RMH
todays bird
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
occasionally subtle
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@theartofmadeline
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Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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Andulka
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if i look back, i am lost
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@antiaircraftcrayon
The four horsemen come. The echo of their steeds pawing upon the ground drowns every other sound.
Death dismounts. The unmistakable sound of bone on bone. It can be no one but Death.
Have I wished them here? Nay, hoped for them to come? Did the yearning in my soul callout out to Death, beckoning him to my doorstep?
The door swings wide, Death’s skeletal hand extended.
I reach for him, glad to leave this decaying flesh behind.
Working Title: My Tummy Hurts
Prompt #1142
“I am not the god you seek, so please leave me alone.”
The god spoke softly, with a hollow in his voice.
“I did not come seeking a god,” he replied, in slight awe of finding anyone at all let alone a god.
His eyes strained in the dark of the dilapidated temple. The walls and ceiling remained, mostly. An occasional brick was missing here and there, allowing the faintest ray of sun to find its way in. The torches had long since wasted away to nothing, their brackets hanging empty.
“They all come seeking a god,” the god spoke. “And they are all disappointed. They all want something; you are no different.”
His voice came to the man from further within the temple as the god retreated into its depths.
The man contemplated before he replied. “I suppose you are right, in a way. Though I did not come seeking anything from a god. I did want a quiet place to think, if it’s alright with you that I stay.”
“Do as you wish, but I cannot grant you anything,” the god said.
“That suits me just fine,” the man replied. There he sat against the cool walls of the temple as he contemplated his thoughts in silence.
It was well into the evening when he left for home, asking politely before he left, “if it’s not too much of a bother, may I return again? I quite like it here and your quiet company is a comfort to me.”
The man took the lack of response as a yes, whistling a quiet tune as he walked down the steps to the dirt road.
In a few days, the man returned. He was mumbled to himself as he walked up the steps to the once-great temple but still allowed himself a pause.
“Great god of this tranquil temple. May I come in?” The man asked.
He waited several long moments before the god finally replied yes. He entered that hallowed ground and took to his muttering again. The god could hear him from within the temple depths. His words echoed off the walls in incoherent strains. They passed the day that way, the man talking to himself as he paced about and the god silently listening.
Dusk began to fall and the man said his goodbyes. He turned at the top of the stairs and again asked if he may return soon.
“Yes, but don’t ask of me anything. There is nothing I can give,” the god said.
The man only smiled, his mind at peace from the day.
Many days passed with the god looking out the doorway to see if the man would come by again. And again he returned, talking to himself as he moved his hands around in the air. He stopped at the top of the steps asking permission to the open temple.
“I wish to be left alone,” the god said. “But if you ask nothing if me, you may come.”
The man noticed the god’s voice came from not so deep within the temple. The man put it out of his mind as he paced and talked, discussing his problems with himself and sorting through potential solutions.
The man finished his thoughts and sat against the temple wall above the steps, watching the sun set across a vast field. Shuffling steps turned his attention to the god, still within the shadows of the temple.
“May I join you?” The god asked.
“You may. But I cannot grant you anything,” the man replied.
The faintest quiver of a smile graced the god’s lips. Just a shadow and then it was gone. He sat near the door and looked out at the field for the first time in many years, watching the sun set. It had been so long, he couldn’t tell if the warmth was from the sun or from the man sitting next to him.
The next day the man returned again. He brought a satchel and promptly sat down on the top of the steps, spreading papers and plans across the floor. He occasionally pulled this and that from the bag as he sketched his designs and jotted done his notes. The god roamed the temple, looking over his shoulder every now and then. About midday, the man held out an apple to the god without looking up from his notes.
The god took the apple and sat down next to him, looking at the man’s work. The god didn’t say a word, not daring to disrupt his concentration. In the afternoon, the god fell asleep in the warmth of the sun.
The man finished his sketches and looked down at the sleeping god. The god looked peaceful and calm, the lines of his forehead gone in his relaxed state. He stood and stretched, careful not to wake the sleeping deity, and compared his sketches to the temple. He flipped page after page, blueprint after blueprint while walking the halls of the temple. When he was done, he stepped over the sleeping god and made his way home.
Many days went by with the god looking at the doorway of his ancient temple. He expected the man to come back everyday and each day he was disappointed. He thought he had seen the last of him, quietly sad he had slept through his final departure.
Two weeks had passed and in the morning sun, the god saw a wagon approach led by four beautiful brown and white horses. The wagon stopped at the temple base and the man dismounted, skipping every other step as he jogged up the stairs.
"Great god!" he announced. "We have brought you an offering if you will receive it."
There was silence from within broken only by the wind rustling the vines growing up the walls.
Finally the faintest whisper crept from inside.
"I cannot grant you anything..." it said.
The man turned to walk down the stairs, then turned back and replied, "I did not ask for anything."
He signaled down to the wagon with a whistle and four more men leapt out of the back. The began to unload supplies and organize it into piles. Tools, brick, mortar, timber. The man descended the stairs and retrieved a set of papers. They began to walk around the temple, looking up at the walls then referencing the drawings. They made a loop around the temple's base meeting back at the wagon and the piles of supplies. The took a short time to discuss and then quickly moved to work.
Up the stairs; brick and mortar. Down the stairs; more supplies. Up the stairs; timber bracing. Down the stairs; more supplies.
They continued throughout the day building braces and shoring up walls and collapsed ceiling. The broke only once for food from the wagon but pushed on in their work. When they were satisfied with the structure, the tools and remaining supplies were stored back in the wagon and out came brooms and shovels. They cleaned out all of the broken brick and debris on the floor. The cut down the vines and tore out the roots. New torches were placed in the brackets and the darkness retreated in the new light. The altar was cleaned and polished, dirt swept clean from the floor.
With the setting sun, the men sat at the edge of the temple outside of the door drinking ale and laughing aloud.
Finally the god showed his face and in his meakness said, "What do you seek? I cannot grant much, probably nothing. But I will give you all I can."
The four men were startled. They had never seen a god, let alone heard one speak. But the one man had talked to this god before. He held out a spare mug of ale and replied softly.
"I came looking for silence, a place to think clearly. I came looking for a place away from the hustle of the city to lay out my thoughts to their conclusions. You have offered me nothing but have given me a quiet presence nearby. You have told me you cannot grant anything of my wishes yet have provided me a step to sit on, a place to think."
The god's eyes began to wet. "Will you not have more? For your time? For your work? Your sweat has anointed these steps. Is that worth nothing to you?" The god questioned.
The man turned to the other four and one by one they spoke.
"We were not told to rebuild this temple."
"We volunteered."
"I asked if I could join."
"I was able so I came too."
The man spoke last, "Why do you feel you owe us anything? We have asked nothing of you. You cannot pay us for a gift. It would not be a gift if you did. But you may sit with us here in your fine temple. And you may drink this ale."
The god reached out slowly and took the mug he was offered and sat down with the men. He listened to their stories of the last week, tales of their children and their wives. He listened to these five friends and felt a feeling of renewal blossom in his chest.
When the day was done, the men descended the stairs. The one turned back halfway down the steps.
"Great god. I have been here many days and hope to come many more. I will not seek anything from you nor ask anything from you again. But I will ask your name, if you will give it.
The god sighed, "my name has been lost. Centuries have passed. This wonderful temple you have restored was beginning to crumble. And my name with it. It has not been spoken in a very long time and I dare say I cannot remember who I am. I was once the god of unbreakable bonds. Of everlasting friendships. What name came with that I cannot recall."
The man smiled at the god. "My mother and father had eight children. The believed certain characteristics were important to every individual and in their own way, named each of us as such. Long ago there was a man. He was selfless, lacking of greed. He was loyal and kind and respected nothing in return. It's said that when he died, the gods admired him so he became one. I was named after him. And his name was Arepo."
The god's eyes began to wet again.
"I will see you soon, great god," Arepo said.
Original prompt: @writing-prompt-s
Original: @sadoeuphemist
Continuation: @ciiriianan
Continuation: @stu-pot
Prompt #1104
The seamster’s movements were nearly smooth as a machine’s. Push, pull, flourish. Push, pull, flourish. The flourish was important; a twist of the wrist to ensure the thread was pulled taut at its end.
They could almost imagine a bit of magic in that flourish, something to prevent tangling or something to ensure that the stitches would hold until the weave of the fabric itself came apart.
The mechanist loved the cloth, the fine magical beauty of it. She acknowledged the seamster's was more beautiful. She bought the bolt for her own fine clothing in addition to paying the bet.
She toiled three seasons over her machine, adding linkages and evolving gears, until she found a shifting sprocket that could make the flourish more precisely than even the seamster's skilled wrists. And she did not neglect the rest. No, she fixed every deficiency she could find while her mind raced from issue to issue, never in one place from thought to thought.
The mechanist returned and offered the same bet, again.
But the seamster, had won fame and glory from the last test and had orders to fill. So the contest had to be by night, after all the other work for the day had been done.
This was nothing to the mechanist. Her machine would work at any time. For as long as necessary. The bet was made. Hands were shook. There was nothing but to wait the long hours.
When it was closer to dawn than sunset and the seamster's eyes were wearied from long labor, they lit a new candle. And the mechanist turned on her machine.
The machine was faster. The product nearly flawless. Every stroke and flourish exactly as the mechanist had watched the seamster work.
But even as the seamster slowed with weariness and their wrists creaked from the flourishes, there was magic in their touch that was not in the machine's. Their eyes watered in the dim sooty light and like magic they flowed into the string so the design shimmered and glistened as if the stitches themselves were a spring.
The mechanist loved the cloth. She admitted freely that although her machine was faster, the seamster's work had what no machine could do. Yet. She paid the bet and bought the cloth to use to make her own clothing. And she bought all the shops along the block so that she could watch her muse work every day as she worked.
For five seasons she tinkered and muttered and gazed at the seamster, who had to expand as news of the second bet spread.
The mechanist built lights in her moments of most furious thought so that neither of them had to toil in dimness any more. And since her muse had so little free time, she set ever harder tests for her machine, finally setting it to sew a dress from threads, to cloth, to pattern, to final measurements so the seamster wouldn't have to make their own clothes as well.
But it wasn't until sharing lunch one day that the seamster spoke of beauty arising from intent and the mechanist knew what the machine needed.
Another five seasons and the mechanist expanded the machine ever larger until it dominated half the block with exquisite gearing and arcane motions until the machine could pick for itself the cards that drove its motion and determine what it would produce.
The third bet was the same. And the mechanist didn't even have to tend her machine, instead fetching tools and threads and water for the seamster to make it a fair fight.
The machine twisted threads and shuttled strokes that would have required a microscope to see how short they were. And other strokes that whipped the whole length, farther back and forth than one human could ever control. The pattern tiling itself into mathematical genius and beauty the likes of which had never been made by human hands.
But the seamster was still determined. They worked with a vengeance. They threw caution to the wind, their thread moving nearly as fast as the machines so constantly they poked their fingers with the needles and bruised their hands with the shuttle. Their blood flowed into the work that was knocked and beaten into strange and masterful patterns, like they had harnessed the old chaos that had birthed the gods.
And when the machine had fallen silent and the seamster had fallen still. The mechanist had to admit she had been beaten again. It was no simple thing of lines or flourishes. The seamster had put themselves into the art and it could be seen. Human hands had made this thing, fine as any god's creation.
Again, she bought the cloth for her own. Not for clothing this time but to put up as a tapestry for inspiration against the wall so she could look at the seamster's work even when she wasn't ogling the seamster's perfect wrists and fine motions.
She started again. Turning her massive spider of a machine into a brood mare, hovering over a web full of tiny spiders, slaves to the great machine's instructions, each made to mimic some extravagance of the seamster's work.
It was easiest simply to take the walls between them. And the mechanist sold the inferior work to keep up with the seamster's demand and her own needs for coin to develop something better.
For three years the mechanist toiled. And it was never good enough. Barely good enough for cheap copies. The mechanist grew bitter at her failure. And worked all the harder for it. Coming to the shop before the seamster and leaving long after they left.
Until the mechanist had toiled so hard and so long that she became ill and the shop had to be closed at the seamster tended to her fever and ravings.
There, forced to her sick bed, the mechanist realized what she was missing as the seamster placed cool cloths on her head and sang to her gentle lullabies to finally ease her into the needed sleep.
The next month she returned to work with a vengeance though she acknowledged she could only do it because the seamster didn't give up their singing.
The mechanist wove herself in cogs and wires, grips and gears, and a nest of metal into the mind of the great machine. Until she could manipulate it as easily as her own limbs. Until the mechanist could become the mechanism as easy as putting on clothes.
With the mechanical body she harvested parts from the webs, tracing new, never invented courses into the mind of themselves so eventually she didn't even need the grips and movement. She had merely to think and the great machine thought. She had merely to feel and her emotions poured into the work so her own cloth glistened and reflected.
The seamster almost refused the last bet, afraid that if they won again, it would destroy the mechanist. They almost decided to throw the contest but in their heart they knew the mechanist would never forgive dishonest competition. The mechanist must win or fail honestly and so the seamster demanded one extra rule. That this would be the last contest. And if the mechanist lost, then the mechanist must become the seamster's aprentice to learn the true art before trying again. It was agreed and the seamster shook the brass protrusion of the great machine body.
A great crowd gathered for the final contest.
The seamster was nervous but the mechanist was not, churning out work that seemed even more insane and not of the world of humans than had ever appeared before. And because they could not throw it, the seamster worked as well.
But a curious thing happened through the night. As the seamster worked their magic, their care and love turning their cloth to a masterwork like the world had never seen and the mechanist drew strange patterns in dimensions beyond human imagining, the cloth of each began to look increasingly alike, until at dawn when each made the last stitch, the crowd was faced with two burial shrouds, identical, woven to show seamster and mechanist laid together for eternity, holding hands.
The seamster alone seemed unsurprised. They crawled up the great machine and put themselves into a nest in the spider that until that moment no one else had percieved, not even the mechanist who had built it. And it was just right to fit them. The machine was complete. But it did not choose to sew.
Instead it broke out of the giant shop and disappeared into the night.
Some say it must have leaped from some cliff and been dashed by the sea into itty bits and that's why it was never seen again. Some say it is out there still, too clever to be found by human eyes. Some say it went up into the air and that's why we now see shapes in the clouds because the great machine now weaves them. Yet others say it went down under the ground and slowly weaves a new world to replace our own. But who can say for sure? Not I.
You wished to find a dragon to slay for its treasure. Now you’re not sure how to feel seeing a thumb-sized dragon try to drag its single shiny copper coin with it as it runs away from you.
It was comical but sad at the same time. I couldn’t slay a dragon no bigger than my thumb. The copper coin it was dragging across the dirt was nearly as big as it was. It didn’t even have a lair. No lair and a hoard of a single coin. I couldn’t tell this slaying story without getting laughed out of the pub!
Instead I hatched an idea. I pulled out my money pouch and put it on the ground, opening facing the tiny dragon so the little lizard could see inside. I saw the interest peak in its eyes and it drug it’s small coin inside the little pouch.
And that’s how I acquired a dragon as a pet twelve months ago. And it’s gone interestingly since then.
The first time a thief reached into my pouch and pulled his hand out with a missing finger sent me howling with laughter. I wouldn’t have noticed him had he not yelled in pain, and I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to tell the castle guard which way he went.
I hadn’t thought about it before then, but it seemed my tiny friend knew my hand. Or perhaps recognized the silver ring on my finger. It made no difference, my hand was safe reaching inside to take from the pouch. I assumed it was because my hand was the hand that increased the dragon’s hoard as well.
Now I had heard of dragon’s greed and how it could destroy a man’s mind. But I had never heard of dragon’s luck. It seemed each quest I undertook, each bounty I pursued, the monetary gain was at least double what I had normally made. It got to the point where my pouch was getting too heavy. My lizard friend was nearly squished.
Enter dragon’s luck again. In my travels, I met a a man named Merlin. After certain, how should I call it… “assistances” were made, we became quite good friends. Good enough to confide in him about my friend. Merlin, being the learned man he is, taught me more about dragons than I previously knew. Key pieces of information such as a dragon will grow in comparison to the wealth of its hoard. And they stay that size. For instance, if a rare gem were retrieved from a thief and added to a certain money pouch, and then returned to its owner later, said dragon would grow to the size of the wealth of that gem.
Something you should know about Merlin, he’s a rather handy man to know. He’s learned in more than dragon knowledge. He also knows a thing or two about enchantments. Like making the interior of a certain pouch larger than what it appears to be.
My hands were still raised in the air as I finished my story. I looked around at the crossbows aimed at my chest. This merry band of men, as they called themselves, peaking out from trees and bushes,
“That’s a good story,” a man wrapped in a cloak said. “But we’ll still be having that money pouch”
I reached down slowly as I heard the creak of their crossbows twitch.
“I feel it’s necessary for you to understand, as many men can’t comprehend,” I responded as I untied the money pouch from my belt.
I speak softly as I drop the pouch to the ground.
“Their minds can’t process what they see in the short amount of time they have left.”
The pouch hits the dirt and pops open, spilling coins onto the ground. Rivers of coins as if a whole mountain of them had toppled over. Jewels and gems were among the pile. Swords, shields, suits of armor. It were as if the kings treasury had been flipped on its side.
And then from the pouch stretched a great scaly foot, claws reflecting the sunlight. A leg followed of incredible size. Impossible size. Like a tree this leg came forth and then a snout. The nostrils, hot breath too, and the bridge of a nose. Then eyes, a deep and dark orange flecked with black and gold. It’s blue and green scales shimmered in the light, catching it like a pond. Great horns curled around its crown wreathed in rings of silver bands.
The great beast unfurled it’s wings and shaded the sun. It could see above the trees if it’s neck weren’t curled down bringing it’s head to face me. I reached up with my left hand, finger adorned by my single silver ring, and scratched under her chin in that spot I knew she liked. She watched me point across the glade at the men now frozen in place by their fear.
“Thieves,” I spoke to her.
To this day, I still don’t know if telling the story helps them process what they see in the very short time they have left.
When you learned your mother was a goddess, things finally seemed to fall into place. The other demigods laughed at you, the only child born to the goddess of the hearth, Hestia. But your power was so much more than they could dream of.
Being born to a goddess was something I never imagined to have happened to me, and really, least of all to a goddess of virginity, so really, Hestia as a mother? I didn’t believe that.
But dad told me he had been at the oven with papa and they had stoked the fire, they poured wine and sacrifices bread and oil and meats to the flame, and begged the goddess to let them have family together to gather in this home, a family to gather around a hearth and to love.
And listen to their prayers she did, sculpting me from embers and ash and blowing life into me with a spark from her flames, kissing my forehead once before she left, leaving me forever with her mark on my face.
That’s what dad told me, and now it all makes much more sense.
I never ran out of s'more stuff, ya know? Even if I had definitely just used up my last chocolate for a cake, there’d be a new perfectly preserved package of it in my cupboard. Marshmallows empty cause of my hot chocolate? No silly, there is still some left in the box somehow.
I also play the guitar, at the campfires I always played and lead the chorus, but never do my fingers turn to blisters, and I never need to rest my voice.
It also explains why I have always been at home anywhere and with anyone, I could sit down, and I was home where I was and the people with me would be my family.
Other demigods mocked me, I am the child of the goddess of the home, of the hearth, a cooking deity they’d call her.
It was…rude, but it was fine, I could deal with it. I didn’t have a cabin full of siblings, but whoever stopped by was family, right?
And it was totally fine to leave me behind when they went into battle, I am no good with weaponry, but I could still follow them, grab some food for them, they’d be hungry after all the fighting.
And they seemed almost concerned when I ran onto the battlefield barefooted and in my hoodie and sweatpants and apron, rushing towards a dragon and a son of Thanatos.
Their screams were scared when the useless child of a goddess ran onto the battlefield, and this boy actually tried to hold me back, even if his arms were shattered and his skin was scorched.
They were shocked when the battle ended with me.
They would’ve known I can’t get burned from all the times I’d stumbled into the campfire or spilled tea.
They should’ve known I can make anyone and anything calm down quickly enough.
They should’ve known I can protect anyone behind me by raising my hand.
A hearth does not burn, it warms and nutures. A family calms and cares, not aggravates. A home does not abandon, it protects.
I am the son of Hestia, and my mother gave me the ability to be a hearth anywhere I went. It is safe with me, for anyone.
I ended wars before, this one was no different.
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.
This is amazing!
Prompt #14219
"We built the town around the witch. She used her magic to help us, and we built her a home out of what would have been her pyre."
It had been centuries since the pyre had decayed, centuries more since it had been built. The story itself had long been forgotten, not even a myth any longer.
But the city center fountain remained. The original town square was replaced with new brick. Then new concrete. Then a market. A well took its place. And a town fire ring after. The blacksmith took over for a decade or so. And his son after him. And on and on. A hundred different structures. The long history of the city center fountain was littered with character. And littered with magic.
The statue at the center of the fountain was made of bronze. Most of it was a faded green, weathered with age. But one piece still shown brightly like gold, reflecting the sunlight. Her outstretched hand.
Daily, tourists would walk up the path that split the fountain, take their picture, touch her hand. It brought luck, good fortune, positive energy, good karma. Did it really bring those things? Maybe. Maybe not. But those who passed by believed it did and perhaps that was enough.
In a world torn by war, soldiers marched into the city. In cities previous, they pulled men and women from their homes and separated their children. Some were executed in the streets simply because the soldiers could. Others were loaded into train cars and sent to camps. Their intention was the same here.
The soldiers looted and pillaged, setting fire to some buildings and blowing holes in others with explosives. They dragged the citizens into the town square. Children were thrown to one side while any able-bodied men and women were pulled to the other. The elderly and sick were left in the middle.
[VIOLENCE AND BLOOD WARNING]
Buildings throughout the city were aflame. Patches of smoke dotted the horizon. Screams could still be heard as people were rounded up, an occasional gunshot echoing through the alleys. Valuables were taken from every citizen, including those left in the middle. Then they were lined up and one by one, they were shot in the head, collapsing in the street. Their blood collected around the fountain, the low point in the town square.
Screaming children were loaded into trucks. Crying parents were forced the other direction to the rail yard. Resistance was met with brutality, a quick beating and a bullet to the head.
Meanwhile, a woman knelt in front of the fountain, lowering hand to ground, raising it to her mouth, and repeating the gesture. A group of soldiers noticed and called for her to stand. They shouted commands but she continued until a shot rang out. The bullet tore through her flesh and shattered the bones in her skull. Blood splattered into the fountain while it’s host turned towards the men.
They could see now her mouth was dripping blood, her hand colored red as well. Her teeth were stained red but the black rot underneath could still be seen. Her eyes were bloodshot as if she hadn’t slept in days. Her pupils were wide, drinking in the light as if they thought they’d never see it again. Her skin hung loosely on her musculature, wiry grey hair sticking in all angles. She was unimpressive and repulsive all at once.
The woman shuffled towards them with creaking joints, her body remembering how to move again. The soldiers shot her chest but she still moved forward. She locked eyes and lifted her hand to one of the men. She motioned towards one of the others. The man removed a knife from his belt and stabbed the other in the throat.
She laughed, I hoarse and breathy laugh as she turned him to another. He slit another throat before his own friends shot him down. Three remained. She only had to flex her fingers to remove another, his own skin set ablaze. He screamed in agony as his own flesh melted. The last two ran. They ran as fast as they could but they couldn’t escape. She reached out both her hands and grasped the air, pulling the men back into to her.
She threw them both to the side and as the one struggled to regain his footing, she smashed the others head into the street. His skull cracked and she smashed again. Over and over until his brains were leaking onto the ground, his eyes still twitching. Her attention turned towards the last soldier crawling away on the ground. She brought her face close to his and she could smell the blood and rotting flesh between her teeth.
She ran a dirty finger down the side of his face and said “you will live so I may eat your beating heart.”
It wasn’t a comment, but a command. He knew, as she reached into his chest and broke his sternum, cracking ribs and removing them from her prize. He knew he would not die until she had her prize. His screams filled the air as she buried her face in his chest cavity, feasting on her organs. He laid squirming at the fountain underneath the outstretched arm of the bronze statue; a woman with a billowing dress, hair frozen blowing in the breeze.
She stood, surveying her surroundings. They were much different than centuries before. A whole new world to prey upon. She laughed aloud at this city. They, like all the others, would try and fail. They would fall at her feet like so many before. Only her sister knew how to contain her. She had built the city around the witch, keeping her locked within. She had used her magic to help them, those pathetic villagers. She looked back at the statue, nearly her own image if not her twin. She laughed again as she made her way through the city in search of a home built of wood. If it hadn’t been her pyre before, it certainly would now the witch thought as she pictured her sister covered in flames.
Noooo don't get a tattoo it's so permanent blah blah blah my tattoo is whatever I want it to be and today it's an octopus
The House passed a bill on Tuesday to protect marriage equality, a direct response to an opinion from Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas
Prompt #1030
He wants to make his words grand, to convey just how much he loves her. But he fumbles and flusters and he says exactly what he means, with a hand in hers.
“You feel like spring.”
She giggled at him.
“What do you mean?” She asked.
He blushed hard and smiled sheepishly as his free hand rubbed the back of his head.
He tried to find the right words but again, he couldn’t quite get there.
“Do you remember the day the snow melts after winter and you can see the green grass again?” He asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
“And the trees. The trees begin to bud and pretty soon they flower?”
Again she replied yes.
“The sun rises earlier and earlier and the day is just brighter. A little less grey.” he continued. “You can hear the animals again. Squirrels in the trees. Insects in the grass and air. The world comes alive again. The breeze is warm. It caresses your skin instead of biting it.”
“That’s how you feel to me,” he said.
“Oh,” she responded. “I quite like the winter though.”
She happily continued to hold his hand but the happiness was missed by him. He thought harder while his hand slipped from hers. She noticed and looked at his pensive face.
Finally, he decided on what to say.
“You feel like winter then.”
She smirked as she laced her fingers back into his.
“But you like the spring,” she said.
He blushed and spoke softly. “Yes, but I like you.”
She smiled. It was a soft smile. Not a grin but a smile laced with the beginnings of fondness, the earliest bud of love.
She stood up on her tip toes and kissed him.
“You feel like spring,” she said.
His grip grew just a little tighter, a bit more firm, ever so much more sure than what it was as they continued to walk. Because he knew what spring felt like.
@the2headedcalf / On Love, Alain de Botton / @tilthat / Céline Sciamma / Twitter: Nightshiftmp3 / Twitter: Thepartypope / Portrait of a Lady on Fire / The Clean House, Sarah Ruhl / The History of the Band-Aid / weird-facts.org /
Forcing schools to out students six weeks after learning about their sexual orientation puts LGBTQ+ youth in danger. Florida schools should be a place where kids feel supported, not scared.
This bill already required schools to inform families that their children identify as LGBTQ+ upon coming out. Outing students was not a requirement when believed that doing so might lead to abuse, neglect, or abandonment. With this amendment, there is no longer a way around it.
This bill will force children to hide who they are in fear of being outed. Our youth will be at an even greater risk of abuse, neglect, and even homelessness. This bill is dangerous for LGBTQ+ students and harmful to education.
Florida’s Don’t Say Gay amendment is not okay. Do better, Ron DeSantis.
Visit stopdesantis.org for more info.
Touching
Feeling another human’s touch.
touching foreheads
running fingers through hair
hiding face in neck
caressing the other’s hand
feeling their pulse
patting the other’s head
holding hands
shielding the other one with their body
listening to the other’s heartbeat
spooning at night
laying their hand on the other’s neck
pushing a strand of hair behind their ear
nudging the other one
putting an arm around the other’s waist
hugging each other
massaging them
holding the other’s chin up
squishing the other’s cheek
high fiving
bandaging/stitching up an injury
kissing the other’s brow
falling asleep on the other’s shoulder
carrying the other one in their arms
whispering in their ear, lips touching the skin
stroking the other’s arm soothingly
kissing the top of their head
pulling the other one towards them
feeling for each other in the dark
tickling the other one
grabbing onto their arm
doing a pinky swear
caressing the other’s back
tasting their smile
washing the other’s body
kissing their bruises and scars
lifting the other one up
putting their head on the other’s chest
stroking their leg
leaning into the other’s side
patting them on the back
sitting close and knees touching
braiding the other’s hair
giving them a piggy-back ride
sitting on the other’s lap
feeling their temperature
linking arms with each other
touching their elbow to get their attention
dancing with each other
holding onto the other’s shoulders for support
putting a hand over the other’s mouth to shut them up
Hand-holding|Hugs|Kisses
7. Spooning at night
The L-frame couch is the perfect couch. Realistically, the couch itself is just as good as any other. But when we lay on opposite ends and meet in the middle; mmm! It’s fantastic! The slow crawl from relaxing my had on your legs to the gentle spoon at your side.
My neck tucked into your lower shoulder, head resting on your chest. I can smell the rose lotion on your body. It’s a scent now I associate with you. I can feel the rhythm of your heart on my cheek. A sweet melody.
My chest pressed up to your side. The heat from your body draws me in close. Your smell, your heart beat, your heat; it’s so easy for me to fall asleep right here. Your arm is cradled around my neck and back and rests on my side. Your finger lazily tracing my ribs. It’s a gentle touch, not quite tickling. Im not even sure if you know you’re doing it
I rest my hand on your perfect belly. Flat, not too tight. It has just a little bit of squish before I can feel your abs. I love to stroke my fingers across it and hear your hums of approval.
My leg hugs yours and nestles over your hip. The fit is like a puzzle piece falling into play. My body facing your side, my leg is just higher than yours. I can easily drape mine over top of you without feeling an awkward position. It’s not too much weight on you. Just enough for your love language of physical touch to be fulfilled.
I feel the heat from your body, the rhythm of your heart, my fingers wander on your skin. I’m nearly asleep when you bend your head down and put a kiss on the top of my head. Who needs a bed when you have a couch?
GIF Prompt #46
Don’t go out in the dark at night
The spirits dance in the wood.
They’ll come for your blood if you let them
Your soul will be theirs if you go.
Do not give what their dark hearts require
Shut your ears to their song and stay in.
Grandmother repeated the verse every night in front of the fire before bed. I had heard it so many times I filled in the rest anytime someone said “Don’t go”.
They said the woods around our village held spirits; forest being, old gods, ancient ones. Many claimed to have seen them in the dark dewy morning. A shadow behind the trees, a dark shape in the water.
I didn’t believe in the wood until my baby was taken in the night from her crib. I called for her, we searched the forest as best as we could, but the trees have a way of turning you around. In one moment you could be here, the next you may be there. Shortly after I moved up the mountain, up into the forest where the water came down from the rocks. There I practiced my craft. The villagers would come with their ailments and I would ease their suffering, though only during the day and only with enough time to get back to the village before sunset. The legends and superstitions still held though I was unsure what I could believe.
Their payments varied. Often food from a hunt, fabric or skins, sometimes wine, occasionally the satisfaction of flesh. Two years past the loss of my first child, I sat near the river sweaty and panting, holding my newborn in my arms. Barely an hour old and I could hear the forest moving, drawn to this new life and the smell of his birth on the ground and in the river. The memory of my daughter crawled back into my head, a solitary cry in the night. I held my son tighter and suddenly became aware of the forest. It was like I was listening for the first time. The branches swaying, the trees creaking, the river running. It set off an unease in my belly that had me cowering into my cabin.
That night, I stayed awake by the fire. I could hear the pawing of leaves outside. Heavy, heated breath. My son slept next to me near the warmth of the flames. I focused on them, watched them crackle and dance. It was like a daze as I watched them. I was out of my own mind until a creeping recollection appeared. My grandmother’s verse brought me back to myself. I turned to my son and cried in fear as a creature held him in its arms. It was naked with features like a human but it’s skin hung loosely from its bones it was hunched in its back. It was bent over clutching my son to its shriveled chest.
It’s sunken eyes stared at me with what appeared to be a smile on its face. It’s mouth was split at the sides with cracked lips curled outward around the gums. It blinked once then sprinted out the front door. Fear held me frozen for a heartbeat until my brain screamed after my child. Before I realized what I was doing, I was already out the door after it.
My feet pounded the grass as I searched in the darkness for the creature. I spun frantically looking for the direction to go when I heard a series of terrifying sounds. I great bark, a strangled yell of a child followed by the sound of flesh being torn from bone. I panicked, all logic left me as I sprinted towards the cries of my child.
He laid there in the grass at the edge of the forest, wailing at the night. He was covered in blood and great gashes scarred the earth where something was torn away from him towards the trees. Even in the dark, I could see and smell the dying embers of singed grass. My confusion and fear were overwhelmed by the sense of calm for my child. I scooped him up, scanned the tree line one more time, then ran back to my home.
I didn’t know why had happened. I couldn’t explain it. I washed my baby boy in the washtub and kept him held to my chest the rest of the night and every night after. It was a week later when I found the answer to that night.
It was late in the evening. Remnants of the sun still streaked the sky but the stars were beginning to peak. I turned a dear carcass over a fire. My son was close to me, close to the fire. Always close now. I found now my gaze continually shift from my son to whatever I was doing, back to my son. My eyes always found him.
I bathed the meat in a buttery rub to keep it moist. When I next looked at my son, my breath caught in my throat. Next to him lay a great wolf. It’s fur smoldered. Embers dropped from it into the grass. It rested its head across its own paws, body curled around my son. It’s eyes, black coal, looked at me.
I let out a slow breath. My eyes still on the beast, I noticed a carcass of a human behind it. No. Not a human. A humanoid, it’s long arms longer than mine, it’s mouth cut wide and hanging skin. I turned to the cooking meat and went to work. I cut a hind leg clean off and offered it to the wolf. He stood and eyed it. He gently took from me and turned towards the carcass. He pawed at it with his fiery foot and the remains burst into flame.
That night was not the last I saw of the wolf spirit. And it was not the last spirit I saw. I tended the glade I lived in. Tended to the creatures as I could, to the humans that came to seek my healing. More than once evil found its way to my door step. It did not make it much further. I saw many spirits in the forest. But late in the night on the forest’s edge, I could see the ember wolf glow.
Make your way in the dark at night
Seek comfort from the spirits in the wood.
The dark ones seek you blood and soul
They’ll come for you if they can.
But greater still are the gods in the trees
Before them, the dark ones flee.
gay_irl
GIF Prompt #51
I remember when we met and the months after. The smile on my face when my phone lit up from you. The happiness when I was with you.
I remember our first shower together and your obvious excitement. Your hands trailing my body as soap turned to a lather. I wanted to learn every dip, every curve.
I remember late night movies on the couch. You holding me close to your chest. You falling asleep over and over again, my sleepy boy. Running my fingers through your hair.
I remember your bed. Your tall body could barely fit on my queen and you had to sleep diagonally. I would lay in your bed and roll over three times before I would find your body again.
I remember the passion between us too. Your lips press against mine. The intimacy of body on body and the feeling of you existing with me.
I remember everything about you but now that you’re gone, I would give it all away to only feel your hand in mine again.
You have been sentenced to death in a magical court. The court allows all prisoners to pick how they die and they will carry it out immediately. You have it all figured out until the prisoner before you picks old age and is instantly transformed into a dying old man. Your turn approaches.
I think I’d have minded less if I’d committed a truly heinous crime. Something that warranted death. Or even if I was the kind of person who would enjoy flinging a last defiance at my execution.
It was all just a show, anyway. They did it every year. They brought out a selection of criminals, and the Sorcerer who ruled us showed his power by bringing about their deaths by magic. Just to show, every year, what happened to anyone who crossed him.
There was a time, probably, when the people he executed really were rebels or assassins. In latter days he had to take what the dungeons offered. I was dragged up in chains between a pickpocket, sobbing in terror, and a man who’d killed another man in a brawl. There were few criminals of any note, by then. So instead of choosing the wickedest criminals, they chose based on appearance. The man who’d been in the brawl had a face like a clenched fist, and looked like a ruffian. The pickpocket, aging and with hands beginning to tremble, was a different kind of example. As was I.
“There aren’t many pretty ones, this year,” the man who chose me had said, examining me. “But this one will do. Not young, but not old, a woman, well-favoured enough for the gallows… what was her crime?”
The warder shrugged. “She tried to kill one of the sheriffs.”
The man looked down at me and I shrugged. “I hit him with a washing stick, because he tried to extort money from me, and he was a baby about it.” I refused to treat this as anything but pathetic, even after my sentencing. “I didn’t even break any bones.”
“Treason, then,” the man said, nodding. “Attacking the servants of the law. That will look well on the list. Send her.”
I had been debating ever since what to choose. Something quick? Something painless? I considered demanding that I suffer the attack I supposedly made on the sheriff, but then I realized the Sorcerer would only give me what the man had said I was going to do, and that was not a pleasant way to die. I had all but decided on something swift and relatively painless. Beheading with the sharpest of blades sounded good. It would be quick.
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