Drabble 17 – Ambrosia

Ambrosia

I was aiming for a decadent picnic photo and I think I found it. Image Source: ElliotJames via Flickr.

I’m not going to talk about my love for mythology. I’m not going to talk about my love for mythology. I’m not going to talk about my love for mythology.

But isn’t it interesting the way word meanings change over time? A food that makes you immortal becomes a dessert known for its cloying sweetness. There’s probably something poetic there, but I’ve always been a fan of the interpretation that immortality is more liable to make you bitter. How long can you appreciate all the beauty that life has to offer before it starts to grow stale with age?

It doesn’t have as bad a rap as, say, fruitcake, but canned fruit, coconut flakes, and heavy cream do not a food for the gods make. Don’t get me wrong–I like ambrosia, or at least the variation we have up here in the upper left corner of the United States. My grandma’s is particularly good. But the idea of gods sitting around eating canned fruit cocktail in cream is kind of funny to me.

So here’s a drabble.
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Independence, Or: That Time I Got My Head Stuck in a Dresser

I was introduced to The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe at a very young age. And while I’m not blaming C. S. Lewis for the time I got my head stuck in a dresser, the lack of wardrobes in my life may have played a role.

I’m not sure why I did it, but one day I pulled all of the drawers out of my dresser and stuck my head inside. It hurt–I had to slide my ears through and crane my neck to make it. Again, I have no idea why this seemed at all like an appealing idea. I seem to remember thinking that it would give me some kind of interesting perspective, like there were secrets to be found with my head inside a dresser.

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Storm in a Cup

Drabble 16 – Storm in a Cup

Storm in a Cup

Not pictured: storm.

I have an unusual kind of temper. Little things will send me into a cursing, maniacal rage, while things that should make me blood-boilingly angry make me quiet and patient and determined.

Last night, the meal I was cooking dripped oil onto the bottom of the oven and filled the house up with smoke, and I wasn’t mildly annoyed about having to open the windows and fan it out, I was livid. How dare the pan drip oil? How dare that oil burn and smoke? How dare such things impede my dinner?

(I had to stop and clean the oven midway through cooking and, somehow, the meal came out better than if I had simply cooked it normally. Still angry about it, though.)

People who don’t know me well tend to think that I’m quiet and nice and never swear. In fact, I’m chatty, I enjoy swearing enough to blister your ears, and I’m at least ninety percent powered by rage. I’m a volatile mixture in a misleading package, and my god do I have emotions to spare.

So, here’s a drabble.
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Drabble 15 – Serein

Sunset in the Rain by Cam Miller

“Sunset in the Rain” by Cam Miller.

Folklore tends to go hand in hand with mythology, so I doubt it comes as a surprise that I’m fond of folk and fairy tales as well as stories about gods. They’re even better when they’re tied in with etymology–I don’t remember exactly when I found out that the days of the week were named after Norse gods, but I’ve never forgotten it.

I remember hearing a particular bit of folklore when I was at the community fair with a boy I absolutely detested. The weather was beautiful and warm, but it started raining suddenly, and he told me that meant either God was spitting on me or that the devil was beating his wife.

Neither of those sounded all that great, to be honest. I remember being struck by the idea that the devil had a wife–who was she? Why was he beating her? Did she live in Hell, too?

It stuck with me, as weird, folkloric references often do. Though “the devil beating his wife” is typically a Southern phrase for a sunshower, it found its way to my hometown in the Pacific Northwest. Myths are weird like that; they have a complete disregard for geography.

Anyway, a drabble.

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