ENTRY-#62-Adult Historical Fantasy
Dear Writer’s Voice Coaches,
Rejected by her divine parents for being born mortal, Medusa is raised by a priestess of the Goddess Athena. When she becomes a striking beauty, her cousin rapes her—inside the Temple of Athena, before Athena’s very eyes. Furious at the desecration of her temple, Athena defies logic and punishes Medusa for her cousin’s crime. As a result, Medusa’s legend is born: her hair twists with snakes, her face contorts hideously, and her gaze turns deadly—and she will have to live this way forever.
Two hundred years later, Atheos, a slave and a stonemason, searches for Medusa. If he helps Prince Perseus kill her, he’ll gain his freedom. If he fails, he’ll either be turned to stone by Medusa or be executed by his king.
Atheos, however, becomes another pawn in the Gods’ game for Medusa’s head—blinded and banished to a remote island, he is cared for by a mysterious woman with a haunted past named Medi. An unexpected friendship grows between them, lifting Medi’s depression. Soon, Medi’s desire for freedom from her traumatic past, from her villainous reputation, and for a life beyond the island, is re-kindled.
But when Medi shares with Atheos that she is Medusa and she accidentally learns Atheos’ dark secrets, her trust in him is destroyed. With the prince’s arrival spoiling any hope of escape, Medusa must finally choose whose freedom, whose life, and whose destiny will be the stuff of legend.
THE BLIND SCULPTOR is a completed, stand alone 98,000 word work of historical fantasy with a split POV. This book will have cross-over interest to readers of ancient women’s history, appealing to fans of Michelle Moran, India Edghill and Margaret George.
I’m an attorney with a BA in Comparative Religious Studies, a concentration in Women’s Studies, and a minor in anthropology.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
First 250 words of Chapter One:
CHAPTER ONE: THE OUBLIETTE
Serifos, an island off the coast of Greece
Royal Household of King Polydectes
Beneath the walls of King Polydectes’ palace, beneath servants’ feet rushing along hallway floors, and further still, underneath the roots of olive trees, stretched a maze of prison chambers. Sunk into the deepest corner was the oubliette: a stone cell, shaped like a bee hive. At the door, the Phulax rapped his knuckles, speaking to the man lower down, inside the hole.
“Atheos.” A prisoner, disturbed by the sudden noise, howled in the upper hallway. He rapped again. “Atheos.”
Below, tucked around himself like a fox against the snow, a man shivered. Weekly cycles of beatings had left layers of filth on his skin. Stiff peaks of blood in his hair crackled as he wedged himself into the dark corner. He held his breath, body tight in the fetal position, listening. When he heard nothing more, he assumed that the voice was a delusion and burrowed an aching shoulder further into the mildewed straw.
Another hallucination. When was the last time I ate?
From slave to solider to sculptor, to slave again; my luck has brought me back to the beginning instead of back to you. Mara, my love, I’m sorry. When will I see you again?
He concentrated on his breathing to ease his pain. The stones encircling him, forty-two rows up and ninety-six around, had been his home over the past several months, for the crime of Atheos.