Tumblr Post: The God Of Humble Beauty

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    Font - writing-prompt-s Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up. sadoeuphemist 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
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    Font - 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 m
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    Font - "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
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    Font - "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 th
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    Font - 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
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    Font - "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 wil
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    Font - "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?" "| -" said the god, and reached
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    Font - "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 th
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    Font - "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 f
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    Font - "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."
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    Rectangle - stu-pot 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.
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    Font - 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, star
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    Font - 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 wi
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    Font - 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.
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    Font - 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
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    Font - "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 w

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