Cronos and Uranus

They were the strongest of the children, Viachess and Beh toh Macs. They struggled for her pleasure, and in the end, one became triumphant. She swallowed the other as she had swallowed so many children before, wax and papyrus, clay and stone. The struggle to contain her fractious brood is never apparent on her smooth-featured face. Now, the newest spawn have overthrown their father and begun their own struggle, a battle of discus and light-lance. The latest games will end soon. Whether she is pleased or not, who can say? Her quiet half-smile never changes.

But she is always hungry…

In the Chambers of the Whorled Heart You Call Home

Everyone needs a home, she says, busily whittling. She bores a hole and sets the shell down, a whorl of mottled brown and cream. There. A home you can take with you.

Naked, the snails bow their antennae and accept the burden.

Nearby is a house where no one lives anymore. The children cried when they left, not understanding. The mother did not; she felt she should be strong. But she paused on the sidewalk. Picked up a snail shell. Slipped it in her pocket.

A home to take with you, said the goddess. No one heard but the snails.

Bone China

Clay paste for earth. Add water, add fire, leave a space for air.

Every piece of porcelain has a soul. This is a necessity.

The end will come in fire, when everything crashes together in heat and agony, when the bones of the universe are too frail to hold its weight. Porcelain souls know this will be, but they live regardless. In defiance.

The potters weep when they plunge porcelain body into fire. Porcelain accepts the pain as a purification of sorts, and it comes out pale, brittle, and strong.

You can’t burn twice, they say, if you ask them.

Gather and Exchange

They’re wrong about the library, most of them. Teachers, librarians, and well-meaning mothers, they think a library is a public service. Only the true acolytes have met the Lending Lord, have shaken his clawed and grasping hands, have learned the secret incantations to summon the true records, the ghostly memories and desires of every hand that has ever handled the book, spells sealed in ink, stamp, and glue. Only they understand his terrible need for more knowledge.

They smile like all the others, though. You’d never know them to look at them. What can we help you find today, sweetie?