Short Stories

The Judgment of Paris

The Judgment of Paris

Authors Note: Of all the stories from Classical Mythology that I grew up with, the story of the Judgment of Paris seems to provide the most opportunities for surreal comedy. The simple shepherd, tasked with meddling in the affairs of goddesses, guaranteed to bring disaster down two times for every blessing, has always stuck with me as a bastion of absurdity in the otherwise sober and tragic story of the Trojan War. Here, if I may exploit the fact of Paris being a shepherd, I aim to re-introduce you to the surrealism of Ancient Greek myth.

It was four minutes to a quarter-past eleven when the whirlwind touched down on Paris' lawn; a squabbling, bickering mess of white cloth and skin and hair.

Paris looked up from tending his sheep. He sighed. Usually interactions with the gods did not end well for the young farmer. He had been lucky last time to escape with a warning shot (which, for Zeus, meant a tree in Paris' yard was blasted to splinters). But in reality, all he wanted to do was live a quiet, peaceful life with his herd.

“Greetings, mortal,” said the one on the left. She was bony-faced, pale, and regal. Paris immediately made a mental note to stay away from her. “You have been chosen to decide which of us three is most beautiful.”

Paris sighed. “Look, really, I don't think this is a good idea, I--”

The middle one spoke, “Mortal, your 'liking' of this is irrelevant. You WILL decide.”

“Fine,” exhaled Paris. “Give me the prize.”

The first one looked stunned. “How did you know there was an prize?”

“Well, it wouldn't be worth fighting over if there wasn't a trophy.”

The third one—the most beautiful by far—handed Paris a golden apple.

“Really? This? It's solid metal.”

“It's GOLD,” exclaimed the second, exasperated.

“Right, right. Still can't eat it. Makes it a pretty sorry apple if you ask me.”

“Just...do your job, okay?” she demanded with a sigh.

Paris scrutinized the three ladies. The first must be Hera...yes, the tiara gave her away. “Ma'am,” he said respectfully, “You have nice arms, but your face says, 'I'll castrate you if you so much as look at someone else. Moving on,” Paris stepped over with his hands behind his back, like an art critic ready to exclaim, “interesting use of color!”

“Let's see...you're the best of the two,”

“Better,” she corrected.

“Weeeel,” drawled Paris, “No need to be shy, goddess.”

“No,” she said, “it's a question of grammar. You can't have the 'best' of two options, only 'better.'”

“Ah,” he said tactfully. “Athena.”

“That's right.”

“I like your eyes. But you remind me of my eighth grade greek teacher. Next...” he trailed off after setting eyes on Aphrodite (for of course she was on the end).

“Yes?” she prompted, voice like birds chirping over a babbling brook.

“You are beautiful,” he said, “but not wearing any clothes, and thus something of an obvious choice for any red-blooded male.”

“I told you it was cheating!” snapped Hera.

“Never used the word, 'cheating,” did I?” asked Paris. “No, far be it from me to complain... Alright, here's what we'll do. Seeing as I am incapable of making a decision, you all can promise wonderful gifts to me, and I'll take my favorite.”