A mark on your forehead identifies the god you must worship to stay alive, usually by joining its local church or temple. Your mark is unknown, meaning an old, forgotten god sponsored you. To survive, you must either find an old temple to worship at, or do the arduous task of building a new one
Nobody in your small coastal village has ever seen the Godmark that you were born with. It’s a dark russet sequence of criss-crossing lines, with a vertical arrowhead on the left and a circle on the right, just over where your brow meets your temple. Some of the traders who come down from the mountain say it looks like one of the scripts used in the hinterlands, but not a language that any of them recognize.
“If she’s got the temperament for it, she should try her luck inland,” they advise. “No point her starting a temple here if she’d find her people elsewhere, with a little searching.”
At first, your parents are reluctant to send you away. Though you’re well-behaved and diligent in your chores, you’re a sickly child with no God to worship. And besides, you’ve always been the dreamy type–inclined to lose track of time watching the path of rain droplets chasing down the window, or the fronds of an anemone as it sways in a rock pool.
Instead, they send you to the temple of the Storm to learn all you’ll need for your own God. You are happy there, for a time: making up beds and serving food to the castaways who pass through, keeping vigil at the lighthouse, burning incense and praying with the loyal widows and orphans of the drowned.
One such widow, an old, old lady, touches the mark on your forehead. “I recognise those letters. We wrote this way in the town where I grew up, way off past the mountains.”
Your heartbeat quickens. “What does it say!?”
She squints, eyes engulfed by wrinkles and hidden behind smudged glass. “A… Ar… Oh, I can’t remember how to speak it. I left before I learnt my letters properly. There was a war, you know. But I remember,” she says, mistily, “the most beautiful pink and white flowers used to grow, on the borders of the wheat fields…”
You try to ask more questions, but remembering the war distresses her, and so you speak of other things. When she’s drifted off to sleep, you get to your feet, go home and tell your parents: you are leaving in search of your God.
My adaptation of the God of Arepo short story, which was originally up at ShortBox Comics Fair for charity. You can get a copy of the DRM-free ebook here for free - and I'd encourage you to donate to Mighty Writers or The Ministry of Stories in exchange.
Again it's an honour to be drawing one of my favourite short stories ever. Thank you so much for the original authors for creating this story; and for everyone who bought a copy and donated to the above non-profits.
This reminds me of that one story where this guy ran a marathon and whenever someone would try to talk to him, he would run a little faster to avoid small talk conversation with other competitors and ended up winning the marathon
ummm no offense but new york to haiti should be measured as the area between the two latitudes, not the longitudes. this graph is incorrect and vastly underestimates the total region of the earth in which Jason Derulo knows what the girls want
Have we considered measuring by neither latitude nor longitude but in all area that would extend perpendicular from the diagonal of the two places?
There are many different interpretations of the data, and until more is available, we ought not conclude anything at this point.
In light of that, I posit this alternative map of regions where Jason Derulo is potentially claiming where he knows what girls want:
As we can see, if we assume that model, the vast majority of the area where Jason Derulo knows what girls want is either open ocean (the Atlantic, the Mediterranean Sea) or sparsely populated (the northern Sahara, the northern Arabian Desert, various desert portions of Iran and Afghanistan, and the southern Tibetan Plateau). Four of the ten most populated countries on the planet have no territory in it (Nigeria, Brazil, Japan, and Indonesia), and two which do have relatively little territory in it (the US and Russia). It is suggested that for all his boasting, Jason Derulo does not know what a probable majority of the world’s girls want.
Perhaps Jason Derulo’s intention was never to proclaim to be omnipotent to the interests of the female gender. Perhaps he was instead expressing his humanity, or the limits of his knowledge. I applaud Jason Derulo. Jason Derulo is not just another 2 dimensional character. Jason Derulo has depth.Jason Derulo has limitations and has come to terms with them. Jason Derulo knows Jason Derulo. Thats why he makes it a point to say his name so much.
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The Mayans had mastered water pressure and had fountains and toilets as early as 750 AD.
Aztecs had running water and sewage.
The Victorians In the mid-1800s were dying of cholera because they just dumped their raw shit in the river Thames. They wouldn’t shower for months at a time because they were afraid of the polluted water.
My history Professor snapped on a class of 200 - 300 students at once because they kept writing in their assignments that Natives to North and South America were less advanced and less civilized than Europeans. She didn’t even bother to say how racist it was past one comment, she then literally listed all the things they said in their assignments and debunked them. In sum, Europeans came to the Americas because their civilizations were dirty, underdeveloped, starved, plagued, impoverished, and war-torn. So, the whole foundation of the idea of the supremacy of Europeans/white ppl and their countries and culture was all fabricated to justify their greed and the reality THEY needed resources, refuge, and knowledge to support themselves and their willingness to commit genocide, instigate conflict, and enslave to do so.
Europe legit spent most of human history as a backwater of civilization, and the only way they got “ahead” at all was through genocide, slavery, and biological warfare
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