’re not just talking about whether the wage gap is a myth or not. We’re talking about whether women even have the fundamental right to exist as individuals, to run their own households and compete for jobs and be considered on an equal footing with men in any arena at all in the first place.
I was a child in the 1960s, a teenager in the 1970s, a young adult in the 1980s. This is what it was like: When I was growing up, it was considered unfortunate if a girl was good at sports. Girls were not allowed in Little League. Girls’ teams didn’t exist in high school, except at all-girls’ high schools. Boys played sports, and girls were the cheerleaders. People used to ask me as a child what I wanted to be when I grew up. I said I wanted to be a brain surgeon or the first woman justice on the Supreme Court. Everyone told me it was impossible–those just weren’t realistic goals for a girl–the latter, especially, because you couldn’t trust women to judge fairly and rationally, after all. In the 1960s and 1970s, all women were identified by their marital status, even in arrest reports and obituaries. In elementary school, my science teacher referred to Pierre Curie as DOCTOR Curie and Marie Curie as MRS. Curie…because, as he put it, “she was just his wife.” (Both had doctorates and both were Nobel prize winners, so you would think that both would be accorded respect.) Companies could and did require women to wear dresses and skirts. Failure to do could and did get women fired. And it was legal. It was also legal to fire women for getting married or getting pregnant. The rationale was that a woman who was married or who had a child had no business working; that was what her husband was for. Aetna Insurance, the biggest insurance company in America, fired women for all of the above. A man could rape his wife. Legally. I can remember being twelve years old and reading about legal experts actually debating whether or not a man could actually be said to coerce his wife into having sex. This was a serious debate in 1974. The debate about marital rape came up in my law school, too, in 1984. Could a woman be raped by her husband? The guys all said no–a woman got married, so she was consenting to sex at all times. So I turned it around. I asked them if, since a man had gotten married, that meant that his wife could shove a dildo or a stick or something up his ass any time she wanted to for HER sexual pleasure. (Hey, I thought it was reasonable. If one gender was legally entitled to force sex on the other, then obviously the reverse should also be true.) The male law students didn’t like the idea. Interestingly, they commented that being treated like that would make them feel like a woman. My reaction was, “Thank you for proving my point…” The concept of date rape, when first proposed, was considered laughable. If a woman went out on a date, the argument of legal experts ran, sexual consent was implied. Even more sickening was the fact that in some states–even in the early 1980s–a man could rape his daughter…and it was no worse than a misdemeanor. Women taking self-defense classes in the 1970s and 1980s were frequently described in books and on TV as “cute.” The implication was that it was absurd for a woman to attempt to defend herself, but wasn’t it just adorable for her to try? I was expressly forbidden to take computer classes in junior and senior years of high school–1978-79 and 1979-80–because, as the principal told me, “Only boys have to know that kind of thing. You girls are going to get married, and you won’t use it.” When I was in college–from 1980 to 1984–there were no womens’ studies. The idea hadn’t occurred in many places because the presumption was that there was nothing TO study. My history professor–a man who had a doctorate in history–informed me quite seriously that women had never produced a noted painter, sculptor, composer, architect or scientist because…wait for it…womens’ brains were too small. (He was very surprised when I came up with a list of fifty women gifted in the arts and science, most of whom he had never heard of before.) When Walter Mondale picked Geraldine Ferraro as a running mate in 1984, the press hailed it as a disaster. What would happen, they asked fearfully, if Mondale died and Ferraro became president? What if an international crisis arose and she was menstruating? She could push the nuclear button in a fit of PMS! It would be the end of the WORLD!! …No, they WEREN’T kidding. On the surface, things are very different now than they were when I was a child, a teen and a young adult. But I’m afraid that people now do not realize what it was like then. I’ve read a lot of posts from young women who say that they are not feminists. If the only exposure to feminism they have is the work of extremists, I cannot blame them overmuch. I wish that I could tell them what feminism was like when it was new–when the dream of legal equality was just a dream, and hadn’t even begun to come true. When “woman’s work” was a sneer–and an overt putdown. When people tut-tutted over bright and athletic girls with the words, “Really, it’s a shame she’s not a boy.” That lack of feminism wasn’t all men opening doors and picking up checks. A lot of it was an attitude of patronizing contempt that hasn’t entirely died out, but which has become less publicly acceptable. I wish I could make them feel what it was like…when grown men were called “men” and grown women were “girls.”
Know your history.
So this, too, is what they mean saying “make America great again” and/or the good old days.
REBLOG FOREVER.
I am 70. I remember all those things. I was a student nurse from 64 to 67 and we were not permitted to “finish” a bed bath on a male or insert a catheter in a male. Seeing male genitals might cause us “harm” or upset our delicate sensibilities. Imagine when we graduated and were “thrown” to the wolves. Imagine if you were a male patient who had to be the first to be “practiced” on by a graduate nurse. (Ha!) At the school I attended no student nurse could be married. Only one school in my city (Atlanta) would even admit married women and Male Nurses weren’t even thought of. What man would want to be a nurse when he could be a Doctor. In all my training I only remember 3 or 4 Women who were Doctor’s and a very few, (less than 5 or 6) female interns or residents (and this was a teaching hospital) and most of those were OB/Gyns and one was a pediatrician.
When I graduated and was going to get married I wanted to go on birth control pills. You needed to be on them for a least one cycle before they were effective. I won’t go into what hoops I had to jump through to get a prescription from my Dr. (a man, natch) but when i went to the drug store to get the prescription filled I ended up having to get my future husband to “accompany” me so the pharmacist “interview” him and see if it was okay with him for me to be on the pill.
Even when we went to get a marriage license I had to get my Father’s signature and we had to go before a Judge because I was not yet 21 (I was 20 and 9 months).
I could go on and on, getting a credit card in MY name, etc., but I will tell you that WE MUST RESIST.
The number of people I know who romanticize gender inequality is frankly terrifying. A world never existed in which the lives of women were simplified by benevolent men who saw to her every want and need. That was not a thing. A world never existed in which women were all ladies, men were all gentlemen, & everything was some great big cishet fairytale. Feminists aren’t a bunch of upstarts who want to destroy a perfectly wholesome and non-harmful system. Just…look at history. Look at the posts above. We. Must. Resist..
About 8: The State of New York only added No-Fault Divorce as an option in 2010 (!!!)
I want to repeat here.
This is what they mean, when they say “Old-fashioned values”
When conservatives start waxing lyrical about the ‘good old days’, this is what they mean. They are fully aware how much things blew for women, and they would like to return to that.
“Qu xuexi,” meaning to go or be sent to study, is one of the most common expressions in Xinjiang these days. It is a euphemism for having been taken away and not having been seen or heard from since. The “schools” are re-education centers in which the detainees are being forced to take courses in Chinese and patriotism, without any indictment, due process or a fair hearing.
“Fidget toys make you less focused :)” that because you’re not adhd/autistic you fucking clod
list of things i have heard from people without adhd/autism who used my fidget toy:
- it doesn’t do anything
- its a waste of plastic
- how do you pay attention in class
- it makes so much noise (it doesn’t make any noise, they just saw i had it in my hand)
- at least my fidget spinner actually does stuff (my toy does 6 different things. also they got their fidget spinner taken the same day)
- its gay (creative)
things my friends with adhd/autism have said after using my fidget toy:
- oh my god
- its so…. Good
- i could actually pay attention to shit in class
- where can i buy this???
- wait there’s More stuff like this
- i love you. (not related to the toy per say but that felt nice)
This right here is an important post
As a teacher, the whole “fidget spinners being marketed as toys” is the most terrifying trend my students have introduced me to. I gave a fidget cube to one of my 6th grade students who’s been struggling all year with his adhd, who is so smart but is failing math because he can’t focus in it. He was hesitant at first, about a teacher giving him something “to help” rather than punishing him, but agreed with me that it couldn’t hurt to try.
He hasn’t put it down.
Everyday since he got it, I’ve seen him with it. He holds it in his pocket, and hasn’t climbed on a table or cussed at a teacher since.
BUT
There are at least 20 other kids in our school who bring fidget spinners and play with them out on the table during lessons. They don’t pay attention in class, and they disrupt other students’ learning. These are not students with adhd or anxiety, these are students who are just playing because they’re kids and that’s what kids do.
What scares me is I know other teachers have been confiscating them. They’re going to be banned, if it continues to be a problem. And my 6th grader, who’s had noticeable improvements since he started playing with his cube, is going to get in trouble for using something that helps him learn.
Oooh fuck I get the problem now
I remember when fidget spinners first came out and everyone had one. And as they died down, I got my first one. And it was so nice and then this one very very ableist girl in my AP class (she complained about accommodations disabled students get, and even went so far to say that kids with dyslexia shouldn’t have extra time on tests because they can’t read. Yeah. She was THAT extra and I hated her guts.) was all like “OMG CAN I PLAY WITH IT???” and it was a small class of 10 of us, and she said it loud enough for everyone to hear and so I very reluctantly handed it over. She spun it and then started shaking it up and down and was like “I dont get it. What does it do?” And I was just like see??? This is why I didnt want you to have it. And she created such a distubance trying to figure out how my fidget spinner worked that my teacher told her to give it back or he would take it. And IT WASNT EVEN HERS. Like god damn it all was fine until you had to see what I was doing and nearly get my spinner taken. I use it to focus, and help keep meltdowns at bay when classes get too noisy or overwhelming, and in those two minutes she had it, nearly cost me.
but can we just make it clear that these fidgit toys are for, as well as people living with adhd and autism, people with anxiety as well? because im intensly anxious, and these fidgit toys work very well for me, and im actually sick of teachers telling me to put it away because there is “clearly nothing wrong with me”
At my school so many people brought fidget spinners as the new trendy toys that at one point they did get banned,,,,,,
Where I work most of us have ‘something’ that makes it difficult for us to concentrate. Our coping mechanisms + reactions:
1. Headphones and music: Person A: Gets loads of work done. Person B: Does no work at all (but does do a fantastic, silent rendition of Despacito) Person C: Forgets he had headphones on, didn’t even hit play on the music.
2. Fidget Cube: Person A: “Click click. Bop. Ok yeah bored you can have it back.” Person B: *click click click click click* “Nope this is super distracting to me.” Person C: Gets loads of work done.
3. Fidget Spinner: Person A: “Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee” *gives it back” Person B: Gets loads of work done Person C: Just… dropped it. Seemed to be incapable of physically holding it.
There’s also Person D who has like, a teeny exercise bike under their desk but the rest of us just kinda noped out of that one cause… exercise…
Person A is autistic, Person B has ADHD, Person C has anxiety, Person D also has ADHD.
The point is, what works for you may not work for other people, but more importantly just because something doesn’t work for you does not mean that it doesn’t work for someone else.
Feel free to add more.
Adding more…
And more…
Idea:
Medusa wasn’t Cursed with Snake Hair and Scales.
She Already had Snake Hair and Scales and was still the hottest lady the Gods have ever seen.
To be fair Medusa is supposedly one of the three Gorgon sisters, so it makes sense that there would be a family resemblance
Yeah that’s why I had to post this
I’ve read too many stories where it’s like “she’s a Gorgon” then near the end of the story they say “she was cursed with snake hair and features”
And I’m just like “…Wait.”
I think the only thing she was truly cursed with were the eyes that turn people to stone
someone draw beautiful medusa with scales and snake hair before being cursed p le a s e
I already had a little idea in my head so…
The men yell, “she’s a monster! She should be hunted down and killed”. They’ve said it before, they’ve tried it before. She steals women and devours them, the men yell. “She comes in the night and takes women away when they’re on a half-awake wander to the chamber pot or a drink of water. She steals them away to her lair and devours them whole. Why else do women not return?”
The women whisper, “she’s a savior. She should be sought for sanctuary and love.” They whisper it around the well whenever they see the shadows of a bruise on their friends’ bodies. Whenever someone who once was vivacious and bright is now dull and flinches from friendly touches. “Go in the night,” they say, “when he’s so drunk he sleeps heavily. Take only what he won’t notice is missing. Don’t worry about clothes or food, she will provide. You will be cared for. Why would you want to return?”
She says, “welcome home. You will be safe here,” with a soft smile and softer eyes. The snakes that curl around her head are more colors than you’ve ever seen in your life. She tilts her head as she takes in your bundle of precious items, the bruises on your arm, your face, around your neck. A cloud passes over her face and the sun, and you see the snakes are black. The look passes, the cloud moves away, the sun strikes the snakes again and they’re a shifting array of colors again. “Come, meet your sisters,” she says, gesturing as she turns and you look to see dozens of women coming out of the cave, smiling and happy. The group comes forward, splitting to either side of you, leaving a path to the cave and a path behind you leading back. “Welcome, you’re safe.” You step forward, peace settling into your heart. You will never return.
I love these stories about Medusa that go against the common myths
The men at the drinking party sat around laughing at the younger man. “You mean to tell us that a woman was beating her husband? Ha! What a jokester you are.”
“You are probably just too embarrassed to admit you got that black eye from doing something stupid.”
“Besides even if you were telling the truth, just be a man and fight back! Or have you no guts at all? We all know your wife is a spitfire but she is still a woman, and you are a man.”
The young man was used to these responses from the older men of the village, to the point that his heart was turned to stone from it. His wife, whom he had been arranged to marry, was not like most of the other women he had met in his life. She was cruel and truly wicked and often drunk. She took advantage of the young man’s youth and lack of experience. Even if the people thought that she was a weak woman, she knew that she was stronger than her young husband, who had less strength than a hungry dog. And of course, no one would believe that a woman could overpower a young man like that.
On this day however, the young man decided to take a chance. He approached the well where he had often seen one woman in particular talking to the women who had vanished only a day or two before then, and she was there today.
“Excuse me. I have a quick question for you.”
The woman, who was just pulling her bucket out of the well turned to him somewhat surprised. “Yes?”
“Is…is it true…what the women whisper about the Gorgon in the woods…that…she helps women whose husbands beat them?”
The woman seemed suspicious of him at first, “Where did you hear that?”
“I just…” the man looked around nervously before removing the bandages from his face to show her his purple-ringed eye and swollen lip.
The woman hesitated before repeating the words she often did to many others, “ Go in the night,” she said, “when he-…she is so drunk he sleeps heavily. Take only what she won’t notice is missing. Don’t worry about clothes or food, she will provide. You will be cared for. Why would you want to return?”
Before the young man could even thank her, his wife stormed up behind him, “What are you doing talking to another woman!?”
The young man hesitated before the woman at the well said, “He saw me struggling with my bucket and came to help me. Nothing more.”
“I see.” his wife grumbled, clearly still skeptical.
A few nights later, the young man fled. He was quiet and stealthy, until he got to the forest, where he quickly pushed forward into a sprint. He ran and ran, doing his best to remember the directions to the place that promised safety.
Once at last he came across the cave, he stood panting at its mouth before taking his first steps in. He soon found himself in a big lit chamber, women whom he had recognized as from his same village sat around. Some drinking and eating, others playing games, others braiding each other’s hair. But when he entered, they all looked up at him, some in surprise, others in shock, or fear.
“What is a man doing here?” they whispered, “Has the village sent a mercenary after Medusa?” “Are we no longer safe here?” the whispers grew into an almost deafening cacophony of the same hopelessness he felt back in the village. Surely, he thought, these women who are fearful of their husbands would not want to welcome a man among them. Perhaps I should have stayed at home, and let them be.
However, when he turned to leave, he found himself face to face with the gorgon woman. Her eyes seemed to pierce deep into his very soul, as if to weed through the annals of his true self.
His mind raced, trying to think of what to say to defend himself against this protector of women, to justify his entrance into this blessed sanctuary for the broken and beaten. But before he could part his lips, she spoke.
“Fear not my sisters. Look upon the wounds on his face. He too has come hear for safety from violence. Look into his eyes. He is afraid and hurt, as many of you were when you first came to me. Young man, you are welcome here, for this is a place of safety from cruelty. I know all too well that the hardships of life do not discriminate those of whom they strike against. Come, to your new home, and meet your sisters. Come and be safe.”
She gently took his bundles and began to carry them away, and when she looked back at him to see if he was following, he felt her eyes peer deep inside him, and begin to shed away the stone that had encased his heart.
(I hope you like this addition because male abuse victims also need happy endings.)
Oh my gosh…
This is such a beautiful and tearjerking addition
Thank you
Imagine a god or goddess realizing the curse placed on Medusa kept her from helping people anymore. They can not remove the curse but they find a way to alter it.
From then on her gaze will only turn those who approach her with unpure intentions to stone.
The “heros” they send to kill her turn to stone. The women and men who come for protection are spared. Innocents who stumble upon her are safe. Abusers who attempt to take their victims back are met with a vengeful gaze as they find themselves unable to move, turned to stone for eternity.
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.
It’s okay to be bad at things. If you like drawing, but none of your art is aesthetically pleasing to anyone, keep doing it. If you like singing, but you can’t hit any of the right notes, keep doing it. If you like dancing, but you don’t have a good feel of the music, keep doing it. Don’t stop doing the things that you love just because you aren’t good at them and don’t ever let anyone shame you for it.
