September 2009 — Dead Teenagers at Make-out Point

“Come out, come out,” he chanted in cruel amusement, brandishing his gleaming long sword.

The Medusa stirred, serpents whispering, shedding their iridescent scales down her back.

She could not silence them, for they craved souls like a man craved glory. Their thirst would never be satiated; their wiggling forms would never taste the bitter poison of defeat.

The man listened for the hissing and lunged, sword pointed at her heart. Medusa spun around as the metal hit one of the stone statues, breaking off an arm. She leapt up to a frozen king, holding fast to his crown of shale. Her long, tattered dress hung limp in the breeze, the wisps blowing like spider webs.

“I shall have my trophy,” he declared, bringing up the sword once again.

Even with the blindfold on she could tell he was handsome. Muscles like smooth rocks moved under his skin. Wavy, chestnut locks surrounded his face. His lips were moist, luscious, and hungry for triumph. It was such a pity he would lose his life.

He swung and Medusa spun around the dead king, brushing the warrior’s torso with her long, slender arms. She felt the heat of his strong body for a brief moment, before she whisked herself away. The touch brought sweet memories to her thoughts, a distant time when her hair flowed like silken thread and her skin was kissed and caressed.

Burying the sudden rush of emotion, she chose another statue as a shield. It was the stone imprisonment of a wandering minstrel who stumbled into her city many years ago. Despite her warning, he found his grave instead of a tune. She could still remember the melancholy sound of his tenor voice as he sang his last melody.

The warrior followed in heated pursuit, sword slicing the air just beyond her skin. She knew that he would not yield until he possessed her head. He took one last swing and she came around from behind, clenching his wrist in both her hands. She squeezed until he dropped the sword with a cry.

“Go home,” she said in a melodic voice. Her words held a resignation, “Go back.”

The serpents danced in the air, twisting and twining, excited by the proximity. She was thrilled as well, although she knew that she couldn’t keep him, at least not in his present state.

Medusa turned away just then, facing her frozen pursuers with tear filled eyes. She did not expect the shove from behind. Unprepared, she fell awkwardly to the ground. Her head hit a merchant’s shoe turned to marble many years ago. The greedy man tried to catch her with a fisherman’s net. She despised him then, and even more now. Dizziness spread behind her eyes.

The serpents commanded, get up, get up, snarling in her face. But she’d gone down hard and her head felt like a stone itself. Medusa moaned, but it was more in relief than pain. Finally, it was time to end the eternity of solitude, to silence the dreadful hiss of her living crown.

The warrior rolled on the ground nimbly, reaching out for his sword. He listened for the constant drone, the hum of the serpents that gave her away. In seconds he had the hilt in his palm and his target in focus.

Medusa looked up and there he was, lifting the sword above his head for one final strike. She knew it would be lethal, and she welcomed death.

Just when the warrior pulled the sword back, he stopped. Slowly, carefully, he fingered the blindfold behind his head.

“No!” She cried out, “No, do not look!”

But he was a stubborn, hot headed man and his curiosity far outweighed the risk. Perhaps he thought he would be quick enough to cut her throat before the curse took hold.

The knot came undone in seconds, and she looked into his eyes for the first time. They were blue as the ocean, deep as the sky, with fear and pity mixing within their depths.

Medusa’s heart swelled. It was only a glimpse of another’s world, an ephemeral pleasure that disappeared before it ever reached completion. Her gaze fell on his like an arrow to the heart and the serpents danced, casting their hideous spell.

She heard the usual cracking noise as his body hardened, pupils first. The blue drained from his eyes, turning to slate. His chestnut hair bleed pewter, freezing in the drift of wind as his body cemented in place, sword raised in one hand, ready to strike but never swinging again.

The Medusa tilted her head in judgment and clicked her tongue. Men were always tempted to look. But this particular man was different that the rest. His face was stoic with no hint of fear. His lips parted ever so slightly in awe, and his eyes cast a look of compassion and remorse. His last few heartbeats had been tried and true. He’d recognized her suffering and his soul had connected to her own.

She traced her fingers along his now cold lips. This one would go in front of the others, she decided. Ironically, he was now her greatest prize.

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