This might’ve been said before but I’m saying it again: if Percy Jackson ever becomes a tv show or they remake the movies I want Aphrodite to be played by multiple women like each time she comes on screen it’s a different woman and not just women of the same race or body shape because beauty isn’t just white women or black women or Asian women or Latina women etc. beauty isn’t just being thin and skinny either there’s beautiful curvy women, petite women, lanky women, chubby women etc. so Aphrodite should represent all women of all shapes and color because they’re all beautiful
concept: Greek gods talk show but literally everyone is always just fighting. Except for Hestia and Hades, who discuss the latest book they read, sip tea, and make commentary on the fights that are going on
hades is the smell of the cold winter mornings, the smell of the pavement after it has rained, and the lingering scent left on your clothes after a camp fire. he holds your hand as you cross the street, watches the moon with you, and is sitting beside you on long car rides. he is both the coldness of your room at night and the warmth of your bed after a long day.
aphrodite is the smell of rose petals and your newest fragrance. she is the smell of the fog after a nights rain and the odour given off while romantic sex is taking place. she is the taste of your lovers lips and the feeling of your own skin after a shower. she is the butterflies in your stomach, and always has your name on the tip of her tongue. she is the one who sends you your next relationship and ends the bad ones.
poseidon is the smell of the moist air as the water rolls over the rocks near a lake. he is the smell of the mud in a play ground and the scent of your newest body wash. he’s the one who stares back at you as you stare beyond the horizon of the sea. he is the feeling you get when you jump into a pool after being in a hot tub or sauna.
apollo is the smell of breakfast cooking in the morning and wet wood. he is the split second of pain in your eyes from the light after being in the dark for long periods. he is the summers day spent at a park, and the excitement of remembering lyrics of your new favourite song.
artemis is the natural smell of your hair. she is both the smell of bark on a tree and your fingers after picking up a wet rock. she gives you grass stains on your pants, and blows your hair in the wind. she finds your favourite places to go and guards your place to sit.
ares is the smell of your sweat. he smells like sand and is the scent of your father. he feels like slate and the pain of a bruise. he is the one who pushes you that one extra step, and forces you to lose your cool.
zeus smells like fire. he smells like the cold wind and your freshly washed sheets. he is the one who makes your heart pound and is the one who triggers your anxieties. he is the booming of loud music and the cracking of the floor boards at night. he watches you as you walk home in the rain.
*shyly whispers* do u think u could do another Greek Mythology story~
“Your tapestries are so
fine,” the merchant says in wonder, “that you must be blessed by the goddess
Arachne tosses her
head, braided hair falling over her shoulder like an obsidian waterfall,
“What’s Athena got to do with it? My hands wove these, not hers.”
The merchant blanches
and looks to the sky, as if expecting Zeus himself to smite them for blasphemy.
Personally, she thinks the king of the gods has better thing to do with his
time. “Ah,” he says weakly, “I suppose.”
He pays her for her
wares and she leaves, almost immediately bumping into a hunched old woman with
grey eyes. “Do you not owe Athena thanks for your talent?” she croaks, gnarled
hands curled over a cane.
Arachne is not stupid,
but she is foolish. They will tell tales of it. She looks into those grey eyes
and declares, “Athena should thank me,
since my talents earn her so much praise.”
She pushes past her and
keeps walking, ignoring the goddess in humans skin as she disappears into the
They will tell tales of
her hubris. They will all be true.
The next day she bumps
into the same old woman at the market. Everything goes downhill from there.
“Know your place,
mortal,” Athena says, grey eyes narrowed. There is a crowd around them, and
Arachne could save herself, could walk away unscathed, and all she has to do is
say her weaving is inferior to that of a goddess.
She will not lie.
“I do,” she says
coolly, “and in this matter, it is above you.”
She is not honest as a
virtue, but as a vice.
Athena challengers her
to a weaving contest. She accepts.
Gods are not so hard to
find, if you know where to look.
“It’s a volcano,” the
baker repeats, looking down at her coins, as if he feels guilty for taking
money from someone who’s clearly not all there.
She grabs her bag of
sweet breads and adds it to her pack before swinging it over her shoulders,
“Yes, I know. Half a day’s walk, you said?”
“A volcano,” he insists, as if she did not hear him perfectly well the
first dozen times.
“Thank you for your
help,” she says. He’s shaking his head at her, but she knows what she’s doing.
She walks. She grows
hungry, but does not touch the bread she paid for, and walks some more. The
sun’s begun to set by the time she makes it to the base of the volcano. It’s
tall, impossibly large, and for a moment the promise of defeat threatens to
But Arachne does not
believe in defeat, in loss. They will tell tales of her hubris. Those tales
will be true.
She ties a scarf around
her braids then hikes her skirt up and ties the material so it falls only to
her thighs. She fits work roughened hands into the divots of cooled magma and
begins her slow ascent.
The muscles in her legs
and arms shake, and her hunger pains are almost as distracting. Her once white
dress is dirt smeared and torn and sweat makes her itch as it covers her body
and drips down her back.
“What are you doing?”
Arachne turns her head
and bites back a scream, looking into one giant eye. The cyclops holds easily
to the volcano’s edges, even though her hands are torn and bleeding. She
swallows and says, “I heard you like honeyed bread. Is it true?”
The creature tilts his
head to the side, baring his long fanged teeth at her. She thinks he might be
smiling. “You’ve been climbing for hours. What do you want?”
“Is it true?” she
repeats, refusing to flinch.
“Yes,” he says, looking
at her the same way the baker had, “it’s true.”
“There’s some sweet
bread in my pack, baked this morning,” she says, “it should still be soft.”
His hands are big
enough and strong enough that it could probably squeeze her head like a grape. Instead
he gently undoes her pack and reaches inside. The honey buns look comically
small in his large hands, and he swallows half of them in one bite. He licks
his fingers clean when he’s done, and his smile is just as terrifying the
second time around. “I am Brontes. Why are you climbing my master’s volcano?”
“I’m the weaver
Arachne,” she takes a deep breath, “I need your master’s help.”
They tell tales of
They are not true.
He’s got a broad,
angular face and short brown hair. His eyes are like amber set into his face,
and his arms are huge, and he’s rippling muscle from the waist up. He has legs
only to his knees. From there down his legs are bronze gears and golden wire,
replacements for the legs destroyed when Hera threw him from Mount Olympus.
“Had your look, girl?”
he asks, voice rough like he’s always a moment away from breaking into a
“Yes,” she says, and
doesn’t turn away, keeps looking.
His lips quirk up at
the corners, so it was the right move. The heat is even more oppressive inside
the volcano, and all around him cyclopses work, forging oddly shaped metal that
she can’t hope to understand. “You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to find me,
girl. What do you want?”
She slides her pack off
her shoulders and holds it out to the god, “I have a gift for your wife. I have
woven her a cloak.”
He raises an eyebrow
and doesn’t reach for the bag, “You believe something made with mortal hands
could be worthy of the goddess of beauty?”
They will tell tales of
They will all be true.
With a gust of wind the
oppressive heat of the volcano is swept away, leaving her chilled. In its place
stands a woman – more than a woman. Aphrodite has skin like the copper of her
husband’s machines and hair dark and thick and long. Her eyes are deepest,
richest brown, piercing in their intelligence. People don’t tell tales of
Aphrodite’s cleverness. That is because people are stupid.
“Let’s see it then,”
she says, reaching inside the pack and pulling the cloak from its depths.
It unrolls beautifully.
It’s made from the finest silks, and it shimmers in the light from the forges.
The hem of the cloak is sea foam, speaking of Aphrodite’s beginning, and up
along the cloak is intricate patterns it tells of her life, of her marriage and
her worshippers and escapades, all with the detail of the most experienced
artist and the reverence of her most devoted followers.
Her lips part in
surprise and she slides it on, twirling like a child. “Gorgeous,” Hephaestus
says, though Arachne knows he does not speak of the cloak. She doesn’t take
The goddess smiles and
Arachne’s heart pounds in her chest. She does her best to ignore it – Aphrodite
is the goddess of love, after all. It is only expected. “Very well,” the
goddess says, “you have my attention.”
Aphrodite’s attention is a heavy thing. “I have offended Athena,” she says,
“She has challenged me to a weaving contest.”
Their faces somber.
Hephaestus rubs the edge of a sleeve between his fingers and says, “Athena will
lose such a contest, if judged fairly. She does not take loss well.”
“I know,” she says,
“you are friendly with Hades, are you not?”
There are no tales of
their friendship. But she’s staking her life on its existence, because why
wouldn’t it exist – both of them even tempered, both shunned by Olympus, both
Gods hate being made to
feel lesser. It is why they say Persephone was kidnapped, why they say
Aphrodite cheats with Ares. It is why Athena will crush her when Arachne wins
the weaving contest.
“Clever girl,” Hephaestus
Aphrodite stares at her
reflection in a convenient piece of polished silver. Arachne assumes Hephaestus
left if lying there for that express purpose. “Very well!” the goddess says,
not looking at her, “when Athena sends you to the underworld, we will entrench
upon our uncle for your release.” She turns on her heel and points a finger at
her. Arachne blushes for no reason she can think of. “In return, you will weave
me a gown, one equal to my own beauty.”
A gown as exquisite as
the goddess of beauty. An impossible task.
They will tell tales of
They will all be true.
The contest goes as
expected. Athena’s tapestry is lovely, but Arachne’s is lovelier.
The goddess’s face goes
red in rage, and her grey eyes narrow. Arachne stands tall, ready to accept the
death blow coming for her.
The blow comes.
Death does not.
She is an insect. Even if she can make it back to Hephaestus’s
volcano, even if they can help her, they will not know it is her. She has no
hope left, no course of action, she should just give up. But –
She doesn’t believe in
defeat, in loss.
It was a terribly long
journey on foot, that first time. It is even longer this time, although now she
has eight legs instead of two. She makes it to the volcano, and creeps in
between crevices, until she finds out a hollowed room, one with a sliver of
sunlight and plenty of bugs to keep her fed.
Athena’s cruel joke of
allowing her to weave will be her downfall. Her silk comes out a golden yellow
color – it will look exquisite against Aphrodite’s copper skin.
It takes seven years
for her to complete it. She hasn’t left this room in the volcano in all that
time, and as soon as it’s done she scurries out back toward the village. She’s
a large insect, but not that large.
She arrives just as the
sun begins to rise, and leaves before the first rays have even touched the
earth, her prize tied to her back with her own silk.
Arachne doesn’t return
to her room. Instead she goes to the more popular parts of the volcano, hurries
and runs around terrifying stomping feet until she finds who she’s looking for
and scurries up his leg and onto his shoulder.
“Huh,” Brontes looks
onto his shoulder and blinks. “What on earth are you?”
She cautiously skitters
down his arm, waiting. He bends closer and lightly touches her back. “Is – is that
a piece of a honey bun?”
She looks up at him,
waiting. It’s her only chance, if he doesn’t remember, if he doesn’t understand
His face slowly fills with
a cautious kind of wonder. “Arachne?” She
jumps in place, being unable to nod, and Brontes cautiously cradles her in his
massive hands, “We must find the Master immediately!”
She jumps down, landing
in front of him and running forward. “Wait!” he calls, and she makes sure he’s running
after her before skittering back to her corner of the cave. It’s almost too
small for him to enter but he squeezes inside and breathes, “Oh.” He stares for
several moments, and Arachne climbs her web and waits. Brontes shakes himself
out of his reverie and uses his powerful wings to bellow, “MISTRESS APHRODITE!”
There’s that same
breeze and she’s in the crevice with them, “What was so important, Brontes,
that you had to yell?”
Arachne sees the exact
moment that the goddess sees the gown, golden yellow and glimmering, made
entirely of spider silk. “Beautiful,” she says, reaching out a hand to brush
down the bodice. Her head then snaps up, “Brontes, where’s Arachne?”
She warms at that, that
Aphrodite knew it was her weaving even though she hasn’t been seen in seven
They’ve told tales of
They are all true.
Brontes points at the
web, and Aphrodite steps over and holds out her hands. Arachne crawls onto the
goddess’s palms. “Athena is more powerful than I am, I cannot undo her work,”
she says, “but I know someone who can.”
Then they are in front
of a river. A handsome young man stands there waiting with a boat. “Goddess
Aphrodite,” he says, “we weren’t expecting you.”
returns, “I need to see Persephone.”
The man’s face stays
cool, and for a moment Arachne fears they will be refused and she will be stuck
in this form forever. Then he smiles and says, “My lady is of course available
for her favored niece.” He holds out a hand to help her onto the boat, “Please
come with me.”
Arachne weaves a dress
for Hades’s wife as a thank you, and returns to her volcano.
“I can take you
somewhere else,” Aphrodite says, “you don’t have to hide here.”
Arachne pauses at her
loom. She has lived in this volcano for seven years. It’s her home. “Would you
like me to leave?” she asks instead.
Aphrodite scoffs, “Of
course not! How could I dress myself without you here?” She’s wearing the
spider silk dress Arachne spun for her, and she’s working on another for the
goddess now. Aphrodite runs a gentle finger down Arachne’s cheek and for a
moment she forgets to breathe. “You are the finest weaver to ever exist.”
She looks up at the
goddess, “Then as the god of crafts and goddess of beautiful things, where else
would I belong besides with you and Hephaestus?”
To declare your company
equal to that of gods is the height of arrogance and blasphemy.
They tell tales of her
“An excellent point,”
Aphrodite murmurs, and tucks a stray braid behind Arachne’s ear.
Artemis: a queen, one who shuns the presence of men. Ruler of the night sky and the hunt, she doesn’t give a flying fuck about your gender roles.
Women can be single. Women can be hunters.
Athena: a scheming, cunning, genius woman, Athena is the mastermind behind every battle. Goddess of both wisdom AND war.
Women can be smart. Women can be warriors.
Aphrodite: a gorgeous woman, beautiful beyond belief, she was married off to a man she did not love. She refused her husband, and is with the chaotic man she truly loves. She loves romance novels and tragic love stories without your permission or stereotypes.
Women can be independent. Women can be beautiful. Women don’t have to love you because you say so.
Persephone: she is Queen of hell and goddess of springtime, drawing the line between death and rebirth. She loves her husband and mother, but refuses to let anyone tell her who to be or where to go.
Women can be sweet. Women can be brutal. Women can be complicated.
Hera: a practical woman, she is the goddess of marriage, her husband is always off fucking mortals. And she always makes sure he pays for it. This doesn’t stop her from being a fair queen, even more of a ruler than her husband.
Women can be powerful. Women make their own choices.
Demeter: a farm girl at heart, she rules the harvest, her mere emotions causing the seasons. Her daughter eloped with the god of death, and she misses her every day. She loves her loyal farmers and the crops they tend.
Women can be nurturing. Women can be depressed.
Hestia: a goddess of small renown, Hesta gave up her spot on the council to Dionsynius to keep order. She is the goddess of the hearth and home, fire and family. She represents the controlled chaos of a fire in the fireplace or a family in their home.
Women can be sacrificing. Women don’t need to be super to be important. Women can be chaotic.
Enough with this patriarchal Greek society. We all know who really ruled Olympus.
Friendly reminder that one of Aphrodite’s epithets is Tumborukhos which means ‘Gravedigger’ and let’s not forget my personal favourites, Androphonos (Killer of Men), Enoplios (Bearing Weapons), Epitumbidia (She Upon the Graves) and Summakhia (Ally in War) so the next time you feel the need to underestimate the Goddess of love and consider Her a shallow, empty-headed bimbo,I urge you to think again.
Hestia comforts the children of broken homes, she appears to
them as a school councilor that always has cookies. They cry in her arms, and
she lets them stay with her for as long as she can. She stopped calling home,
stopped making strongly worded comments to the parents. All there is left are
broken homes and suffering children.
Hera sits next to her sister, holds her hand and thinks
about the broken marriages that lead to broken homes. She listens to the
couples yelling at each other while she walks on the streets. She holds the
crying women, she listens to the hopeless men. All of the power that a goddess
of marriage possesses cannot help the people who were betrayed by their closest
After a long day, Demeter sits on the ground in her garden, holds
a cup of tea in hands that have dirt all over them. She wishes that more people
would remember what is under all of the concrete. She feels the dying of her
world, and curses those who do not care for it.
(i) aphrodite spends her nights stumbling out of bars the hands of unfamiliar men wrapped around her waist. she smells like hard liquor and cigarette smoke. when dusk turns to dawn she’s always the first to leave. always running. It’s better this way, safer this way.
(ii) artemis traded in her bow and arrow for a gun. she still hunts she just hunts a different kind of prey now. she goes out at dusk and comes back home at dawn. bruised and bloody. a few bullets missing from her gun. somewhere buried deep in the body of a man who wore cruelty as if it were a second skin. who did not take no for an answer.
(iii) persephone first saw hades in a club. He was the kind of boy her mother had warned her about. Boys like that her mother had said are nothing but trouble. but persephone had never minded trouble very much. she walked up to him her lips painting a shade of pomegranate and asked if she could buy him a drink.