Chisels and Cracks (Short Story Based on Greek Mythology) (Patreon)

I was pretty excited about submitting this story to a magazine- I went over it with my critique group and everything- and was in the process of final rewrites when the magazine suddenly stopped accepting submissions. Since then, I haven't found a home for it, so I figure I might as well post it here. I still need to rewrite and rework a lot of it, but haven't found the energy or time. Maybe someday. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy it! CW for abuse and very vague references to sexual violence.

Chisels and Cracks

He led me through me through a labyrinth of white marble. Pale, bloodless bodies crowded each other so tightly in his garden that there was no room for any plant to grow. All signs of life had been choked out by the silent, staring statues. We were forced to walk slowly through the narrow path between each row.

He kept stopping, adjusting his chiton, fiddling with his orange sash. He wanted me to examine every single sculpture, clearly. I put up a pretense of doing so, but never said anything. It was amusing, watching him fidget and scuff his sandal on the ground like a frustrated child. He clearly hated how I wouldn’t look at him directly.

Finally he cleared his throat, “How familiar are you with sculpture, good sir?”

“Very familiar,” I replied. “I’ve created many of my own.”

“A fellow artist. I would… enjoy seeing your work, I’m sure.” I had to bite back a laugh at the utter insincerity in his tone. It was clear he thought no statue made by another hand could measure up to his horde. I could only imagine how much greater his condescension would be if he knew I was a woman. I wouldn’t have been allowed in his domain in the first place. Thankfully, he’d made his own assumptions. I wore a hooded cloak, had a naturally deep voice, traveled alone, spoke with confidence and most importantly, I’d brazenly showed him my coin. How could I be anything but a respected man? So he was forced to at least feign politeness.

He smiled tightly at me. “I seek your opinion as a craftsman, then. My goal was to capture the ideal form. Would you saw I’ve succeeded?”

“These statues are the essence of the gods themselves,” I said. He glowed, taking it as a complement. I didn’t mean it as one. His forms were flawless, all chiseled muscle and sensual curves, each immaculate detail carefully crafted, every blemish buffed out. But that made them unsettling. They were alien, grotesque. Indeed, just like every god I had ever met.

I longed for a jagged scar, a laugh line, a lopsided mouth, a bumpy nose. Instead, the ivory was endless and smooth… and hideously plain. I especially hated how they all shared the same vacant smile. My own work had much more varied expressions.

“That was my aim, good sir,” He leaned forward and stroked the cheek of one of the same faced women, tracing his fingers over her slack and silent mouth, then moving them down to the curve of her breast. “I would never claim she rivals the beauty of lady Aphrodite, but…” He actually squeezed it. “She certainly outdoes any other woman.”

I dug my fingers into the sides of my thighs and choked down a hiss of rage. Truly this man would get along with the gods, especially him. I was trapped now. There was nowhere to look. It was either his poisonous hunger or those witless faces, and both options made my skin crawl.

Would I be revolted to gaze upon her as well? I wondered. She would likely be as passive and pliant and utterly empty headed as the rest of them looked. After all, she’d stayed so long with this loathsome man and his bloated ego. Was I truly so desperate for company? Did I even want to see her anymore?

Said loathsome man finally stopped his squeezing. Disappointed I hadn’t laughed at his foolishness, he ran his fingers through his curly hair and wet his dry lips. His brown eyes darted around impatiently. Finally I made my voice work. I asked to see inside.

His estate was impressive, made of strong and solid stone. It contrasted the mud dried brick of the huts around it, marking him a wealthy man. But the inside as cold and dark as a tomb. Once again, there was nothing but statue upon statue. I noticed, however, that they weren’t all whole. Though it was hard to see, there were bits of rubble, smashed stone, even a stray foot.

I pretended I didn’t see. “Quite a collection.” I said and then instantly regretted it. I despised how my voice echoed against these cavernous walls. I hated the overbearing, suffocating atmosphere of this place and its silence that stretched unto eternity. It reminded me far too much of my own home.

“Have you seen anything you’d like to have for your own?” he said at the same time as I asked, “I’ve heard you have a masterpiece. One blessed by the gods. Might I see?”

His face fell in response to my question. “Ah, yes. Everyone wants to see that one. I must warn you, it turned out different than I expected. You’ll be disappointed. I have others that are more-“

“I just want to see her, please.” I’d made up my mind. I would do anything to fill this void in my soul. If her head was empty, I would fill it up with knowledge. If she was tedious, I would teach her to be interesting. Once she was mine, she could be molded. I just needed to grab her and leave this awful, dead place behind.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But I did warn you.”

He took me through his maze of ivory to a small room in the back of his house. He unlocked it with a rusty key and pulled it open. Interesting, considering he hadn’t locked his own front door.

“Here she is,” he said almost bitterly. “My Galatea.”

She sat in a room somehow even darker than the rest of the place. It was barren of anything else except a small craft table in the corner, littered with instruments. Her stool was almost too small for her, but she was perfectly poised. Her hands were clasped in front of her and her eyes were closed. In many ways, she was just like the rest of the statues. Her lips were a cupid’s bow, her nose was straight and small. Her skin was that same cold ivory, her breasts were ample, her hips perfectly were curved, her curls fell in well- formed rivulets across her shoulders. She was perfectly still, not even opening her eyes as I stepped in the room.

But there were quite a few differences as well, speckled across her skin. And she lacked the careless smile of the others. I’d thought I’d be happy to see that. But instead, my heart ached at the resigned twist of her mouth.

“Only vestiges of beauty remain. And she no longer speaks much, especially in front of strangers,” The sculptor told me, his voice flat and mournful. “But I assure you, all you’ve heard is true. Lady Aphrodite saw her exquisite form and bought her to life. See how her chest rises and falls?”

I’d certainly noticed that, but I’d also noticed something else. Namely, her hand and foot. Both looked like they’d been smashed apart, then clumsily rebuilt, chunks of stone stuck haphazardly together with plaster. I strode forward and bent down to examine them.

“She’s falling apart in body as well as mind,” he grumbled, answering the unasked question. “I did my best to repair her.”

“This certainly doesn’t look like your usual meticulous craftwork,” I said examining her patchwork hand. It looked as if it was going to crumble to dust any second.

“Nothing I do is enough!” He snapped. “I do not know what jealous fiend cast it, but there is some curse upon her now. I work myself to the bone to care for her, but what was once a perfect wife is now a shambles!”

I remembered what I’d seeing the back of the other room and something tugged at my heart. “Is that the truth?” I asked Galatea. Her eyes flew open. She looked at me wonderingly, startled to be directly addressed. But she remained silent, her eyes flicking over to him.

He didn’t even notice. He’d turned away, like he couldn’t even bear to look at her. “Of course it is! You see the cracks all over her!”

“May I?” I said, my hands hovering above her face. She nodded almost imperceptibly. I ran my fingers across her cheeks. My fingers tingled as they dipped into those divots he so despised. There was a strange warmth to her stone skin. She lowered her eyes a bit, perhaps out of embarrassment, so I stopped and stepped away. “Hmm. As I thought. Those are not cracks. She’s simply aging.”

The sculptor sputtered, but I smiled, taking in each wrinkle and fold appreciatively. They crisscrossed across her face, forming a kind of constellation, proof of a life lived. I especially liked the line near her mouth. I imagined it deepened when she smiled. I wanted to see that.

It seemed to take a second for my words to sink in, but when they did, Galatea finally unclasped her hands. “I am?” She spoke, her voice trembling, scratchy from disuse.

The man squawked in surprise.

“Yes,” I told her softly. “You aren’t broken.”

“You are mistaken, good sir,” The artist interrupted in a strangled voice, a man desperately trying to regain control of the conversation. “Lady Aphrodite told me I had created the visage of a perfect woman, one worthy of life. She would not corrupt such an image, she would not allow it to shrivel with time—"

“Did she truly say she wouldn’t? Or did you just assume it?”

He simply gaped at me, and that was answer enough.

I shook my head. “You trust in the gods and their blessings too easily. They care not what you want, only what they want. Aphrodite would not create another unaging beauty. Word is she’s not fond of competition.”

“You seem to know a lot about the gods, stranger.” Galatea’s voice was stronger now. Her eyes were piercing, and even through my veil, she found and held my gaze. My heartbeat echoed in my ears. She breathed in and her whole body shuddered. It was as if she came into focus. Everything about her was sharper. Her back straightened and she held her head high. Her white eyes narrowed at me. “Something… is flowing through me. What are you?”

“Galatea, you talk out of turn!” Her creator thundered. “Remember what you are! Show myself and our guest some respect!” He stalked toward her.

She flinched and slipped back out of focus. She drew herself in tightly, clutching her shattered hand. She regarded him with a wary, wounded gaze, and whispered, “I apologize, sir.”

My heart seized in my chest. I was transported back to years ago, eons ago.

 A small girl huddled on the temple floor as the god of the sea loomed. She held her breath and closed her eyes as the violent waves pulled her under. She numbly recited prayers, words of praise she didn’t mean. She made as herself small as he demanded her and did whatever it took to survive. Afterwards, she wrapped herself in her own fragile arms as if they could keep her from falling apart. And when that woman had looked down at her with cold, imperious eyes and told her it was all her fault, she'd believed her.

How had I forgotten, even for a moment? How could I have assumed she was weak because she stayed with him? How could I have thought myself superior and sought to claim her? I knew better than anyone how a man like him could chisel faults into you while telling you’d been broken from the start. Then he would work his filthy fingers into those cracks, dig deeper and deeper, until you feared if you pulled away you would break, until his hands never left you.

Rage burned in my veins. I could not just watch anymore.

“I’ll show you what I am,” I stepped toward Galatea, shoving the sculptor reaching for her aside.

I ripped off my hood and veil. My snakes unfurled at last, hissing and writhing. They were cross from being cooped up so long. Galatea gasped. The man screamed deliciously.

“Medusa!” He yelped. I heard him scramble away. In his mad dash, he crashed against the wall and tumbled to the floor alongside his crafting table. As always, my reputation preceded me.

I didn’t even glance at him. With eyes half closed, I looked only at her and said, “Let me show you what you are truly made of.” She didn’t tear her gaze away from mine. Once more, she nodded. I widened my eyes and I concentrated. Dark and gleaming stone filled in the shattered mess he had made of her hand. The carelessly applied plaster fell away like dead skin. She flexed her fingers. They were stiff and awkward, but her movements were solid and strong and completely her own. Next, I focused on her foot, weaving the stone carefully. Sweat poured down my brow. Finally, it was done. I wiped my forehead and my snakes shivered in relief. “You can try standing on it, if you like.”

She got up immediately and wobbled. I held up a hand but stopped when she shook her head. She wobbled on her feet and moved forward. The foot dragged. I was no Aphrodite. I could not breathe additional life into the stone I created. And like her hand, it was mismatched, dark spots amongst the white. But I hadn’t put it together carelessly. I’d made something she could truly lean on, if she wanted to.

The sculptor, still trembling in the corner, made a noise of disgust. As she stared at the hand, I feared for a moment she felt the same. I had been rather swept in the moment, perhaps it wasn’t what she’d expected. “How does it feel?” I asked, my voice so gentle and cautious it sounded like a stranger’s.

“I love it,” she said, her voice ringing loud and clear. And at long last, she smiled. That line around her mouth deepened just as gloriously as I imagined. A heady warmth flooded me. My snakes peered at me with curious black eyes and I wanted desperately to hide myself from their gaze.

“And I love your snakes.” Her tone was almost conversational as she wobbled toward me. “I haven’t seen much of the outside world. Do many humans have those on their head?”

“That is no human, Galatea! That is a monster!” The sculptor had finally found his voice again, it seemed. “You must get away from the Gorgon before she damages you further!”

Galatea froze. It seemed for the briefest moment she’d forgotten he was in the room. How magnificent that I could have given her such a gift.

“It’s not common for humans at all. A goddess cursed me,” I explained to her without a backward glance in his direction. “I’m very fond of my pets now, though. They adore being stroked. The green one on my right side is Chrestos. The brown one above him is Xenia-”

“Why have you entered my house and ruined my work, you vile creature? How dare you deceive me! How dare you claim to be an artist!”

I could not keep up my feigned deafness at that last protest. I laughed and cocked my head toward him. He faced me now, which would have been very brave, if not the fact he had screwed his eyes shut.

“I never made that claim,” I stroked Xenia as her tongue flicked against my cheek. She was my favorite, secretly. The others could never know. “I merely said I created statues. And I do have a beautiful collection.”

“Galatea!” He snapped. “Don’t you see what she is now? You must come back to me. Remember, I gave you everything!”

Her body trembled. Her shoulders bowed. She shrunk in on herself. But she shook her head furiously.

I took that as my cue. I marched toward the man. He heard my approach and raised a hand to strike me, I easily caught it. “I may not be an artist,” I told him as he thrashed in my grip, “But there is an art to what I do.” Xenia lunged forward, nipping him on the ear. He went rigid. “I learned over the years that I make sturdier stone if I concentrate. That I can control how quickly it spreads. And I do enjoy coming up with poses. Now, which one shall we do with you?” I moved to pull his eyelids open.

“Stop!” Galatea cried out behind me. “Wait! He doesn’t deserve this!”

I froze. My heart sank. She was going to plead for him. It wasn’t surprising. I still remembered that perfect, sneering mouth telling me I shouldn’t have tried to run from Poseidon, that I should have been honored by his attention, that what had happened to me was my fault. I’d believed her for such a long time. I knew better now. I knew exactly what these people deserved. But I couldn’t make that choice for Galatea. Far too many choices had been taken from her already.

I turned toward her, resigned. As I did, he cried out in desperate relief. “You see now, creature! She would never betray me. My love is what made her!”

“Your love would unmake me too.” Galatea hissed, much to my surprise. Though she still shook, it was with anger as much as fear. She stood tall, and she was looking at me, not him. “Don’t do it. He isn’t worthy of being your art. He shouldn’t be immortalized.”

I raised my eyebrows at this intriguing argument. “But he’d be the kind of art he hates. His flawed form would be frozen as sculpture forever more. It’s poetic, isn’t it?”

Galatea shook her head. “No,” she said, almost peevishly. “I don’t want him to become anything like me. When you looked at me, I felt the strength of the stone inside of me and I was proud. I don’t want you to look at him that way. I don’t want him to feel that.” She lifted her chin and put her hands on her hips. Her shaking ceased.

I marveled at her lovely stubbornness. She truly saw my power as a force of creation, a source of strength, not chaos and destruction. The enormity of that hit me, and I had to blink back tears. I took a step towards her.

I was interrupted by the crash of the craft table toppling. I whipped around. The man lunged at me, eyes closed, a chisel in his hand. Xenia’s venom wore off quickly. Cursing myself for being so sloppy, I raised my hands to shield my neck. But before the man could find his mark, a stone hand slammed down on his skull. He crumpled to the ground, blood gushing from the side of his head. The chisel slid from his limp fingers and skittered across the floor.

“Also, I prefer it that he feels pain,” Galatea snarled. As the man moaned and scrabbled weakly for his fallen weapon, she bought down her foot like a hammer on his outstretched hand.

It turned out Galatea was far more poetic than I was.

---

I helped Galatea scrub the blood from her hands and we collected the one simple shift she owned (That tedious man had preferred her naked, unsurprisingly).

But she stopped before we crossed the threshold of the front entrance. She stopped and looked back and the palatial house.

“I’ve only left here once before,” she told me distantly. “It was when the first mark appeared.” She showed me a wrinkle on her hand. “I did try to hide it. I knew he wouldn’t like it, but I never expected him to grab that hammer, I never expected…I-it happened so fast. I don’t even remember hitting him back, just the thud of his body hitting the floor. I thought I might have killed him. I rushed into town, looking for help, escape, anything. But everyone who saw me screamed and ran. I realized he was right. Nobody else would accept me. I had nowhere else to go.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “So I nursed him back to health and he forgave me so sweetly, he put it back together so tenderly, he told me it would be better this time. I believed him. But the mark returned and …”

She closed her eyes.

I took her shaking hand in my own and ran my thumb softly over the fold. “I like it,” I told her. “It’s the shape of a snake’s tail.”

She blinked at me and then burst into a laugh. Her whole face became a wonderful collage of creases. “That’s the sweetest complement I’ve ever received.”

“I must be honest, Galatea.” I let go of her hand, facing her grimly. “I was for alone a very long time. When I heard there was a woman made of living stone, one who could endure my gaze, I only wished to have you. Just like that cretin, I didn’t care what you thought of it. But you reminded me of who I once was, and I would rather die than go down his path. So you ought to go on your own journey. I’ll give what you need to make your start. As for the humans, just hold your head high. You can endure their fear. Trust there would be far more running and screaming if I was with you”

Galatea considered me for a minute, her face blank and unreadable. Then she smiled, that wonderful line by her mouth deepening like a winding river. “I don’t mind screams as much anymore. And I know the desperation of loneliness. You were the first to truly see me and the first to truly listen, Medusa. I’ll stay by your side a bit longer.” She looked up at me with a twinkle in her eye. “You’ve yet to tell me all the names of your snakes after all!”

I could swear those same damned snakes were snickering at me as I fought a lump in my throat.

We left the mewling man to his silent mausoleum. As we traveled down the winding dirt path, it was Galatea who held my hand this time. When she squeezed it, I wondered if a girlish blush passed my mottled gray cheeks.

I wondered what she’d think of my sculptures. It was only when she saw my work, my own garden of stone, that she’d truly know me. When she saw how some of those faces were twisted masks of horror, mouths open in a soundless yell, would she think it as terribly beautiful as I did- or would she run away in disgust?

I was excited to find out.