Rachel Alexander's Blog, page 40
August 30, 2021
theia-mania-comics:
Queen of the Dead 075
Sikelia was the...
Queen of the Dead 075
Sikelia was the ancient Greek name for Sicily. When the poet Pindar speaks about Sicily in his Nemean Ode 1 he says “… the island, which Zeus the lord of Olympus gave to Persephone” (trans. Diane Arnson Svarlien). The context is not mentioned, but there seems to have existed a tradition in which Persephone was given Sicily as a wedding gift when she was married off to Hades:
“The Siceliotae who dwell in the island have received the tradition from their ancestors, the report having ever been handed down successively from earliest time by one generation to the next, that the island is sacred to Demeter and Corê; although there are certain poets who recount the myth that at the marriage of Pluton and Persephonê Zeus gave this island as a wedding present to the bride” (Diodorus Siculus, Library of History, trans. C. H. Oldfather).
August 29, 2021
coffeenuts:61277.01 Narcissus by horticultural art https:...
61277.01 Narcissus by horticultural art https://flic.kr/p/2m7E6RX
goddesspoems:
“
oh but darling,
how your lips
taste of po...
“
oh but darling,
how your lips
taste of pomegranate
and poor decisions.
”
elly schyven
therkalexander:
thelampades-archived:
therkalexander:
l...
There gotta be most Greek Myths peeps on Tumblr: what would be the best framing for a modern Hades and Persephone story
Demeter’s flower shop has been in her family for years. She trades off with Persephone between the front counter and the back room, just as she did with her mother, long ago. Persephone’s slated to take over the business one day, she just knows it, loves her work, loves the security of it, arranges irises and larkspur among the sprigs of baby’s breath and fern. She sings with her mom when Demeter is counting the till or sorting poppies. The same few playlists cycle over and over and Persephone makes Demeter laugh by parodying with her own often lewd verses. Her mom scolds her but can’t hide the mirth crinkling the corners of her eyes. And so this goes and has gone for all the years since college. But there’s a dread finality to all of it that makes Persephone lay awake at night, wasting time on her phone, or staring up through the skylight in her bedroom.
On the other side of town, Hades just received word that the family whose funeral is slated for tomorrow has had a complete cancellation of all their food, flowers, everything. Something about a maxed out credit card… At his mortuary. His. He can’t let that stand. Because he’s seen too many exhausted, shattered families, too many people who need to mourn, and mundane details of final expenses shouldn’t cloud their minds on a day like that. Any other businessman would politely turn them away. He should turn them away, but he doesn’t.
Cursing, and walking from store to store in the rain, he finally gets Hecate, one of the better caterers in town, to agree on short notice. He’ll pay her back— he’s not hurting for money. He’s already walked a mile and a wreath of roses is next. And he’s certainly not going to the bastards up the way who made the poor widow cry when they hung up on her this morning.
The bell above the door clangs, and Persephone doesn’t bother to look up from the narcissus she squeezes into the last spring wedding bouquet. It’s her mother, she figures, back from the next door bakery with their lunch. It isn’t until she hears a voice, edged with frustration and seriousness at first, but under the rough skin of it, softness as he describes the bind he’s in. He looms large in the doorway and he needs her.
Her help, rather. She swallows, remembering what her mom has always said. Net 30, and even that’s pushing it. Only with prior accounts, only with people from this side of town who we know, Persephone. It’s what Demeter’s always warned her about: getting in too deep, going off the books… the death of so many other small businesses in this economy. So it surprises her when she offers to create the arrangements for this dark stranger. And shocks her when she blurts out that she will deliver them herself, tomorrow, across the tracks. Her car’s overdue for an oil change and the starter that craps out when the weather gets too cold… and now she’s flush because she’s been talking out loud like an idiot.
He smiles. Briefly. And then comes his offer to pick her up. He stutters when she asks him to repeat it, and kicks himself. He’s waiting for her to decline and ask him to leave in that scared, polite tone that women use, because most men with an offer like that are dangerous. But she accepts. It’s impulsive, but seems like the most natural thing in the world that he’s going to just roll up in his chariot and bear her and her flowers to be arranged at a funeral without any warning. He clears his throat again and is gone, muttering that he’ll see her tomorrow, early. 8 o’clock sharp.
Demeter comes back 10 minutes later, unwrapping a sumptuous ham on rye, which they split. No one comes in on a rainy day, Demeter remarks. Persephone merely nods, her mouth full. She can’t tell her mom about how many white roses she’s going to give away. And what’s worse, Persephone realizes, she’ll have to stay late to finish it. More lies she’ll have to fix later. But she’ll tell Demeter when she gets back from the funeral home. After all, this is Persephone’s shop too, and it’s time to make an adult decision and sometimes compassion wins over rationality. Or at least that’s what she tells herself. His voice still hangs in the air, as does the scent of rain and cypress on his wool coat.
She’ll tell the truth when she gets back.
Please continue. 🥺🥺🥺😍😍😍
The rain lets up just as they finish the wedding bouquets. A few more customers, and another order for next week. Persephone stays to close after her mom walks the deposit to the bank. She dusts the counter half heartedly until Demeter is out of sight of the front window, then sweeps the door and walkway for ten minutes just in case her mother comes back. 5 o’clock and no sign of her.
Helios, the retiree living in the apartment above, waves at her and chews on a cigar. His skin is wrinkled from decades of sunbathing in his youth. Whenever it’s not raining, he’s sits on his balcony sunrise to sunset, the world coming and going and Helios seeming to know everyone in it. She chats for a bit, then politely reminds him that she has to close the store.
Persephone locks the door and sighs. She pulls a styrofoam ring mold from the top shelf. They usually don’t do funerals. Remembrance planters, yes. Full funerals? Rarely. Her grandmother’s arrangement was the last one she’d done. And that was during college. The fridge is freezing, and her teeth chatter as she gathers a dozen bushels of roses. White, as requested.
And then the phone rings.
The old tape answering machine has been there for 30 years and served them well, weeding out sales and robocalls. And if it ain’t broke… “You’ve reached Gaia’s Flowers; our hours are 9 to 5 Tuesday through Sunday and our last delivery is at 4 pm. Please leave a message.” She hears a throat clearing on the line and a low, familiar voice hesitantly starts speaking.
It’s him. Persephone bolts for the phone and picks up. She hears feedback, apologizes, fumbles to turn off the answering machine and finally says her name. He asks if she’s the one he talked to this afternoon. When she affirms, he starts to apologize, saying he hadn’t even introduced himself and had barged in, and put her on the spot. He says don’t bother about the flowers. Worried, she asks if he’s found someone else. He sighs and says no, heavily. She insists. It’s a practicality at this point. You can’t have a funeral without flowers. Besides… she’s already started. Can she call him back? She needs to keep the store line free just in case. Persephone jots down his number. An Olympia prefix. Odd. Still no name.
She punches it into her cell, turns on the speaker and tucks her phone into the side of her bra so she can work on the arrangement hands free. In her mind Persephone hears her mother’s voice clucking about breast cancer from cellphone radiation or whatever as his phone rings.
In his dim office, far from the muted voices and tears of the vigil, Hades hears a buzzing and winces. Shit. He gave her his private phone. Not the business line as he should have, but his mobile. He debates whether or not he should answer it. Her voice blurts as soon as he hits the button, asking for his name. He gives it and launches back into his apology.
Persephone accepts it and said she wanted to help because he looked desperate. He agrees, and thanks her. They carry on, much to his surprise. He usually hates talking on the phone. She tells him more about her shop, and he about how he came to run a mortuary. She brings up the Olympia prefix, and asks if she’ll be driving all the way there. He pinches his nose and offers that he was tired and just defaulted to his cell, and no, his business isn’t 50 miles away. She titters and asks him how he likes their humble town and he tells her that yes, he came from privilege, but ghosted his toxic father years ago and fixed the damage in therapy. He’s unsure why he’s offering all these details to a woman he barely knows.
His profession is creepy enough to outsiders as it is, and at this point Hades is fairly certain she’s about to hang up, thinking he’s a serial killer. He’s no good on the phone… but she stays, chats with him, talks about her great relationship with her mom, her non-existent one with her dad, and each interrupts the call when she needs to dig more flowers out of the back or when he needs to close up after the wake.
It’s past midnight and still they talk. It would have taken her half this time if she wasn’t so… pleasantly distracted. The wreath is finished, but she wants to do more. Her grandmother’s casket was covered in the loveliest crescent spray of flowers, with lilies and roses, larkspur and irises. Persephone preempts him, says it’s free of charge, that she needs the practice as she rarely does casket sprays.
Hades wants to protest, but knows it won’t work on her. He laughs. For the first time in a while. He wants to stay on the phone with her but needs to rest before tomorrow. He hopes she gets some sleep at some point as well, thanks her profusely, again, says and he’ll meet her at the shop tomorrow.
Persephone drops some ivy into the spray and folds her arms, smiling. She’ll need to place it of course, but is pleased with how it came out. She hopes he is— they are she corrects herself.
Persephone checks her phone. 5% battery from talking to him all night. Now that the spray is perfect, it’s 3 am. This isn’t the first time she’s stayed late. Last June she and Demeter had worked ‘til dawn assembling the piecemeal parts of an eight foot tall flower ring arbor the bride saw on Instagram the day before the wedding and just had to have. They charged bridezilla accordingly and pinned a ‘closed for the day’ note on the door the next morning. She locks up, stalks down the street with her keys between her fingers and reaches the stairs of her walk up. Persephone closes the door, and peels off her clothes then crashes on the bed, making sure she sets her alarm.
Sleep feels like a blink. Persephone wakes up and showers, throws on a simple black dress and flats, swills yesterday’s room temperature coffee, and walks the block to the store. She smells cigar smoke and bacon, and hears distorted salsa blaring from a cheap battery operated radio. Helios is already on his balcony.
She opens the shop door and gathers up her flowers, the wreath, then just as 7:59 turned to 8:00 a black sedan, sleek and expensive, rolls up to the shop door.
Even though there isn’t any real traffic around for three blocks, and won’t be until the downtown shops open, Hades throws on the emergency flashers. He pops the trunk and grins at the artful arrangement, yards better than most of the others he’s seen, and helps her gently settle the flowers for the ride. She opens the passenger side and he shuts it after her. No sooner has she fastened her seatbelt and he’s roaring down the mist covered street.
She remembered to lock the door, right? Of course she did. She always does this and every time she goes back to check it’s locked. Besides, they’re already on the main drag. The tracks are below the bridge. Not much further. Persephone settles back into the heated leather seat and stifles a yawn then jokes about how he kept her up late.
When he picks up speed and thumbs the overdrive button, Hades glances for a moment at her calf and the small flower garland tattoo ringing her ankle, just above her simple flats. He refocuses on the road. Hades thanks her again, that he’s grateful to have her— have her hard work. She smiles, drowsy, and he turns on the wipers to clear the fog. They sit in comfortable silence the rest of the way.
Demeter turns her key in the lock at her store and the door opens too easily. Was it unlocked all night? That’s not like Persephone. She hasn’t forgotten the lock up since she was seventeen, and always double checks it, pushes back on the door to make sure the bolt has caught.
She throws open the door. Scattered flowers lay here and there, emptied buckets where roses once sat, one overturned. She runs over to the till. All the cash is there. She grabs the phone and dials Persephone’s cell. It goes to message. She redials. Straight to voicemail again. She might have fallen asleep in back. Demeter calls out for her. Nothing. She has half an hour before the shop opens. Demeter jogs down the block and turns into the atrium of Persephone’s walk up, then vaults up the stairs. The door is locked and it looks empty. She bangs on the door and calls for Persephone, then pulls out her cellphone and tries her daughter’s phone again. Voicemail.
Panic turns to alarm. Flowers scattered everywhere in the shop and no Persephone. Where is her daughter?
😲🥺… then what happened?
@thelampades
The phone rings in the empty shop. And rings. And rings. But Demeter isn’t there to pick up. The flowers will be delayed. Or never arrive— a full harvest of them undelivered.
Demeter frantically wanders up and down the street, banging on shop doors. On a cold morning like this, most retailers won’t open until 11:00, and all that greets her are darkened windows.
Helios barks at her over the balcony, asking what could be wrong this early in the morning. She blurts out around tears that the door to the shop was left unlocked and that she can’t find Persephone, and there were flowers scattered around and—
The old man waves her off and says that he saw Persephone hurry into a black car with the engine still running, that a man shut the door after her and they sped off. At 8 in the morning! 8 o’clock!
And how was she? Well, he didn’t see. Just heard the screech of the car as it pulled away. When he tells her not to worry about it, when he says that the man who took her looked like he had money, she wants to climb the brick façade with her bare fucking hands and smash his blaring radio. Instead of arguing with him she huffs off and knocks on the bakery’s glass door.
Metaneira’s day has already started and ended. Every morning she gets up at 3 am to take the proofed loaves out of the fridge. By 4:30 they’re in the oven and from then until sunrise she’s sweating to get the commercial orders packed for Celeus and their pile of kids to drive to all the fancy brunch places in the county. Which means the front door is always locked so she can attend to deliveries out the back. So when she hears the glass rattle she ignores it and keeps her head down. Making eye contact with the idiot who can’t bother to read the hours or the bright white ‘Closed’ sign right in front of their face will just make it worse. When the rattle doesn’t stop, Metaneira casts a glare at the door, angry fist clutching her bread lame. Her face softens when she sees that it’s Demeter and quickens her step to unlock it and let her in.
Across town, the pall bearers are reverently taking the casket from the hearse and up the church steps. Persephone tries to remain somber at Hades’s side but can’t help her giddiness over how well received the surprise arrangement was. The widow had hugged her, had cried against her shoulder and thanked her profusely. She confesses her late husband gave her irises on their second date. How had Persephone known?
Charon sits quietly in the drivers seat of the hearse. He was the only one of the three of them who looked well rested enough to drive today, even though he still has a “client” back at the parlor waiting to be embalmed. He’d grumbled about it, and Hades had flicked him a penny, snarking about it being a down payment on his impending overtime. When Persephone makes eye contact with Charon, he merely smiles at her, then drifts back to his phone, waiting for the next leg of the journey— the procession to the final resting place.
They walk into the church and Persephone quickly crosses herself— wait, did she do it backwards? Was it disrespectful to cross herself if she’s not— she blinks long, stifles another yawn. Hades places a gentle hand on her shoulder and asks if she wants a ride back during mass. She doesn’t want him to have to duck out and if he’s late back, who would direct the procession?
Persephone insists she stay until it’s over. As they place the man’s picture in the wreath of her white roses at the altar, she thinks back to how many haughty clients she’s smiled through, how many demands she’s endured, the thankless nights and days doing what she loves. But here every memory is sung and cared for, every lily is a star piercing the dark, a hope against the inevitable, the inexorable. Hades stands beside her, black wool coat still dewy from the morning air when he directed arrangements inside, doled out printed programs. Her pinky brushes against the back of his hand and she’s surprised it’s so warm. Persephone feels him tense in response, and flinches, but his thumb moves to her palm, then long fingers close softly around hers. They listen as the priest speaks about the man’s life, and as the first eulogy ends she feels a tear slip down her cheek. Before Persephone has time to wipe it away he’s already holding a folded handkerchief for her. She accepts, meets his gaze.
Hades has seen this a thousand times. A thousand funeral rites across a dozen confident faiths, but her compassion for those she hasn’t yet met let’s him see it through new eyes.
She accepts the crisp linen square and blots her eyes, then holds it, unsure if she should give it back, or if that would be unsanitary. Her hands are both occupied, one clenching the handkerchief, the other being… caressed? by his fingers— a softness that sends a pleasant shiver up her spine. He seems unmoved by the words from the pulpit, probably having heard a variation on them every other day going back who knows how many years. No pockets on her dress. She can’t just hold the square forever. Will he thinks it’s gross if she hands it back to him? She waits until he isn’t looking and tucks it discretely into the side of her bra. Her eyes widen when they catch his and she stares forward, biting her lips, cheeks and ears turning red, her other hand still caught in his.
He can’t hide the smile creeping across his face no matter how hard he tries. He’s supposed to be somber. Respectful. But all he can think about is where she just tucked away his handkerchief, the way her black dress rests on her hips, her thorn-pricked rough fingers held in his hand, the flower tattoo on her ankle he tried not to memorize… He has to snap out of it. There’s business to attend, and Hecate and her catering are waiting back at the parlor.
August 28, 2021
thelampades-archived:
therkalexander:
latent-thoughts:
...
There gotta be most Greek Myths peeps on Tumblr: what would be the best framing for a modern Hades and Persephone story
Demeter’s flower shop has been in her family for years. She trades off with Persephone between the front counter and the back room, just as she did with her mother, long ago. Persephone’s slated to take over the business one day, she just knows it, loves her work, loves the security of it, arranges irises and larkspur among the sprigs of baby’s breath and fern. She sings with her mom when Demeter is counting the till or sorting poppies. The same few playlists cycle over and over and Persephone makes Demeter laugh by parodying with her own often lewd verses. Her mom scolds her but can’t hide the mirth crinkling the corners of her eyes. And so this goes and has gone for all the years since college. But there’s a dread finality to all of it that makes Persephone lay awake at night, wasting time on her phone, or staring up through the skylight in her bedroom.
On the other side of town, Hades just received word that the family whose funeral is slated for tomorrow has had a complete cancellation of all their food, flowers, everything. Something about a maxed out credit card… At his mortuary. His. He can’t let that stand. Because he’s seen too many exhausted, shattered families, too many people who need to mourn, and mundane details of final expenses shouldn’t cloud their minds on a day like that. Any other businessman would politely turn them away. He should turn them away, but he doesn’t.
Cursing, and walking from store to store in the rain, he finally gets Hecate, one of the better caterers in town, to agree on short notice. He’ll pay her back— he’s not hurting for money. He’s already walked a mile and a wreath of roses is next. And he’s certainly not going to the bastards up the way who made the poor widow cry when they hung up on her this morning.
The bell above the door clangs, and Persephone doesn’t bother to look up from the narcissus she squeezes into the last spring wedding bouquet. It’s her mother, she figures, back from the next door bakery with their lunch. It isn’t until she hears a voice, edged with frustration and seriousness at first, but under the rough skin of it, softness as he describes the bind he’s in. He looms large in the doorway and he needs her.
Her help, rather. She swallows, remembering what her mom has always said. Net 30, and even that’s pushing it. Only with prior accounts, only with people from this side of town who we know, Persephone. It’s what Demeter’s always warned her about: getting in too deep, going off the books… the death of so many other small businesses in this economy. So it surprises her when she offers to create the arrangements for this dark stranger. And shocks her when she blurts out that she will deliver them herself, tomorrow, across the tracks. Her car’s overdue for an oil change and the starter that craps out when the weather gets too cold… and now she’s flush because she’s been talking out loud like an idiot.
He smiles. Briefly. And then comes his offer to pick her up. He stutters when she asks him to repeat it, and kicks himself. He’s waiting for her to decline and ask him to leave in that scared, polite tone that women use, because most men with an offer like that are dangerous. But she accepts. It’s impulsive, but seems like the most natural thing in the world that he’s going to just roll up in his chariot and bear her and her flowers to be arranged at a funeral without any warning. He clears his throat again and is gone, muttering that he’ll see her tomorrow, early. 8 o’clock sharp.
Demeter comes back 10 minutes later, unwrapping a sumptuous ham on rye, which they split. No one comes in on a rainy day, Demeter remarks. Persephone merely nods, her mouth full. She can’t tell her mom about how many white roses she’s going to give away. And what’s worse, Persephone realizes, she’ll have to stay late to finish it. More lies she’ll have to fix later. But she’ll tell Demeter when she gets back from the funeral home. After all, this is Persephone’s shop too, and it’s time to make an adult decision and sometimes compassion wins over rationality. Or at least that’s what she tells herself. His voice still hangs in the air, as does the scent of rain and cypress on his wool coat.
She’ll tell the truth when she gets back.
Please continue. 🥺🥺🥺😍😍😍
The rain lets up just as they finish the wedding bouquets. A few more customers, and another order for next week. Persephone stays to close after her mom walks the deposit to the bank. She dusts the counter half heartedly until Demeter is out of sight of the front window, then sweeps the door and walkway for ten minutes just in case her mother comes back. 5 o’clock and no sign of her.
Helios, the retiree living in the apartment above, waves at her and chews on a cigar. His skin is wrinkled from decades of sunbathing in his youth. Whenever it’s not raining, he’s sits on his balcony sunrise to sunset, the world coming and going and Helios seeming to know everyone in it. She chats for a bit, then politely reminds him that she has to close the store.
Persephone locks the door and sighs. She pulls a styrofoam ring mold from the top shelf. They usually don’t do funerals. Remembrance planters, yes. Full funerals? Rarely. Her grandmother’s arrangement was the last one she’d done. And that was during college. The fridge is freezing, and her teeth chatter as she gathers a dozen bushels of roses. White, as requested.
And then the phone rings.
The old tape answering machine has been there for 30 years and served them well, weeding out sales and robocalls. And if it ain’t broke… “You’ve reached Gaia’s Flowers; our hours are 9 to 5 Tuesday through Sunday and our last delivery is at 4 pm. Please leave a message.” She hears a throat clearing on the line and a low, familiar voice hesitantly starts speaking.
It’s him. Persephone bolts for the phone and picks up. She hears feedback, apologizes, fumbles to turn off the answering machine and finally says her name. He asks if she’s the one he talked to this afternoon. When she affirms, he starts to apologize, saying he hadn’t even introduced himself and had barged in, and put her on the spot. He says don’t bother about the flowers. Worried, she asks if he’s found someone else. He sighs and says no, heavily. She insists. It’s a practicality at this point. You can’t have a funeral without flowers. Besides… she’s already started. Can she call him back? She needs to keep the store line free just in case. Persephone jots down his number. An Olympia prefix. Odd. Still no name.
She punches it into her cell, turns on the speaker and tucks her phone into the side of her bra so she can work on the arrangement hands free. In her mind Persephone hears her mother’s voice clucking about breast cancer from cellphone radiation or whatever as his phone rings.
In his dim office, far from the muted voices and tears of the vigil, Hades hears a buzzing and winces. Shit. He gave her his private phone. Not the business line as he should have, but his mobile. He debates whether or not he should answer it. Her voice blurts as soon as he hits the button, asking for his name. He gives it and launches back into his apology.
Persephone accepts it and said she wanted to help because he looked desperate. He agrees, and thanks her. They carry on, much to his surprise. He usually hates talking on the phone. She tells him more about her shop, and he about how he came to run a mortuary. She brings up the Olympia prefix, and asks if she’ll be driving all the way there. He pinches his nose and offers that he was tired and just defaulted to his cell, and no, his business isn’t 50 miles away. She titters and asks him how he likes their humble town and he tells her that yes, he came from privilege, but ghosted his toxic father years ago and fixed the damage in therapy. He’s unsure why he’s offering all these details to a woman he barely knows.
His profession is creepy enough to outsiders as it is, and at this point Hades is fairly certain she’s about to hang up, thinking he’s a serial killer. He’s no good on the phone… but she stays, chats with him, talks about her great relationship with her mom, her non-existent one with her dad, and each interrupts the call when she needs to dig more flowers out of the back or when he needs to close up after the wake.
It’s past midnight and still they talk. It would have taken her half this time if she wasn’t so… pleasantly distracted. The wreath is finished, but she wants to do more. Her grandmother’s casket was covered in the loveliest crescent spray of flowers, with lilies and roses, larkspur and irises. Persephone preempts him, says it’s free of charge, that she needs the practice as she rarely does casket sprays.
Hades wants to protest, but knows it won’t work on her. He laughs. For the first time in a while. He wants to stay on the phone with her but needs to rest before tomorrow. He hopes she gets some sleep at some point as well, thanks her profusely, again, says and he’ll meet her at the shop tomorrow.
Persephone drops some ivy into the spray and folds her arms, smiling. She’ll need to place it of course, but is pleased with how it came out. She hopes he is— they are she corrects herself.
Persephone checks her phone. 5% battery from talking to him all night. Now that the spray is perfect, it’s 3 am. This isn’t the first time she’s stayed late. Last June she and Demeter had worked ‘til dawn assembling the piecemeal parts of an eight foot tall flower ring arbor the bride saw on Instagram the day before the wedding and just had to have. They charged bridezilla accordingly and pinned a ‘closed for the day’ note on the door the next morning. She locks up, stalks down the street with her keys between her fingers and reaches the stairs of her walk up. Persephone closes the door, and peels off her clothes then crashes on the bed, making sure she sets her alarm.
Sleep feels like a blink. Persephone wakes up and showers, throws on a simple black dress and flats, swills yesterday’s room temperature coffee, and walks the block to the store. She smells cigar smoke and bacon, and hears distorted salsa blaring from a cheap battery operated radio. Helios is already on his balcony.
She opens the shop door and gathers up her flowers, the wreath, then just as 7:59 turned to 8:00 a black sedan, sleek and expensive, rolls up to the shop door.
Even though there isn’t any real traffic around for three blocks, and won’t be until the downtown shops open, Hades throws on the emergency flashers. He pops the trunk and grins at the artful arrangement, yards better than most of the others he’s seen, and helps her gently settle the flowers for the ride. She opens the passenger side and he shuts it after her. No sooner has she fastened her seatbelt and he’s roaring down the mist covered street.
She remembered to lock the door, right? Of course she did. She always does this and every time she goes back to check it’s locked. Besides, they’re already on the main drag. The tracks are below the bridge. Not much further. Persephone settles back into the heated leather seat and stifles a yawn then jokes about how he kept her up late.
When he picks up speed and thumbs the overdrive button, Hades glances for a moment at her calf and the small flower garland tattoo ringing her ankle, just above her simple flats. He refocuses on the road. Hades thanks her again, that he’s grateful to have her— have her hard work. She smiles, drowsy, and he turns on the wipers to clear the fog. They sit in comfortable silence the rest of the way.
Demeter turns her key in the lock at her store and the door opens too easily. Was it unlocked all night? That’s not like Persephone. She hasn’t forgotten the lock up since she was seventeen, and always double checks it, pushes back on the door to make sure the bolt has caught.
She throws open the door. Scattered flowers lay here and there, emptied buckets where roses once sat, one overturned. She runs over to the till. All the cash is there. She grabs the phone and dials Persephone’s cell. It goes to message. She redials. Straight to voicemail again. She might have fallen asleep in back. Demeter calls out for her. Nothing. She has half an hour before the shop opens. Demeter jogs down the block and turns into the atrium of Persephone’s walk up, then vaults up the stairs. The door is locked and it looks empty. She bangs on the door and calls for Persephone, then pulls out her cellphone and tries her daughter’s phone again. Voicemail.
Panic turns to alarm. Flowers scattered everywhere in the shop and no Persephone. Where is her daughter?
😲🥺… then what happened?
@thelampades
The phone rings in the empty shop. And rings. And rings. But Demeter isn’t there to pick up. The flowers will be delayed. Or never arrive— a full harvest of them undelivered.
Demeter frantically wanders up and down the street, banging on shop doors. On a cold morning like this, most retailers won’t open until 11:00, and all that greets her are darkened windows.
Helios barks at her over the balcony, asking what could be wrong this early in the morning. She blurts out around tears that the door to the shop was left unlocked and that she can’t find Persephone, and there were flowers scattered around and—
The old man waves her off and says that he saw Persephone hurry into a black car with the engine still running, that a man shut the door after her and they sped off. At 8 in the morning! 8 o’clock!
And how was she? Well, he didn’t see. Just heard the screech of the car as it pulled away. When he tells her not to worry about it, when he says that the man who took her looked like he had money, she wants to climb the brick façade with her bare fucking hands and smash his blaring radio. Instead of arguing with him she huffs off and knocks on the bakery’s glass door.
Metaneira’s day has already started and ended. Every morning she gets up at 3 am to take the proofed loaves out of the fridge. By 4:30 they’re in the oven and from then until sunrise she’s sweating to get the commercial orders packed for Celeus and their pile of kids to drive to all the fancy brunch places in the county. Which means the front door is always locked so she can attend to deliveries out the back. So when she hears the glass rattle she ignores it and keeps her head down. Making eye contact with the idiot who can’t bother to read the hours or the bright white ‘Closed’ sign right in front of their face will just make it worse. When the rattle doesn’t stop, Metaneira casts a glare at the door, angry fist clutching her bread lame. Her face softens when she sees that it’s Demeter and quickens her step to unlock it and let her in.
Across town, the pall bearers are reverently taking the casket from the hearse and up the church steps. Persephone tries to remain somber at Hades’s side but can’t help her giddiness over how well received the surprise arrangement was. The widow had hugged her, had cried against her shoulder and thanked her profusely. She confesses her late husband gave her irises on their second date. How had Persephone known?
Charon sits quietly in the drivers seat of the hearse. He was the only one of the three of them who looked well rested enough to drive today, even though he still has a “client” back at the parlor waiting to be embalmed. He’d grumbled about it, and Hades had flicked him a penny, snarking about it being a down payment on his impending overtime. When Persephone makes eye contact with Charon, he merely smiles at her, then drifts back to his phone, waiting for the next leg of the journey— the procession to the final resting place.
They walk into the church and Persephone quickly crosses herself— wait, did she do it backwards? Was it disrespectful to cross herself if she’s not— she blinks long, stifles another yawn. Hades places a gentle hand on her shoulder and asks if she wants a ride back during mass. She doesn’t want him to have to duck out and if he’s late back, who would direct the procession?
Persephone insists she stay until it’s over. As they place the man’s picture in the wreath of her white roses at the altar, she thinks back to how many haughty clients she’s smiled through, how many demands she’s endured, the thankless nights and days doing what she loves. But here every memory is sung and cared for, every lily is a star piercing the dark, a hope against the inevitable, the inexorable. Hades stands beside her, black wool coat still dewy from the morning air when he directed arrangements inside, doled out printed programs. Her pinky brushes against the back of his hand and she’s surprised it’s so warm. Persephone feels him tense in response, and flinches, but his thumb moves to her palm, then long fingers close softly around hers. They listen as the priest speaks about the man’s life, and as the first eulogy ends she feels a tear slip down her cheek. Before Persephone has time to wipe it away he’s already holding a folded handkerchief for her. She accepts, meets his gaze.
Hades has seen this a thousand times. A thousand funeral rites across a dozen confident faiths, but her compassion for those she hasn’t yet met let’s him see it through new eyes.
She accepts the crisp linen square and blots her eyes, then holds it, unsure if she should give it back, or if that would be unsanitary. Her hands are both occupied, one clenching the handkerchief, the other being… caressed? by his fingers— a softness that sends a pleasant shiver up her spine. He seems unmoved by the words from the pulpit, probably having heard a variation on them every other day going back who knows how many years. No pockets on her dress. She can’t just hold the square forever. Will he thinks it’s gross if she hands it back to him? She waits until he isn’t looking and tucks it discretely into the side of her bra. Her eyes widen when they catch his and she stares forward, biting her lips, cheeks and ears turning red, her other hand still caught in his.
He can’t hide the smile creeping across his face no matter how hard he tries. He’s supposed to be somber. Respectful. But all he can think about is where she just tucked away his handkerchief, the way her black dress rests on her hips, her thorn-pricked rough fingers held in his hand, the flower tattoo on her ankle he tried not to memorize… He has to snap out of it. There’s business to attend, and Hecate and her catering are waiting back at the parlor.
irisforest:
“mourning peacock”, giulia valente, italian f...
“mourning peacock”, giulia valente, italian fine art photographer
bahralzanj:David Ballam
David Ballam
mooncherrri:
Persephone to Hades
“You are the kindest th...
Persephone to Hades
“You are the kindest thing that ever happened to me, even if that is not how our tale is told. When everyone else told me I was destined to be a forgotten nymph that nurtured flowers and turn meadows gold, you saw the ichor that resides in me demanded it’s own throne. You showed me how a love like ours can turn even the darkest, coldest realm into the happiest of homes.” -Nikita Gill
August 27, 2021
chrisjaikmanillustration:Do you like #pomegranate ? I lik...
Do you like #pomegranate ? I like the pre-squeezed juice as I’m a tad bit lazy 😂 I really liked doing this loose illustration and I felt it could fit well into cookbooks and grocery store magazines if I were to refine it down and make it more aesthetically pleasing than what it is here, but I’m still happy with the results
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#drawing #instaart #instagood #sketch #creative #artoftheday #artwork #illustrator #artist #illustrationart #illustrationoftheday #art #illustrationartists #sketchbook
#contemporaryart #artsy #illustration #arte #artistsoninstagram #illustration #art🎨 #artistofinstagram #edinburghartist #scottishartist #2021 #watercolorillustration #watercolor #ink #fruit #food (at Edinburgh, United Kingdom)
https://www.instagram.com/p/CSpbSYRog7U/?utm_medium=tumblr
