At last! Here is the first-ever excerpt from my new hilarious Jane Austen parody, Pagan Persuasion: All Olympus Descends on Regency (Supernatural Jane Austen Series), coming very soon!
And now, enjoy a complete first chapter!
Chapter 1
S
|
ing, O bright
goddess, a paean to the resentment of Poseidon, god of the salty seas, and the
annoyance of Athena, clear-eyed goddess of war and wisdom. The resentment
and annoyance were the result of an altogether uncivil unwillingness, on
both godly sides, to hold amiable discourse over something as negligible as the
patronage of one puny mortal city on the rocky shores of the
Aegean. . . .
When asked to choose their divine protector, the citizens preferred
Athena’s gift of an olive tree to Poseidon’s gift of a saltwater spring
(seriously, what was Poseidon thinking? even seaweed salad would have made a
better impression), and cast their votes[1]
accordingly.
Naturally, the charming and delightful goddess Athena won. Everyone got
olives and the city was named Athens. Meanwhile, Poseidon departed in a fit of
pique, muttering to himself, and striking random rock formations along the
shore of the Aegean—bringing forth yet more salty fountains and puddles and
random items of dubious value, and at some point causing a pair of magnificent
horses to spring forth and gallop away into the hills. But since no one from
the city remained to witness this far more useful miracle, the creation of
horses went uncredited and unappreciated. As a result, Poseidon was decidedly
not amused. And he remained thus, not amused, for decades, for
generations, for thousands of years, taking out his displeasure on occasional
schools of fish and frequent schools of mortals of Hellenistic background
swimming around in triremes, including the clever hero Odysseus and the entire
Achaean invading fleet at Troy.
Athena in turn was very displeased with Poseidon’s reaction (tedious
water shortages in her city, frogs and tadpoles everywhere, moss on marble,
moaning sounds coming from deep wells to scare away the good matrons, soup taking
forever to boil), and hence all things pertaining to salty liquids and large
bodies of water. And thus the goddess made a point of doling out persuasive
barbs of wisdom, sarcasm, and subtle advice against Poseidon and
everything of a nautical nature, to everyone she took under[2]
her aegis—literally and figuratively.
This discord went on and on (and on, and on, and on), god and goddess
disparaging each other, fish scales and owl feathers flying. One would think
that after about three thousand years the two deities would be divinely sick of
holding a grudge, but no. . . . It only grew, taking on the
force of legend, and turning into a poetic nonsense of epic proportions, which
consequently bound many gods and mortals together unto the ages, via dactylic[3] hexameter.
But, gentle reader, we are getting somewhat ahead of ourselves.
