mythological story

you love me and I love you
it’s a fact that our eyes whisper every time we look at each other
for reassurance, for hope, for support
it’s something we scream every time we utter the other’s name
like an oath, like some twisted kind of absolution 


but the words get stuck in the roof of my mouth
it’s like the signal’s jammed 
like the words don’t belong as goodbye or spoken in the middle of war


I think fate conspired to have us in each other’s lives
because everywhere I look, you remain beating in my heart
and because every time I try to run, I find myself missing you
I think  I gave you access to my soul before I knew what I was doing


because darling,
my atoms were formed to complete the puzzle that is the pieces of you

—  Unfinished Stories #413 by Abby S
2

Chapter 4: Pale Blue Eyes 


“You got to be kidding me.” Freyr muttered angrily as he stared at that letter and crushed it angrily “We already paid that damn lady this month’s rent and now she wants compensation because of Cholula attacking the next door neighbor’s cat?-“ Time to find a new apartment for them to live. Slowly Freyr plopped himself in the bed,just thinking where to get out of that hellhole when he glanced at Freyja. She seems to be pale again, watching how Cholula kneading her face tenderly “Come we will find it somehow, we are close to buying a new apartment for ourselves by the rate she is nagging us.” 

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anonymous asked:

Whats your opinion on combining mythologies? The story I'm outlining right now takes place in a fantasy setting but the story background is influenced by both Japanese and Celtic myths (and I'm a longtime fan of Greek/Roman mythology) so I'm at a loss at to what to do in regards to worldbuilding.

Go for it, but treat the mythologies you borrow from with respect is what I’d say.

it feels right, loving him
like it’s something your soul acknowledged long ago
and even though you are forced to wait to tell him


you know that when he comes back to you
the universe will be softer just because he’s in your arms


 and the wait just makes your heart belong to him even more
and a day where his voice doesn’t echo in your mind is one not lived

and he’s saved you  and shaped you
and you, you, yearn to enshrine him in the constellations  
because this love is something like devotion, like absolution

—  Unfinished Stories #24 by Abby S

modern mythology is my favourite

  • witches whose day jobs is treating ill people with “alternative” remedies like crystal healing and herbalism that actually work
  • incubui and succubi who are models
  • dryads and other nature spirits who are huge environmental activists
  • schools designed for supernatural and magical creatures
  • witch tattoo artists who secretly disguise protective runes into all their tattoos
  • fair folk who sell potions at market stalls
  • mermaid marine biologists
  • normal humans that somehow come across dragon eggs and are trying to hatch it in their basement
  • elf scholars who run libraries filled with books about magic
  • werewolves running animal shelters
  • safety runes graffiti on apartment blocks

MODERN MYTHOLOGY

I’m adrift, lost to the villainy of time 
and I keep hoping I’ll find my way back home
that I’ll be running right back to you


but I find myself forgetting what you sound like
even though I have your voice echoing in my mind day after day
and I find myself forgetting what you look like
even though I have your name burned into my brain


and I don’t want to forget you, because forgetting you means losing me
I think my heart was made to slot inside yours
and I think my soul realized that long before my head did


but the myths, and legends and legacies that make the universe write
they don’t end happily, they end in blood and ruin and decay
and we both know that before I was swept away,
we were beginning to be mythic 


so, my love, I’m still holding out hope that I’ll see you again 
but I find myself wishing that we could begin in a better universe
because there we might have a chance to have a fairytale ending 


but my love for you can withstand the shattering of space
and your love for me can overcome the destruction of destiny 
together, we can find each other in the area where fate refuses to dwell
letting the song that’s been quiet since we were forced apart start anew

— 

Homecoming by Abby S

participate in my 2k celebration

i love how in stories about ancient times and ancient heros there’s always someone who says “you will be remembered for centuries, the glory of your name will never fade” because it’s true, we’re hearing about them right this moment, they lived thousands of years before us, yet we still idolise them and love their stories. it overwhelms me and fills with awe

People often misunderstand what the old saying about a cat having nine lives means. The cats prefer to keep it a secret, as most humans can’t be trusted with information so fragile and precious, but there are exceptions.

The merchant who shares his leftover fish. The young girl that hides littler after litter of newborn ones in her room until they find new homes. The old man with scars who still has enough kindness to open his shed to let them slip in from the rain. Boys, teenagers, mothers, warriors, brothers - some are trusted.

Exceptions, yes, few nowadays and rare, but honoured all the more.

So nine lives there are indeed. Each cat is born with them and no matter the time or place, they are lost easily.

This is where the story ends for most people.

But for those who are trusted, those who wake up one morning and find a weird taste in their mouth, the scent of a forest never touched by human hands in their nose, and a strange lingering touch of whiskers on their forehead - they know the truth.

Nine lives for this world, is what all our legends used to say.

You, friend of cats, know the ancient, almost forgotten sayings.

You know of cat eyes shining in the deepest night when they shouldn’t be able to. You know of cats staring past your ear, at that forbidden spot right by the frayed corner of your vision, and you fear that if you look, your cat won’t be able to stare it into submission anymore. You don’t look. The cat purrs. You’re safe.

The kittens have all their lives still. They do not look at the edgewalking beasts that whisper through their humans’ house. It will take time until they fall, hurt, learn.

The oldest cats know so much that a touch of their paw will make an entire village shudder. Their quiet voices cast spells. Let them roam. You cannot imagine the things that flee from them as they walk in silence.

Cat friend, you know it in your heart.

You know of the paths they walk that human feet can’t find.

You know of the nights they vanish and return with the scent of blood, earth and salt in their fur, and when your fingers touch their coat, a cold shiver awakes your skin.

Sometimes, they hear things. You don’t know what, but you know enough to let them sit in front of your house or room, paws tucked under, dark stare never leaving an invisible spot in the air.

And when you float between sleep and life, when you’re unlucky enough to claw at the edge of death before you’re ready to go…

Then maybe, friend of cats, you’ll feel a brush of fur along your legs. Maybe, just before you startle with awe in your heart and wake once more, the same pair of eyes that should sleep by your side winks at you from another world.

i. meeting you: when I saw you, the world didn’t reroute on a new axis but the stars seemed to glimmer a little more than I remembered them doing the night before. from the moment our hands brushed, something in me shivered, some part of my heart shook, a form of a yes. a yes, you belong in my life, a yes, you are meant to matter. but we clashed in a storm of fire and ice and it took me what looking back seems like a lifetime to realize that you’ve changed me, that a part of me recognized your scars as the same as mine the moment you spoke a part of my name.


ii. understanding you: it took breaking, it took sobbing in the middle of night and realizing that yes I can be alone with you. it’s this moment, where I see you looking at me, not like you can save me, no. but like you recognize the shadows dancing on my skin, the faint bruises and clenched fists and the ache inside my heart. And the world grows quiet, like it’s giving this moment the weight it deserves, and it’s in the darkness that I realize we can change the universe.


iii. trusting you: and our hands grow bloody as our hearts open, spilling part of us on the ground that the other picks up and remakes. forging a sword, a shield, a song out the echoes we let break away from our souls. somehow I realize the voice in the back of my mind, giving me hope, giving me faith, sounds a lot like yours, it sounds like the way you say my name and I say yours the same way. as absolution, as something almost like salvation, as a need that I can’t live without


iv. loving you: and it’s when you’re threatened, it’s when you’re hurt and the rage that raises up inside me contains the bitten scream of “mine”. it’s when you take my hand, you take my burden like I haven’t transformed myself into atlas to save you. It’s when you gaze into my eyes like i’m something worth worshipping, like i’m something worth burning the universe for. and it comes and goes in waves until one day I wake up and my first thought is you, and when I dream the last name I utter is yours


v. losing you: but the stars that stayed silent at our turning point aren’t content to watch us, no they want to test us but they didn’t understand that loving you  stopped being something that scared me the moment I realized it because, darling, I don’t know where you end and where I begin.  so yes, I lost you to space and time, I nearly lost you to fate but we were always fighters and so I know you’ll come back to me, I know you’ll come home to me.  and our devotion outstrips the fairytales because we were never guaranteed a happy ending, with our dirty hands, with our sly smiles, with our cuts and scars but we’ve made the constellations want to chart our names


+


  vi. finding you:  when we crash back together, the world narrows down to the sound of a beating heart, pounding loud enough to be a greek chorus and it’s a welcome change from the way my chest seemed empty. I always knew that in a crowd of thousands I’d be able to meet your eyes, to find you. and with our smiles the universe restarts, with my name dropping from your lips the sun reignites, because we are the center of the story, from the beginning up till now and we’re only just past the first chapter.

—  The 5 Stages of Loving You by Abby S

anonymous asked:

What are you top 10 favorite Greek myths?

  1. the creation of the universe by eurynome and ophion.
  2. the era in which nyx was the queen of olympos before the patriarchy took over among the gods and of how she was its only ruler to renounce to the scepter willingly when her time as queen of the gods was over as the fate foretold.
  3. how the wolves helped leto and the baby artemis and apollo to get safely to lycia - and of how leto probably turned into a she-wolf to trick hera.
  4. the killing of python and the origin of the oracle of delphi.
  5. the six wishes baby artemis asked zeus sitting on his lap.
  6. how hermes spent the first day he was born - from the stealing of apollo’s cows to them becoming best friends.
  7. artemis and actaeon.
  8. the sacrifice of iphigenia and iphigenia in aulis.
  9. how apollo tricked artemis into killing orion.
  10. the rape of persephone.

can i add some? i am not done with my most favorites!!!

  1. how persephone gave back to alcestis her life after having witnessed her sacrificing it for the sake of her unworthy husband.
  2. how the sirens killed themselves after failed to take the lives of odysseus and his companions - and having failed their queen, persephone, in always taking new souls to the underworld.
  3. ariadne and asterion.
  4. the murder of the baby dionysus.
  5. the second birth of dionysus.
  6. dionysus becoming a god again.
  7. the end of orpheus, teared apart by the maenads.
  8. the fact the zeus, poseidon and hades actually flipped a coin to decide who was going to rule what portion of the world.
  9. hermes and the golden axe.
  10. the fact that zeus actually turned into a naked artemis to seduce callisto (and that says all).

anonymous asked:

*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 Athena.”

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 crowd.

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 overwhelm her.

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 Hephaestus’s ugliness.

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 coughing fit.

“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 her hubris.

“Yes.”

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 offense.

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.”

Arachne swallows. 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 happily married.

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 says, smiling.

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 her hubris.

“I accept.”

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 years.

They’ve told tales of her hubris.

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.”

“Thanatos,” she 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 hubris.

“An excellent point,” Aphrodite murmurs, and tucks a stray braid behind Arachne’s ear.

They are all true.

gods and monsters series part iii

I don’t think I can live without you
because the minute you drift away, to a place I can’t reach
my stomach gets tied up in knots and my mind goes numb


I don’t know how or when or the way of it
but the thing that hums in my bones with certainty 
is that I need you, I trust you, I love you


because the world seems darker without you smiling at me
and the song of my heart goes quiet when I don’t whisper your name


because when you touch me, the garden of eden explodes into being
and I think my atoms were formed to finish the puzzle piece that is you

—  Unfinished Stories #220 by Abby S

there’s this false idea that
love knocks the wind out of you at first glance,
no, darling, that was your beauty 
that was the power you wielded in your eyes


because it took me longer to truly become locked onto your orbit
for me to realize that you were what I’ve been searching for all my days
because you bring peace to the war brewing inside me with a touch
yet you ignited a fire burning within me with the sound of my name


though it took minutes to admire you
it took what looking back seems like centuries to fall in love with you
because falling off that cliff’s edge, you wrapped in my arms
could have been the end of something but instead it was the start


and we’ve been bruised and broken, hurt and haunted
but after every terrible thing, I know I’ll always have you
because you grab me by the hand and we’ll fight off the monsters
together, like all the stories the writers wish they could create

—  We’re Those, Only Better by Abby S