Going back to Langley and visiting all our old friends after almost seven months was a weird experience.
Lots of nostalgia, lots of booze, some music and a late-night dip in the pool made the night really enjoyable. But I feel so different now than I did when I lived there.
Ramblin aside, here’s a pretty video of my friends and I singing pretty songs.
My most recent trip to McLeod’s bookstore on West Hastings in Vancouver.
I’m so sad that they closed off the downstairs, but the floor still open is just as magical.
Some of the piles of books reach almost taller than my head, and more than once I’ve had to (rather precariously) clamber halfway up a bookshelf to retrieve a certain volume that catches my eye.
It’s a little, unassuming Vancouver gem that’s so worth checking out if you’re ever in the area:)
We go inside of a rock in the desert. In the rock is an area and another rock that’s red. Someone is leading me in. We go inside the second rock and can’t get out. It’s so hot inside, and terrible things happen. A hiker comes in and the Nightsnick gets him. It hangs him from the ceiling and it’s too high to cut him down, and the place starts smelling like blood. His head hangs weirdly and his face is purple. There’s nowhere to put him.
He finally falls down and falls apart but we have nowhere to put his body. It is soft and purple and dark and wet. We find some plastic and wrap him in it, and the only place to put him is under the slats of one of our beds. His foot still sticks out. I push it back into the plastic and my bare tigers touch the skin and sink in.
We can get out of the inner part of the rock, and there’s more people there and a false sky, and a light rail system like a small city that’s mostly empty I think. But the city isn’t safe. The night thing comes sometimes and rips people up. It’s too close to the outer chambers of the rock, too close to where it lives.
I get out once, I don’t remember how. But I’m scared and in the desert by myself. I want to go to the police and rescue my friends, but the night thing is in my head, it tells me that the police will only find the inner chamber with the rotting body, and the night thing has no fingerprints. They will blame my friends and we will never be free. I know it’s true. The night thing is in my head and I go back. After all that happened I go back to the red rock.
The people I’m with are angry at first, but they understand. I don’t even remember going back. It was the night thing in my head.
We stay for a long time there in the inner chamber. Too scared to go to the city. The night thing wants us and the only place it probably can’t get to us is the inner chambers of the rock.
But then it gets hot. It gets hotter and hotter and everything is sweating and the body under the bed smells like blood and it’s all I can think about. The night thing is trying to suffocate us.
We have to get to the city we have to get out. We know a secret way to the city chambers and the night thing doesn’t see us leave right away. But it will.
We ride the rail system. There are lots of people and I am uneasy. I don’t know how they all live here, it’s not safe. But they have the false sky.
The train stops and begins to cook. Everyone sweats and becomes anxious. I can feel and hear the night thing. Oh god.
It’s pointed wings/arms appear at the end of the train and it is like a shutter of black and sharp points coming toward me. I can’t focus and can’t see, but it takes someone in front of me and I run.
Out in the strange city I don’t know what to do. The platform of the train is cobblestone. A woman in a blue flight attendant suit and shoulder length strawberry blonde hair catches my eye. The is a stillness amidst the chaos of the streets.
“Follow me” she says. And the takes a step back and walks behind/through a wall. Like there was a hidden door in it that only she could she. I follow her.
I’m in the night thing’s house. It’s all upside down and rooms and dark and visions and fear so much fear and weird lights leading the wrong way. It’s a half dream and deadly. I’m so afraid I’m so afraid. I follow the woman. She stays in some shadows, moving slowly sometimes and quickly others. Is this hell?
We move up through darkness and thick fog and glow that comes from nowhere and I can feel the night thing looking for us.
And then the horror. The woman passes me a knitted mask and tells me to out it on. I do so just as the night thing rounds a corner and sees us.
I can’t stand it. My heart stops and my blood actually chills. It’s beaked face and black eyes come closer. The woman is holding my hand. The night thing comes right up to us and we hold still. Wish the masks, here in this place it doesn’t recognize us. But it is suspicious. It inspects us, turning its head to the side like a vulture,but we don’t move, don’t breathe. The masks are brown and weirdly patterned and from outside myself I see us and we look like a screen glitch against the night thing’s walls.
It finally turns away and begins down another direction. The woman suddenly pulls my arm hard and we run faster than I thought anyone could. We turn countless corners and the world contracts around us and there’s chaos of dark and colours and noises and fear.
When we stop we are in an area with black walls and floors and hallways and a black counter in a dark corner. There’s a soft lift coming from somewhere we can’t see. It is so quiet. She points ahead. That’s the way out. The real way out. Out of this hell.
I turn to thank her but she urges me to run. Now. I do, and as I look back her body suddenly shoot up into the darkness and I hear her scream. A splash of blood falls to the floor.
It’s coming for me now.
I run. It’s all I can do I run and run and the dark hall is so long and I’m so tired and it is right. Behind me.
I feel something brush against my back just as I open my eyes and find myself on the sand. The red rock is beside me. The sun is setting and the sand is warm.
The woman had helped some other people out of the rock. But I don’t know where they are after all we went through together. I look at the real sky and the flat sand stretching out before me, and in the distance to the north is a red city in the desert, built of stone.
The images of blood and flesh and fear run through my head. That body is still under the bed in the centre of the rock, liquidating in the wet heat.Part of me is still there. And the night thing has its home.
I wish I could live at the bottom of a black river like some dark beast and just sit in the cold undertow while my brain slows down to a crawl. I want to sleep on those stones at the bottom of the water.
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.
Imagine talking to a hot girl on tinder who’s kinda odd and quirky but also way too pretty to be talking to you in the first place. And then she wants to meet up at an odd place to hook up and you figure alright I’m either getting laid or having my organs sold in the black market, win-win in my books, so you go meet up.
But once you get there, there’s no girl or anyone throwing a bag over your head to take you to a secondary location. Just an alien who goes “oh shit, that’s a rare one”, and snaps a few photos of you for their personal collections.
You fucking hate it when they do that. Spotting humans in the wild is all fine for a boring-ass hobby, but using fake mating calls to lure you in is just fucking cheating.
