FACIAL MICRO EXPRESSIONS FOR WRITERS <3

blake kathryn
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Jules of Nature
Peter Solarz

if i look back, i am lost
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

Product Placement
Cosmic Funnies
d e v o n
No title available

titsay
One Nice Bug Per Day
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Acquired Stardust

Kaledo Art
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
No title available
Keni
occasionally subtle
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
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@uniquelyaro
FACIAL MICRO EXPRESSIONS FOR WRITERS <3
so im doing my thesis on amatonormativity in books right, and rn im reading through research on ace and aro identities as part of it. and i am so genuinely tired of aromanticism being always mentioned next to asexuality but almost never (at least in what i've managed to find so far) as you know. its own thing. i get the connections and all that, but can every researcher please stop assuming that every aro person is also ace. and can aromanticism be its own topic for like 5 minutes. im here to write a few pages on this so i can show that i know what im talking about but it's personal to me and i keep having to cut off my ranting. i am not writing this shit to argue with those people. i would like to, but sadly i have a lot of other more interesting things to talk about and if i start going on about aro/aroallo erasure we're not gonna get to those things in a long while, and if i start bringing up the discourse online we're gonna be here even longer
it's personal and upsetting because being aromantic is an important aspect of me and my sexuality is also an important aspect of me and genuinely i feel like i dont get to keep both at the same time in a lot of spaces. im a writer, both fanfic and original stuff, and i am always anxious about how the relationships in my works will be interpreted. i tried to write aro characters and/or platonic relationships with sex involoved and often they have been interpreted as romantic in some aspects anyway. i get that people enjoy romance - i enjoy romance ao3 history be my witness - but id also like for them to not make it the main focus where it is not.
this post is being sponsored by my frustration at lack of academic resources on aromanticism available to me that aren't actually about asexuality + my frustration writing platonic relationships. i am however aware that theres a wonderful community that does in fact get me and writes amazing fic (hello once again ao3 history) and thinks a similar way. it just gets so tiring when trying to engage in academic discourse, especially since english isnt my native language and trying to research this stuff in my first language is like heres two articles about it and both are treating being aro as an afterthought
I don't know if this is what you're looking for OP, but it is research specifically focusing on the aromantic community and identity.
so im doing my thesis on amatonormativity in books right, and rn im reading through research on ace and aro identities as part of it. and i am so genuinely tired of aromanticism being always mentioned next to asexuality but almost never (at least in what i've managed to find so far) as you know. its own thing. i get the connections and all that, but can every researcher please stop assuming that every aro person is also ace. and can aromanticism be its own topic for like 5 minutes. im here to write a few pages on this so i can show that i know what im talking about but it's personal to me and i keep having to cut off my ranting. i am not writing this shit to argue with those people. i would like to, but sadly i have a lot of other more interesting things to talk about and if i start going on about aro/aroallo erasure we're not gonna get to those things in a long while, and if i start bringing up the discourse online we're gonna be here even longer
it's personal and upsetting because being aromantic is an important aspect of me and my sexuality is also an important aspect of me and genuinely i feel like i dont get to keep both at the same time in a lot of spaces. im a writer, both fanfic and original stuff, and i am always anxious about how the relationships in my works will be interpreted. i tried to write aro characters and/or platonic relationships with sex involoved and often they have been interpreted as romantic in some aspects anyway. i get that people enjoy romance - i enjoy romance ao3 history be my witness - but id also like for them to not make it the main focus where it is not.
this post is being sponsored by my frustration at lack of academic resources on aromanticism available to me that aren't actually about asexuality + my frustration writing platonic relationships. i am however aware that theres a wonderful community that does in fact get me and writes amazing fic (hello once again ao3 history) and thinks a similar way. it just gets so tiring when trying to engage in academic discourse, especially since english isnt my native language and trying to research this stuff in my first language is like heres two articles about it and both are treating being aro as an afterthought
I don't know if this is what you're looking for OP, but it is research specifically focusing on the aromantic community and identity.
downloading a fic when ao3 dies (when you have the link)
looks like ao3 is down again and i was in the middle of a multi chapter fic when it died on me.
and if that happens to you, this is what you can do to download the fic:
copy paste https://download.archiveofourown.org/downloads/00000000/fic.html in your browser url
replace the pink bit with the number right after /works (that's the work id)
for instance, in https://archiveofourown.org/works/44970790/chapters/113154673 the highlighted bit (44970790) would be the number you swap for the 0s
the download link will look like https://download.archiveofourown.org/downloads/44970790/fic.html
if you want the fic to be downloaded as an epub instead, use .epub at the end of that link
it should start downloading on your device
i'm sure a bunch of people know this and use it but in case you don't, hope this helps
Sims 4 has released a free update to the base game with a number of new pride items, which was a nice pleasant surprise for a Thursday morning (I'm Australian). I love a free pride update as much as the next queer person.
However.
Of the 12 new items added there is a nice variety of both CAS and Build/Buy items; make up, clothes, shelves, beds, decorations. Only one of these new items has an aro pride swatch, the new knitted pride flag.
It is so disappointing to see a number of beautiful items introduced and then to find out that your identity is included in almost none of them. This is unfortunately nothing new. While there is an aromantic swatch on the in game pride flag, the various pride nails in CAS did not include aromantic colours.
I have posted on the EA forums for the Sims 4 about my disappointment, but I'm not sure much will come of it. If you share my disappointment maybe drop by and leave a comment in support, or reach out to EA yourselves to see if this can be fixed in a future update.
Look, I love a pride update as much as the next queer. I'm glad that in the current political environment that the Sims 4 is making clear th
it was kind of fucked up for wall-e to be that way about fat people now that im thinking about it
I’m never NOT thinking about how the first 40ish minutes of Wall•E are the most evocative, beautiful thing that the Walt Disney company has ever produced bar none, and then the SECOND they reach the space station it becomes the most boring, blunt and extremely ableist “save the earth” animated kids movie in existance for the movie’s remaining sixty minutes. Why did they do that to him.
guys I think maybe the space station part is important to the artistic themes of the movie
frankly i feel like if you read wall-e as fatphobic you're kinda misunderstanding the messaging of the film
I feel like you can make the same messages without putting the idea of being fat/needing mobility aids as a moral failing. I understand where the idea comes from, but just because the idea has good intentions doesn't mean the effect isn't shitty.
"humanity lived on a space socialism ship where everyone had their needs met. They got fat and lazy. They never made any art all they did was get eat and be dumb and use mobility scooters. This is a moral failing. We need to force everyone to work on a farm and grow their own food because that would make them not dumb and lazy"
The notes on this post really illustrate how a lot of people refuse to acknowledge that analysis that looks at the events in a piece of fiction as the result of choices made by the artist and analysis that looks at the events of a piece of fiction as the result of in-universe cause and effect relationships are operating on fundamentally different and often incompatible wavelengths.
"But it makes sense that they were that way because they were FORCED to live a sedentary lifestyle all their life" yeah turns out the critique here is not coming from an in-universe "it doesn't make sense" perspective, it's coming from an out-of-universe "the artists choosing to use fatness and reliance on mobility aids as a visual shorthand for societal decay has fucked up Implications™" perspective.
But guuuys, they're fat and can't walk for in-universe reasons so it's not fatphobic or ableist! Same as how Skimpy Female Superhero wears basically no clothing because she's gotta absorb sunlight for her powers to work, and she's the weakest on her otherwise-male team and getting rescued all the time because of her backstory! It's not saying that fat people and people who use mobility scooters are lazy and that these characteristics are bad, it's just saying that the entire human race became fat and uses mobility scooters because their environment made them lazy, and their fatness and scooters are therefore bad! It's okay if the writers invent an explanation :( .
They could just as easily have made these people fragile-boned and skeletally thin on their Space Diets and climbing about railings on the walls and ceiling in low gravity due to the exact same environmental pressures, but for some reason that didn't happen. I wonder why. I wonder why 'fat people on mobility scooters' was used as the signifier of social decay instead of some other system with just as bad health effects that would make adapting back to Earth life just as difficult. I wonder why those were the signifiers that the writers felt that audiences would immediately grab onto and understand. It must be because it just made the most logical sense with no value judgements attached.
The similarities with stock footage of fat people in Walmart used in fatphobic documentaries is completely accidental, you guys!
Time to bring back the terms Watsonian and Doylist.
it’s been 5 million years but this thing still gets notes with like “can someone explain this to me in a shorter, easier way” so here it is:
Remember, if people are criticizing elements of a story like Wall•E's fatphobia they are speaking from a Doylist perspective, not a Watsonian one. Defending the elements with in-story reasoning isn't going to cut it when the problem is the implicit (or explicit) bias of the author(s).
Actually nah, on second thought I'm gonna block the OP of that last post. Going through their blog shows the most rancid acephobic takes and they're for sure not worth talking to.
I was hoping I'd misunderstood, but apparently not.
Reminder, you can be mad about the way aros (especially alloaros) are treated without shitting on the ace community, who is just as much in the trenches as us. It's not the oppression Olympics people, grow up and learn to work together.
there's a reason that "just aro" is a thing and "just ace" isn't
(hint: it's because aromanticism is an inherently more nuanced experience)
Wait I'm confused, are you implying that there aren't people who identify solely with the label asexual?
hope is a skill
hope is a weapon you are trained to wield
favourite additions
You cannot hide this in the tags, bestie. This is too lovely to keep a secret.
It may not be apparent to everyone how to easily find out who wrote the poem in the tags, so: @mumblesplash
(an instant-classic example of a Tumblr thread where so many people add value!)
So wherever you look, be it near or far,
know Hope can be found wherever you are.
I realized that there’s not a jot of plain text in this thread, so here’s a transcript of @mumblesplash’s full verse and @pawnshopsouls’ coda:
Hope is a weapon Hope is a skill Hope is a plant you can care for or kill Hope is a discipline Something you choose Hard to stop looking for Easy to lose Hope isn’t something to have or to take If you can’t find it it’s something you make Make it from willpower Make it from spite Learn how to weaponize love in a fight Hope is a shield and a thing to defend An end in itself and a means to an end So wherever you look, be it near or far, know Hope can be found wherever you are.
So I was just thinking about those posts you get in the Discworld tag about the way belief works on the Disc and how Vetinari and/or Vimes is so integral to the way Ankh-Morpork works that they might just sort of… not ever die.
You know, the ones like ‘Vimes is going to become a god of policemen and he’s going to hate it”.
Well. What if it happens to both of them? There are two parts to the city, after all. ‘Proud Ankh’ needs taking down a peg or two (or seven) by Sam Vimes, and if anyone can terrify ‘pestilent Morpork’ into being better then it’s Havelock Vetinari. And they can drive each other mad with stealth puns for centuries, if they want.
Also, this would potentially make them literally Law And Order, and that just seems very fitting in a way that would probably annoy them both.
My favourite sort of riff on this is the idea that they aren’t there ALL the time, but if someone who’s taken over their authority or whatever starts fucking up, they become Active.
Sort of like Carrot’s comment in Men At Arms: when you need them, you REALLY need them, but when you don’t, best if they just go away and get on with things (in their cases, being dead). So when things are going all right it’s very quiet and ordinary.
And then when things start going WRONG suddenly you have things like the current patrician waking up to a Very Angry Manifestation of the Late Duke of Ankh, proceeding to remind him or her (would it be matrician, then?) about How Things Are Done (By Law).
Or the abusive Commander of the Watch coming into his or her office to find a calm man, thin man like a predatory flamingo there to discuss the virtues of temperance and accountability and not having his/her Watch-house and/or personal lodgings being literally struck from on high by a meteor (can’t be lightning, Vimes and Io can’t even exchange a civil sentence, but Vimes has always been good at getting around these things).
And yes in the mean time when things ARE quiet, they can watch everything and get on each other’s nerves and it’s basically like Colon’s office except instead of for old street monsters it’s for ancient legends of civil justice who can’t quite stand to even fade away and still have enough people believing and invoking them that they can stick around and growl when people get out of line.
Discworld Heritage Post
*vibrating* it’s the cowboy witch poem it’s the cowboy witch poem it’s the cowboy witch poem
ive had this queued since february.
Sherlock Holmes modern adaptation but the main characters (Sherlock, Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Irene Adler, and maybe even Lestrade) are all vampires and they’ve just been doing their thing since the time period of the original books
Irene gets to be from New Jersey like she is in canon and she’ll occasionally show up and help Sherlock with a case but they don’t ever date or hook up or anything
OR… Lestrade isn’t a vampire, but there’s been generations of Lestrades, and they all have to deal with this guy
the latest one isn’t even a cop she works nights at the 7-11 and Sherlock keeps coming in at 2am to slam two gallons of Monster Energy and ask her what what the fuck an “amogus” is (it’s case related) and tell her how much better she is at lateral thinking than her tragically straightforward ancestor and also is her girlfriend still going to school to be a defense attorney, how’s she handling the workload
okay, but who turned them and when? bc there is a lot of delicious angst and goofiness to be exlored if say:
irene has kids before being turned and is invested in her descendants
john was already with mary and has to see her age and pass
mrs. hudson is the vampire queen
the lestrades are like. the opposite of the vanhelsings. generational disinterest in vampires, but the holmes enclave keeps roping them back in.
1) Irene adopts and yes she is The Cool Grandma for generations of children forevermore
2) Mary is also a vampire, she got turned at the same time as John, she and Sherlock have Wine Wednesdays every third Saturday of the month
3) Mrs. Hudson is immortal but she’s not a vampire and nobody can figure out what her deal is
4) absolutely 100% correct
whenever anybody asks how they got turned the response is something along the lines of “that was like. Over five years ago. How do you expect me to even remember that.” or “idk man I just woke up like this” or “got bitten by a mosquito on a case” and it’s never the same twice
Yes the Sherlock Holmes books exist and whenever they’re brought up Watson gets very upset that this dude stole his writing and considers him his archnemesis despite the fact that Doyle is a totally normal human and dead as hell
imagine Watson’s frothing rage at the Doyle estate insisting Holmes can never be shown having emotions. like he didn’t personally watch Sherlock weep during the moon landing.
Holmes and Watson are embroiled in a legal battle against the Doyle estate and have been for almost 100 angry, angry years
this is only ever mentioned in passing for comedic effect
Okay, but consider The Problem (Aka Sherlock Holmes) doesn’t hit ALL The Lestrades, only those that Holmes can rightfully refer to as “Inspector Lestrade”. Obviously, police inspectors and detectives are affected by The Problem (as family lore refers to Holmes) but, like, subsequent generations have learned how loose the definition is. Our latest Lestrade, let’s call her Billie, gets called up by her boss one day, and her boss is like “hey, Corporate says somebody at the store needs to know about health regulations and stuff. If you take a couple night classes and get this certification, we’ll give you a bonus on your next paycheck, and one of your jobs will be to sign off that we don’t have mold everywhere”. And Billie is like “Sure, sound good, whatever” and goes to the night classes and takes the test at the end and the tired bureaucrat who runs the course is like “Okay, congratulations, you’re now a Certified Health And Hygiene Inspector (Class D-Small Retail Food Storage and Service)” And Billie just freezes and is like “Ummmm, is it possible to get something different? Maybe I can be a Health and Hygine Expert? And the bureaucrat is like “No, you passed the test, you’re now a Certified Health and Hygiene Inspector (Class D- Small Retail Food Storage and Service)” And Billie is just SWEATING as she leaves the building, because she knows about The Problem, but maybe this wouldn’t count? Like, it’s not like she works for the government or anything. It’s just a dumb piece of paper that says she’s allowed to fill out other dumb pieces of paper. That can’t count. It’s not like her JOB changed or anything. But, as soon as she steps out into the night and makes her way to the Bus stop, a slim figure steps out of the shadows and falls into step next to her. “Ah, Inspector Lestrade, congratulations on the promotion. I have a few questions for you about-” And Health And Hygiene Inspector (Class D- Small Retail Food Storage and Service) Billie Lestrade repeats the three words that have become motto and mantra for her family. “Go Away Holmes”.
An old dragon just wants to be left alone, but the new village that just cropped up a few decades ago keep leaving gifts at his doorstep… and now they’ve just left a maiden!
Dragons, long lived and seldom born as they are, do not think as men do, in days and hours. Dragons think in years, decades, centuries. They blink, and five times has the world gone round the sun. They sleep, and a decade has passed. So, Varas paid little mind to the village built at the base of his mountain.
They were so tiny, really. These little places humans scraped out of the wild. fragile, even. This wasn’t even the first time a village had been built here. The first had come and gone so quickly he had not even noticed it until he had stomped through its ruins on one of his walks. Goblin raid, if he had had to wager. Nothing left but ash and bone.
So Varas paid them little heed and went back to his doings, flying, hunting, sleeping, pondering as Dragons are want to do.
If he had to pinpoint the moment things changed, it was when he had woken one day to find a thief robbing his hoard. A dragon’s hoard was his pride, and that could not stand. He had awoken in a rare fury, burning the thief to cinders, and casting his ruined form from his cave.
He supposed the body must have landed in the village, because soon after, things changed.
They started leaving him things. At first it was livestock. A cow, a goat, a drop in the bucket of his appetite. Still, they were appreciated. Food was food, and the livestock tasted good enough.
Then it was more exotic things, accompanying the livestock. Treasure. Rare books. Even fancy dresses. The treasure was appreciated, of course. The books even more so, his library was the pride of his hoard after all. He had no idea what to do with the dresses so he stashed them in the back of his hoard, thinking they might one day be of use.
It had been a status quo of sorts, one he had tolerated even as the village grew and grew, becoming a small town.
Then, some foolish knight had come to slay him That happened to Dragons, foolish humans thinking they could make themselves legends by slaying a dragon. Pah, only the greatest of humans earned that right, and their names were venerated even among the Dragons.
Sigurd, George, Heracles. Their names were etched in the memory of every Dragon. This knight was none of them. Some foolish vassal of a vassal with ahead too big for his own good. Varas had not even bothered with his fire. He had merely knocked the human off the cliff outside his cave and let the mountain do the rest.
After that, the humans left a girl.
-
He had just awoken, stretched and yawned, and found the usual offering of a swine and a box of treasure, but with them was a shivering slip of a girl in one of the fine dresses he was now accustomed to getting, although it was almost comically too big for her, and she was shaking, sobbing, and crying.
This… was very strange.
He emerged from his cave and the girl screamed and fell to the ground, shielding her head, muttering and praying.
Now this was just ridiculous.
“Human,” he growled, and the girl froze.
She looked up, slowly, and met his great gaze. “Y- you speak?”
What? Did humans think Dragons were mute? Eh, who cared. “Why are you here?”
She blinked, fear giving way to confusion. “I- I am your sacrifice, great one.”
Sacrifice?! What was this?!
“I have no need for man flesh. Get thee gone from my door.”
He said little more, merely snatched the other offerings, leaving the girl out there, confused and frightened. After that he confesses he quite forgot about her until the next day, where he found she was still there, sleeping huddled behind a rock.
Now he was starting to anger. Did he not tell her to go?!
He went to her, and prodded her with his talon, waking her. She cried out, pressing herself against the mountain, eyes terrified.
“I told thee to get thee gone. Why have you defied me?”
the girl shivered. “D-Dragon I just- You’re meant to eat me!”
Eat her?! where had this come from? “I have no appetite for your kind.”
The girl shook her head. “B-but the Knight! Sir Evans!”
Oh Fates, was THAT what this was about?! “He came to slay me. I cast him from the mountain and ate his horse.”
She shook her head. “But- but it was a message! You- you aren’t satisfied with our offerings and wanted more!”
The dragon snorted. “I asked for no offerings. You left them to me of your own will. I took them because they were given. I would care little if they stopped.”
The girl shook her head. “But- but the story- one-hundred years ago when Sciath was first founded you cast a thousand burning corpse into the town square, demanding tribute! We have a day of remembrance and everything!
A thousand- what?! “It was one thief I burned and sent down the mountain.”
she stopped and stared. “One- One thief?”
Varas nodded. “Yes. Now that you know the truth, return to thy home, girl. I have no care for sacrifices.”
With that, Varas returned to his cave, considering the matter settled. However, much to his shock, the girl was still there the next day, looking tired and miserable.
Now this was just mad. Did she have nothing better to do?!
“You’re still here?” he asked, going out to her.
The girl nodded. “I- I don’t want to go back.”
Now this was strange. And interesting. Varas settled down, extending out one wing to shade the girl from the sun. “You do not wish to return to thy den?”
she shook her head, tears in her eyes once more. “They- they sent me here to die! It doesn’t- doesn’t matter that you didn’t they thought you would! All of them- my own parents- I- I-”
She broke down crying again. Varas said nothing. The ways of humans were strange to him. But he understood that betraying your own kin was wrong, no matter the nature.
“Dragon,” she said in a small voice. “I- I am so hungry. So thirsty. May- may I have something to eat? It’s been days.”
The dragon cocked his head, curiously, and rose. “My name is Varas, human. What is yours.”
“R- Rose. My name is Rose.”
“Enter and be welcome, Rose.”
-
Like that, a new normal had been established. Rose stayed in his cave for a day, and then he blinked and a year had passed.
She availed herself of his hoard. She learned to read from his books. Learned to fight with his the weapons in his piles of treasure. She taught herself to cook, to sew, even to smith.
He aided her, of course, curious to see what she could do. He helped build her a forge and a workshop to pursue her interests. He even parted with some of his gold (scandalous!).
The years turned to decades as they did for dragons, and Rose grew from a slip of a girl, into a powerful young woman.
It was strange, to see one grow up close. Their lives were so short, these humans. It was a privilege to witness this, he had realized.
And it was… nice. Nice to have a companion.
When twenty years had passed, they left another girl at his doorstep. another cringing slip of a girl, who nearly fainted when she saw Rose and himself. Rose took the new girl, Evelyn, in, and started to teach her all the things Rose had taught herself.
And then, one day, Rose came to him, asking permission to leave.
“I want to go out into the world.” Said Rose. “I want to help people, fight their enemies, maybe even meet other dragons!”
Varas looked her over. She looked so different, clad in armor and armed with sword and shield, both of which she had forged herself. sometimes he looked at her and saw the frightened child that had been left on his doorstep.
“I’d like to take Evie with me, she’s my squire after all.”
Varas sighed. “You have never been my prisoner, Rose. Thou hath been free to leave whenever you wished.”
She nodded. “I- I know Varas. You’ve just been so- so good to me. I- I wanted your blessing, I guess.”
He leaned forward and touched his snout to her brow. “It is given. I bequeath to you the world, Rose. Take it.”
Rose smiled and kissed the horn that rose from his snout.
“Thank you, father.”
He would never see Rose again.
-
Time passed, as it did. The village would leave him gifts, always with a maiden now. And always would he take them in. Sometimes they would leave, sometimes they died in his cave. He had a dozen living in his cave at this point, the eldest nearly eighty, presiding over the girls like a grandmother.
Before he knew it, a century had passed.
And then, one day, a knight came to his cave.
She was a resplendent creature, clad in burnished plate and armed with a familiar sword. The young woman knelt to him as he left his cave, and announced herself.
“Mighty Varas, Lord of Mount Crakefen. I am Arya Morrigan, Dame of the Knightly Order of the Dragon’s Rose. I am here to pay tribute to the father of our founder, and return an ancient relic to you.”
And with that, the knight unbuckled her sword and presented it to Varas, and he recognized Rose’s handiwork.
HIS Rose.
Varas accepted it and beheld the knight. “Tell me of her.”
The woman looked at him. “Who, Mighty Varas?”
Varas settled down by her, extending a wing to shade her from the sun as he had to a shivering slip of a girl a century ago. A blink of his eye, a drop in the bucket of his immortal life, and yet somehow a moment that had changed everything.
“Tell me of Rose.”
Dame Arya smiled. “Lord Varas, let me tell you the tale of Rose Varasdaughter, the greatest hero the land has ever known.”
IM SAYINNN
“Bi women bringing their cishet boyfriends to pride are sooo annoying!”
Quick question do you know for a fact that the bi women’s partner is a cishet man? Or are you just assuming things based on looks to have a reason to hate on bi women.
Second quick question, why the fuck is it any of your business who a queer person brings to support them at pride?
AUREA is raising $3,500 to become the first aro-spec specific non-profit!
You can donate, find our budget breakdown, and learn more about what becoming a non-profit would mean for us here!
[Image Description: A square graphic with a white text box and a light green border. The text reads, “Help AUREA become a registered non-profit!” The word “AUREA” is colored green. In the top left and bottom right corners of the white box are hearts colored with the Aromantic flag. Below the text at the bottom of the white box is the AUREA logo. End Description.]
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.