i’m not sure to what extent the following could be classified as heroines, but here are my favourite female figures:
- antigone - furiously passionate about her family (in a very different way to her father, oedipus), determined to give her brother the rites and honours he deserves, refusing to be frightened of the law even if it clamours for her blood, even if it chases after her with growls and curses. antigone, a woman so loyal to her family that she is willing to pick them even if it means disobeying the state and losing her life.
- clytemnestra - wanting. wanting revenge for her daughter’s murder, wanting to be by her lover, wanting her own honour to be hers. clytemnestra, killing her husband with her own hands. clytemnestra, demanding acknowledgement for that. clytemnestra, loving her children. clytemnestra, going down due to them.
- medea - fierce, vengeful, angry. her name screams bloody murder, screams ‘destroy me and i will rise again and raze you to the ground.’ a woman buried to her elbows in fury, ready to murder her husband’s new bride without a second glance - ready to destroy his future possibility that quickly. more than that, medea is a woman ready to destroy everything jason already has, too (his children; her children) - even if she wounds herself further by doing so.
- deïanira - a lover down to her very bones. soft, tender, frightened, vulnerable. her husband brings back another woman? allows the woman into her house, refuses to hate or hurt her because why should she? deïanira, just wanting heracles’ love - and accidentally killing him in the process to win it back.
- cassandra - princess at birth, buried under prophecies, buried under the weight of them never being believed. princess of troy, screaming warnings and foretelling deaths but never being heard. princess, prophetess, seeing every destruction twice; troy’s fall, deaths, so many deaths, and ultimately her own at the hands of clytemnestra.
- helen of
troysparta - shrouded in mystery yet still screaming from across centuries. queen of sparta, suddenly having all that seized away from her. princess of troy, suddenly having her name spit out like poison by achaeans and trojans alike. the face that launched a thousand ships, they call her, even though her only supposed ‘mistake’ was being born pretty.- penelope - the woman who was not as beautiful as her cousin but was just as smart as her husband, the woman able to thwart the dozens of suitors and keep them at bay for twenty years while odysseus returned from troy. loyal, cunning, cautious, and ultimately reunited successfully with her husband because that was she wanted, because that was what she used her cleverness to fight for.
A Blank Page, A Fresh Start
By Kquila and Emma, photo courtesy of Valeree
It’s 2015! Not quite New Year anymore but still a great time for a fresh start. A journal is the perfect way to achieve this, so here are some tips on keeping one! If you don’t have a journal already then go and get one, because they can be really fantastic company.
High Fantasy / Epic Fantasy - Fantasy fiction set in or involving an alternative, entirely fictional (“secondary”) world, rather than the real, or “primary” world.
he is all the stars in the galaxy,
too far for me to reach,
but close enough for me to see
the beauty that they hold
my astriferous boy,
how brightly you shine
in the darkness of
my everlasting nights
your shooting stars
streak the sky,
capturing the attention
of all in the world
you see unspoken wishes,
hopes and aspirations
of the dreamers on earth
yearning for something more
they yearn for riches
and for fame while
the only thing i yearn for
is to reach up and touch you
is est mea lux aeterna,
et meus amor ei est aeternalis
he is my eternal light,
and my love for him is endless
THIS QUESTION JUST MADE MY FUCKING NIGHT ITS SO SAD BUT IM SO LOOKING FORWARD TO WRITING THIS MANIFESTO
short answer?
history is hella gay.
long answer?
social institution of homosexuality and achilles+patroclus below the cut.
i. the violins in our lungs have broken strings
our bones are held together with wires and we drink poetry
with our milk to gain strength
ii. there are ink stains on your hipbones where i touched you
after writing a poem
the frost on the windows has eyes like yours,
still learning how to melt
iii. you asked me if waves ever feel homesick,
if the moon would perhaps like to come down here
and sleep,
if lightning bugs ever get tired of their light and crave darkness
the dentist had to drill the questions out of your teeth
iv. sometimes i wish blood was a different color
so our hands would be blue, or green
i would not mind being stained with your sky
v. my hands shake because my tectonic plates are shifting
they are learning new languages, someday they
will grow together and
my hand will be stuck to yours
but even palms can kiss and bite
vi. like the moon, i, too, would like to sleep
but if i closed my eyes
then i could not see your moonlight
i. the sun is singing again tonight
can you not hear it?
(i cannot even see it.)
darling, someday you will learn
eyes aren’t everything.
ii. the snakes are back.
no, don’t kill them.
(but you’ve been bitten.)
it’s probably for the best.
iii. (i’ve seen it, i’ve SEEN IT-)
hush, calm yourself.
what have you seen?
(death, death- there is a war coming-)
oh, sweetheart.
there is always a war coming.
oh, don’t look at me like that.
you’re doing very well.
iv. (what day is this?
what night is this?)
you don’t need to worry.
time does not exist.
(i think i am going blind.)
v. no one must ever touch you.
no one must ever touch you.
(no one must ever touch me.)
Death, in their long cloak
of black smoke,
with a grinning silver scythe
held in a skeletal hand,
collects souls like
pressed flowers and
burnt out candle stubs,
keeping our names tucked away.
What happens when war comes
and the children all sit up,
shock on their faces
as they thought they were immortal?
Does Death sing them lullabies,
do you think?
Do they stop to wipe
the tears from ashen faces?
What happens when we all
come to an end?
Will they for ever wander through
ruined cities and poppy fields?
Or does Death’s time
run out as well?
Does the moment come
when the grief gets too much?
How many souls
can one creature carry
before their own
gives out?
Does Death have a soul?
I think there would come a moment
of relief at the scythe’s cool touch
and the end of it all.
you have a forest fire tip-toeing inside you
flames singeing your fingertips
a matchbox for a tongue.
summer girl, they coo
sweet summer girl
born on the cusp of june
a blooming, cloudless day.
you should be something easily loved.
swaying swamp grass
blackberry jam basking in filtered sunlight
tumbling seawater
there are so many empty spaces you are expected to fill.
but you are the sudden drought that leaves their hands empty and wanting
the bonfire that slips out of control
the faulty fuse.
you
are
destruction
sweeping through their land
tearing out their roots
sweeping away their weeds.
the world is a dry brittle place
and you are hungry after a lifetime of being told that you have no right to be.
nothing will survive you.
oh sweet girl
did no one think to tell you that
the strongest trees grow from ashes?
i,
you were familiar strawberry-breath, milk skin, yellow hair. you were hide and seek and coco puffs in your parent’s kitchen. puppy love that lasted a week, you were a six year old’s dream of a husband to make our parents happy.
ii,
we all loved you. the dashing adventurer, you told us of the animals you saved and the skunk babies you had to chase around the house. you were fourth grade girl group fascination, leading the way into fifth grade big-time infatuation.
iii,
you were new, and the tips of your hair were orange. a nice kid, a cute one too- the loveland ladies fell hard for you. within a day, i learned to see who you actually were, and ended up loving your sister instead.
iv,
boy oh boy, i thought i loved you. seventh grade, camping in the same tent, lying next to you. my little romantic’s heart almost couldn’t handle the weight. you were sweet- later turned cruel. i’m proud to say i passed on you.
v,
freshman year football games- you, black eyed and shadowed, a senior boy who seemed so worldly i just had to sit and listen. and babysit you. and buy you coffee, because you had to sober up before your mom picked you up, because your license was restricted, because of your second DUI. you seemed like a good idea at the time.
vi,
you were safe, i thought. what did i know. you dragged me through glass for six months.
vii,
you’re the one who made me afraid.
viii,
sweet as sugar, bitter as black coffee. sometimes you seem too much like me, and that’s why i hold myself away from you. it’s nothing that you did, boy. i swear it. if i wasn’t a cold bitch by now, i would have fallen hard for you.
ix,
i love you i love you i love you i love you. and i hate that i do because it’s caused me nothing but grief. still, you’re the best to love, because you’re the only one who has not hurt me. thank you for showing me the difference between infatuation and oh-god-i-want-to-breathe-you. thank you for showing me that love should not leave bruises.
i will always have a little hope for you.