Story: Gorgon Waltz

Left, one two three, step, one two three, turn, one two three…

Hold on a second, says the younger sister, and each squeezes her eyes shut as they come to a stop—just a precaution, in case by some obscure miracle their timing isn’t synced quite correctly.
Ok what is it? asks the older sister, waiting to feel her sister behind her before she opens her eyes.

Half-turn on three, replies the younger sharply. One, two…

Wait! The older sister lifts her hands in the air, even though they are standing back to back. On three? Or one two three go?

One two three go, she answers, and holds her sister’s hand so that she doesn’t turn suddenly. Are you ready?

…

Alright. One, two, three… GO!

Each steps first with her left foot and makes an about-face, their spins timed perfectly so that their backs are always parallel. And facing the opposite direction, the older sister asks, What is it?

See the one right in front of you? the younger says, and the older looks down at a crouched statue: a man, frozen in an attempt to lift both his shield and sword simultaneously. His eyes are most definitely closed.

She looks, and it is as her sister says: his eyes are in fact squeezed tightly shut, which is significant because the question they have both infinitely considered, that which lies at the center of their existence alongside every vestige of hope, is whether it’s their gaze, or the fact of their gaze being received that turns the thing around them into stone. The latter theory might account for why natural objects such as grass, streams, trees, and sunsets seem to be unaffected by their looking at them—objects all more or less inanimate, and thus incapable of looking back. And oh, what a relief the sight of running water is! The burning glow of a sunset, in a world otherwise still and grey. By this latter theory, the two sisters should even technically be able to look upon each other, so long as one’s eyes are closed. Though neither has the metal to try, in case the former theory should prove correct. This statue with eyes closed also is not encouraging.

It doesn’t mean anything, the older assures her. She can feel her sister’s arms trembling. He could have closed his eyes the instant after we saw him: a miracle of timing. There now. Shh.

The sun sinks overhead, and the snow-capped peaks of the Pindus Mountains glow faintly orange in the twilight.

I know, I know, the younger sniffs, slowly pulling herself together. It’s not as if it matters anyway.

It does, the older insists, though again, she will not risk turning around.

There was a time when they were more bold; when the sisters numbered three, and during the day they would wander different parts of the garden, communing only at night when the darkness was thick enough to help keep them safe. When the two of them finally did find their other sister, their only way of knowing her was by her fearsome appearance, and how different she looked from every other statue in the valley. Her torso was drawn up in combat, her teeth bared and sharp, and from her head a din of serpents flailed. And though neither sister could have known of Perseus, or of the mirrored shield he’d been equipped with by Athena to help carry out the task, each guessed immediately the cause of their sister’s sudden stoicism: that she’d somehow caught sight of her own reflection (a fact which also supports the theory that their gaze must be returned in order for something to turn to stone, otherwise wouldn’t it have been Perseus who stood there frozen, mirrored shield and all?)

Though it filled them with grief, for days neither could tear her eyes away from their sister’s stolid effigy. It was the first they’d ever dared look upon her directly and, repulsive as the sight was, each discovered in the act of looking a certain tenderness, which managed to somehow make them feel closer to her than before. It made them wonder exactly which senses intimacy required? Which could be dispensed with?

The problem with either of their hypotheses of course is that they cannot be tested; the transformation to stone occurs faster than perception, and so it is impossible for them to ever know who looked at whom first, or whether their eyes ever did in fact meet. It is difficult even for them to know when someone has been turned to stone. More often than not, their only clue is a statue out of place, or one they do not recognize having suddenly appeared from nowhere.

So they hold one another behind their backs, maintaining constant contact, not longer allowing themselves to wander apart because it is clear to them now that the risk is too great. They each are the other’s sole company in this dreary existence; their one relief from a life of stone and stillness, and the only proof either has that consciousness is in fact fractured, and in fact meaningful. To dance is their lives’ one richness, their rebellion against the grey and the stillness. Back to back among the figures of their discontent they move, their timing trained, their steps practiced, living always in the knowledge that it would take only one false step to add a stone to their garden, and render their loneliness complete.

Left, one two three, step, one two three…

Perhaps to stumble is inevitable. They consider this possibility sometimes like an agnostic considers the afterlife; wondering first if it exists, and then what side of it she would find herself on. Whether it will be heaven or hell.

The moon rises. The stones shift from grey to anemic pale, and the sisters sleep also back to back.

Sister? the younger asks, feeling her warmth in the grass beneath her.

Yes?

She pauses before answering, feeling silly immediately, before she’s even spoken, though at last she comes out with it: What if a tree falls down, in the middle of the woods, and no one is there to hear. Do you think it makes a sound?

I don’t know, the older sighs, and again, several moments pass quietly before she adds in a whisper: I hope so.

An Itemized Update

It has been graciously brought to my attention by several of my most AVID readers that I haven't posted anything on here in quite some time. Apologies. Part of that can be explained by my absorption in other work, and part by my increasing awareness of copyright issues. As I continue to seek publication, it is important that I am able to grant accepting publications "first rights", and so it behooves me to refrain from posting anything here that I hope to one day publish elsewhere. Perhaps I'll let this be a dumping ground for those stories and poems that have been around the block a few times and now run out of change!

Anyway, without further adieu, here's a brief rundown of the things that have been going on with me literature-wise these past couple months:

-First of all, I have just had another piece of writing accepted for publication (in print this time) in a magazine called "Underground Voices." Burn Victim should be appearing there in December.

-Another piece of mine, Terms of Use, should be available online any day now. Just waiting for the good folks at Vivid Magazine to release their October issue. I will post a link as soon as they do.

-One project, that has sort of been put on the back-burner as of late, is a Zine that Shannon and I were collaborating on called "Smoke and Bowler Hats". It's mostly done now, and we're really just waiting for Shannon to catch enough of a breath from her new job (see below) to finish up the cover and final story. It will feature a number of my own stories along with illustrations and designs by her.

-Said job entails managing a new Austin business called Painting with a Twist, where you can sign up online to learn and create specific paintings all in one night. No experience is required and booze are encouraged. I have tried it myself and can vouch for the fact that it is extremely fun, and that, regardless of your experience level, you will walk away feeling amazed at what you can paint!

That's pretty much all I can think of now, but I do promise to be more attentive in the future. Thanks to those who have brought it up to me. Just to know that people are reading is itself a motivating force.