I’ve enjoyed retellings of the myth of Persephone a lot. With The Choices of Persephone I wanted to create my own version and explore the things that stood out to me.
There’s something wild and defiant about this Persephone that I had a lot of fun writing about. It can be such an empowering tale of women making their own choices. I love seeing that potential and hope I capture some of that essence for readers as well!
Of all the things Hazel had thought Beth incapable of, crying over a guy was pretty high on the list. She’d grown up watching her big sister float through social situations without any interest in dating, even if Beth did have a boyfriend now. And here Beth was, staring at her with puffy red eyes and denying there was anything the matter. Like she normally spent the day curled up in bed, bawling about Tyler for all to hear.
Hazel balled her fists as she glared at her sister. “If you don’t want to talk about it, fine, don’t. But don’t pretend nothing happened. We’re not idiots.”
Beth looked taken aback. As Hazel wasn’t feeling particularly charitable or sympathetic at the moment, she continued, “I’ll be out for a while. Dad asked me to get the groceries.” Which was complete and utter truth. Hopefully, by the time she got back, her sister would have some semblance of her old self back and do more than gape at her like a fish. Still, Hazel was worried, so she made a mental note to get them all food that Beth was particularly fond of when she got to the shop. Except possibly dessert. She’d decide that when she was shopping. “I’ll be back,” she told her sister and walked off.
Grocery shopping was easy. The store was almost empty at that time and there was plenty of choice left. Hazel settled on Beth’s second-favourite dish (on account of their dad hating chicken) and on their dad’s favourite dessert. They’d both return the favour at some point. Hazel wondered, on her way home, whether walking out on her sister just after she’d stopped crying had been the best idea she’d ever had, but there wasn’t much use in worrying now.
At home, she found Beth curled up on the sofa in her PJs. She’d clearly had a shower while Hazel’d been out because her hair was still wet. At least she was reading a book. Beth reading a book was always a good sign, so Hazel comforted herself with that as she went to unpack the groceries. Then she plonked down on the other side of the sofa and stretched.
Eventually, her sister put a bookmark between the pages and rested the book on her knee. “Still don’t want to talk about it,” she said.
Hazel cocked her head. “Sure doesn’t look like it.”
Beth sighed. “I just.” She pulled a hand through her hair. Hazel held out hers, but Beth didn’t take it. After a long silence, Hazel dropped her hand back onto her lap.
“I’ve been dumped plenty of times,” she offered.
“It’s not that.”
Nooooo, her sister had been bawling over Tyler for nothing. Right. Still, Hazel waited silently for her sister to continue.
“He’s. I’m. I thought. He’s moving.”
“Oh.”
“And he wants me to go with him and I said ‘no’.”
If Hazel had been holding something, she would’ve dropped it. As it was, she sat rigid and stared at Beth. Eventually she found her voice again. “Are you kidding me?” Before Beth could answer, she continued, “You should have a life!”
“Not one a continent away from my family!”
“What?”
“That’s where he’s moving, Haze. Across the ocean. We talked it over and I discussed it with dad and I just don’t want to do it.” Beth’s voice was calm as she spoke and, put like that, Hazel didn’t really have any grounds for protest. If it was what Beth wanted… “So you broke up by mutual decision?”
Her sister looked a little sheepish. “We didn’t break up at all. Not really. We’re moving long-distance.”
“Oooooooh.” Hazel bounced off the sofa and dove towards the DVD rack. “That asks for a movie day.” Looking back, she saw Beth’s mouth quirk into a little smile. “Or perhaps a good, old-fashioned board game, but we’ll have to wait for dad to come home and join us.”
Beth got up and squatted beside her sister. She looked the rack up and down before selecting one that she hid behind her back before Hazel could see what it was. “We’ll go for nostalgia.”
“Hey. It’s my turn to choose,” Hazel protested, though not terribly enthusiastically.
“Isn’t.”
“Is.”
“Isn’t.”
“Fine. Which is it?”
Beth backed away until she hit the sofa and Hazel wouldn’t be able to reach for the DVD. Not that she had any desire to. “You’ll see,” Beth said. “Go fetch some popcorn? I know we still have a bag somewhere. I’ll let you know what movie it is when you get back.”
Hazel grinned. “But starting next time, I’m keeping notes on who gets to choose the movies, Beth!” she called as she went to fetch that bowl of popcorn. She’d have her sister cheered up in no time at all.
Hazel and Beth are the most adorable siblings I’ve written to date. I love how they attempt to solve everything with films and food.
I had a lot of fun exploring their relationship from Hazel’s point of view and contrasting it with Beth’s.
One hundred and seventy-three:
Roughly the number of books I read in a year,
Counting, of course, the ones I never finish.
The pile of books unread has grown and grown, I fear,
By acquiring e’er more of them than I am able to deal
With. Too many to whittle the list back down to sense again.
Unread books have stared at me, guilted me. Made me feel
Like a failure for not reading enough, taking my time. I couldn’t write
Anymore; the books accused me of infidelity. To reading I was bound
Nay, shackled. It couldn’t go on like this. I had to fight.
Having learned my lesson, I ceased buying, read more, so fewer books were left.
To live a happy reading life, bookish frugality is key.
And if my lesson be learned well I’ll never more be bereft
Of a lightness of heart, never more feel guilty to be free
To spend my time as I see fit, not as La TBR demands.
In the grand tradition of not giving poems proper titles, Reflections on my reading habits aspires to greatness. It may or may not succeed in that, but I certainly had a ball writing it.
It’s just a quick little sketch of how I read (or don’t) that was written on a summer’s day when I felt like doodling out in the sunshine.
For anonymous
I hope this tale is everything you hoped it would be and brings you joy.
It is late. It is late in the day and in the season for the swans to linger and yet they do. After years, I know their patterns. I know when something strays. It rarely does. It isn’t that the swans are clockwork dolls, but that they are bound by laws that aren’t ours. All the stories say so, and my maiden has confirmed it. The swans glide over the water, apparently aimless. I could have taken her skin this year, stroked my hands through her feathers. I didn’t, but each time it gets harder. Each year I stand on this pebble-beach and watch them fly off into the full moon for a season. Each year my heart dies a little more and, though it is reborn time and again, the pain is always worse. The more she is with me, the more I want her to stay with me.
A smart person would walk away. They’d listen to the stories that say that to love one of the Fair Folk is folly and dangerous. I have read for years, sought out the remotest of hamlets, and never have I heard a tale end well. The Fair Folk do not think the same as us. I know this. I know this better than anyone in town, better than the storytellers whose tales I have recorded. Of course, their stories also speak of how impossible it is to forget. This, at least, I know to be true. Oh, I could find a way. I have the money to do so. But I do not wish to. Her hair is curly. I’d never thought a swan maiden’s hair would be curly until I found her that winter an
d saw her for what she was.
Retrieving her cloak took me longer, but I found it. And I gave it back. So foolish, but how could I not? And, I know, watching the swans return wherever it is they come from, I know, as I fix my eyes on her, my swan maiden, that one day I will be no better than he was. Not much better. She does not speak of it, and I do not ask. It would taint us, lie between us like an oil spill on the water.
I will miss the swans this season; I always do. But they will return and I will dream all the while.
For weeks, the swan maidens have been gone wherever it is when they are not here, in my lake. For weeks I have felt lonely and listless. I am always such, after the swans have gone. I have not attended the gatherings that I should have, have not had an appetite, have sent away my friends when they came calling. I am out of bed now, true, bathed and dressed and smiling fake smiles only because they have threatened to call a physician. I have seen the asylums and have no wish to join their inhabitants.
They look so clumsy, my friends, and so much like peacocks. It appears that feathers are this season’s fashion, and I wish I could take their clothes and tear the feathers off for who knows what creature they came from. If there are swan maidens and selkies, then surely there are more. Fox maidens for our furs, wren maidens, badger maidens, chicken maidens, mouse maidens… These might be peacock men. You would think more males than female would be lured by us, surely, but no. The stories almost invariably tell of the maidens and that is who we have named them for. I would call them by what they call themselves, but I have never been trusted with that. Have never been trusted with my maiden’s name, though I have given her mine. It was a symbol, a surrender, though at the time I did not yet know what it was that I had given away. I had not been well-versed in folklore then.
She’d laughed when I’d given her my name. They retain as much of their swan-laughter as they may. There is little that a human would consider sweet and delicate about a swan maiden’s laugh, but it is the most beautiful sound in the world. She told me about the power of names later and I never asked her why she’d laughed. There is no cruelty in a swan maiden; they are too wild. And so I know she did not laugh because I put myself entirely in her power.
Lady Agatha is laughing now. She would, undoubtedly, have taken advantage of my weakness. I thought her attractive once. Of course, she still is, with her brown ringlets always in place and her dress chosen to set off the pale of her skin and the green of her eyes. I know it in the way that I know a painting is beautiful: distantly. Rumours say that she never does anything herself, so that not the slightest callus will mar her skin, but she is shuffling the cards deftly enough until some joke breaks her concentration. Some of the cards spring from her hands.
I must not stare. Must not compare her to the swan maidens I know, the swan maidens who would not understand what a deck of cards is for and yet never make the mistake that Lady Agatha just did. I will attract attention if I stare. And I will not be able to eat, though I am already pecking at my food as it is. In part this is supposed to be an apology to my friends for my moods of late, but in truth I am not interested in being social. It is solely the rules of our society that keep me tethered to this gathering.
I wish only to stare at the moon, to mark the days until my swans return on a calendar. By now, my friends are used to my winter melancholy, though they have been running out of patience with me lately. I confess, in previous years I have been more diligent in fulfilling my social duties. It is harder this time, but they have changed their mind about the physician.
I decline the invitation to play whist. It is a silly affectation that does not suit a modern household, which I sometimes pride myself on having, but I do not offer this as my reason. My thoughts at the lake have disturbed me and so I am continuously preoccupied. To forget her would be unthinkable. It would be a betrayal of our relationship, whatever its nature, and I would not wish to forget the good memories, of laying my head in her lap, of falling asleep against her feathered form. I would not wish to forget how her voice goes soft, like down, when she speaks of her home. I would not wish to forget her enjoyment as I untangle her hair, or her delight at tasting chocolate for the first time. But to remember… Next summer, I do not know if I can keep from taking what my heart believes is already mine. And that would be worse. I should walk away. Leave her a note she’ll understand — she is not all wild animal — and burn the memories in my mind and my chest and try to move on. Perhaps move away to one of the metropolises where no swan maiden would ever come and then, if she comes and finds me anyway, I would know.
But… I am too much of a coward to take that road. I know this about myself. I know I could not bear it, to wonder whether she is looking for me and merely cannot find me or whether she has never looked for me at all. Not while knowing, in my heart, that she is too much of a wild, fey creature to ask this of her. Were she a mortal lover, I doubtlessly would not hesitate. I have done it before and been disappointed, for all that we have remained friends.
Enough! I must put my heart and its worries aside and entertain my guests. Or be entertained by them. Sir Owen is quite the teller of tales and he has intimated that he wishes to debut a most curious story of his own devising tonight, if it please me. I think it shall please me. It sounds interesting, though his announcements always do strange things to my mind. I fear I shall not be able to think like myself for quite some time. It has always been a source of amusement to our circle and I have no doubt that Owen will be able to drag my mind away from this conundrum I am caught in. Oh, I wish I could talk to someone! It is most vexing to have a problem and no one to confide in; a diversion will be welcome.
What does one pack when one wants to leave for Faerie? Where does one go? Why have I never thought of this possibility before? It is glorious! Sir Owen gave me the idea last night after sharing his tale with us. He truly has a gift for telling tales, but he does not often talk about the inspiration for his works. I had to corner him and beg him to stay after everyone had left to hear how he had come up with the idea. A few weeks ago he had been travelling along the coast to collect more folktales — our mutual interest in our country’s mythology is how we met — when someone told him a story of how a fisher had been turned into a seal for harming a selkie caught in his net. At the time, he had also been reading an account of a selkie bride and why, he wondered, could not the man leave to become a seal. Why, indeed. It gave me the most wonderful idea. If I were a swan maiden like her then we could be together. I could be near her, always, and not just in the warm months. I could see the home she has spoken of, feel the wind through my feathers. I would take good care of my cloak and still get to see my friends each summer here at the lake.
I did not, of course, think of this plan immediately. It came to me by morning. I simply must call on Owen and beg him use of his library soon. It is far more extensive than mine, to my eternal envy. I have been collecting tales for even longer than he has, and yet he has the larger collection. Something in the books he has that I do not must surely tell me how to meet the Fairy Queen. I do not think that wishing is enough, no matter how powerful your wish. I would have noticed.
Sir Owen is not at home and will not be back until evening. Such woe! No doubt he would not mind if I made myself at home in his library while he is out, but I do not wish to presume or to put a strain on his servants. It is unseemly. And yet… I am more tempted to break into his house to steal what I am sure he would willingly provide. It is a need for secrecy, but surely I should let someone know my intentions. Who better than Owen who knows and shares my love for our native folklore?
But I should not burgle his house. He is a friend, a dear one, and he deserves better than that. Besides, it would do me no good to get caught and arrested like people in stories always do. I would certainly not be able to meet any Fair Folk, or travel to their realm, if I were imprisoned for attempted robbery. I must be patient, but I have already been patient for so long… I do not wish to wait. Now, my body cries at
me, now. No delays, no regrets. But I am not going to burgle Sir Owen. I must not let this consume who I am so utterly as to destroy my being. I may have lost my heart and my head, and some would say my sanity, but it cannot bode well for my longing if I lose my self. Then… Perhaps I must lose myself to be reborn into something new. Not yet, though. Not yet.
For now, I will pace through town and make purchases and provisions for my absence as I consider whether to confide in Sir Owen and what I will tell the others. I shall tell them that I am travelling to distant lands and wish to do so quite anonymously. It is not a lie. It is important that I do not lie. The lands of Faerie are dangerous lands, especially for a slight woman such as myself, and I would not wish for bandits to capture me and know just what I am worth. That never ends well in the stories.
Well! That was easy! Sir Owen was at home by the time I had finished my errands and he was a darling. He knew exactly the kind of book that I was hoping he would have and let me curl up in his library to read it! There are so many different ways to choose from. I shall start with those options that are closest to my estate and the easiest to find. The forest is bound to have fairy rings in it. If you walk through them late at night, then there you are: Faerie. It has to be the right time, though, and neither Owen’s books nor his own knowledge were particularly helpful there. I suppose I could keep trying if I cannot go through tonight, but Owen was already suspicious of my interests. It is like he smelled a story all over me and wanted to add it to his collection. It does not inspire a wish to confide in him about my situation. I am still tempted, as I think he would be sympathetic to my plight, but one never knows.
I have packed a valise, though perhaps I am overthinking this. Yet the stories are very clear, unanimous even: do not eat or drink fairy food, or you will never be able to leave. Of course, my ultimate goal is not to leave again. Not really, not entirely. And if I should find the Fairy Queen and find her in a good mood, perhaps she will be sympathetic to my plight. Or she may turn me into a pigeon and set hawks on me for her own amusement, I suppose. I should not feel so cheerful about my potential impending doom, I know. But oh I am so giddy with the absurdity of at all. And the choicelessness. If I do not do this, I will surely die of either heartbreak or guilt. If I do this, at least I will have a chance to live.
Feather by Feather and Other Stories Page 15
