The Godly Pursuant (A Percy Jackson fan fiction)

11 - Maggie Crowberry

I must have been dead, because it seemed like days that I did nothing but drift. Freakish drifting, though, because I moved so quickly to different places without my feet really touching the ground. I kept asking myself if this is normal. Apparently it’s not, so I came to the conclusion that I’m dead.

And Paris and New York aren’t in the same continent, so that added to the theory of dying.

I figured that it could’ve been only seconds when I drifted from Times Square to the Eiffel Tower which is in France (I’m sure). I didn’t know how it happened but I always reminded myself that I’m dead so things like this would happen.

If Paris were a god, it would have been Aphrodite. The city is beautiful and bustling, the sun shining, the wind blowing. Though I only knew the wind was blowing because of the moving bushes and trees but in fact I didn’t feel anything. I only hear and see, but I don’t feel.

The freakish space portal took me to another place again, to a big bright room with feathers and pillows on the bright custard-colored floor, and gossamer hanging on the ceiling, so I didn’t clearly see whoever’s in the room, but I heard laughter and some bickering as well.

I lifted away gossamer as I walked deeper in the room. There were a couple of girls in there talking to each other about something. As I saw them quite clearly, they all looked almost the same, their hair the only things distinguishing them from the other.

“Jason can see and feel the feeling so incredibly real… Mom, what do you think?” a high soprano voice talked. When I peeked to see, it was a girl with strawberry blond hair, a woman brightly middle-aged brushing her hair carefully.

“Yes, sweetie, that’s a beautiful line. Lovely,” the heavenly beautiful middle-aged woman who seemed to be the mother answered, quite disinterested though.

A girl with great curly black hair smirked, “That’s a bad one, Erato. Can you not write something about love, for Hades’ sake? Put in some accident in there, like Jason cutting off his head or something.”

“You’re offending Clio, Melly,” a girl laughed. Her hair is brightly orange.

“Oh sorry. Did I offend you, Clio?” the girl Melly asked.

A redhead answered. She must be Clio. “Jason didn’t cut his head in the stories, Melpomene.”

“Whatever,” Melly, or Melpomene, shot back. All of these girls are sisters and this Melpomene seemed to be the resident pessimist. “Erato is writing something about love, not history. Your help is not appreciated.”

Clio didn’t answer; she just fidgeted boringly at a piece of white feather.

“Love and history can be put together though. You know, like Hephaestus and Aphrodite,” a greenish blond girl suggested.

“Shut up, Calliope. Aphrodite and Hephaestus never worked. Zeus and Hera, more like. Hera is the goddess of marriage so they worked. For eons of years, mind you,” Melpomene said.

“No, no, no,” another girl with black-and-purple hair objected, “According to the stars, Zeus and Hera never really worked. Irreconcilable differences.”

All of them laughed.

“Eat your stars, Urania…” a girl with honey blond hair sang.

Melpomene mildly smacked her on the head. “Eat your notes, Poly!”

“Sweet Mother Rhea!” the mother yelled, “Melpomene, how many times do I have to tell you, no hitting Polyhymnia!”

“The damn girl won’t stop singing!” Melpomene complained.