Version: One Gods Eliminated: Nil It is known that you can’t kill a god in combat, no matter how powerful your weapon. They are immortal, immune to all harm. Fair enough.
But a god is predicated on belief. Erase the knowledge of, belief in, reverence of, fear of, a deity and they are nothing. Sand in the wind.
Killing small gods, then, is easy. One might feasibly slaughter their followers; convince those that have simply heard of them that it was but myth (the supernatural never quite escapes a kernel of doubt, in any case); and burn up all written reference to them.
Staring into the eyes of someone who loves you above all else is like staring into a fire.
Pressing your face right into the flames until you feel flesh slough from bone.
All else slough away from the world. Only eyes and fire remain.
Embrace. Inferno.
The only question is…
Can you match that fire?
I don’t remember where it came from, although that’s no surprise anymore. But I do remember what it means. I am the Shield, and She is the Sword.
A Shield can be a weapon unto itself. Wielded with hammer blows. But a Sword is superior.
A Sword can be a defence method. Who wants to walk into a whirling blade? But a Shield is superior.
This long suffering metaphor is intended to emphasise the power of being together.
I lied for her. And that was fine.
Couldn’t tell her friends. They hate me. I empathise.
I lied to her. And that was the end of all things.
I never should have. I did. And I don’t even remember.
I wish I could remember. The good. The bad. And the fake.
Everyone else knows more about me than I do.
Why did I think it would be fine?
Think of a sickly, wounded bird. Faded grey.
Then think of a fire licking up around it. A funeral pyre and also a celebration of (re)birth.
A phoenix must die to rise. To be renewed. Consumed in flame that does not hurt but heals. I like the way it burns.
Partly because of the great sieve I have in place of a brain I am immortal. I am a phoenix, motherfucker.
Forget not who you are, my darling.1
Burn fierce, burn bright. Above all, burn as you are and as you will to be.
What colour is a person’s fire, you ask? It depends.
This particular consuming conflagration I think is like molten snow. Liquid heat infused into ice. A delicious contradiction that burns bright despite all reason and rule.
You are magic, don’t ever apologise for the fire in you
Status quo, it is said, is latin for the mess that we are in.
You’re always one decision away from a totally different life
Those words are some of the most freeing I know. They help keep the wanderlust that runs through the fibers of my being placated…sober. I live as lightly as I can for good reason. Mostly because I have no other choice.
Here’s something that might be obvious about me.
I declare a thumb war challenge. 52 weeks of the year, 52 stories. I only barely won NaNoWriMo this year, and for an Overachiever (35k in 24 hours last year!) like me that just isn’t good enough. So this year, I have a new challenge. A new short story every week, for the whole year until its time to do NaNoWriMo again.
As with any challenge I set myself, I’ll keep the rules intentionally vaugue and let them develop over time.
CW: Body Horror Not all that glitters is gold. Blood too, glistens in the darkness. We all carry darkness within us, we all have folds of horror. You. You too.
Can you feel them? The bones, grinding there beneath your skin. You might be inclined to call them your bones. Your body, held together by your bones. Right? Wrong. So wrong. Most people don’t think about it. You didn’t, until now.
Quite a while1 ago I wrote about my experience of aphantasia. At the time I said2:
It’s forced me to live in the present. But, like Zeman, I don’t feel that that’s entirely a bad thing, something to suffer from. A difference, not a handicap.
These days, that’s not true at ALL. Not only that, I’m angry. I don’t remember my past, good and bad, and I don’t even remember what I don’t remember.
Blood-red runes smoulder with hellfire heat, eldritch and arcane symbols twisting and writhing like caged beasts. Molten light pours from the blade, a cacophony of flaming colours pulsating to a deep, unseen beat. The air around it shimmers, trying to run from the smoking heat. Living fire, possessed with evil intent, drips from the tip of the wide spined sword, a deep groove running down its spine. The Evil Eye sits crouched on the hilt, slitted pupil moving erratically, madly.