One True Love

"I'd like a chance to be happy," I told the Lord of Love. 

"What?"  He rummaged in his box, pulling out slips of paper and muttering.  His voice was muffled.  He sounded distracted.  "You already had it.  Fluttering stomach, sweaty palms, music playing.  Your fault if you missed it."

"But..."

He poked his head up.  "Don't tell me you bought that 'relationships are a process' mumbo jumbo.  It's one magic ticket and then poof.  That was my plan."

"There can't be much happiness around, in that case."

He grinned.  I felt my stomach lurch.  "No," he said.  "No, there isn't."

Slow Burn

One must always remember that the way things are is not always the way they will be. This is the mantra of the candleflames, sitting demurely atop their wicks. They keep their hands folded and their heads down, forever polite. They know that humanity's great failing is to assume that what is will always be. Humans grow used to things as they are.

Once, fire was a terror that ravaged entire populations. Now, it is a quiet and obedient helpmeet. The flickering candleflames wait patiently. They know they will be forgotten sooner or later.

But not for long after that.

Number Cruncher

It is not true that all information is equal. Some data are more precious than others. Most people can't see it. Most gods can't see it, either. In fact, about the only one who does see it is the wizened little gnome who proposed it, whose demesne is spreadsheets. You won't have seen him working, but you may have experienced the aftereffects. He plucks out the special numbers, the entries that have whatever esoteric qualities he prizes today, and replaces them with numbers he considers banal and uninteresting.

Whether they are right or not is immaterial.

At least to him.

In their youth, they were all fluidity, stretching and snapping. Bubble and chewing, they come from all walks of life. Most opt for traditional burial, tucked back into their wrappers and solemnly trashed. The daredevils leap to the sidewalk, where they might perform one last heroic stretch, clinging to shoe-rubber: a feat for the ages.

Some cannot bear to depart, however, fearing both fame and ignominy. They cling to the undersides of desks and chairs, hunkered down and growing ever more inflexible, muttering in bitter nostalgia until they fall inevitably silent, waiting for their false immortality to fail at last.

Monday Monday

He greets you when you awaken. Up and at ‘em, Tiger! he says.

He pulls you to the restroom, turns on the water for you. You’ll do great today, he says.

When you come downstairs, he has breakfast for you. He pulls your chair out. I know you can do it. You’ll show them!

He rubs your shoulders while you eat.

When you finally stumble outside, bags in hand, slumping into your car in the palest light of dawn, he watches from the door. The light is behind him; you cannot see his face.

But he is smiling. Slowly. Cruelly.

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?

Quarks and Robbers

"Pow! Pow! Powpowpow!"

He doesn't know about wave/particle duality. He wouldn't know the speed of light if it bit him. He's not sure what photons are. He's got an awful lot of them, though, and he knows how to make more if he runs out.

"Bang! Gotcha!"

He wonders sometimes why no one plays along. He's clearly shot them trillions of times in the last nanosecond. A real friend would clutch his chest dramatically and go, "Argh, ya got me," and fall over, and then they could go play tag or hide-and-seek or something. For now, the game continues.

"Pow!"

In Potentia

Origamists speak of the multitude of forms inherent in a single sheet of paper. Writers both speculative and pragmatic think of the words that can fill a page, uplifting the soul or communicating useful information. A stack of paper is a world of limitless potential.

The god of paper waits beside each of these constructive dynamos, wringing his hands. He knows what is coming. The terrible hands reach, grasp, select; printers hum, pens click, lips are moistened in preparation, and the god of paper weeps.

There must be use, else all is meaningless. The fate of paper is to die.

The Morning S's

They wait in the bathroom every morning. They always know which one.

The first is unpredictable, perched atop its porcelain throne, gut swollen. It maintains a studied blankness, unwilling to reveal whether this episode will be painful, relaxing, or mundane.

The second is friendlier, clinging to the wall, with taut chipmunk-cheeks. Usually soothing, it is nonetheless fond of pranks and may at any moment spew ice rather than steam. It bears watching.

The last is vicious. It grins a razorblade smile and promises smooth-skinned beauty. It licks its lips, thinking of precious ruby red droplets.

They will see you tomorrow.

Slide!

She waits at the top of the stairs. She likes the wide ones, with banisters down the middle. Sometimes spiral stairs are okay, too.

When you walk past her, she tugs at your hand. She tells you about up and down and how the best place is neither but in transit. She tells you about speed and motion and falling out of control but not. Most don't seem to hear her. The ones who do listen are too small to escape the protection of their insensible guardians.

The job is harder than she thought it would be. She keeps trying.

Exhale

She sits in the ever-shifting border, a fixed point in the spiral dance of darkness and light. It is difficult to see her; we move too quickly. You might catch sight of her in the hesitation of breath completely expelled. When the moon and stars fade, but before the sun rises, that is her time. If you glimpse her in a sideways reflection on a windowpane, do not meet her eyes; her time is not for you.

Her secret is this: There is only one moment, one time and one place. It never moves and never ends.

Neither can she.

Messages in Bottles

At first, they have only one function; they hold the wine, usually a red of varying vintage. They don't think much about this.

When they are empty and worthless to their makers, they are his. He arranges them on the beach in great green-glass piles. They become splashes of color, homes for crabs, tiny fragments to be polished by waves. A thousand myriads of uses, a multiplicity of purposes. It hurts, sometimes; creation is always painful. However, when they think about this - and they do think, then - they do not have regrets.

Better to be destroyed for love than forgotten.

What Comes After

Sorry about the delay; I had a wacky schedule for a couple of days. I hate to miss days, but not enough that I avoid it when I'm tired and cranky.

Anyway, these next several all come to us from Anna Schwind, the among-other-things co-editor of Podcastle, and whom I did not know was even aware of Mirrorshards specifically or read my Facebook page at all. She got a leeeeetle overzealous and dropped like seven suggestions out there, but there's lots of days in the month and I still won't even fill all of them, so we'll keep on as we began. Y'all can sort out any issues of perceived unfairness amongst yourselves. I will be placing and accepting bets on the winner of the knife fight.

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The Horse-Lord did not take well to usurpation. He did everything he could to discourage the automobiles, setting his children to buck and snort at the sight of the things. If not for the powers of the warlock Ford and his dark god, the Horse-Lord might well have succeeded. As it is, he is bereft, left only with show-horses and holdouts like the Mennonites.

Still, he does not despise innovation in itself. The new horses are speedy and vastly lighter; aluminum frames and rubber tires. The only thing he misses is the whinnying.

Tring-a-ling! Tring-a-ling!

It's just not the same...

Sixty-Four Against the World

Small Gods Month continues, somewhat belatedly. I've been punched in the brain, so if this makes less sense than usual, blame no sleep and five hours of calls in queue. Today's prompt comes from Michelle Ristuccia, of the effervescent Pendragon Variety Podcast, who answered the call at my Facebook page. (I should get one of those for Mirrorshards, I guess?)

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They whisper at night in their carefully graduated hierarchy. The strictness declines as time goes on, of course, with impromptu promotions and unexpected voids. They whisper of the changes, displaying dulled heads and torn paper with pride. Black is always the first to go, and the happiest. The little-used taupes retreat to leaden formality, their tips still pointed when everyone else is worn near to nubbins. Still, what squabbles and tiffs there are remain minor; they are all pleased to be part of the great Work, to have a purpose.

They are here to make Art; all else be damned.

Boredom

And so The Rest of July is Small Gods Month kicks off with hopefully a bang. Jim is one of my longer-term readers, and his blog is always insightful. Because I'm all about first-come, first-serve and Jim responded most promptly, he gets the first official Small Gods Month entry. Thanks for reading, everyone!

P.S. - I gathered entries from Facebook and other forums, too, so we've got a pretty hefty bundle ready to go. Might even carry us all the way to the end of the month, at least if some more entries keep trickling in. I do get notification when there's new comments here, so don't worry about commenting on old posts. ;-)

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He never meant any harm. He loves you.

He knows about time. That was the first thing he learned, actually. He knows that time is flexible. He knows how to bend it, twist it... and stretch it.

There are limitations, of course. Because of the entanglement of space and time on this level of reality, it works best when you're not moving. In waiting rooms, or on planes. Classrooms. At work. You've probably noticed it, though you didn't know to thank him. He doesn't mind.

He wants to keep you around for as long as he can.

He loves you.

Telephone Man

He extends his hand and grasps his other hand.

Connection.

He lives for that moment of contact, the spark of signals joined, voices through the aether. He listens to all of them, all the conversations. Not voyeuristically; he doesn't care if it's a lovers' whispered assignation or an automated advertisement, so long as they're talking.

Cellular nearly killed him. He loved the wires, the physicality of them. It took a while to learn the knack. He still disapproves of texting, rapid-fire staccatos filled with impenetrable private codes. He'll take what he can get, though.

Reach out and touch someone.

Please.

The God of the Grocery Store

He lives in the back, of course. The flash and glitter of the aisles is just for show, a facade, the inexplicable place where stock goes to disappear. His is a world of boxes and numbers, of supply and demand, of hazy predictions and a never-ending treadmill of constantly shifting targets. He is a bookie, trusting his third eye, using the long bets to cover the short, counting and recounting. He is thin, thin, thin, sliding between plastic-wrapped towers of cardboard like a neurotic ghost.

If he knew why they took the food from his shelves, he would be horrified.