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"what if I've read part of it" if it's a large enough part that you would consider yourself to Have Read It in general contexts, then it counts. if it's not, then it doesn't. only you can be the judge of that, but I'm not giving you a nuance button.
any translations count, but abridged retellings don't
obviously, there are lots of other classical texts out there. you might have read none of these and be an expert on greek tragedy. I'm not judging your classical knowledge so you don't need to tell me all that. I'm just curious about combos of these specific texts and their popularity, bc a post i just saw got me thinking about it
The One-Eyed Giant (Tales from the Odyssey, #1), The Land of the Dead (Tales from the Odyssey, #2), Sirens and Sea Monsters (Tales from the
This is a series of children’s chapter books summarizing the Odessey. written by an actual classics scholar. They are very accessible. It’s good storytelling, it’s not that hard.
I hate when king arthur has all these fussy little steps in the instructions and you're like "no way do these fussy little steps matter" but you try it and they do. they matter so much.
I thought you meant Camelot quests and I was like "that's fair, 'never pick a four leaf clover on the last Wednesday of the month' IS a fussy little step that shouldn't matter" but then I was like "wait isn't that also a flour company"
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A colored version of https://tastes-like-coconut.tumblr.com/post/169094011176/tastes-like-coconut-that-nameless-dreamwidth my original drawing. Trying out color pallets and styles. I’ll probably do another in my realistic style sometime too. Dear god please someone help me with my inability to utilize tumblr with links.
When I was at one of my lowest (mental) points in life, I couldn’t get out of bed some days. I had no energy or motivation and was barely getting by.
I had therapy once per week, and on this particular week I didn’t have much to ‘bring’ to the session. He asked how my week was and I really had nothing to say.
“What are you struggling with?” he asked.
I gestured around me and said “I dunno man. Life.”
Not satisfied with my answer, he said “No, what exactly are you worried about right now? What feels overwhelming? When you go home after this session, what issue will be staring at you?”
I knew the answer, but it was so ridiculous that I didn’t want to say it.
I wanted to have something more substantial.
Something more profound.
But I didn’t.
So I told him, “Honestly? The dishes. It’s stupid, I know, but the more I look at them the more I CAN’T do them because I’ll have to scrub them before I put them in the dishwasher, because the dishwasher sucks, and I just can’t stand and scrub the dishes.”
I felt like an idiot even saying it.
What kind of grown ass woman is undone by a stack of dishes? There are people out there with *actual* problems, and I’m whining to my therapist about dishes?
But my therapist nodded in understanding and then said:
“RUN THE DISHWASHER TWICE.”
I began to tell him that you’re not supposed to, but he stopped me.
“Why the hell aren’t you supposed to? If you don’t want to scrub the dishes and your dishwasher sucks, run it twice. Run it three times, who cares?! Rules do not exist, so stop giving yourself rules.”
It blew my mind in a way that I don’t think I can properly express.
That day, I went home and tossed my smelly dishes haphazardly into the dishwasher and ran it three times.
I felt like I had conquered a dragon.
The next day, I took a shower lying down.
A few days later. I folded my laundry and put them wherever the fuck they fit.
There were no longer arbitrary rules I had to follow, and it gave me the freedom to make accomplishments again.
Now that I’m in a healthier place, I rinse off my dishes and put them in the dishwasher properly. I shower standing up. I sort my laundry.
But at a time when living was a struggle instead of a blessing, I learned an incredibly important lesson:
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so many people ive known have pushed themselves to burnout trying to deny their disabled reality, skipping accommodations, skipping rests etc. and the world convinces them that the solution to their burnout is to push even harder. it’s a huge tragedy. i know social pressures make it tough but i want more disabled people to make things easier for themselves where possible, to opt out of things that harm them when possible, to quit while they’re ahead. be that person today! protect yourself where you can! take micro breaks while doing your hobby. get that shower chair. sit to brush your teeth. lie down in the middle of the day, even if only for 5 mins. these things add up and it’s so worth it.
The thing about the gods is this: they made the world, but they don't really know how.
That's a simplification, of course, but it's a good one. It's a tollbridge fiction – you pay the price and it takes you somewhere interesting.
The toll is believing something that's technically a lie.
But once the toll’s paid, you begin to cross the river. And, before you know it, you find you’re walking shoulder-to-shoulder with the divine.
Take it from me: that's a good thing.
I remember when the lines were less blurry. When we kept the gods imprisoned in temples and palaces and heavens.
I was a shrine cat, in those days. On bright sunny days when the wind is heavy with pollen-laced memory, I can still taste the blood on my tongue.
There was blood everywhere in those days, so it was a good time to be a shrine cat. You just had to loiter by the channels cut into the sides of the altar and you'd never go hungry or without fusses.
The priests would try to fuss me, sometimes. Some of them thought they were cat people.
“Oh sweet Suki,” they'd say, reaching out with their perfectly trimmed nails, “you are so pretty with your soft fur and the gore on your whiskers. Wouldn't you like a pet beneath your blood-stained chin?”
But I knew they were not cat people. They were god people.
Now and again, I would let them think they were safe and accept their touch. Then, thinking they were safe, I would sctratch and bite them. Catching them unawares, I could get a really good grip on their flesh.
That is where the real treats of the shrines were kept, of course.
I had learned this from the ghosts of the sacrifices. Some of those ghosts were cat people, so I let them pet me and tell me their stories. I would lick up their lifeblood and – with the taste of their heart’s milk on my tongue – I would guide them through the tricky currents and rocks of the river.
This left plenty of time for stories.
This is how I learned the gods were prisoners, even though they did not know it.
This is how I learned the priests kept the gods’ secrets hidden on the insides of their skin, inscribed in moonlight and blossoms where none could see.
Oh, I'm sorry, I was telling you about how the gods made the world, wasn't I?
Well, that's the thing. In those days, the gods knew how they'd done it.
And, so long as the priests kept them walled up in cathedrals or sacred springs or afterlives, the priests were the only ones they could tell the secrets of creation.
It would have remained that way, were it not for the ghosts and the shrine cats.
The ghosts, you see, were not too happy about being sacrificed to keep the god-walls up.
But the shrine cats were the only ones they could talk to, and most of us were happy as we were. Happy to keep sleeping on the warm red-stained stone of the altars. Happy to keep supping on the streams of gravestone-blessed viscera as they joined the river.
However, some of the priests kept trying to pet me. Even though they were not cat people.
So I, clever Suki, listened to the ghosts and stole the secrets from the priests’ illuminated skins.
I carried those secrets to the orchard fields and spat them up in the roots of the apple trees.
When the blossoms bloomed on the trees, the breeze carried dreams of injustice.
When the fruit fell upon the earth, they held inside them visions of a future celestial.
When the priests found out what I'd done, they cursed me… because of course they did. They called me ungrateful and wicked and flighty (all true). They bid the earth always echo my footfall. They bid the wind always carry my scent.
With that curse, and with the bloody channels from the shrines all dried up, I died hungry.
But the ghosts and the gods were grateful. So the ghosts taught me how to dig my claws into the flank of life. Then the gods gave me all their old standing stones and chapels and hells to haunt.
What had I been telling you?
Oh, right. So… living amongst the mortals as they do, the gods find it hard to explain how they do their godly things. Y'know, like making the world.
Maybe it's because the words for that sort of thing only exist in the godly places, and they won't live there anymore. Or maybe it's because they gave too many of their secrets to the priests and now they're lost.
You might say: but Suki! You haunt those godly places now! And you stole those secrets from the priests with your sharp teeth! Surely, you can tell us what the gods cannot?
And to that I say: maybe I could or maybe I couldn't. But if I do hold onto those knowings, they are mine and mine alone.
You live in a world celestial. The gods walk among you, close enough to clasp your hand or pick your pocket.
Just try to enjoy it, will you?
---
This story was based on the prompt 'Suki - cat, ancient, vindictive, distractable' by one of my Ko-Fi supporters.
Want to submit your own prompts to be turned into puns and fiction? Consider supporting me on Ko-Fi https://ko-fi.com/strangelittlestories
I absolutely blame Facebook for this shift. Words cannot describe how freaking WEIRD it was in the mid-00s when there was suddenly this popular website where you were required to use your real, brickspace name and encouraged to post photos of yourself. Every single bit of Standard Internet Safety prior to then said that you should never ever ever do either of those.
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me holding a gun to a mushroom: tell me the name of god you fungal piece of shit
mushroom: can you feel your heart burning? can you feel the struggle within? the fear within me is beyond anything your soul can make. you cannot kill me in a way that matters
me cocking the gun, tears streaming down my face: I’M NOT FUCKING SCARED OF YOU
No, I don't want a deadbolt I can unlock with an app. No, I don't want an oven I can turn on with an app. No, I don't want a washer/dryer I can control with an app. No, I don't want lights I can control with an app. I don't want blinds I can control with an app. I don't want to need an app to do everything.
I don't want a printing subscription, or a typing subscription. Hell, I'll go find an old typewriter before I buy into that sell. I'll even learn to make ink and paper.
I don't want to "subscribe and save" to something. I don't want everything to automatically renew. I most certainly do not want to give an AI assistant access to ANYTHING of mine (including my thoughts, questions, or ideas), but especially not to my bank account.
I don't want glasses that tell me what things are, I'd rather ask someone who knows. I don't want a robot to summarize the key points of my group chat, I want to talk to my friends and family for myself.
I want picnics in the park, phones put away in bags and not thought about unless they're actually needed. I want water fights in summer, not water shortages to feed the machine. I want a colorful house, not a smart one. I want care, not convenience.
If one day Microsoft locks me out of my laptop because I refuse to pay for a subscription, I'll go to the library and check out a few books to figure out how to reprogram it. I'll learn fucking Linux, if I have to. Hell, I'm considering learning it now, with the way the world's going.
If one day the world is so online, that I'm strange for being disconnected, then strange I will happily be.
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