October 16, 2026

Excerpts from Antigone at the Rot Party

by Bex Frankeberger

I first encountered Bex Frankeberger’s sharp poetry in the 24.1 Mizna: Myth and Memory issue. Three years later, when I was reading our journal submissions, their story “Contraband” stood out with its witty voice that propelled the narrative to the very last sentence, and I ultimately had the privilege of editing that piece for our forthcoming 27.1 issue. Then came Antigone at the Rot Party. As it turns out, though, Antigone has been there all along, in every previous lyric, dialogue, depiction of sisterhood. A progenitrix, a first love, Antigone reemerges in this new translation/interpretation of the timeless Sophokles classic through a focus on autocracy, revolution, and twentieth century philosophies. Frankeberger’s adoration for this character is in every line. Tenderness fuels prose and drama scenes of this book, which aims to not simply retell the story of Antigone but to draw parallels with the current state of the world. When faced with the choice between love and memory, Antigone still chooses both. “I am curious if humanity, the great commonality, suffers (constantly, terribly) because we don’t,” Frankeberger remarks. Antigone at the Rot Party, just like its author, asks questions, makes room for curiosity amid love and memory, justice and forgiveness. And this time around, Antigone might just inspire us all to attempt the same.

—Elina Katrin, Assistant Editor

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Which of you sent for me? she yells into the night, the world around her draped in blood. Who among you will join me at the Rot Party?

She listens in silence until the martyrs can answer back.

—Bex Frankeberger

Excerpt One

Antigone receives an invitation to the Rot Party.

The envelope is red, or maybe it is green. Someone has been careful with its design. An earthy scent sparks like bad circuitry. Or no, the scent is not of earth, but of eggs. Perhaps decay. The odor changes based on how she holds the paper to the light. 

Antigone has been awake since dawn. Unlike the rest of the castle, she does not wear earplugs to dampen the sounds of war. She lies there, listening. This morning she interrupts her listening with a bath, which is then interrupted by the envelope. It slips gently beneath her door. She hurries to greet its messenger, but she finds the hall empty. Instead comes a servant, wrapping a towel around Antigone’s shoulders. Complaining that the floor is wet, the stones are damp. Antigone hides the invitation in the fabric’s folds. When she is alone, she rips it open with clean hands.

Antigone carries the invitation with her all day. She tucks it neatly beneath her dress, held tight against her waist with her mother’s favorite belt. For once, she spends the day acting as a young princess is supposed to: obedient and demure. Unfortunately, her attempts to be unremarkable are rather remarkable. Her family quietly notes when she does not throw her breakfast of barley bread and dried figs to the ground because of the war. They raise their eyebrows when she does not forcibly vomit her lunch of lentils and green olives because of the war. They exchange looks when she does not sob all through her dinner of sturgeon and poached pears because of the war. She laughs merrily at her family’s jokes and drinks her wine to the last drop. It is unprecedented, Antigone both attending and eating all three meals of her own volition. For the first time since she and her sister returned from the desert, the guards do not have to capture her as she runs toward battle, they do not have to prevent her self-conscription into the war. No, instead, she stays put. She smiles. She brushes her hair beneath her favorite stone pine and does not stare empty at the sun.

Her family notes this change but takes it at face value. There are more interesting things happening that day than Antigone’s behavior. Her sister keeps asking if she is the only one who can smell rosemary. Her fiancé is convinced that diesel wafts from room to room. The stench of bleach plagues her uncle, who finds no consolation in his wife, whose sinuses are congested from allergies. We ourselves are preoccupied with the smell of coffee, and an old cigarette, and our grandmother’s perfume.

That night, Antigone sends her servants away. She lays her head on her feather pillow and holds the invitation close to her face. She hopes to communicate with its sender. Her instinct sails the River Styx toward Hades, but she pushes away this impulse. You have a death wish, her father once said. Like me. And yet, in the end, death had been too sterile for him. His repentance, his restitution, was vulgar and unclean.

Antigone rises and holds the envelope against her window. The glass is thick, muffling the noise of Thebes and its war. She reads the invitation again in the moonlight. The envelope is red, or maybe it is green. Someone has been careful with its design. She opens the window and witnesses as best she can. Somewhere beyond the city’s seven gates are her brothers. Somewhere further still, fate. She takes a certain pride in not turning away, but she also fears that it is nothing, the looking. The envelope has an earthy scent that sparks like bad circuitry. Or no, the scent is not of earth, but of decay. Which of you sent for me? she yells into the night, the world around her draped in blood. Who among you will join me at the Rot Party?

She listens in silence until the martyrs can answer back.

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Excerpt Two

(The morning sun is slow to rise.)

(Somewhere outside the castle, but within its gates, Antigone paces. Fig trees offer minimal shade. The envelope is tucked beneath her dress. Her beloved sister is close behind.)

Antigone
               Do you remember what it was like
               before all of this 

Ismene
               Why are we whispering 

Antigone
               We are guests here now, Ismene
               this home is not ours
               Someone is always listening 

Ismene
               Are you not exhausted by paranoia? No one thinks about us as much as we
               think about us 

Antigone
               How can you say that? Zeus has leveled every look
               every word every sword every wind against us
               We are sister-aunt brother-father mother-wife
               and now this new edict
               Have we not carried our father’s blame long enough? Have we not strapped it to
               our backs honestly, within and without 
               and still they hurtle storms against us until the last of our blood,
               once in line
               for king, is named its traitor
               how can you say we are not cursed 

Ismene
               If we were lost to each other
               then yes
               I’d consider us cursed
               but what edict?
               What are you talking about 

Antigone
               Haven’t you heard? 

Ismene
               You catalog the tragedy of our family and believe I wish to hear more?
               Our mother dead, our father dead, our two brothers slain by kin hand
               the warring army finally in retreat 
               Our once sweet uncle now married to the throne
               No, dear sister, I do not wish to learn more 

Antigone
               Quiet, come near
               the guards listen close and I speak only to you 

Ismene
               I’m going to break out in hives

Antigone
               Kreon is decided
               He will bury one brother with honor, the brother he liked best
               Eteokles is led to Hades on golden chariot
               But Polyneikes
               Polyneikes, Kreon will leave to rot
               The leather of his flesh and blood in his bones a sweet grub for birds and dogs
               our brother is to never know peace
               I want you to help me bury him, Ismene
               We will spread dirt on his body and let Hades know his soul 
               Transgression for such is death but when we die, we’ll die with honor
               we’ll die no longer ashamed 

Ismene
               I
               I can’t 

Antigone
               But 

Ismene
               No, Antigone, I don’t want to die
               I don’t want you to die
               I want us to live
               That is how we resolve our shame 

Antigone
               By living the lives of cowards? 

Ismene
               By living
               Better to live beside you than to die needlessly in the name of glory 

Antigone
               It is not glory I seek
               these dead are mine and yours and mine 

Ismene
               It is suicide
               Think on it, sister
               You’ve tried this once already and Father would not let you
               Think of our family polluted
               think of the dirt that smears our blood
               this will not change that 

Antigone
               Will you not think of our brothers? 

Ismene
               They are men, they did not think of us
               and these men do not either
               we will not win 

Antigone
               I do not aim to win 

Ismene
               Kind of sounds like you do

Antigone
               I won’t argue with you
               Do you know
               do you know how sweet it would be to lie upon my brother’s body thigh to thigh
               and walk through Hades together?

Ismene
               My god after everything we’ve been through you should know better—

Antigone
               I know nothing but what I must do and I will shout it from the highest tower I am
               not ashamed
               I am not afraid, Ismene

Ismene
               Cool your rage 

Antigone
               My rage is cold
               my heart is cold
               the dead will know me 

Ismene
               This is a lot, sister
               Even for you
               Have you thought about what happens after you die? I don’t mean Hades, I
               mean
               I mean here
               What happens here after you die? You’re venturing the impossible 

Antigone
               I am stronger than I look
               and when my strength stops then so will I 

Ismene
               Listen, I think
               in the scheme of things
               this is wrong 

Antigone
               Fine
               but take that back
               I do not have time to hate you as well
               I don’t have time to haunt your days if you reject my birthright our birthright
               Let me go and do this I want to go and do this
               and you know what I don’t even want your help anymore
               Pretend I didn’t ask for your help pretend I just asked for your blessing or or or
               actually no I don’t want that either
               I’ll not endure a heart that besmirches my noble death 

Ismene
               Besmirches your noble death?
               You know what, Antigone? Fine
               Go
               I will not stop you
               but don’t think that means you are unloved, sister
               I wish I could show you the shape of my love, the how of it
               even if you are—

(Mark this: Antigone rolls her eyes. She leaves Ismene alone in the cold morning, but not before pausing to sniff the air.)

Ismene
               Out of your mind

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Excerpts from Antigone at the Rot Party are reprinted here with permission of the author and publisher. Antigone at the Rot Party is forthcoming on November 20, 2026 and is available for pre-order from Cantine Press or Books Are Magic now.

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