Anadyomene - By H.M. Sebbie Leaño

Written By: H.M. Sebbie Leaño

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

H.M. Sebbie Leaño, writing under the name Anadyomene, presents a captivating short story titled "Anadyomene," part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This thought-provoking narrative delves into themes of creation, longing, and transformation, weaving a rich tapestry of mythology and personal introspection. As participants from around the world share their literary talents, Leaño's work emerges as a compelling contribution to this prestigious platform.

About the Work

"Anadyomene" immerses readers in a world where creation and longing intertwine, exploring the complexities of art, love, and identity. The narrative is rich with mythological imagery and vivid descriptions that evoke a timeless quality. Leaño skillfully crafts a story that reflects on the artist's struggle between tradition and personal expression, inviting readers to ponder the nature of perfection and the essence of the creative spirit.

Anadyomene

Original Submission by H.M. Sebbie Leaño

Leaño

Anadyomene

H.M. Sebbie Leaño

1But if you should ask that sea-girt island so rich in metals, about the Goddess

they worship and belove, they would tell you of how she was formed in

the white seafoam that spread from the immortal flesh of a castrated god,

and how she rose from the waves and stepped upon their sea-beaten shores . . .

But I was born of no man’s loins. Neither was I born from Deceit,

nor Treachery, nor Shame, nor Hate, nor Fear . . . I was nurtured in Love

in the womb of the Mother Goddess, that Great Ocean from which all life was born,

and where, in the end of times, life shall all return. I did not descend from the Heavens,

flesh cut from another being, I already was all that I am and everything that I will ever be . . .

There, a Being came to be in the formless Void, and it said, I am. And, so, it was.

Soon after this utterance, it felt terror. It became aware of its Perfection.

It saw that it was Singular [lonesome] in the great vastness of Space.

I am. But this cannot be all that I am. Yearning set me ablaze

and I fell from the Cosmos from whence I was perched,

a self with no Form, but a Self already formed.

I am. I am and so I was . . .

✦···•✦•···✦

2In the beginning I adored—

Atthis’s eyes flutter open. There is a moment, that moment suspended between dreaming and wakefulness, where she is awash with a lingering sense of longing. The longing is draped over her body like the warmth of the early morning light, and it is clenched around her heart like a widow’s desperate, dreadful grief. Atthis is almost breathless with it—her lips part, she yawns, her chest rises, she raises her arms above her head, and she stretches languidly, wriggling her fingers and toes as she does so—the dream fades as the world comes into focus, the longing, too, fades. But not entirely, it is merely muted, an itch she cannot reach, a wriggling eel underneath her breast.

Atthis is haunted by the spectre of a woman with golden eyes and skin as white as milk—the curve of her lips, her long fingers, the swell of her breasts—she is haunted, and filled to the brim with such yearning that she could burst, split open, overspill with desire, with adoration. She wants to gather it all up in her hands and throw it all into something concrete, something that can be touched, caressed, and loved. She craves without knowing precisely what it is that she craves, knows only that she is luminous with desire, the desire to create, to sing, to bring to life some-thing, some-one, that One who is demanding to be given form, and it is only Atthis’s hands who can give her form.

It feels presumptuous to say it thus: only my hands. But the desire is hers, you see, and so no one else can give it form.

Atthis should get up, get out of bed, get ready for the day. She should banish these thoughts someplace where they will not devour her waking moments as they have done her dreams. But the ivory is sitting there, right there, and it is the most salient thing in the room. An ivory whole, pure, and untransfigured . . . and there is Atthis with her dreams and desires . . .

She does get up, does get out of bed, and she walks to the ivory like a devotee to her Goddess. The Woman with golden eyes and milk-white skin seems to call to her from within the ancient bone. Atthis tries to look away. (But she can’t.) A voice from her dream comes to her unbidden, and Atthis cannot help but strain her ears and listen . . .

Amidst the sea birds and the crashing waves, Atthis hears it: there, rising from the ocean, is the Woman’s sweetly speaking and lovely laughing.

Atthis gasps. Trembles. The heart in her chest sprouts wings, fire races in her veins, and cold sweat breaks upon her skin . . . A vision of white and gold descends over her, and with its spectral fingers make a lyre of her core, plucking and fluttering until no speaking is left in Atthis. She is like the blades of grass, heavy with dew on a misty morning—and is breathless as only one could be on their journey to the Fields below.

The ivory beckons like the chorus of sirens on rocky shores, and Atthis is without a scrap of beeswax . . .

Atthis knows what she must do to satisfy this great hunger swelling within her.

After all, she is an artist. A sculptor like her father before her, and his father before him, and his father before him, and on and on . . . Atthis is her father’s only child. She is the only daughter of a long line of great men, masters of art, great geniuses with their grand Tradition—and she is an interloper in their world.

But Atthis possesses their Genius too (or, so her father had said); that’s why he gave her the hammer and the chisel and set her to work so many years ago. He expected her to follow in the path of their forefathers, those men who revelled in their status as creators, who perceived themselves god-like in their skill. Each one claiming they were blessed by the Goddess with the rightful arrogance to declare, Here she is, The Perfect Woman, come to Form in my hands.

Atthis remembers the day her father brought home the ivory . . .

The slab had been so big and so heavy that it took a dozen men to set it upright. It stood taller than her father and was so wide he could not wrap his arms around it.

“This,” he proclaimed, gesturing to the ivory and patting it lovingly, imparting to Atthis the words that had been passed from father to child for so many generations. “This is no mere stone, but bone. The bone of a very old being who, even in death, will not submit to mortal whims. It will play coy underneath the hands of its master. It is as obstinate and capricious as the Titan it once belonged to. It will appear, in one moment, harder than granite, and in the next, more pliable than soapstone. You must anticipate the ivory’s penchant for transformation and adjust the strokes of your mallet and the direction of your chisel accordingly. It is the ivory who sets the pace to your dance of creation, follow where it leads. If you wish to change the cadence, to follow a different path—do not demand nor seek to dominate; rather, you must coax it, firmly but delicately, for too much force may damage the ivory irreparably, but to be too gentle is to surrender your creative potency.”

And then he smiled, proud and brilliant, and he looked to his wife, Atthis’s long-suffering mother who was making dinner by the hearth, and then he said to Atthis, “You give precisely because the ivory will return to you all that you have offered to it. In the end it will become what you envisioned it to be, and that, Atthis, is our power, yours too.”

. . . but Atthis knows the consequence of their ego, and so fears the desperate desire urging her to transform the ivory according to her will.

✦···•✦•···✦

3Once, long ago, her mother had visited her on this island . . .

When she entered Atthis’s home, she was unsurprised to see the ivory untouched; whole and perfect as the day Atthis’s father first presented it to her (so long ago now, it had seemed then . . . even longer, now, still). Her mother approached the milky block with a reverence reserved only for worship, and with her calloused fingers touched the smooth face of the ivory. Her hand, which was wrinkled with age and tanned from long days under the sun, stood in stark relief against the ancient bone.

For a moment—that moment when the lines on her mother’s face settled into carefree reverie—she seemed to Atthis as youthful as that Maiden whose cup overflowed with ambrosia for the gods (a glimpse of the radiance her father wanted to preserve). Atthis blinked and her mother was as she had always been (lovelier than the Vision she had emerged from; warmer and wiser than any stone could be).

Atthis held her breath in anticipation of what her mother might say. There, bursting from her lips, were a thousand and one reasons for the ivory’s still-pristine state. But her mother merely turned to Atthis with a smile.

“There is time yet for the Graces to visit you,” she said simply, beckoning Atthis to sit with her by the window overlooking the sea—and so, they went and sat and talked about other things. Simpler things. And Atthis was glad.

✦···•✦•···✦

4Her mother comes to see her every so often, and with each of her visits it becomes clearer to Atthis that things will never remain as simple as she wants them to be.

“Your father misses you.” Her mother’s words had roused a petulant retort to rise and rattle precariously behind her teeth. [He misses me, and yet, not once has he joined you in your travels.] Atthis had to tighten her jaw and thin her lips in an effort not to let it fly free. The look on her mother’s face—all at once guileless and tender—stayed Atthis’s pettish tongue.

In any case, even if Atthis doubted whether her father could miss her at all, she knew, at least, that he was eager for news about her progress with the ivory. Atthis peered at the item in question from the corner of her eyes as though it had offended her, and sighed.

Her mother, who was well-versed in the language of Atthis’s sighs, continued in a soothing tone, “Atthis, your father loves you and wishes only for your happiness,” and, knowing her daughter’s hard-headed incredulity, amended, “we do not want you to be alone.”

“I am not alone.” Atthis’s answer was swift, instinctive by this point.

“I know about your lovers, Atthis.” At first, her mother was firm, chiding. But the edge in her voice soon gave way to something more conciliatory, almost pleading as she said, “But it is different with your Gift, you—”

“I am not alone,” Atthis repeated, more firmly this time and with her chin lifted defiantly. “I love as the Goddess loves, and I am happy!”

Atthis braced herself for an argument. This was not the first time they were having this conversation, and her mother, who possessed a passionate temper belied by her gentle demeanour and seemingly boundless patience, could be so very stubborn when she wanted to be. However, the older woman simply fell silent. Contemplative, almost. She regarded her daughter carefully, a soft furrow appearing between her brows.

Atthis held herself like stone under her mother’s piercing gaze, silent and still, but the impasse did not last for long, and it was her mother, in the end, who looked away first, sighing, shoulders sagging, arms hanging limply by her side, prompting tender-hearted Atthis to say to her, “I know you worry, mater, but, I swear to you, I have all that I need.”

The older woman nodded but did not speak. Instead, she stood up and walked to the ivory and, as she had done many times before, brought a hand to its smooth, white surface.

“We do not have to speak of this again, louloúdi mou,” she finally said, turning to her daughter with a smile that softened the harsh lines melancholy etched into her face. “I only ask for your indulgence now. There is a story, one that I have held my tongue from speaking, but I wish for you to know it now. Will you listen?”

Atthis, in equal measures pricked by curiosity and moved with fondness upon hearing her childhood name, nodded. “Tell me.”

✦···•✦•···✦

5When she was a child (when she was young enough to count on one hand exactly how old she was), Atthis saw something curious outside her window. She clambered on top of her bed, trying to look more closely at the thing that caught her eye, and was astonished to see the most vibrant splash of red she had ever seen—there, by the forest’s edge, petals flittered and fluttered in the wind like fingers beckoning forth an awestruck audience.

And, indeed, Atthis was awestruck.

She leapt out of bed and ran as fast as her tiny legs could carry her, hot in pursuit of the dancing petals that caught her fancy. Atthis does not remember how long the chase had been, only that she had found herself deep in the woods, in a meadow filled with hundreds of red flowers.

“They are called windflowers, louloúdi mou,” her mother said, arms wrapped tightly around the flighty Atthis for fear of losing her again. “Would you like to know their story?”

Atthis nodded eagerly. “Tell me, mater. Tell me!”

Her mother was a storyteller comparable to her father in his skill with the chisel, she knew many tales and had a beautiful voice. When she began, Atthis listened carefully . . .

Let me sing to you of a time that has long passed,

of when the stately Goddess, gold-crowned and laughter-loving,

last dwelt upon the earth . . .

The Goddess, who inspires sweet longing in gods and ensnares the hearts

of mankind, was pricked in her ardent breast by Love, that loosener of limbs,

sweetbitter creature against which nothing can be done.

And, indeed, there was nothing the Goddess could do when she was seized

by Love after her eyes beheld a bold hunter, that one who was the loveliest

by far on earth, and even more beautiful (thought the ever-smiling Goddess)

than anything Heaven could offer; and, so, yearning to be with them, leapt—

The Goddess left her glittering throne in the Cosmos and fell (as stars do

when they longed to kiss the earth) to be with them. And the Goddess

loved them dearly, that proud and daring hunter who was, in form,

so comparable to those immortal beings, that the Goddess could almost dare believe

she might have them by her side forever. But she knew, as many of us know too,

that it is in the nature of all things to meet the Ferryman one day.

Still, she cautioned them—My love, I know you are fearless, but for my sake,

pursue only those unendangering creatures; bravely hunt the skittish beasts,

and heed my words: it is reckless to dare against the daring. I beseech you,

dearest one, spare me the wound your courage may inflict. I know you seek Glory,

as your kind do, but be wary of those wild beasts whom Nature has armed with weapons.

Even my Deathless sister, that distinguished Huntress who wields the bow,

sets her hounds only on fleet-footed hares, high-horned harts, and hinds.

She avoids the brawny boars, the prowling wolves, the claw-armed bears,

and those lions glutted on the blood of slaughtered herds. I bid you

do the same. For your beauty, which can move the hearts of man and god alike,

will not sway those feral and beastly creatures in kind . . .

But they were headstrong, that brave and foolish hunter,

and, indeed, sought Glory as mortals tend do; so, when a Deathless hand contrived

to woo their high-hearted pride and sent them a bristling swine to chase,

the youthful hunter picked up their spear and ran deep into the woods,

in eager pursuit of their own brutal doom . . .

The wind carried their pitiful cries westwards to that glittering island set in the sea,

piercing the walls of its cities so deeply they reached the demesne of the Goddess at its heart;

and, hearing them, the Goddess was seized by anguish and hurriedly took to the skies

in her swan-pulled chariot, pointing their snow-white necks in the direction of

the fading voice. The Goddess found her beloved hunter, drowned in their blood,

their beautiful body sapped of its vigour, and she raged at Fate for its cruel turn.

She beat at her chest and wept in love for them, and her sorrow for them was so profound

that windflowers sprouted where her tears struck the blood-covered earth.

The season of the windflower is brief, the enjoyment it brings as fleeting

as the hunter had been in the life of their love-stricken Goddess.

Its bloom is so loose of root when Nature blows her blustery breath upon

its face, its light-clinging petals would tremble, just as the panicked youth

had trembled when the boar was not fazed by their spear and,

like the youth fated to perish by that wild beast’s tusks, the trembling petals

of the windflower succumb to Nature’s blow and fall to the earth,

red as the blood that poured from the dreadful wound in the thigh of that doomed hunter.

“Heed caution when it is given and do not run blindly into the woods. Do you understand, Atthis?”

Atthis, hearing the tremor in her mother’s voice, sought to ease her fretful heart and, thusly, nodded as a dutiful daughter is ought to do—though it would not take long for Atthis to return to the red meadow, tracing a path through the woods that she knew not with her mind nor her eyes, but with her soul. Though she proved to be as headstrong as the hunter who was beloved by the Goddess, it was not Glory that Atthis sought within that forest but the tranquillity which Nature offered.

Atthis would lay there amongst the windflowers, basking under the sun and letting its warmth fall upon her like a caress; sometimes, the wind would come, dancing between the trees, carrying with it birdsong and the sweet smell of flowers. It would tousle her hair and tickle her nose, and when the breeze finally settled, Atthis would happily watch as a hundred crimson petals floated slowly back to earth.

✦···•✦•···✦

6The first time her father ever truly looked at her was the day he caught Atthis with a dove in her hands. Before that moment, her father had simply dismissed her.

[A daughter. Just a daughter—as though the First Child of Ivory had not been a daughter too. As though the Goddess he worshipped, who gave him and his forefathers the Gift they so proudly boasted of, was not, herself, a daughter.]

But Atthis had not minded at all that her father was not warm in the same way her mother was warm. He was even-tempered and good to Atthis in his own way, giving her simple trinkets and small animal figurines that he made with his hands. He did not show his affection with easy hugs or tender words the same way mater did, but he was never disdainful nor unkind.

Atthis treasured the rare days when her father would let her in his workshop and, even, that he would permit her to stay and observe—with the expectation that she was quiet and kept her hands to herself, of course. It was mesmerising, in a sense, to see something so lifelike emerging from stone or wood or clay . . . Atthis wanted to know, to learn how to capture beauty in the same way her pater did. But he never allowed her to touch any of his tools except to clean them.

Most days, Atthis was content to imagine how it must be to create such wondrous things—she would hold one of her figurines in her hands, trace each slope and crevice, and envision what strike or stroke or flick of the wrist it took to make something so delicate and fine.

This had been enough for Atthis . . . until it wasn’t.

Until all she could feel within herself was an unquenchable desire to create, to hold something so ordinary or unwieldy as wood or stone, and coax whatever creature that lay within it to come to form in her own hands.

That was how her father found her that day in the meadow, deep in the forest behind their house, sitting amongst the windflowers, back turned to him, and huddled almost into herself.

Her father came up to her, furious. His feet struck the earth violently and his voice boomed so loudly that Nature all around them fell mute. Why did she abandon her chores to play in the woods? Didn’t she know she could’ve gotten lost? Or mauled by a beast?

“You troublesome child! Do you delight in making your mother weep? And how many times must I tell you not to touch my things!”

Atthis, startled and fearful, dropped the small carving knife she was holding. Her father then snatched the knife from the ground and snatched her arm in swift succession. He opened his mouth: to yell some more, to scold, to admonish—but he fell silent. Still.

[Atthis remembers vividly the way the rage vanished from his features when his gaze landed on the thing in her hands.]

There, cradled against Atthis’s chest, was a dove carved out of wood. It was crude and incomplete. But it had the shape of a bird, and, there, on one side, you could see the faint etchings of feathers. Nothing about the way it looked suggested it was a particular bird, but Atthis had seen a dove that day, and, so, it was a dove that she was carving.

She was in the meadow, as she often was in those days, when she saw the bird take flight. Its silver-white feathers seemed to sparkle under the sunlight. Atthis was so captivated by the dove’s beauty, of the way its feathers seemed to ripple in the wind, that she was struck by a deep urge to see its beauty again and more closely. To keep it close forever. So, she stole away one of her father’s knives from his workshop and ran back to the forest to hide; to try, moreover, as best she could, to replicate what she had seen her father done hundreds of times before. She chipped away at a scrap of wood, clumsily but with all the determination she could muster.

It was the first time Atthis had ever felt such an urge. And her soul and heart and hands were completely overtaken by that desire to create that time fell away, and the world all around her seemed to vanish.

“I had to, pater,” was all she could tell him, trembling as she did so. Atthis did not know what words to use to explain. But when she looked at her father, she could see in his eyes that he understood. He held his hand in front of him, and Atthis unfurled her arm from her chest and gave him the dove.

He studied it with his eyes and fingers, and was quiet for a long while. Atthis fidgeted as she waited for him to speak, and when he finally did, there was a slight tremor in his voice. “There have only ever been sons born to our family. So, when you were born and the midwife told me you were a girl, I thought . . .”

He trailed off and fell silent once more. He sat on the ground and beckoned Atthis to sit beside him. “Have I ever told you of the day I learned your mother was with child?”

Atthis shook her head. Her father never spoke of it. Only her mother ever did—

[It was her mother’s favourite story to tell and Atthis still remembers the way she would tell it.

“Do you know why I call you ‘my flower,’ Atthis?”

And, if Atthis closes her eyes, she can still conjure the image of her mater smiling, her eyes shining brightly with love for her.

“Whenever I gazed upon my body, I was struck by the way it had transformed,” mater would say. “I seemed to myself unrecognisable from my Self who was cast in ivory.

“But the very first time I felt you stirring within me, louloúdi mou, I wept with joy. I knew, then, the Goddess had truly blessed me with Life.”]

—and that day in the meadow was the first time she would ever hear her father tell the story as he remembered it, speaking with a glimmering pride Atthis had not ever seen before.

“I felt a joy like no other, knowing I would finally have a . . .” and he trailed off, but only briefly. “A child of my own.”

He continued speaking, as if lost in a trance, running his thumb over the wooden dove. “Your mother and I, we were childless for so many seasons that I began fearing I would be the last of my father’s bloodline with our Gift . . .”

He started recounting their pilgrimage to the east, travelling by ship to that sea-washed island the foam-born Goddess claims dominion over, and, wherefore in its ore-laden lands still stands the greatest temple in her honour. There they sought out a priestess who was wise and beloved by the Goddess. Their offerings were plentiful and their prayers were fervent, and after three days and three nights, the priestess returned to them with the answer they so desperately sought.

She handed them the bulb of a windflower and said—

Through me the Goddess speaks, heed her words:

Plant this windflower by your home.

Nurture it in my name and in Love’s.

A child will be born unto you

when the third flower blooms.

“We sailed home and did as we were bidden,” her father continued, lost, now, in his memories. “And just as the priestess had proclaimed, you were born on the day the third flower bloomed.

“Now, here you are, Atthis.” With a careful and measured touch, he picked a windflower by his knee and handed it to his daughter. He took in the sight of her, wide-eyed and rapt with attention, before his gaze fell upon the dove once more and he said, more to it than to her, “Indeed, the Goddess has blessed me.”

He held the piece of wood in the sky and regarded the half-formed bird emerging from it with dazed wonder. Atthis, similarly, was marvelling at the flower her father had given her. In appearance, it was no different from the other windflowers in that forest—

The petals were as vibrant as the flesh of a pomegranate, though at the centre of it, that deep red faded into a milky white; the head of the windflower, which these petals were arranged around, was the same dark shade as the skin of a sweet fig, and consisted of two parts: an outer ring that looked like a hundred tiny flower buds and an inner bushy sphere.

—and yet, to Atthis, it was the loveliest and most significant of them all. Her gaze flitted from the windflower to her father’s face, and she found that he was looking at her too. The fading sunlight painted his visage in warm and gentle hues, and when Atthis looked at him, her heart felt full with adoration.

“Come, Atthis, let us return to your mother.” He stood up and dusted himself before offering her his hand. “Act contrite and do as she asks. If you are good, you may join me at the workshop tomorrow and we shall see if there is a task for your clever hands to do.”

✦···•✦•···✦

7Atthis held on to that singular bloom all the way home, and she took great care in carrying it so that the petals would not fall off. She placed it with the rest of the trinkets her pater had given her before, making sure that no stray breeze would blow it away while she finished her chores.

When night time came, Atthis’s mother caught her looking at the flower forlornly. Atthis knew that, soon enough, this perfect bloom would wilt away and disappear forever, and she lamented with a sigh, “Oh, if I could have amber, so that I may keep you as you are forever.”

Her mother came to her side and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Atthis, do you remember the story of the windflowers?”

“I do, mater.”

“Then, surely, you must remember the brave and fair hunter whom the Goddess loved. There is no one and nothing that remains as they are forever—even the Goddess comes and goes upon this earth as the waves do, dancing to and fro, from shore to sea.” She knelt before Atthis so their gazes were level and spoke in a firm yet kind tone. “Do not lose yourself in sorrow, daughter, but delight in love. Cherish those fleeting things with all the tenderness your heart can muster instead of grieving them before they are gone. In this, Atthis, you will be happier.”

It would take Atthis many seasons before she will come into the fullness of understanding her mother’s words. But she endeavoured, even in that moment, to practise the lesson her mater tried to teach. Atthis took the windflower from its perch beside her figurines and brought it with her to the window. She lifted the bloom to her lips and blew steadily, shaking the petals loose. A gentle breeze arrived, as though summoned, and carried the petals away. Atthis watched as they danced in the wind, and only looked away when they were gone from sight. When she looked down at the stem she still held between her fingers, she found a single petal stubbornly clinging. As she was plucking it, Atthis was struck by how much that lonesome petal looked like a scrap of fabric dipped in blood.

Tender-hearted Atthis felt a deep sorrow welling within her at the sight of it, rising from her chest and spilling from her eyes as tears. Atthis thought of the Goddess, with her tear-stricken face and her shimmering robes soaked in the blood of her beloved hunter, and asked, “Why did the Goddess ask you to plant a windflower bulb for me, mater?”

“Because, louloúdi mou, this, too, is the nature of things: this cycle of going and returning . . . of dissolution and being . . . of death and life.” Her mother brought a hand to her face, her touch warm and comforting. “So, as the windflowers first bloomed in lamentation of the hunter’s death, they, too, bloomed to mark your birth, for what was once barren had been blessed with life.”

✦···•✦•···✦

8Her father was a good teacher and an overbearing man. He knew his craft well and he was filled with great passion for his work. When a hammer and chisel was in his hand, it became easy to see why he had patrons from far and wide, and why all those who knew his creations held him in high esteem. But he was not an easy man to please, and it did not help that he had a vision of what was Sublime and Beautiful that he clung to, fiercely and wholly—and Atthis had no freedom to diverge from it. He was the Master—long-lived and well-learned—and Atthis had no right to challenge him.

But, Atthis desired to be free like petals in the wind or foam in the sea. It was the Goddess who bestowed them their Gift. So, why was she bound by Tradition when Love could guide her hands and eyes instead? Atthis ached to create the things that brought her joy. And, though it was unseemly to think of such proud and lofty yearnings, Atthis truly believed she was destined to be more than her father’s hands or the inheritor of his great will—but if she were not . . . if this were truly all that Atthis was ever meant to be, then what she possessed was no gift at all.

“Has the Goddess cursed me, mater?” Atthis cried, bitterness and discontent like leaden weights in her soul. She could not bear the pity that she found in her mother’s eyes, and so turned away.

Her mother’s voice was soothing, but there was a warning edge to her words. “You know she has not, Atthis.”

“Then, why give me this gift”—Atthis spat out, whirling around to face her mother—“if all I am meant to do is bow to father’s will?”

“Have I ever told you, Atthis, of how our family’s Gift came to be?” Her mother spoke in a tone that she knew quite well, but Atthis was in no mood for stories—especially not this one, because her father has told the story of their great ancestor, the first one with the Gift in their bloodline, far too many times.

Atthis turned away from her mother, allowing the Deceiver to descend between them on his winged boots and put beeswax in Atthis’s ears. There was a scowl on her face as she recited by rote:

Whether he rebuked the lives they led in sordid indecency,

or loathed the defects of character nature had bestowed their spirit,

he lived a long time without sharing his marriage bed with any of them . . .

But this man was a sculptor of unrivalled skill, and the day came

when a vision of the perfect Woman was put into his mind,

and having glimpsed her, was seized with the utmost desire to bring her to form.

Out of the purest ivory—mined from the great mountain which sprouted

where a Titan, that radiant Prophetess who was a Daughter of the Sky,

now rests eternally—he carved a maiden fairer than any could be born . . .

For days and nights, he toiled, and when he could finally behold

the fullness of her Form, the sculptor fell awestruck at the sight of her.

There she stood with her milk-white face gazing upon him,

as though she were only waiting to be roused from her stony slumber.

He was propelled by a deep yearning (now again), to touch her—

to see if she were flesh or ivory still, before shunning the ivory truth

(now again) and swearing he felt his fingers sinking into her dainty skin,

that his eyes saw the rosiness blooming on her pale face,

and his ears heard her fervent sighs, and his tongue tasted her sweet kisses.

He wooed her with rare and expensive gifts—everything (he swore)

that she wanted and more that he felt he could give: fresh pearls and polished stones,

thousand-coloured flowers and ornate orbs, and curious insects encased in amber.

For her neck he bought many pendants, and smooth beads for her ears,

and glittering rings for her fingers, and ribbons made of lace for her breasts.

He laid her on a plush bed draped with blankets dyed splendidly

in purple, and placed her head on soft and downy pillows . . .

Eventually, the day came when gilt-horned heifers were led into the city

through thick plumes of frankincense, to be struck across their silver necks

to usher the beginning of the Goddess’s feast. The love-stricken man

went into the city with a precious gift to lay atop her fragrant altar.

When his offering was made, the sculptor beseeched the Goddess to bless his Love

and grant him the hand of someone who is like his ivory Maiden

(for he could not presume to claim ‘my ivory Maiden’) . . .

The Goddess, who was present at the festival, smiled in her deathless face

for she had witnessed the passion of his courtship with his beloved,

and knew what he wanted to happen most of all in his secret heart.

So, thrice she made the fires on her altar leap heavenwards,

a hopeful sign to loose the sculptor from his worries

and show him that his heart’s longing had been answered . . .

When he saw this, the sculptor returned home in haste,

and trembling walked into the room where his ivory Maiden

was reclining on her splendid bed. He reached out to stroke her face

and found that her skin was truly warm to the touch and pliant.

‘Could it be?’ So, he caressed her, gently at first, and then more eagerly

when he felt her quickening pulse beneath his fingertips. ‘She was alive!’

Wonderstruck and tearful, the man gave thanks to the Goddess

in a torrent of speech, rejoiced, and fell to his knees before his beloved . . .

There she stood, her fair face rosy and her chest heaving—Ah!—roused at last

from her slumber. Her gaze felt warm upon his face, and the man

(once more, now again) felt yearning stir deep within him

when his beloved reached for him. With trembling hands

he met her halfway and kissed the sweetness of her lips . . .

The Goddess came on the day they were wed, descending from

her glittering throne to bless their union with lasting love and Life.

“Have I missed anything, mater?” Atthis asked, nearly scoffing, when she finished the tale.

“No, louloúdi mou, you know your father’s tale very well,” she answered, shaking her head. Atthis looked terribly proud upon hearing that, but her mother only sighed. Knowing and understanding were two vastly different things—one required time and an openness she felt Atthis did not possess just yet, and so decided on the virtue of holding her tongue. “I will speak with your father about letting you do more things on your own. Have patience in the meantime.”

✦···•✦•···✦

9The day did come (eventually but not soon) when Atthis’s father gave her the freedom she so desperately sought.

Nevertheless, his workshop proved to be too small for the both of them—though he tried, her father could not help but impose himself upon the works Atthis tried to accomplish by herself, and Atthis could not help despairing or growing barbs and thorns where even-tempers ought to prevail. Though Atthis loathed some things about her father, she could not help the love that she had (and, perhaps, will always have) for him. She did not delight in quarrelling with him at all, and she took no pleasure, moreover, in causing her mother distress when they did.

Atthis knew that she would never thrive under her father’s shadow, and so made the decision to venture out into the world in search of a place to call her own. Atthis wandered for a long time, letting the currents guide her as far as the ends of the world . . . and though she was no foam-born goddess, the waves still led her to the sea-beaten shores of that island where the Goddess’ fragrant altar lay.

More than a thousand and one moons has passed since that day, and yet Atthis is no closer to mastering the restless yearning that plagues her.

✦···•✦•···✦

10Atthis, too, possesses that same potency which, in her forefathers’ masterful hands, have created a great many wonders. Or is it: [subdued] a great many wonders? Do not wonders cease to be Wonders once their essence is captured?

But that is their legacy—an act of creation that captures, masters, and dominates. In which the Self is inscribed into the thing created, not given but inscribed, superimposed. With the Self’s integrity preserved and intact, where it can still declare (over and over): I am the totalising signifier, that which declares what is perfect and whole.

But Atthis cannot capture the longing that fills her. [Nor does she wish to.] It is like water that slips through her fingers the more she tries to wrap her hands around it. But if she cups it, if she cradles it, if she lets it ripple, and flow, and spill . . .

Atthis trembles.

Her dreams are bathed in white . . . white, like seafoam [flowing], not quite the white of [stiff] ivory. Everything shatters into a dazzling, golden light and she is warm all over. The warmth stays with her long after she has greeted the dawning sun, and it turns into yearning which burns brightly in her breast.

“I cannot deny my desire for you, but I fear becoming like him,” says Atthis as she approached the still-untransfigured ivory, and the wind came in and carried her words to the heavens.

✦···•✦•···✦

11The memory is carved deeply into Atthis’s mind, a thing she cannot banish. These were words exchanged between bygone lovers, a private moment Atthis was never meant to witness . . .

“If you were not flesh,” he said to her, voice not wholly unkind, “I could make you as you were on the very first day.”

Her words floated like feathers in the wind. “Am I no longer beautiful in your eyes?”

“You will always be beautiful,” he answered. “But you were perfect then.”

✦···•✦•···✦

12Her father, and his father before him, and his father before him, and on and on, Atthis reflects, always had more respect for the ivory than the woman it would bear.

You see, despite their words, they revelled, in the end, in their ability to tell the bone of that ancient and once powerful Being to be what they willed it to be; that, through it, and with their great genius and their masterful hands, they could capture the vision of perfection they held in high regard. And, so, they loved “her” [the ivory] more when “she” was a statue, static, stoic, some-thing to be wooed and coaxed into being. They could impose themselves upon “her” monolithic body, and “she” was a vessel for their will and “her” gleaming face reflected their fancies back to them.

It was different, then, and vastly so, after her [the woman’s] Spirit inhabited the ivory—

It became her Body [it was never his] and her heart was full of great passions, and like the Goddess, her mind was many-coloured, variegated, intricate, complicated, changeful, diverse, abstruse, ambiguous, subtle . . .

Those “great” men trembled – whether with rage or with fear – when they discovered that she could not be mastered by their will and nor was she a servant of their fancies.

✦···•✦•···✦

13Atthis stops, closer than arm’s length in front of the ivory block, fingers lightly grazing its milky face. “I do not wish to possess you.”

✦···•✦•···✦

14“Do you look down on me, Atthis?” Her mother cried out, indignant and fierce. “Do you think I live only for him?”

Atthis could not speak, rendered mute by her mother’s burning rage.

“Make no mistake, your father gave me Form, but he did not give me life. Do you think your father’s will is greater than my spirit? I chose Life—because I saw it and it was beautiful, and I wanted to know all that it had to offer; whether lofty pleasures or stifling pains. It was my desire too, Atthis, that the Goddess had blessed. Not merely your father’s proud genius or his fickle passions or his myriads of lavish trinkets.”

She took in a deep and shuddering breath, then she uttered in a more measured tone—“You despise your father’s arrogance, yet you are blind to your own ego.”—and it shamed Atthis more than her blazing ire ever could.

✦···•✦•···✦

15The look her mother gave her was piteous and tender all at once, and Atthis could not meet her gaze at all.

Atthis’s eyes remained pinned to her hands, but the ivory remained a bright spot in her periphery. If she strained her ears to listen—somewhere beyond the sound of the waves and the seabirds, beyond the sound of her breath and the wild beating of her heart—Atthis could almost swear that there was a voice calling to her from deep within the ancient bone . . .

But she was afraid to listen, to confront what hearing that call could mean.

“Look at me.” Her mother’s voice was no louder than a whisper, but her tone was firm, warm and sure like the hand she placed against her daughter’s jaw.

Atthis lifted her head and found herself undone by the love, the understanding, the certainty on her mater’s face. “Whatever you may think, Atthis, I do not regret this life.”

✦···•✦•···✦

16“In the beginning, your father wooed me.”

Her mother’s wistful words floated around them like slowly falling leaves, a smile flitting on her face like a ghost.

“He wooed me even before the first strike of his mallet upon the chisel, or of the chisel upon the ivory. He spoke about his day, the things that frustrated him and awed him, the dreams he wished to chase and the ones he yearned to share with me. Through him, I saw a world I already knew and found it had transformed—brighter and more wondrous than I ever thought it could be, brimming with so many mysteries and possibilities that a great longing seized me.”

Atthis listened carefully, watching her mother as she walked to the table where Atthis’s tools lay neatly.

“He struck the chisel with strong and measured blows, but when he brushed away the dust and the fragments of bone, his touch was gentle and warm. He radiated Love, Atthis, a tenderness I felt was true; and I came to life in his hands, beseeching the Goddess in chorus with his prayers, because I returned his deep affection.”

Then she turned and faced Atthis, straight-spined and square-shouldered. Her wispy wistfulness now replaced with an unwavering spirit.

“Our union would not have been blessed by the Goddess if our love had not been true.”

She approached her daughter as one does a flighty child, and carefully wrapped her weathered hands around Atthis’s scarred and calloused ones. She smiled, gently and sadly, and said:

“But Love can be a sweetbitter thing—it changes, Atthis, just as it is in the nature of all living things to change. Love can flourish or fade, it can be nurtured or be left to wither. Do not deny yourself love because you fear how it may transform—or because you fear how it may transform you.”

✦···•✦•···✦

17A gust of mighty wind bellows from the heavens and makes the ever-crashing waves roar louder, prompting Atthis to turn to her window and look at the foamy waters outside.

A curious thought flits through her mind as she turns her gaze back to the ivory, sliding her trembling fingers upwards along its cool surface and flattening her palm against it. “Perhaps, it is you who possesses me.”

Atthis fills the rest of the space separating her from the ivory and presses her forehead against the ancient bone.

Being what she is, her life is long, and throughout the years, Atthis did not turn away Love when it stole into her life. She welcomed it (and only then) . . . she did not force it to come to her. She has loved, and lost, and loved and lost, and loved again. Yet, still, Love comes and goes as it pleases in her life . . . And that is enough: to love as the Goddess loves . . . with all her heart and full of passion though it may only be a drop in the well of eternity.

“It has never been my desire to fetter another soul to this earth simply for my sake, and I refuse to delude myself with visions of perfection. I am not him, and in my desperation to set myself apart from him, I have ignored your Voice. Yet you continue to return to me in my dreams, and you fill me with such luminous torrents that I burst with longing for you. Now, I wonder if what I feel is your yearning reflected within me too. If so, if it is truly your will to come (to form) in my hands, then I will slave over this ivory until you emerge, you, creature of radiant beauty . . . my hands are yours.”

✦···•✦•···✦

18“Tell me.”

Although it was fondness and curiosity that moved her to utter those words, it was the intensity in the older woman’s eyes and the potency of her tongue that urged Atthis to listen closely. Her mother began where her father’s favourite tale would end:

Nine times the moon’s horns had waxed to full, and on the ninth

a child was born to them—a daughter, named for that sea-girt

and glittering isle, the Child of Ivory and Man, the first of her kind

and, in being so, was Singular in all of the world . . .

She would grow to be lovelier than even her fair-faced mother,

and would possess a clever mind and a heart that was full of tender passions . . .

Dashing youths and sweet-speaking maidens courted her ardently—

even those who hailed from far-flung provinces would go on long journeys,

braving perilous roads and treacherous seas for the mere chance

of glimpsing her charming face . . . and indeed, that ivory-born Daughter

delighted in Love; she was happy, and all was well.

But, far too soon, tragedy struck and her father, that skilful man who was master

of his craft, surpassed the zenith of his Life and set out to travel to the Fields below.

This was the first the Daughter had ever seen of Death, whether by misfortune

or old age, but it would not be the last (not by far), and looking at her mother’s

still-smooth hand caressing her father’s many-lined face,

that brilliant-minded girl was struck by a deep and aching melancholy . . .

She lifted her gaze to her mother’s tear-stricken visage and found a face

as youthful as her own. Formed from ivory and ivory-born: and at the sight of them

the incurious eye could be deceived so as to believe they shared a womb at birth.

Grief-laden, the ivory-born Daughter wondered: Would she be more like her mother,

whose fair cheeks had yet to show the passing of the years, and whose body

was still full of sprightly vigour? Or, would the seasons mark her

and steal away her youth as swiftly as they had done her now grey-faced father?

She prayed to the Goddess for the former—not for want of any lasting beauty.

Rather, so that her mother would not be alone in her lot of loving, and losing,

and loving and losing, and loving again . . . and again . . .

But this was not a prayer the Goddess had needed to answer.

For, despite the softness and warmth and rosiness that was born to her,

that Child was of ivory too and, like her tear-stricken mother, was cursed

and blessed in equal turns to have longer seasons until Fate would intervene

and usher them down to the Ferryman.

And, it was so, that many seasons passed, and though that ivory-born Child

continued to delight in Love, she grew weary of parting, always parting . . .

When the day finally came that she had borne a splendid babe, she wept in sorrow,

for she knew . . . that whether the child was of ivory-born or of ivory-formed,

creatures such as them were far longer-lived than any mortal born

merely of Flesh and Blood. So, she turned her forlorn voice to where the stately Goddess

resided upon her glittering throne, and ardently beseeched:

If you, in heaven, are able to give us whatever we ask for—then spare this precious babe

the hard pains of this lonesome lot, neither with sorrow nor with anguish break their Spirit,

and grant them the same masterful skill with which my father wooed his fair-faced wife,

so that they may have a companion with whom they’ll share their lasting years.

And, if you should bless them with a child of their own, and if this child

should have children of their own, and on . . . Grant them the same Gift

so that they may not need to endure in this world alone . . .

When the story drew to a close, her mother’s eyes, bright with Deathless wisdom, alighted upon Atthis. “Not merely passion, but compassion—the love of a mother who did not want her child to be alone in the world . . .”

Her voice sounded faraway, resonating with a timber one might hear from those servants of the sun god who spoke his divine prophecies.

Atthis felt as though she had just awoken . . . sleep still clung to her soul, shrouding her sight with dark clouds. “Then, why have there only ever been sons who made for themselves wives?”

It was her mother’s doting smile that doused her in the clarity of wakefulness. “Have you learned nothing, Atthis?” she asked, good natured. “Just because your father believes one thing, does not make it the whole truth.”

✦···•✦•···✦

19Atthis goes to her garden and fills a basket with a simple offering of fruits and flowers, and takes it with her into that prosperous and ore-rich city. She walks through well-travelled roads and winding streets towards the fragrant temple of the Goddess, laying upon her altar the humble offering that Atthis had nurtured with her own hands and heart.

“I am a servant of your will, yours as I have always been. Do not curse another Soul into this wretched, lonely existence only for my sake. But if it is true, and she desires Form in this world . . . to live, to love and lose, and to love again . . . as my mother (and all those who came before her) had done, then I will labour for her in Love and offer all that I am to satisfy her desire.”

On the altar, eternal flames are lit, and thrice they leap heavenwards. Seeing this, Atthis feels satisfied and returns to her home by the sea. She goes about the rest of her day, and when nighttime comes, she goes to sleep and dreams . . .

The gold-crowned woman (now again) visits her dreams. She is more vivid now, more radiant than she has ever been. She reaches into the core of Atthis’s soul, piercing it over and over, her fingers dancing and playing in Atthis’s centre, and when she draws them out, her wily weaver’s fingers, Atthis comes undone, unravelled, trembling. She is overflowing. Her desires give birth to new desires, and from her lips tumble unheard-of songs. Every piece of her is imbued with the creative energy for ceaseless transformation. She is whole, but she is not static, stagnant, still . . . she can (be)come over and over and over . . . In her self-shattering, Atthis is infinite, endless, free.

✦···•✦•···✦

20Atthis rises with the sun, knowing the moment she picks up her mallet and chisel that her body will no longer belong to her but to the Woman who, now and again (and all this time), had been pleading, demanding, cajoling to be set free . . . Nevertheless, (finally) Atthis surrenders to the call of the ivory. She labours over that ancient bone—patient, persistent, and eager—so that the Woman may emerge from it as radiant in Form as when she visited Atthis’s dreams.

All around Atthis, time unfurls and stretches and creeps ever so slowly along . . . Her ardent task erases the world outside her home, banishes hunger, thirst, and other bodily needs. During that period—of which the number of minutes, hours, days cannot be measured—Atthis transforms the monolithic ivory into shapely form, and when the day finally comes that her work is done, Atthis finds that she is not seized with more passions upon beholding the stoic form of the ivory maiden. Instead, Atthis is filled with relief and gladness; as though she were finally able to give a name [a face] to the longing that has pursued her all this time.

Atthis does as her ancestors had done before her, though she does not perform those gestures to woo the fair-faced maiden, rather to express the gratitude she felt at the unfettering of her soul. To the Woman cast in Ivory, Atthis offers what she can . . .

Because her home is near the edge of the sea-washed island, colourful seashells, shiny sea glasses, and an assortment of pretty pebbles are easy enough to come by. There are days, too, when Luck smiles on Atthis and she would find fresh pearls along the shore. Atthis collects these pearls and wraps them in bronze strings to turn them into simple jewellery. But the most beautiful adornments that Atthis can offer is from the garden she has been so lovingly tending to throughout the years . . . so she twists together wreaths and garlands and crowns made from the most colourful and sweetest-smelling blooms. Moreover, putting to good use the skills in weaving and sewing that her mother taught her, Atthis, too, creates cloaks and dresses which, while not made of the most delicate laces nor the finest silks nor the most richly-dyed fabrics, are still beautiful and flattering and useful. And, though the ivory has yet to require nourishment, Atthis, whenever she eats, sets aside a portion for the maiden too, and speaks to her as one would a longtime friend.

“I have seen the world, and it is vast . . . its wonders never cease to amaze. Though you may seek to depart from this sea-girt island, to see, to know, to experience all that this world can offer, know that you will always have a place here with me, by my hearth, at my table, in my home . . .”

✦···•✦•···✦

21The passing of days is marked by the ever-constant waxing and waning of the moon, and the bright and warm season of théros steadily approaches.

Soon, the festival honouring the Goddess comes, and as it has been every year, snow-white heifers with gilded horns are led into the city and slain through pluming smokes of fragrant incense. The people of that prosperous city throng in the streets and engage in such merriment befitting the amorous and laughter-loving Goddess.

Atthis makes her way to the temple, deftly weaving through cheer-filled streets, carrying a large wreath made with sundry blooms of windflowers, wild roses, violets, and myrtles. Arriving at the temple, Atthis washes her hands and feet with perfumed water and approaches the altar of the Goddess, barefoot and with unhurried steps, until she is standing close enough to lay the wreath on the white, inlaid marble.

Atthis lifts her arms and gazes towards the heavens. She forgoes the impassioned invocation that was taught to her by her father, passed down to him from his father, and his father before him, on and on. Instead, Atthis gives thanks to the Goddess and humbly prays:

“I ask only (now again) that you smile upon me as you have always done . . . all my heart longs to accomplish, accomplish . . . I know you will not break my soul with hard pains for your domain is Love. O Lady, once more (now again) reveal to me your will and her truest desire, and it shall be so . . .”

✦···•✦•···✦

22When Atthis returns home, the ivory is just as it has always been. The hardness of her skin has not gone, and her visage is neither rosy nor warm. Atthis does not touch the ivory to make her veins leap underneath her fingers or to make her blush. Instead, she kneels before the stoic maiden and says to her, in soft but fervent whispers:

“You visited my Dreams and suffused my Being with luminous longing. You invigorated within me great passions, and in doing so gave me Life. Now, you are here and you have form. Come to life by your own will. Return to your Self in Love and know that this Body is yours. Take it. You are for you—I will not plead with you to come to me, to choose me, to love me . . . but know that I am yours. I am my offering to you . . . make of me what you will.”

✦···•✦•···✦

23Night comes and Atthis (now again) dreams of her . . . This Woman, radiant, gold-crowned, and laughter-loving . . . who, with her wily weaver’s fingers, reaches into Atthis’s centre and sets her soul ablaze . . . calling her forth to echo her Song.

The woman’s breathy laughter rings clearly in Atthis’s ears, like bells, like birdsong, like the crashing of waves—carried by the wind, higher and higher until there is nowhere else to go, until there is nothing else that one can do but let go and fall . . . fall like rain on the tongue of a parched traveller, like windflowers coming to rest after dancing in the breeze, like stars that grew heavy with their yearning to kiss the earth . . .

And, so, I fall—and the world explodes in dazzling light.

✦···•✦•···✦

24In the beginning I adored.

This is how I came into Form—

I adored and so I was.

✦···•✦•···✦

25Atthis’s eyes flutter open, her soul entwined with an-other, her body draped in warmth. They are one and they are infinite, in their self-shattering, they are free . . . to be, to become, always becoming . . .

✦···•✦•···✦

26Her longing is like water. It slips through her fingers, a thing that cannot

be captured. But, as it is with water, from her longing sprouts Life, cupped in

her hands, cradled, held so dearly . . . She lets it ripple, and flow, and spill . . .

(In the beginning of time, a Goddess, filled with yearning, descended from

the Cosmos. She fell to the Earth where the Primordial Mother welcomed

her and nurtured her in the Great Ocean of her womb . . .)

In the oft tempestuous waters of the Great Ocean, white foam forms, and

from that foam a Woman is born, filled with love and longing and wanderlust.

She follows where the currents lead her, to the ends of the world and back,

until, finally, to that sea-washed island she arrives at last.

This radiant Woman (laughter-loving, gold-crowned, bright-eyed, milk-white skin now sun-kissed) rises from the waves and steps ashore, drawn, as she were, to the pull of home . . .

To Cixous, Carson & Sappho, Campbell—because you inspired me and shaped my writing.

To Hesiod and Ovid—for the myths I could retell.

And to every writer, poet, and philosopher who transformed my soul.

NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s [and publisher’s] exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, is a celebration of literary excellence and creativity. This esteemed event invites writers from across the globe to share their unique voices and stories, fostering a vibrant community of artists and thinkers. Participants engage in a dynamic exploration of language and ideas, contributing to an enriching tapestry of contemporary literature.

Thank you, H.M. Sebbie Leaño, for sharing your profound short story "Anadyomene" with us in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your work, rich with introspection and mythological depth, adds a valuable dimension to the literary landscape. We appreciate your contribution and look forward to more of your creative endeavors.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.