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They called her a monster,
transformed from fair maiden into foul creature A girl whose beauty rivaled that of the gods themselves, whose name was whispered in equal awe and envy Powerless against Poseidon’s lustful desires, her sacred sanctuary was seized by his merciless grip Blamed for the sea god’s sins, she bore Athena’s wrath, her suffering a scapegoat for his violation Banished from the realm of man, she wandered a path unknown, 2:52 p.m.
Outside, the fog hides everything. It fills up the neighbors’ yards, turning laundry sour with mold. Out of the breath-stained windows of my uninsulated apartment, a fog-shaped hole reminds me of nothing. No feathered tree-fingers, pointing towards the sunset. No birds swooping for pieces of freeze-dried berries on the grass. Until the wind changes, the fog reveals only absence. Inside, I do what I can to distract myself: kettle on, Costco TV playing The Little Mermaid (1989). All of the household blankets, half mine and half Alder’s, cluster around me in a fuzzy heap. I’m eating Grape Nuts because they remind me of Mara (even though they taste like ground-up toenails), because she cares about her digestion the way a normal person might care about their pet Maltese. Mara is one of those people you feel the need to explain to people but never can. With Mara, almost everything is a bit. Even gynecology appointments, art school, student debt, inevitably becoming a high school teacher. Grape nuts. It’s all something to laugh about. Mm. Time for my daily sand, she said every morning back in the dorms. It took me two years to realize she just liked the flavor. On the TV, the daughters of Triton swirl around a mermaid-sized clam shell. Its lips part to reveal an empty, blue cushion—no Ariel. I fumble with the edge of a seafoam-colored throw, waiting for Mara to call me. Artist's Description:
I aimed to create a powerful presence in the woman's direct gaze, demanding attention and challenging the viewer. I opted for bold strokes and a mosaic of pink shades to emphasize that qualities often considered soft or vulnerable are, in reality, wellsprings of strength. Furthermore, the use of bright, unapologetic pink was a deliberate choice to subvert traditional gendered associations and to reclaim the color as a symbol of empowerment and defiance. The textured layers of paint, applied with a dynamic and almost aggressive technique, mirror the turbulent journey of the women's rights movement, the collective demand for equality and the refusal to be silenced by women. Be gentler still, unquiet sea; again she
sees her city days. She only ever saves what memories are not too heavy to carry. The pigeons want to know is she happy or does she ache? How many of her days is she still in the unquiet sea? Just buy the ticket overseas already; forsake those days on planes and the ache of some lady saying, "that carry-on looks heavy; Ruchi held out a delicate arm. Blood trickled in wispy veins down her soft skin, dripped onto her
torn blue sari. "Meri jaan [my love]," she croaked. Even after two bullet wounds to the torso, her voice rang sweet as a bird. "Jao. Mujhe...mujhe bhulna mat. [Go. Don't...don't forget me.]" "Nahi! Nahi... [No! No...]" Rahul dropped to his knees. He reached for her hand, but it had already fallen, limp, to the dirt floor. For one tranquil moment, he froze, stared down at Ruchi's trembling red lips as they let out a final breath. Then he crumpled into himself, pressed his forehead to her limp shoulder and sobbed. Mournful sitar1music accompanied Rahul's cries. Each pluck of the strings intensified his sorrow. Ruchi and her lover shrunk into the distance, revealing the abandoned shed and the bodies strewn around it, until everything faded to a foggy white. Maithili fished for a tissue on her crowded desk. She wiped salty tears from her face and blew the last two hours' worth of sniffles out her nose. Damn it, she thought, If the king hadn't pulled the ridiculous ploy of sending his minions to capture her instead of doing it himself, Rahul might have been in her place. She sighed and cracked her back, stretching her arms until her fingertips grazed the rough ceiling. It was cold and damp as a block of ice, and she recoiled, rubbing her hand vigorously on her sweatshirt. New Jersey winters really sucked. And so did Rahul. The king was way hotter. She would watch old Indian films more often if the morally gray male lead got the girl and if the love interests didn't look twenty years older. I hold my guilt between my teeth like I’m at the dentist. / It drills deep into me / She tells me to open wide, but I bite down. / For when I speak it becomes sanguinary / When they take x-rays, they say my jaw is too
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