Of Gods - Part One

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Jonunji*, known to his friends as Jon, is a god. He's one of the lesser-known gods, and in the present day, an almost entirely un-worshipped god. this presents a problem, as gods survive on the worship of mortals and despite being the god of fire, who bestowed the aforementioned element upon mankind, Jon hasn't received any worship for quite some time. Those who aren't worshipped for a period of several hundred years or so (it depends on the god), lose conciousness. God, sat up in heaven with his angels is alright, but in the polytheistic camp, times are not so good. Small Breezes, for example, lost consciousness centuries ago. It was for this reason, to decide how to restore themselves to their former glory, that the Council of Gods was held, chaired (controversially) by Concern, (logically) Logic and (rationally) Rationality.
The Council began, Punctuality keeping everyone to schedule. Concern launched immediately into worrying, anxiety ringing loudly in his voice,
"We all know why we have been summoned here today. We are wasting away; losing consciousness. Without the mortals' worship, or belief, none of us will last long. Not even you, Luck." He had an unnerving ability to make the circumstances seem desperate and hopeless, no matter what the situation, with nothing more than the sound of his voice. Rationality brought things back into perspective, calming Panic,
"Now there is no reason to lose our heads here. We still have options. But firstly, why in all of our Names was Concern chosen to Chair this Council!?" he queried, incredulous.
"We all know what happens when he starts talking!" at this point, the Council erupted into argument, gods (not known for their placid natures) arguing against gods, insulting and retorting. Down on earth, an earthquake destroyed a small island in the Pacific, and a long-dormant volcano killed fifteen sightseers. Arguments in the heavenly realms can have unfortunate consequences.
"Now please, please!"Roared Control, "Let's keep this civil, can we? Please?"
"You're right" agreed Logic, the hall now quiet and attentive once more, "as Rationality so sensibly pointed out, we do still have options. There are several cards up our sleeves that we can still play. An Act of Wonder or two is always good for renewing belief" - Doubt interrupted -
"Yes, but that never works for us! God separates some water and suddenly everyone believes. Whenever we try similar gigs, all the credit goes to God, or Allah, or somebody else. The fact of the matter is that nobody really believes in us poly-deities any more." The Council was silent. They all knew it was true. The gods hadn't felt so hopeless since Despair had his embarrassingly public emotional breakdown.

*Jonunji means 'fire' in an ancient Polynesian language, which is now extinct. The ancient Polynesian tribe had worshipped Jonunji, and named him so. Ironically, the entire Polynesian tribe was wiped out when a nearby volcano erupted during their annual Fire Ritual. The event was something Jon always felt somewhat guilty for.

~J.L.

Time's Weight

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Time does not wait. Time has no weight. That is unless you count the way in which it weighs upon me. And how heavily it weighs. Time doesn't creep, nor crawl. Yet creep up on me it does, and so too does it crawl, when least I want it to. Time imparts wisdom, yet...

Even a fool may appear wise, if silent he stays.

Silent I am not, yet neither am I entirely foolish. The middle-ground is safe ground, it does not necessitate daring or risk, nor does it lead to ruin. Does that make me a coward? It makes me something, of that I am sure. Change is what's needed, as...

If nothing ever changed, there would be no butterflies.

But change is difficult. Change requires risk and can lead to ruin. Change must be handled with wisdom, then. Appearing wise is not enough; staying silent is not enough. True wisdom is needed. Time imparts wisdom, so we must wait on time. But time does not wait, time weighs. Weighs heavily upon me.

~J.L.

A Higher Power

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The firmament shook as the hearts therein lost faith. What was once united fissioned, and the Earth's conciliatory counterpart vanished without trace. The substratum of creation tore as beings extraneous fought for control. Watching from within was he who had stood through all ages. From time immemorial had he surveyed existence, relating all he saw to a higher power. And he watched now, as the greedy forces wreaked havoc in their tumultuous scrap for ownership. And it was of this matter that he spoke to the higher power, requesting relief. For he was a watcher only, and could not interfere. The higher power had brought all into existence, the greedy forces in a moment of folly, as well as those of balance in an attempt to rectify the wrong resulting from his lack of judgement. A higher power though he was, perfection was not his nature, and as such, mistakes were still within his power to perform, unwittingly or otherwise. The watcher knew this, had seen this, and had counselled against this. But he was a watcher only, and could not interfere. The higher power listened to that which the watcher brought before him, and reflected upon it.
The watcher, having performed his duty, returned to within.
The ecumenical powers, of which the watcher was one, remained vigilant, eager to be aware despite their inability to act. Through the cosmos the avaricious entities rushed, consuming those hearts that despaired. Still, for each that was consumed, another was recovered as those that were created second, of whose power was harmony, spoke to the anguished hearts.
Yet the firmament continued to shake, and that which was torn asunder could never be fully restored. The watcher understood this, had seen it before. The higher power had been told, and he acted not.
So it was that the worlds created slowly lost faith, for no matter how valorous the attempt to restore balance, disharmony would inevitably win out.
The firmament shook, and crumbled, as the hearts therein lost faith. What was once united had fissioned, and that which had fissioned ruptured. The torn substratum of creation split further, as the ravenous powers overcame the accordant. Watching from within was he who had stood through all ages. And for the first, he wept, powerless as all that he loved sank into the mire of insatiable craving.
The higher power, once so elevated, once so revered by all, turned upon himself. He was no longer elevated, no longer revered. From the highest heights had he fallen, and to the deepest depths he fell, never to return.


~J.L.

Ill Omens

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It is a strange day. The clouds bubble as though boiling, and the wind rushes in convoluted patterns, unable to decide in which direction it ought to be blowing. The sun is as weak as it always is in this god-forsaken land, barely breaking through the tumultuous clouds, and casting only a scant light across the bleak landscape. Nearby, jackdaws cackle from treetops, sounding nervous, as if before a storm. The trees themselves look gaunt, their black limbs knotted as they twist towards the watery sun in a desperate search for life. The brown grass that grows in a meagre sprawl across the plane stands still, oddly unaffected by the wind. Then, almost inaudible above the buffeting gale, a lone wolf howls in the distance, a lonely, rending cry that splits the air, silencing the agitated jackdaws. The call came from the clutch of mountains that stand on the horizon. Seven great monoliths rest there. The people of this land have named them all: Krag, the shortest, Rond, Klin and Daw, after which the native jackdaw is named. F'Adlon, Onto and the great Nolnar, whose snow-capped peak stretches above the clouds. Those silent sentinels reach into the heavens, their atramentous bulk oblivious to the sufferings of the land. The river Nin flows from the smallest eminence, Krag, its waters murky. It labours across the planate landscape not, as one might expect, providing life to its surroundings, rather it seems to drain it away, the grass and trees nearest the embankment being utterly devoid of life, as though the river were poison. I have met few people, and those I have barely deserve the definition. They speak in a crude tongue, consisting of croaks and other such guttural sounds. From what I have been able to learn, they call this land "Uk'Nond" - No Life. Their actions are as base as their language, many moving about on all four limbs as comfortably as they do on two. What little food they scrounge is never cooked, but is eaten raw, if not alive. Relationships are a simple affair, the harsh conditions leaving little room for love or other such indulgences. I have been with them for six weeks now, long enough for me to see that their life is a constant struggle for survival. They are as disturbed by the weather as I am. They tell me the skies are an ill portent, that the wolf heralds disaster. They are a feral race, deeply superstitious, but nonetheless I begin to wonder whether or not this expedition was wise, and if I will ever see my homelands again.

 -Excerpt from 'Ill Omens', written by the Great Traveller, Olno Seerman, circa 1194, the Winter Rotation.

~J.L.

The Sentient Duck

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Dedicated to Gibby.


He didn't know when it was he gained the gift of thought. He knew for a fact that he hadn't been born with it. It had grown on him. Like hair on your head grows on you or I. Just as you never really notice it until it's long, or in need of cutting again, so it was with Michael. One day he'd simply realised that he was thinking and wondering. But he remembered very clearly the first day he had a conscious thought. He'd been watching a small child playing along the edge of the lake, and he thought how funny it would be if the child were to fall in. Sentience came with a sense of humour, apparently. Michael became frustrated after his initial excitement wore off. He considered his intelligence more of a curse than a blessing. It was wasted; he had nothing to do with it. Surprisingly, there were very little educational opportunities for ducks, no matter how smart. This left him with no other option than to swim around the lake, looking for food, admiring she-ducks and taking the occasional flight. He thought a lot, but there were only so many times you could wonder why there were waves, or why bread crumbs floated, before you became completely dissatisfied with your existence. And so, Michael the duck lived his life in a state of intense boredom. He eventually married, but even this failed to lift his spirits when he realised his wife was totally devoid of any intelligent conversation. Nor did his marriage do anything to alleviate his sense of loneliness. Feeling the need to talk, and having a sentient mind but nobody to share it with was awful. She was nice to look at though. Michael died at the duck-age of fifty-four. The local avian vet put the cause of death down to asphyxiation.
Michael had often wondered, before his untimely demise, whether he could have been doing more with his life.


~ J.L.

Struggles

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I can try,

But I never do win.

It's hard to hear,

Above all the din.

I look for a path,

But get lost on the way.

I try to calm my wrath,

Try to walk away.

I wish I was free,
To do what I want.
If I could foresee,
Maybe life wouldn't daunt.

I walk through life,
Neither here nor there.
Try to avoid any strife,
But life's rarely fair.

~J.L.

A Walk Home

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It was a grey, rainy Wednesday. It was 5:00pm and Marv was getting ready to go home from his job at Westman & Jenkins' Accountancy. He didn't enjoy his job. He'd never enjoyed his job. He shut his computer down and got his coat from his chair. He had a nice chair. It was one of the few aspects of his job he did enjoy. Putting on his coat, he stepped out through the double glass doors into the pouring rain. Scowling, he turned up his collar and headed up Hamilton Avenue. Water pooled where the pavement dipped, soaking his trouser cuffs. Reaching the end of Hamilton, he turned left onto Hart Street. A green grocers was selling Granny Smiths. He bought one for $1.29. A little expensive, he thought, but he liked Granny Smiths. They reminded him of better days. He chewed as he walked, and pondered. He wondered about all kinds of things on his walks home. Simple things like what to have for dinner, or whether Michelle in the next room would go out with him. He knew she wouldn't, but he liked to think she might, one day. That day however, he thought of only one thing; life. And specifically, whether it was worth living or not. He'd thought about it before, and never come to a conclusion. He crossed over to Norfolk Street and threw his apple into a nearby bin. He thought about people who might miss him. No real friends, no family. The list wasn't very long. His job certainly held no appeal. Quite the opposite.
The rain continued as he wondered what it was that kept him living. He really wasn't sure, and never had been. Starting life as 'Marv' hadn't helped any. What kind of a name is 'Marv'? And he had never been good at coming to conclusions. Sure those little things were easy enough, but big issues had always stumped him. That's why he continued pondering, going nowhere, staying in the same house, the same job. His coat was thoroughly drenched now. He felt frustrated, trapped. He stepped onto Brooklyn Bridge. Marv hated water. It reminded him of how free he could be. He stopped walking, and leant against the railing to stare over the East River. The rain made little ripples in the water. They were free. The birds flying over the river were free too. Even those miserable grey clouds were free. It was then that he came to a conclusion. The first major conclusion he'd come to for a long time. He took his coat off and hung it over the railing. It was a nice coat, somebody would find use for it. It made him smile, the conclusion he'd come to. Thinking of Granny Smiths and better days gone by, he climbed over the railing. He paused, watching a leaf float by on the wind. And then he jumped. He jumped off Brooklyn Bridge. As he fell he felt free. He felt freer than he could ever remember being. He fell 119 feet to the water, smiling. Smiling and free.

~ J.L.