Hey, it's Sirjo! I'm taking a few slots of writing commissions over the summer, so if you're interested, feel free to contact me!
Here's some preliminary information:
[Examples of my work under the cut]
PS: Even if you can't commission me yourself, it would help if you spread the word. I really need to make some money this summer, and I'd greatly appreciate the support.
Happy Holidays @animatedanalysis! I'm your secret Santa, and here is your piece featuring Tiresias! I hope you enjoy it, even if Grammarly says it's wordy :>
Seven.
Seven has been a recurring number throughout my life. Seven years I lived at Hera’s will: a woman, her priestess. That curse only brought more upon me, and her husband compensated with seven generations’ worth of life. Drawn out, as I was, the rage of the sons of seven heroes did bring me to my demise.
Even in death I cannot escape the number. I underestimated my own longevity.
Death is a strange phenomenon. I hardly believed it when I passed. My daughter must have buried me well, for my journey was paid for- to the Asphodel meadows, but a shadow of the vitality I’ve witnessed. In spite of it all, I retain my sentience; I retain my powers. I retain the ability to condemn any mortal to their destiny.
It was my belief the Fates cut one’s thread for permanent repose. I am animated still. My career is a reluctant one. Have I no rest?
I looked up at the sky- it's a watery sky. I am the only one who notices the flickering light. It is dim and cold. I heard the sound, yes, you called my name. I knew it before the summon. Your rowing was not subtle. Yet I did not even have to drink your sanguineous sacrifice.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven drops of blood.
Neither man nor mythical.
Those were bold words. Perhaps you are something of a seer yourself,
King of Ithaca.
“I am the prophet, with the answers you seek.”
If seven was a curse upon me, I fear I may have passed it onto you. Your mentor, Pallas Athena gave me augury. But what use is that now? Birds do not sing down in the underworld; I doubt I should hear the feathered voices ever again.
The Thunderbringer Zeus, perhaps had the same foresight he gifted me. Ironic. The same Lord who doomed your morality lends me the power to warn you against its downfall. You are his daughter’s favored, and his brother’s despised. What an intriguing solution he has had us entwined within.
“Time- I've unlocked it.
I see past and future running free.”
Your fate has been threaded. Unchanging, unflinching as the Earthshaker Poseidon's furious pursuit. I can only speculate if your sins do you well. In another time, perhaps I speak definitively. In this, I am better known for my hesitancy.
“There is a world where I help you get home;
But that's not a world I know.”
Shreds of his father Kronos linger here. I do not equivocate without reason. My words are cryptic. Intentional. Seven lines? Far from it. I shall add a few more, the number be damned.
“I see a song of past romance.
I see the sacrifice of man.
I see portrayals of betrayal and a brother’s final stand.
I see you on the brink of death.
I see you draw your final breath.
I see a man who gets to make it home alive-
But it’s no longer you..”
Though I suppose that shan’t help, you are already chained to the sentence; bruised by it.
Seven years with Calypso.
I’ve lived seven lives at a stretch, but it could never wipe away the memory of change. The separation from self. I pity you. No, I dread your island cage for you. My mind may be fractured by the weeks I’ve spent in fragmented realities I don’t quite recognize- but this remains constant.
The identity crisis is nothing short of insanity. One attains the helplessness of a phoenix. One becomes as intimate with power as ash.
Provocation. Patience. Perspective.
How come you introduce yourself as Laertiades?
Not father of Telemachus, as before?
Even now, do you truly recognize yourself in this crimson reflection? Your hands are stained as is.
“I'm just a man.”
Are you, Odysseus?
I've never known a man to succumb to such immorality. To be responsible for the death of an infant boy, prophecy-bearing or not.
Still, I suppose, it is the will of the Gods.
To force a wolf into a corner, to inspire it to lash out, to bite and claw… Only to stifle the action, muzzle the monster like a lesser canine.
Won't it howl?
It's a cruel punishment. Your heart and lungs are bound to give way. You will join the murky waters the ones you’ve slain now bathe in.
“I see a palace covered in red;
Faces of men who have long believed you're dead.
I see your wife with a man who is hunting:
A man with a trail of bodies..”
Goddess of wisdom, master of war. A familial messenger sent in her stead. The divine is a curious force. Pushing you down, lifting you up. The ocean’s buoyant waves do as much, bobbing along with the gracious wind.
Become what you must.
A ruthless monster. A beast unlike any you've encountered. A man capable of losing his fraternity, his humanity.
Please mind that this prose is heavy-handed with metaphors, and uses uncomfortable imagery to discuss the status of women in society, while turning a critical eye to religion.
I think that people often assume that true beauty lies in the untouched. The pale virgin, with locks of pristine gold. Her body, gently molded by Perfection itself. She is marked only by the slight plumpness granted to her by Surplus’ uneven hand. How wonderful she must be– Unblemished, unscathed. The kiss of innocence still on her lips.
We look to her platinum cage in the sky. Envious of the life she doesn't live.
Because what we don’t see is her chains. They gleam with her polished confines, woven into her mind as innately as her tresses. We ignore the bruises hiding so carefully beneath imagined bangles and bracelets– ornamental shackles. The very air seems to sparkle around this presumed angel, yet we miss the halo of thoughts that torment– no, characterize her.
Isn’t she ideal? Isn’t she favored by Luck? Isn’t she loved even by those who cannot remember her name? Isn’t the blood gushing out her veins the closest we shall come to celestial nectar?
A bird so beguiled, high in the clouds, the sun forgets to catch what weighs it down. Immaculate mystics, a performance worth several bravas. For what burden is an unseen one? Divinity keeps the heart beating, the pain throbbing, the face smiling.
Helen, Mary– who can really keep track? They used to call her a harbinger fairy of light, and now she cannot remember her wings.
I think God strips us in a way I can only call unholy.
Hear my demand– let her come down. What’s her name now, Barbara? And suddenly she’ll become real.
