Medusa: October Prompt Responses

This month’s writing prompt was Medusa. Here we showcase all the responses that were submitted.

Medusa prompt: Avert your eyes! Green with envy she longs to be seen, a woman misunderstood, weaponised by her armour. Don’t look! Suck out the venom of the snake’s bite. A gleam of reptilian scales, emerald green, poised around her head. A crown of beady eyes and sly hisses. Don’t meet her eyes, or you’ll turn to stone.

Medusa + Kalliope

I kissed the serpents on medusa’s head,
And she told me I healed her.
As moss colored hair fell gracefully down her back;
Her deep brown eyes gazed at me…
As we were bonded for life.
I kissed the serpents on medusa’s head
As I didn’t dare to look,
I didn’t even dare to open my eyes,
I dared to love.

by Maria Karolina (@mousakalliopewrites on Insta)

The Dividing

You avoided my eyes as if I were Medusa
like my hissing hair gave me away 
warning you of my thoughts before I’d 
found courage to voice them
and you were right to flinch, my Love,
my words turned you to coldest stone, but not 
before they divided your heart into two fleshy handfuls 
that no surgeon on God’s earth could repair 
and while you seared with unending pain 
it became my cursed grief for countless lifetimes to come 
to be the one that voiced those words 
that separated the sea from the sky
making me so alone 
for who could love Medusa?

by Cath Kansara (@CathKansara on X)

Medusa

She used to feel unequipped for this world.
Not so much freed from the cocoon of childhood as thrust too soon into the cruel, cold morning; incubation denied.
Cries dismissed. “All pain is natural” , soon she will exhaust herself.
By this they mean: “get over it, suck it up and move on.”

Maturing does not happen in extremes, there is no straight pipeline of this-to-that.
Change is, perhaps, better described as endless. The skin you shed still exists, however much you deny its existence or label it a ‘shell’.
Innocence is craved, valued, objectified. But only up to a certain point, a certain age.
Beyond that point, innocence is no longer important but a sign of defection.
It labels you weak, to be pitied at best and written off at worst.
Take the youth who dared to devote herself to a false hope.
Acolyte to wisdom, bound to a font of knowledge in humanoid form.
No sin was committed by that priestess; skin upon bone and feature upon face were the crimes for which she was condemned.
The ravaged became the ravager.
Meduda was assaulted and so Medusa was punished.
Athena knew to do otherwise was to admit that her fellow immortals were no better than the mortals they scorned

And yet.

If you saw her now, you would see the woman called monster smile; the punishment designed to humiliate instead granted reprieve.
No more is Medusa mocked, no more must she fear that temple floor.
They took her body and cursed her with the power to take away so much more.
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.
Stone will rule.

by Megan Hughes (@meg.melon756 on insta)

A Good Hairdresser

I leave it too long between treatments my hairdresser says as she views me in the mirror. I snap at her and then mutter an apology – this drawn-out process makes me viperish.

I wear a blindfold. The service of a herpetologist is required. Feeding tranquilised rats to my snake tresses requires specialised skills.  When he is finished his task, my hair lies limp and quiet. I miss its movement. Although this man has been with me many times before, my hairdresser stays in the room – she knows I can’t trust men. 

I trust my hairdresser. She came to me in the days after Athena cursed me. I had cut away some of my snakes, only to have the others turn on the bloody stumps and devour them. Two snakes grew to replace each of the cuts. These had wildly different markings from the original black. My hairdresser says this is a feature.

She knows the rule – only view my face in the mirror, never exchange a direct look. The chair is locked to prevent it spinning.  She carefully teases out my snakes and runs through them with a soft bush, removing scales that have shed over the weeks. The relief from itch is blissful. I never ask what becomes of the collected fragments; she deserves every reward.

She brings me tea to help my nausea as the soporific drugs slip through to my body.  She sits beside me, freakish, ugly and dangerous though I am and chats about the inanities of life.

It takes some hours before my snakes stir to wakefulness. My hairdresser holds a mirror behind my head. I admire the shiny clean oiled bodies as they return to their comforting curling movements. I am restored. 

by Clodagh O’Connor (@iamagnat on X)

Reborn on Marble Floors

My name has changed since I was born.
I was once Beautiful. 
Smile, girl. Don’t look so forlorn. 
My skin was smooth and young and caramel.
My hair perfectly fallen.
Come here, Angel. 
I bathed in milk and hymns and sunlight.
Prayed on my knees by myself. 
I’ll give it to you, you’ve got fight. 
I was loyal and dutiful and stead-fast
I never missed an offering. 
At long last... 
She would call me her beloved, perfect daughter
She knew me by name. 
You taste like spring water. 
I was naïve and childish and dumb
To believe I was safe with her. 
Keep screaming for me, Hon. 
Had she always been so forgetful? Cruel? Emotionless?
Was that the woman I had devoted my life to? 
Oh, how I wish we were among the watercress. 
She had kept me in the dark. Unsafe. Unaware.
Pretended that she didn’t see the monsters closing in. 
There you could show me a real prayer. 
I was a symbol of hope, light and peace.
I practised what I thought she taught. 
I want to show you off to all of Greece. 
I scared away the monsters, creeps and nightmares
And what do I get? 
You have dishonoured yourself in my house. 
I listened to her worries and rants and laughter
Was the only one who didn’t want something from her. 
You are not my daughter. Stop crying, get up. 
She has littered my skin with scales and scars
My hair ties itself in knots. 
If you so much as look at another man again, you will find that your desire has consequences. 
I was once Beautiful.
She renames me in front of the nymphs and sisters and daughters and naïve children. 
Leave, Medusa. 
And I have no choice but to obey.
I am now a symbol of fear and darkness and lies. 
I can’t believe she would betray our mother like that. 
I find new sisters in women like me
Blamed for things they can’t control. 
It’s not your fault. You’re safe here. 
They open their homes and arms and hearts to me
And I protect them from those that would wish them harm. 
Beautiful, come eat! What are you doing back there? 
They know my old name
But I will never be Beautiful again.  
Hush, my dear, it was just a nightmare. We’re both here, it’s just us. 
She was right to rename me.
Beautiful died that night, helpless, bloodied, pathetic, a victim. 
Medusa crawled out.  
Woman.
Killer.
Survivor.

by Georgia Tancred (@_georgiatancred_ on insta)

Sorry to my Medusa

Sorry to my Medusa,
For being jealous.
For being selfish.
For being delusional.

Sorry to my Medusa,
You tried to be my friend.
I spoiled your festive mood often.
You always forgave me at the end.

Sorry to my Medusa,
You were always mild, 
but misunderstood.
They saw you as chaos.
I saw you as my boon.

by Inner Monologue (@inner__monologue__ on insta)

A Mother’s Love

In the moonlit depths of my secluded cave, I find solace in the gentle rustle of my serpent companions—their sleek bodies intertwined like the vines of an ancient forest. The curse bestowed upon me has twisted my fate: no family of my own, no soft babe of flesh and blood. Instead, my maternal need is poured into the serpentine tresses that adorn my head.

Each slithering coil is a testament to my love, a love that knows no bounds, no limitations. Their sinuous dance brings comfort to my lonely heart. When I stroke their scales, their smooth perfect heads, our connection transcends physicality. Their forked tongues slip featherlight kisses across my cheeks, my eyelids, my lips. Their whispers the sweetest lullabies, soothing my tormented soul. They are my children, my confidants, and the only family I will ever know.

Their cold, unblinking eyes hold secrets and stories of our shared life—a life of wandering, of being feared and misunderstood. They’ve witnessed my sorrow, my fleeting moments of joy. My rage is their rage. My sadness is their sadness. Their loyalty mirrors the purest form of a mother’s love.

When I look into their eyes, I see their unspoken gratitude. They curl around me, embracing me; they need me. And I need them.

Despite my cursed existence, I find purpose in their presence. 

They are mine, and I am theirs. 

by Elaine Chennatt

Why Not the Rest of Him?

I look at him but he won't look back. 
My heart wants to love him
But my head knows better,
Spitting venomous thoughts 
That my heart can't take. 
They think me ugly because my serpentine synapses
Fire too fast and too fierce for them. 
But I am no fool for love, even when I want to be. 
My head hangs heavy with the knowledge and nature of men. 
He fears a future forged from my longing, 
Fears my favour will fade. 
But this cold shoulder draws my ire now. 
And if his heart is already stone, why not the rest of him?

by Kate Owen (@kate_owen_scribbles on insta)

Untitled

Slyly they spill the secrets of my story
A sensational situation which shows me the spineless villain
Scary
Surreal
My snakes deceptive in their gentle slithers
Ready to strike at one sudden stare
My heart a shrine for sorcery
Scaly strands surround my shy eyes.
They speak of my sharp temper, my sudden ways.
I reply with a 
Sore soul
Searching for a break from my solitary standing.
They say my saga, my struggles, my suppression.
I wish to steal them back
To surrender
My truth

by Lucy O’Neill

Medusa

she lives in mythology, 
her strory being twisted, 
retold 
overoveroveroveroverover 
and over with the same warning, 
the same fear. 
always a warning, 
always of never for. 

in the shadows of my mind, 
i sometimes feel her. 

left labeled beneath the cursed exterior, trapped by her own complexities. my own insecurities. i don’t (yet) have the strength that caused her to be defeated only by a demigod. my past, my scars, my choices that were taken from me collect beneath my skin. on especially quiet nights, i can feel the weight of them still, lingering at the edge of a peaceful mind. the world, a labyrinth of expectations and judgments, coils around me, their hissing voices echoing in my head. i long for the solitude of my inner sanctuary, a place where i can untangle the serpents of doubt and uncertainty that reside within me. where some see a villain, transformed to what we know her as because if misplaced seduction and envy, i see a victim. a word that i shield my own eyes, my own story, from. her gaze petrified, my words have the potential to be my defense, to break free from the shackles of my own insecurities. i can change the narrative, turn the darkness into strength. 

i never would have thought i would see myself in her eyes, 
ones that can’t meet and live to talk about it, but i’m not made out of stone. 

am i the monster?

by Brianne Cail (@briannecail on insta)

Tattoo

I watch the girl with the Medusa tattoo board the train and take a seat.
My heart breaks a bit, 
like the way concrete cracks in the heat.

I watch the men watching the girl with the Medusa tattoo, 
harmless? maybe -
but I’ll assume not,
Just as she does:

I offer her a soft smile;
I am here too,
I understand why you look at these men like they’re stone.

I watch the girl the Medusa tattoo,
My skin starts to grow its scales.
I have been you too -
The girl with the Medusa tattoo.

by Elizabeth Wood (@elizabethsantaromita on insta)