Gorgons Deserve Nice Things

By Tansy Rayner Roberts

"We lived in a world that did not allow women to breathe; how could we be anything but monsters?"

 

Tansy Rayner Roberts retells the stories of seven women from Greek mythology, giving voice to the scorned, the sidelined, and the monstrous. 

A young gorgon finds acceptance at the Medusa Club. Atalanta spills the truth behind the myth of the Argonauts. Scylla suffers through a series of terrible college roommates. Handmaids in Sparta get more than they bargained for when they interfere in their queen's correspondence with a Trojan prince. A comparative mythology graduate finds herself at a speed-dating night packed with dodgy gods. Behind a velvet rope, a queenly Minotaur presides over a roller disco. Persephone shares her story via a series of pomegranate recipes. 

 

Deliciously mythic and delightfully funny, Gorgons Deserve Nice Things delivers new takes on ancient stories, reinvigorating them with modern perspectives and settings. Showcasing the craft and insight that made her one of Australia's most beloved short fiction writers, this collection sees Roberts at her wry, subversive best.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brain Jar Press
• Release date: Mar 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781922479372

Book preview

Gorgons Deserve Nice Things

ALSO BY TANSY RAYNER ROBERTS

THE CREATURE COURT TRILOGY

Power and Majesty

The Shattered City

Reign of Beasts

Cabaret of Monsters

Musketeer Space

Castle Charming

Tea and Sympathetic Magic

The Frost Fair Affair

Unreal Alchemy

Holiday Brew

Merry Happy Valkyrie

Love and Romanpunk

Girl Reporter

Pratchett's Women

Spellcrackers Honeymoon

Gate Sinister

From Baby Brain To Writer Brain

AS LIVIA DAY

A Trifle Dead

Drowned Vanilla

Keep Calm and Kill the Chef

Dyed and Buried

Drop Dead in Red

GORGONS DESERVE NICE THINGS

TANSY RAYNER ROBERTS

Brain Jar Press

CONTENTS

Meet Me at The Medusa

How to Survive an Epic Journey

Girls Who Read Austen

The Love Letters of Swans

The Minotaur Girls

Some Cupids Kill with Arrows

Six Recipes Using Pomegranate Seeds

Wonder Women of the Mythic Multiverse

About the Author

Credits

Thank You For Buying This Brain Jar Press Ebook

MEET ME AT THE MEDUSA

We all have snakes for hair.

Some conceal them below wigs and hats. Some stay inside, never venturing out to be seen, and judged, in public. Some wear them proudly, spilling over crisp white collars and leather jackets.

Did you see Ann Veronica in Vogue last week? Designer sunglasses blocking out the light, and serpents trailing down her shoulders over the very latest boho silk sheath cape. She looked a million dollars. She looked exactly like she didn’t care that her hair was hissing at the camera.

I have never felt so represented.

I have never felt so scared.

There was a time, not so long ago, when none of us could be seen in public. We met at the Medusa, a private club for ladies like us (and not like us). There and only there could we be free to let our snakes fall where they might; though we still covered our eyes with sunglasses as a matter of public safety.

I turned the first man I ever loved to stone. At the Medusa, surrounded by my people, I know that every single one of them has a similar story.

We are not alone. We are not monsters.

We all have snakes for hair, and we deserve nice things.

We all have snakes for hair. And yes, that does not only mean upon our heads. Shaving is not an option; waxing can be done with discretion and a delicate touch. But we don’t all have the budget for a private beautician, or even to visit a salon that caters to monsters like us.

At the Medusa, in one of the back rooms of the bar, Amelia comes twice a week to service our needs.

Every tiny snake pulled from its roots survives, under her care. I once stood on the balcony at the back of the club, looking over the yard as she released them, one by one, into the wild.

Ada is the concierge at the Medusa. She’s not one of my kind — not a gorgon (yes, I whisper the word if I must say it at all, I still remember the centuries when they came after us with swords). Membership of the Medusa is open to a wide variety of monsters, each more gorgeous and dangerous and secretive than the next.

I don’t know what Ada is, but I know I want to be her when I grow up.

Ada can get you anything you need. If you’re a member, she has your back. Whether it’s a tank full of spiders to eat, an inconvenient corpse to disappear, or tickets to Hamilton, Ada can make it happen.

I once saw her face down a dragon, eight-foot high, in the Periwinkle Tea Room on the third floor. The dragon went from wanting to burn the whole place to the ground, to sobbing on Ada’s shoulder about how her girlfriend dumped her for a harpy.

I ran into Ada once, outside the club. She was standing in a queue for a taxi, looking sad and grim. In the daylight, her complexion is not the flawless china surface that it appears to be inside the walls of the Medusa.

People were staring. As I got closer, my snakes concealed beneath an over-sized beret, I stared too. I couldn’t help it. She had shapes writhing beneath the paleness of her skin. Tentacles, I realised, as I looked closer. Dark shadows of the sea. And scales, not dragon scales, but something altogether more… sinister.

I caught her eye as my path crossed hers, brave enough to offer a friendly smile. I’m trying to be better about these things.

Ada smiled back, held her hand out to me as I passed by, and we exchanged a discreet fist bump.

Not all snakes are literal.

The monthly meeting of the Snakes for Hair Book Club is held in the Peacock Parlour, on the second floor of the Medusa. A closed session, gorgons only, so that we can let our hair down both literally and figuratively as we read Ovid in translation, Christina Rossetti, Theodora Goss.

A naga recently applied for membership, on the grounds that she feels she is snake enough to join us as we discuss the fierce works of our favourite writers: Mary Shelley, Octavia Butler, Jeanette Ng.

It does not feel comfortable to exclude her, and yet, and yet.

(We have not yet made a resolution about her application.)

Membership of the Medusa does not require an annual subscription — and thank goodness for that, or most of us would be priced out of its beautiful, antique rooms. As it is, I barely have the budget to pay for my own drinks, one weekend a month.

You must be sponsored by an existing member to join. And of course, you must disclose your nature to the President, currently a sleek mermaid who holds her meetings in the large subterranean indoor pool, three floors beneath ground level.

On the day I arrived, thirty-four years old and shaking in my boots, I was guided to the pool by my sponsor, Madame Marie, who chose to mentor me when I first arrived at the laboratory with my new by-correspondence biology degree.

‘Trust her and tell the truth,’ Madame M said at the pool’s edge, removing my sunglasses from my eyes and putting them on top of her own head, which writhed and hissed.

I removed my clothes, my boots, my layers of disguise. Naked, with snakes that fell from my scalp past my shoulders, I stepped into the pool.

The water writhed and bubbled. There were creatures in here with us, dark and shadowed. One of them brushed my leg. I did not scream. Who was I to judge?

The mermaid emerged from the