Mei's Sketchbook: Drawing Medea's Choice

Mei sits cross-legged on a large beanbag chair in a cozy, sunlit corner of a school library, her sketchbook open on her lap and a pencil behind her ear, surrounded by towering wooden bookshelves stuffed with books. In the background, tall library windows let golden sunlight stream in, and faded posters of ancient Greek heroes hang on the walls between bookshelves.

Mei had a theory about libraries: the best books were never on the main shelves. They were the ones tucked sideways behind other books, their spines cracked and faded, waiting for someone curious enough to find them. On this particular Tuesday afternoon, while the rest of her fifth-grade class was at recess, Mei sat cross-legged on her favorite beanbag chair in the sunniest corner of the school library, her sketchbook open on her lap and a freshly sharpened pencil behind her ear. She came here almost every day. The towering bookshelves made her feel like she was inside a fortress, and the faded posters of ancient Greek heroes on the walls—Hercules fighting a lion, Odysseus steering his ship—made her imagination hum.

Mei stands on a small step stool reaching up toward a thick, leather-bound book with gold lettering wedged on a high library shelf, stretching on her tiptoes with one hand grasping the book's spine. In the background, rows and rows of encyclopedias and old books line the tall wooden shelves of the school library.

That's when she spotted it—a thick, leather-bound book wedged behind a row of encyclopedias on the top shelf. Mei dragged a step stool over and stretched up on her tiptoes until her fingers closed around it. The cover read *Myths of the Ancient World* in gold lettering, and when she opened it, the pages smelled like dust and old rain. She flipped past stories she already knew—Perseus and Medusa, Theseus and the Minotaur—until a full-page illustration stopped her cold. It showed a woman standing in a moonlit garden, her dark hair wild around her shoulders, holding a jar of glowing ointment in one hand. Beneath the image, two words were printed in bold: **Medea's Choice**. "Who are you?" Mei whispered to the page, and she pulled her sketchbook closer.

Mei sits on the beanbag chair with the leather-bound myth book open on one knee and her sketchbook on the other, pencil in hand, drawing a sketch of a long ship with a carved prow sailing through dark waves. In the background, the sunlit library corner glows warmly, with bookshelves and Greek hero posters visible on the walls.

The story began with a hero named Jason, who sailed across the sea with a crew called the Argonauts to claim a treasure known as the Golden Fleece—the shimmering wool of a magical golden ram, hung on a sacred oak tree in the faraway kingdom of Colchis. The fleece was said to bring power and prosperity to whoever possessed it, and Jason needed it to reclaim his rightful throne. Mei's pencil moved quickly across her sketchbook as she read, sketching a long ship with a carved prow cutting through dark waves. "So far, so good," she muttered. "Classic hero quest." But as she turned the page, the story shifted. The King of Colchis had no intention of giving up the fleece. He set Jason an impossible task: yoke two fire-breathing bronze bulls, plow a field, and sow it with dragon's teeth that would sprout into an army of warriors. Jason would have to defeat them all.

Mei's sketchbook lies open showing her detailed pencil drawing of Medea standing in a moonlit palace garden with her hand outstretched, offering a small glowing jar of magical ointment, her dark hair flowing wildly around her shoulders. In the background of the sketch, a grand palace with columns and a crescent moon are visible behind garden hedges and flowering trees.

"There's no way he could do that alone," Mei said aloud, and she was right. Enter Medea—the king's own daughter, a young woman gifted with powerful magic. According to the myth, Medea fell deeply in love with Jason the moment she saw him. But it wasn't just love that moved her; she was clever, fiercely independent, and she understood something Jason didn't: without her help, he would die. So Medea made a choice that would change her life forever. She gave Jason a magical ointment that made him invincible for one day. She told him the secret to defeating the warriors—throw a stone among them, and they would turn on each other in confusion. She betrayed her own father and her own kingdom, all for a man who had promised to love her and take her with him. Mei sketched Medea in the moonlit palace garden, her hand outstretched, offering a small glowing jar. In the margin, Mei wrote: *She gave up everything.*

Mei hunches over her sketchbook on the beanbag chair, frowning thoughtfully with her pencil tapping the page, which shows a detailed drawing of two enormous bronze bulls breathing fire on either side of a field, with skeleton warriors rising from the soil. In the background, the warm library corner is visible with golden afternoon light filtering through the windows.

The next scene practically drew itself. Mei sketched Jason striding across a smoldering field, his skin gleaming with Medea's protective magic, while two enormous bronze bulls snorted plumes of fire on either side of him. She drew the dragon's teeth scattered in the furrows, and then the skeleton warriors bursting from the soil like terrible weeds. And there was Jason, hurling a stone into their midst, just as Medea had instructed, watching them turn their swords on one another. Finally, she drew the Golden Fleece itself—radiant and shimmering on the branch of an ancient oak, guarded by a serpent that Medea lulled to sleep with an enchanted song. "He didn't earn any of this on his own," Mei murmured, tapping her pencil against the page. She frowned. In every other myth she'd read, the hero was the one who solved the problem. But here, it was Medea—the one who wasn't even called the hero—who made everything possible.

Mei sits bolt upright on the beanbag chair, eyes wide with shock, holding the leather-bound myth book open in both hands, her sketchbook sliding off her lap. In the background, the library's Greek hero posters and tall bookshelves are visible, with dust motes floating in the slanting sunlight.

Mei turned the page of the old myth book, expecting a happy ending. Jason had the Golden Fleece. Medea had left her kingdom and her family behind to be with him. They sailed away together and eventually settled in the Greek city of Corinth, where they had two children. But instead of "happily ever after," the story took a sharp, painful turn. Years later, Jason decided to marry someone else—the princess of Corinth—because it would give him more power and a higher position. He told Medea she should understand. He said it was for the best. He cast aside every promise he had ever made. "Wait, what?" Mei said, sitting up straight on the beanbag. She read the passage again, sure she had misunderstood. But the words were clear. Jason abandoned Medea—the woman who had saved his life, given up her home, and risked everything for him. "That's not fair," Mei said firmly, and she wrote those exact words in the margin of her sketchbook, underlining them twice.

Mei sits still on the beanbag chair staring down at her open sketchbook with a conflicted expression, her pencil hovering above the page, which shows her earlier drawing of Medea in the moonlit garden. In the background, the library is quieter and the sunlight has shifted to a deeper gold, casting long shadows between the bookshelves.

But then came the part that made Mei's stomach twist. Consumed by grief and rage, Medea plotted a terrible revenge. She sent a poisoned golden robe to the new princess, and the story only grew darker from there. The myth described acts so devastating that Mei had to close the book for a moment and stare at the ceiling. She picked up her pencil, then put it down. Then picked it up again. She couldn't draw this part. Not because it was hard to illustrate, but because she didn't know how she felt about it. Was Medea a villain now? She'd done something unforgivable. But Jason had broken every promise and thrown her away like she meant nothing. Was *he* the villain? Mei stared at her sketchbook, where her earlier drawing of Medea in the moonlit garden looked back at her—that fierce, determined face offering everything she had. "How do I draw someone who's both?" Mei whispered.

Mei looks up from the beanbag chair holding the leather-bound myth book while the librarian stands nearby, leaning against a bookshelf with a stack of books in one arm and reading glasses perched on her nose, smiling warmly at Mei. In the background, a rolling book cart sits between the tall shelves, and late-afternoon light fills the library aisle.

"You look like you're wrestling with something big." Mei looked up. The school librarian stood nearby, reshelving books from a rolling cart. She was a tall woman with reading glasses perched on her nose and silver streaks in her hair, and she had a habit of appearing exactly when someone needed to talk. "It's this myth," Mei said, holding up the old book. "About Medea and Jason. I was drawing scenes from it, but I got to the end and—" She paused. "I can't figure out who the hero is." The librarian set down her stack of books and leaned against the shelf. "Ah, Medea," she said, nodding slowly. "That's one of the oldest and most debated stories in all of Greek mythology. Playwrights and scholars have been arguing about it for over two thousand years." "Two thousand years and nobody's figured it out?" Mei asked, incredulous. The librarian smiled. "Maybe that's the point."

The librarian sits on a small wooden chair facing Mei, who is on the beanbag chair with her sketchbook, both engaged in deep conversation, with the leather-bound myth book resting between them on the floor. In the background, the warm library corner is visible with its tall bookshelves and faded Greek hero posters on the walls.

The librarian pulled up a small wooden chair and sat across from Mei. "Here's what I love about myths," she said. "They weren't just bedtime stories. The ancient Greeks used them to wrestle with hard questions—questions about loyalty, fairness, and what people owe each other. Medea's story was first performed as a play by a writer named Euripides in 431 BC. That's almost two thousand five hundred years ago. And even back then, the audience argued about whether to feel sympathy for Medea or horror at what she did." "I feel both," Mei admitted. "Good," the librarian said. "That means you're reading it the way it was meant to be read. Not every story hands you a neat answer. Some stories are designed to make you think—to put you in someone else's shoes and ask, *What would I do? What's right and what's wrong when the situation is this complicated?*" Mei looked down at her sketchbook. "But I want to finish my drawing. I need an ending."

Mei leans intently over her sketchbook on the beanbag chair, pencil moving rapidly, drawing two side-by-side illustrations of Medea—one wreathed in flame and fury on the left, and one standing tall at the prow of a ship on the right, with the word 'Choose' written between them. In the background, the library windows show the sky turning to warm sunset colors, casting an orange glow across the bookshelves.

The librarian tilted her head. "Who says a story has to have just one ending?" Mei blinked. She looked down at her sketchbook—at the moonlit garden, the bronze bulls, the Golden Fleece, and the blank page where she'd been unable to draw Medea's final choice. And suddenly, an idea sparked. "What if I draw two endings?" Mei said, sitting up straighter. "Side by side. One where Medea chooses revenge, and one where she chooses to walk away—to take her power and her magic and start over somewhere new." The librarian's eyes lit up. "Now you're thinking like a mythmaker." Mei's pencil was already moving. On the left side of the page, she drew Medea wreathed in flame and fury, her face twisted with pain and rage. On the right, she drew Medea standing at the prow of a ship, her chin raised, sailing toward an unknown horizon. Both versions of Medea were powerful. Both were complicated. And between the two drawings, in the narrow space where the images almost touched, Mei wrote a single word: *Choose.*

Mei holds her sketchbook at arm's length, examining her two-ending illustration with a look of quiet satisfaction, while the librarian smiles at her from across the aisle near the rolling book cart. In the background, the library is bathed in warm sunset light, with long golden rays stretching across the floor and between the bookshelves.

Mei held the sketchbook at arm's length and studied her work. For the first time all afternoon, the tightness in her chest loosened. She realized something important: she'd been frustrated because she wanted the story to tell her what was right. She wanted a clear hero to cheer for and a clear villain to blame. But myths like Medea's didn't work that way. They were mirrors, not maps. They didn't point you toward the answer—they reflected your own ideas about justice and fairness back at you. "You know what's interesting?" Mei said to the librarian, who was back at her cart. "Jason's supposed to be the hero of the Golden Fleece story, but Medea is the one everyone remembers. She's the one people are still arguing about." The librarian smiled over her shoulder. "The most memorable characters in mythology are rarely the simplest ones. It's the complicated ones—the ones who make us uncomfortable—that stick with us." Mei nodded slowly and wrote in her sketchbook margin: *Real stories don't always have heroes and villains. Sometimes they just have people making impossible choices.*

Mei walks through the library doorway into the bustling school hallway, her backpack over one shoulder and her sketchbook tucked under her arm, glancing back with a small smile toward the library's Greek hero posters. In the background, the school hallway is filled with other students moving between classes, and the library's warm glow is visible through the open door behind Mei.

The final bell rang, echoing through the hallways, and Mei carefully closed her sketchbook and tucked the old myth book back onto the shelf—this time facing outward, so the next curious person would spot it easily. She slung her backpack over her shoulder and paused at the library door, glancing back at the faded poster of Odysseus on the wall. "I wonder what your story looks like from someone else's point of view," she murmured. As she stepped into the bustling hallway, Mei's mind was already spinning with new questions. What about Circe, or Penelope, or the Minotaur in his labyrinth? Every myth she'd ever read suddenly felt like it had another layer waiting to be uncovered—another side she'd never considered. She patted her sketchbook and smiled. Some stories give you answers. But the best ones—the really powerful ones—give you better questions. And Mei had a whole sketchbook full of blank pages, just waiting to be filled.

Mei's Sketchbook: Drawing Medea's Choice

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