Athena Jones
Athena Jones struts down the main street of a small town, proudly wearing one of her finest outfits. She has inherited many of these clothes from her maternal grandmother, and she feels like an important person whenever she wears them. Her dignified posture and impeccable style set her apart—as if there is a force field around her. She is a little more than 6 feet tall, which adds to her regal air. She towers over most of the townspeople, casting shadows as she passes. Her frame is square and solid, and she takes up a large amount of space wherever she goes. She isn’t a traditionally pretty woman, but her face is nonetheless considered beautiful. No one knows anything about her, and the townspeople often whisper, “Where did she come from? Why is she in our town?” Her mouth usually looks pouty with down-curved, tightly pursed lips, which raises more questions: “Is she shy? Scared? Arrogant?” Athena is often alone and avoids eye contact. Occasionally, though, someone will be in her line of sight for a second or two. When this happens, that lucky someone is captivated by her light-blue eyes, but Athena always looks away. |
On this May afternoon, Athena walks briskly toward the jazz festival in the park, hoping to get a seat in the front row, so she doesn’t have to talk to anyone. In her haste, she crosses the street and forgets to check for oncoming traffic. A few seconds later, the townspeople hear a blood-curdling scream and a crashing sound, and all eyes turn to see what has happened. Athena is lying in the middle of the street, seriously injured but still conscious. A crowd slowly walks toward her, and a faint murmur spreads among them. When they reach her body, her mouth is open, as if she has something important to say. Tears flow down Athena’s face. She looks at one person after another and whispers inaudible words to each of them. The townspeople receive her words in silence. Athena takes her last breath, and her head falls to the right. After a few moments, the crowd walks away. At Athena’s funeral, there is no religious service, no one shares their experiences with her, and no family members introduce themselves. The townspeople stand around the open casket, noticing that her face looks the same as it always did—except for one thing: Her mouth is finally relaxed. From Carpet Creatures: Tales from the Deep Pile To join the Carpet Creatures project, please visit our TAE Gallery website. |
