Somehow, you, a perfectly ordinary human, has ended up the alpha of a pack of werewolves.
A Little Bit
The trick, she discovers, is kindness.
~
Werewolves are notoriously violent. They are said to “lose all autonomy” on night of the full moon, and transforming on other days still results in “heightened levels of testosterone and violence.”
If you tell someone that they are something their whole lives– if you tell a little girl that the color white is purple, that she is dumb because she writes backwards, or that she is bad because her hair or her financial situation, she will believe that. She will grow into that. If you tell a werewolf that they are evil and violent when wolves, that at their freest they are their meanest: they will believe that. They will become that. They will expect that of other werewolves and become defensive, will have bred hatred for their brethren before they ever transform.
An outsider’s perspective is sometimes needed.
And it starts, as most things do, with a child.
~
“Look,” her brown fingers forcefully unfolded from the fist it had been making. “I know what I want. I want the child you said you couldn’t even find fosters for. I already signed the paperwork!”
The social worker sighed, skin washing out under the light and wrinkles deepening. “I have to make sure. I’ve been trying to find little Zora parents for years now, but…”
“The only issue would be health issues. I can afford an unhealthy or disabled child, so that’s not an issue for me at all. I don’t get why you’re being so–”
“Zora is a werewolf.”
Silence.
Hailey took a breath. Let it out.
“So?”
The social worker smiled, “Then one more signature, and in a few weeks you will have your child, and Zora will have her home.”
Neither of them mentioned his tears. They both talked over what she would need to buy to handle a werewolf child– her werewolf child. They drank tea. She signed papers.
She would never regret that.
~
Zora had the yellow eyes of all lycans. She grinned shyly with too-sharp teeth, and fiddled with her too-long nails.
Hailey gave Zora the softest blanket she could buy, and settled her down for hot chocolate as they watched the sun set from the porch.
She had dimples and threw her hands around and enjoyed talking. And loved the color green. And brown. And blue. Maybe red was her favorite color, but pink was certainly a close second. No, wait, purple. She liked ice cream and steak and chicken and flowers that grew between the cracks of the sidewalk.
Zora was perfect.
The doctor said that Zora would transform the next full moon. To lock her in a cage. To muzzle her. To chain her up.
Hailey looked at Zora. At her large yellow eyes so filled with hope. At the way she used her too-long nails to open bags of chips or used her too-long teeth to open cans. At the sundresses she wore; pictured the paint-stained overalls. The room they had painted like a galaxy, the glow-in-the-dark stars they’d taped and hung on her ceiling.
She thought about the small, lycan-run website she made, and some controversial, revolutionary ideas it proposed.
She snorted. Yeah, right. Lock and chain her child up? No.
~
The first transformation was always painful. An online forum said nothing more than a Aspirin or two could be taken for this first Shift.
“Mom?” Zora’s lips wobbled. Her bushy hair tangled from the nervous pulling it had endured that day. “I– I don’t want to be bad, mom. Will the Shift make me bad?”
Hailey could have said anything to that, and no one would blame her. She could say it’s not you, it’s the wolf, like one website recommended. She could say yes, and every second you have to fight against the evil inside you, like one Christian-extremist group urged. She could have said anything. She said,
“No. You are good, and the wolf is a part of you, so it must be good, too.”
And it was that simple.
The moon rose. A daughter screamed, a mother cried. A mother prepared to have to wrestle her child, so much stronger than her, to have to assert an unwanted dominance.
A werewolf– too large to be a real wolf, spine to straight, claws too split, to be something so mundane. It yipped. Saw the hesitation in the mother’s eyes. Rolled onto its back, tongue lolling, and yipped again.
Hailey laughed. “Good girl! I love you so much! Want pets, or play?” A yip, the lycan bounded off. More laughter. “Play it is, then!”
~
There’d been complaints. A neighbor said they “feared for their life” and that “the lycan had attacked” her. Zora didn’t leave the backyard, despite how much she wanted to. So, once a month, they drove to a werewolf forest-reserve. They hadn’t encountered any other lycans.
Until then.
A grey wolf burst out from the bushes, snarling and snapping. Intent on Zora. Zora.
“Zora!” Hailey didn’t need to think, she was moving before words could form.
“Don’t you DARE touch my daughter!” She stood in front of Zora, arms spread wide.
That did not deter the lycan, who prowled closer. Yellow eyes. She could not hurt yellow eyes. But she must.
~
Werewolves have exceptionally large forms. A younger, adolescent lycanthrope in its Shifted form can easily tower over an adult man. These large forms are one of their greatest assets: they can overpower their prey though sheer size. It is, however, also a weakness. For, you see, their vulnerable points are that much more exposed. Which is why, if one becomes cornered by a Shifted lycanthrope, it is recommend that you strike at their diaphragm or throat, if help cannot be contacted, before absconding away as quickly as humanly (or superhumanly) possible.
~
She rushed forward, swinging her elbow and digging it into the small hollow near the creatures chest. It yowled, falling to the side. It growled and backed away.
Zora whimpered, tail between her legs and ears down. She nuzzled at her mother worriedly, terrified of the bigger werewolf and scared for her mother’s life.
“It’s okay, baby.” she hushed, holding out a spray-bottle (Zola loved to try to bite the sprays of water) like it was a gun, eyes never leaving the (violent, evil, human) attacking lycan. “See? Mommy knows what she’s doing.”
She stepped forward once. Twice. Four steps and then she hit a stride. She stood nose-to-nose with the lycan, all five-feet of her stretching tall, towering in presence if not height.
“Bad.” The lycan growled. She sprayed it twice in quick succession. “Bad.”
It blinked. Surprised.
“Now, if you wanted to play, you could have just waited!” She turned, walking purposefully in Zora’s direction. “Come along, now.”
They did come along, by lunging. Zora howled, bunching up her muscles and preparing to attack, but Hailey whirled around, spraying their face. “Don’t be mean! We don’t want to fight. I have steak, and am willing to share. But only to those who play. Nice.” They considered, head tilting, before thumping to the ground and rolling over, whining.
Hailey laughed, but wiped the anxious sweat from her forehead. “Okay, let’s go!”
~
The next full moon, the black-and-white wolf found her, a pack behind them, all barking and waiting for plays and pets and meat.
~
The full moon after that, everyone fell asleep just before the sun rose, and Hailey met them as people.
Hardin was the black-and-white, and she was alpha. Or rather, she had been.
“What.” Hailey couldn’t comprehend.
“My name used to be Phir’Hilaaya, but now it is Hardin. Normal pack members are given two-syllable names. The Alpha gets three-syllables. As previous Alpha, I name you Melora.” Hardin was gigantic in her human form, as well. Hulking muscles, and she stood at least at six-foot. Her yellow eyes had become softer than when Hailey– Melora?–
“Okay, yeah. I get that part. But how did I become Alpha?” She bit her lip, held Zora closer to her.
Hardin gave her a look like she was particular stupid, but humored her regardless. “That first night, I showed my belly to you. An Alpha can never submit to an opponent, else they lose their place. I submitted to you, so you are Alpha.”
Hailey hunched in on herself, and whispered, “I don’t know how to be Alpha.”
“That’s okay,” Hardin put an arm around her shoulders, giving her a kind smile, “I’ll help you get on your feet.”
Melora stood taller. Looked at her daughter. And knew.
~
Melora’s pack was not the first to fight for werewolf rights. No, they were simply the first to have a human leading the pack, and for that human-Alpha to be dating the previous Alpha.
As they strode towards a better world, a better life, Melora suggested, “Maybe we can help the vampire community, once we make more progress here.”
Hardin, bouncing Zora on her hip, barked a laugh, “You’re too good. But wherever you go, we’ll follow.” Howls broke out around the Alpha.
Hailey, now Melora, had known she wouldn’t regret this.
A little bit of kindness goes a long way.
~Fin~
Oh, geeze. This was supposed to be a little thing, but I wrote six pages on google docs for this and hrrrggghhh. I didn’t get to include everything I wanted, otherwise it would have taken hours longer! I hope this is something like you were imagining for your prompt idea. I wish I had more time to do things for this, but it wasn’t meant to be D:
This isn’t written in my usual style, but it was fun. I hope anyone reading this enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
“Don’t speak to me, don’t look at me, and don’t you dare fucking touch me!” I refused to fall for it all again. I wasn’t going to go back after everything that had happened, and certainly not for such a half-hearted offer.
I sucked at the blood on my hand as I looked for a band aid. An applogetic noise came from behind me.
“Don’t even start,” I snapped. “I’m so fucking done with you hurting me. I show you nothing but love, and sometimes I think you love me too, but then you hurt me for no reason.”
I didn’t have to look, I just knew.
Those big eyes were looking at me. Big and soft and full of remorse.
“Sometimes you’re just impossible to figure out. You want to be with me, then you snub me a second later. You love me, you show me such affection, but then…” I placed the band aid over my bleeding hand. “Then you do things like this.” A sigh escaped my throat. “I just think…I’m done with you.”
I turned to my cat and saw those eyes, those big and beautiful eyes full of sadness and remorse. He approached slowly, warily, and rubbed his body against my leg.
Everyone in your world can teleport within 10 feet of the person they love the most. Your best friend wonders how you always seem to be there just when they need you.
State Farm puts out a series of joking commercials. The punch line being that of all the people in your insurance agent’s life, you’re the one they care about most- you’re the person they can teleport to.
It’s bold of them to joke about something so controversial. After all, who your ‘port is can make or break a relationship. Study after study has been done on the ‘port between parent and child and psychiatrists are always analyzing your ‘port history.
The commercials are tacky, too. They make fun of the power inherent in a person’s greatest love. That’s what a ‘port is, after all, your love for someone being strong enough to take you to wherever they are. All in all State Farm’s “good neighbor” commercials leave people shaking their heads and laughing uncomfortably.
Caitlyn’s not laughing when a man brings a gun to her school.
Her class is on the yard and there’s no warning- he’s just there, with a gun, and her kids are frozen.
Mickey’s too close too close and not moving and the man is turning the gun towards him. Mickey’s only 8 and he drives her nuts most days. He cries and screams and he runs away and he makes things up and he loves his mom and his sister and he cried when Caitlyn got stitches and she loves him she loves him she loves him.
She feels a moment of disorientation and suddenly she’s between the man and the boy.
She doesn’t hesitate, just wraps herself around Mickey. Then she closes her eyes and reaches inside herself for the first-easiest-always, thinks I love you I love you I love you and feels the shift of the ‘port.
And her eyes land on Zeke, who is jerking to his feet in shock, and she feels a huge wave of relief. Zeke’s been her ‘port since they were months old and her aunt got up one morning to find two babies in the crib instead of one. These days they usually plan their visits and Caitlyn’s never brought a kid before, so Zeke has questions in his eyes.
Before he can voice any, she’s pushing Mickey towards him and gasping out “I have to go back-”
And she’s thinking of the next closest kid, Jasper, one of her rough and tumble boys, he’s so big, 8 years old and almost as tall as her, Jazz is learning to control his temper and his energy but there’s a sweetness to him that comes out at the oddest moments. It’s easy to declare I love I love I love and then she’s grabbing Jazz and sending herself back to Zeke’s shelter.
He’s a little more prepared this time, reaching out to steady her and guide Jazz away while she turns her thoughts and heart to the next kid.
And she’s gone and grabbing Topher, her sweet boy who listens and cares and tries, and they’re back to Zeke.
And she’s gone and grabbing Zornitsa, her scampy little comedian, and back to Zeke.
And she’s gone and grabbing Ariel and Kaho and Clarissa, her gymnast trio with their fierceness and their determination, and back to Zeke.
This time she thinks to shrug her backpack off and gasp out “There’s a list- in the emergency folder-”
And then she’s gone again.
When she reaches for Heidi, her zippy little miss who won’t touch fruit and loves worms and has grown so much, that she lands inside. She pulls Heidi and Adela into her arms and shifts back to Zeke.
Her kids are away from the man with the gun and she feels shaky. She takes a couple breaths, bracing her hands on her thighs. Then she thinks of passion-dedication-exasperation, guide and guidee, and wraps that all around her I love I love I love.
The next moment she’s in a closet turned office made all the smaller by the crush of people in it. She looks up at her boss as several kids stifle startled yelps and Colin looks back with wide eyes under his tangled mop of curls.
“What-” he starts to ask.
“Third grade was on the yard, there wasn’t time to get indoors, but I think I got them all safe,” Caitlyn tells him.
“How?” he asks.
“Like this,” she says, voice tinged with hysterical laughter.
She wraps her arms around Carmela, Elizaveta, Winona, and Joanna and reaches for Zeke. She drops the girls off and goes back to Colin, who goggles.
“I know you need to stay on site, but I thought you should know that I’m evacuating our kids,” Caitlyn tells him.
Colin shakes off his astonishment and squares his lanky shoulders.
“Can you get to kinder?” he asks, eyes lighting up.
“Yes,” Caitlyn says, “with Nancy there that will be easy.”
“Get them all out,” Colin says, “and tell Nancy to start listing who is safe, have her message me.”
“Will do,” she says with a nod. She grabs the three remaining kids and takes them to Zeke.
She thinks of Nancy then, they have different classes this year but they’re still brain mates, still the team, and it’s easy to wrap finishing each others sentences and communicating without words around her I love I love I love.
Nancy startles when she appears, and several of the babies scream. Team Kinder moves into action, hushing and calming. Nancy just waits, meeting Caitlyn’s eyes.
“Colin sent me, I’m evacuating you guys,” Caitlyn explains. “I can take as many as I can hold at a time. How do you want to do this?”
Nancy nods once.
“Start with Mr. Mason and Bashir and Rafael,” Nancy says. “I’ll have the next group ready when you get back.
Caitlyn nods and grabs them.
Things go pretty smoothly after that. Nancy sends kinder off a group at a time and then quickly takes control of the chaotic crowd that Caitlyn has already saved.
Caitlyn moves on grade by grade, finding her way to the colleagues she is so so grateful to work with.
By the time the cops secure the man with the gun, the school is empty, everyone 150 miles away.
When they ask later how she did it she looks right at them.
“Love is love,” she says, “there’s no such thing as more or less,” she shakes her head slightly, “it’s not quantifiable, there’s no scale that can measure it, love is.”
You have been donating blood for the last couple of years. Unfortunately, you were forced to stop temporarily because of low blood pressure. A few months after your last donation a man with strangely sharp teeth stands in front of your door. He tells you that he would like to ask you a few questions, and asks you if he may enter your house.
Whenever you come across a moderate size decision, you have the ability to message any of your future selves and ask them what came of their decisions. One day, the doorbell rings and there is a girl-scout waiting outside. Your phone chimes, it’s a message from yourself; it reads “Please, don’t open it”.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been able to communicate with the future. As a little boy, I’d written letters and placed them in the creek out in the back of my house, and gotten replies back the next day under my pillow. As I got older I began to suspect my parents, but the more I questioned them, the less likely it seemed. So i continued to write, asking about how I’d look, or who I’d marry, or how many children id have, or if the girl I liked liked me back.
“Handsome, a little too arrogent.” “You won’t marry.” “One.” “Yes”
And it guided my life. Successfully. Letters turned to emails, emails to texts, and so on. Bigger life decisions needed more specific answers. How big of a downpayment do i need for my first house?
“Don’t buy a house yet, wait until after you’re fired from this job”
“The next job is double your salary, prove yourself, and you can do it.”
“Don’t date him, he’s married. You’ll get dragged into the drama.”
I became very successful, with a cozy home, with exactly the two bedrooms id been told to get, with a big backyard Id been talked into, planning for a family I was still unsure about. My parents had passed in my mid 20s, and I was an only child, a little spoiled for that fact but still lonely. Which I supposed helped me to continue corresponding with my future guide, stubborn to accept bad outcomes and desperate for familiar contact, despite their mysteriousness, and distance. They never spoke first, only answered questions…which is why it came as a surprise one autumn sunday morning, when my phone alerted me to the first unprovoked message they’d ever sent me. I was shocked, staring for eternity at the confusing message.
“Please…dont answer it. ” The vaguity concerned me. Whilst pondering it, the bright chimes of my doorbell sounded. My stomach sank and my hands shook. I couldnt resist peering out of the peephole. Shock after shock today, the caller was a small girl, with an impossible cloud of curls suspended around her freckled face, her deep brown eyes staring up into what she had no clue to be my own eyes.
It was a little girl. A headstrong little girl, from the way her chest was puffed out and the straightness of her back and the loft of her head and the fire I could almost feel. Her little blue tunic was too big, obscured by the comically large pen board she carried.
Against my better judgement, I opened the door. The tiny spitfire wasn’t the only one there, to my amusement. Six more tiny girls were huddled behind a tall, primly dressed woman. She waved apologetically as one shrieked at my presence and began to cry.
“Sorry, you’re our first stop,” she laughed as she comforted the sobbing girl.
I shrugged, “Girl scouts?”
She blinked. “Oh, I suppose we look like them, don’t we? No no, we’re the-”
“WE’RE SELLING COOKIES FOR OUR HOUSE. BUY EM, KID.” The little one at my feet sure knew how to sell. I laughed a gestured to her clip board, and she enthusiastically chucked it at my chest. “THEYRE SO TUMMY. ”
The woman laughed again. “You mean yummy, Naomi.” The girls eyes sparkled and she just nodded, affirmatively. I looked the sheet over. “Ross District Girl’s Home”. I glanced at the woman.
“Are you a…”
“Foster care, yes. There’s also a boys home as well, about a mile south from here. We do a fundraiser every six months or so, and split up by age, I’ve got the first graders out today. You’re new to the area yes?” I nodded.
“Great, well we do lots of bake sales, little fundraisers, door to door, things like that to keep our house running and to get the kids out of the house for a bit. We do a carnival in December too. ”
“Impressive. ” I looked back down, and Naomi had vanished.
“Shit.” The woman clapped her hand over her mouth as the girls laughed and acted scandalized at her swear. “Did she run inside? Could we..?”
I extended a hand, “Be my guest, I dont have much but some granola bars you kids are welcome to.” Five little girls rushed in as their gaurdian rolled her eyes. The sixth held tight and they entered.
As the children chowed down, she thanked me. “Thats very sweet.”
“Nah, I love kids. Love to have some myself eventually.” I marked a few things down and handed the board back to her. “3 of each, the office will love these.” She gaped at me.
“Thats…over three hundred dollars…are you sure?” She sputtered.
I shrugged, and pulled a carton of milk and some glasses down. “Kids are expensive. I’d be happy to help more if you need it.” She raised an eyebrow at me and extended a hand.
“Charlotte.” I took it and shook.
“Wilber.” And she couldnt begin to contain her laughter.
“No kidding!?” She howled, “Oh you and me are going to have some fun, Wilber.”
“Will is fine,” I winced. She shook her head. “Nope, you’re my new best friend. Wilber. Great name.” She sat the girls in a row and began to call for Naomi.
“Sweetie?”
We searched the house, easily finding her in my office. My office was my pride, the wall covered in pictures and maps, red strings tacked all over, souvenirs from other countries, plane tickets from where id gone. This tiny girl was stared in awe of it all. I was flattered. “Hey.” Charlotte said softly.
There was such a calm over her. Like she’d had an epiphany. She looked twice as small in the dark room, her entranced faced illuminated only by the rather dramatic lighting I displayed my treasures with.
“This is the world, huh?” She said quietly.
“A lot of it, sure.”
“My mama said she was gonna find a way to give me the world. You went and got it, huh, kid?”
“Not all of it.”
“My mama couldn’t give it to me…she had to go. So I gotta find someone else to help me. Huh, kid?”
“Its a wonderful thing to have.”
I was compelled. I sat side by side with her in that little room, weaving stories about China, and Africa, and Mexico, and Europe and all the places I’d seen, all the places I wanted to see. Eventually all of the little group was there, snacking and listening. I showed them the lunch I’d had at the Eiffel tower, the brightly lit streets of Tokyo nights, the majesty of Machu Picchu, the castles of Scotland. I told them to go and see them, no matter what it takes. And suddenly, they were leaving. Time to go, time to return back to reality, time to return to a spouse that probably shouldn’t know Charlotte took seven little girls to eat a snack inside a strange man’s home. I caught her by the wrist and stared. “I want in.” She laughed nervously, “What?”
“How do I do what you do?”
“Well you have to be a social worker for one…but we do let potential parents volunteer during the adoption process.”
“I’ll do it.”
“You..you what?”
From that day forth I committed my whole heart to that foster home. I broke my back playing with the kids, cooking meals and loving them. I showed up to work more sporadically. I didn’t care. These kids were so smart and wonderful. Kaya loved to paint and she was amazing at it. Elizabeth sang, and Martina knew math even I couldn’t do. And Naomi was loud and boisterous and loved everything about the world and learning about it. She and I became best friends, and I gave up my cushy office job to return to teaching English. We spent so much time together, even Charlotte got sick of me. So sick in fact that one day, she got to joyfully hand me a thick stack of approved paperwork to declare that she was officially kicking both me and Naomi out of her home.
And that was that, my life began to revolve around this little devil child who tore up my house the first day she stayed there as we celebrated by eating way too much ice cream and blasting the music way too loud. This spitfired seven year old who told ghost stories to her stuffed animals under the covers and pretended to not notice as I listened intently, as she’d make her dolls scream in response to the twist. This tiny, wide eyed wonder, who began to sob fat tears the day I handed her a ticket and a passport and told her that we were going to Peru. The girl who traveled with me all over the world and brightened every corner of the earth, and brought meaning to my spoiled, lonely life.
Naomi loved mangos, and the beach, and she would spend nights staring at it when she was older, on the coast of Hawaii, or Jamaica, or wherever we were. She pretended not to notice me watching, admiring the young lady my daughter was becoming. She drew every shoe she ever owned, and she drew it in the country she got it in. That was always my first gift, shoes to show where she’d stepped foot.
Naomi never brought up her mother, or that she died from breast cancer. She wouldn’t have known, and couldn’t have thought to remember the day that the love of my life was told at 15 that she had less than a year left to live. Naomi, my crybaby was silent, and comforted me as I wailed for my child who it felt had just come into my life.
“If I have a year, we better make it a great one, huh kid?”
That year we climbed Mount Everest. That year, we visited every Disney resort in the world. That year turned into three, and when my baby walked across the stage of a graduation of strangers, she was so beautiful, even through the sallow, sunken cheeks and paled eyes, and smiling despite her oxygen mask as she took a diploma she’d earned outside of the high school her peers attended, by living life. She went into the hospital that night, smiling.
“Dad…I think you did it.” She crooned, spreading her shoe drawings over her lap, her ‘sketchers’ she often joked.
“What’s that? ”
“You gave me the world.”
My daughter died two weeks later in the hospital, surrounded by her friends from all over the world, who had come to see her graduate, and stayed when her condition worsened. I sighed and pressed my cheek to her still warm face and said my wet and shaky goodbyes. I tapped my phone, the first message in years to them.
i had just finished my face paint, which consisted of sickly greenish skin above a gaping, painted-on maw of sharpened teeth. i checked the bathroom mirror.
it was terrifying.
“perfect.” i whispered
i threw on my costume of a raggedy dress and flower crown for my altered “corpse bride” look, grabbed my pillowcase, checked my phone, and headed out.
it was time.
i walked the few blocks down to the rich neighborhood near my house. i got a good haul from the first few houses.
but then…
I heard them
i can’t really describe it in words. you would’ve had to hear it. it was like a mumble at first, getting louder and louder until I couldn’t hear my own thoughts over the whispers. all these voices, screaming at me and somehow still whispering.
then….they seemed to die down. the number of voices lessened until there was one, singing “this is halloween”. it must have noticed me, because it stopped.
it only said one word.
“who?”
“well….m-my name i-i-is Sophia. You ca-can call me…Sophie?” i said, surprised I hadn’t shit my pants yet. the voice was like satan himself was talking perfectly in time with the sweetest old granny you ever met.
“good name. what Miss Sophie doing near gaud’s wood?”
i didn’t know if I had misheard the voice. i looked around. everyone seemed to have left. just me and the still-disembodied voice.
“did you just call yourself God? Like, Bible and crap?”
“NO! GAUD, g-a-u-d! …”
did it just…..they just yelled at me!
“…and I ask miss sophie, what is Miss Sophie here for?”
“i-i-i-im trick or tre-tre-treating.” after this gaud person had yelled at me, I was sure I had shit my pants.
“trick…….trick rr treat? gaud like both those thing. gaud join.”
and then…..they left the woods.
they were the most terrifyingly beautiful creature I had ever seen or even fucking heard of. their skin was pale pink and smooth as glass, glistening in the soft moonlight. they carried themself regally, and, out of decency, had on a loose-fitting wizard’s robe.
“um….what candy do you like, mx gaud?”
“small, round, pretty color. I think are called…..sit….sitkul?”
“oh, skittles! would you like to try to find some?”
“O YES YES GOOD IDEA MISS SOPHIE!!”
they jumped up and down and clapped like a little kid before finally stopping and smiling. I took their cool hand and led them to the nearest house. it was around 8, so things were really begin to kick up.
i knocked on the door. a nice little old woman came out holding a bowl of, you guessed it, packs of skittles. she said some compliment and gave us three packs. we went out to the street.
“oh miss Sophie, thank, thank….”
they said, before tearing open a skittle packet with their teeth and swallowing it whole. they shook their head and looked at me, smiling.
and so, it began. we may as well have looted all the houses that had skittles, but otherwise, it was a blast!
but, of course, around nine-thirtyish, I had to take gaud back to the woods.
“tonight was fun! I hope to see you again next year.”
“yes miss sophie, I will see you next halloween!”
they went in for what I think was supposed to be a kiss, but they really just licked my face. and next thing I knew, I woke up at home. I thought it was a dream, until I saw the note on my bedside table.
You, an atheist, have died. All the gods that have ever been line up to offer you their version of heaven if only you believe in _them_. Turns out souls are currency and yours is up for grabs.
There are many Gods. They speak, and I am tired. A mass of voices coiling around me, each telling their own tale. They speak over one another, they talk to me, they do not listen. And I am tired.
Currency. Is this what I am to them?
They will not stop speaking. They offer me things. They will take me to my loved ones. They will gift me joy and music. They will have me serve, in their armies, in their choirs. Some tell me stories of how they made me. From clay. From nothing at all. Some tell me they love me, small as I am, that I am their creation and so their child.
Above all, they repeat their stories. They talk incessantly of their power, their battles, of the ways and reasons they are feared. How long will they talk? Time does not happen here. It is so much effort to stay. Effort to maintain. Effort to exist.
So many Gods. Gods whose names I had already heard. Modern Gods whose human disciples still speak their names. Obscure Gods whose stories were written on tablets, on scrolls, thousands of years before, whose only proof and records were discovered underground, in caves, in ancient lands. Every God there ever was. They are all here with me. They have been talking for years. They repeat their stories. Their stories are important to them. They demand, plead for my attention.
I died knowing I was dying. I died as I lived, believing in no Creator, no great demiurge, and no final salvation from death. Knowing that gods were stories we told. I believed only in the universe. That it existed before me and would continue without me.
And it has.
The voices scream their stories. Why are they so desperate for me? Despite their insistence, I know what I knew before. My truth is unchanged. My truth is of the universe, of its physics and particles, of its probable beginnings, of its possible ends. Of the simple fact of existence.
These gods are not my creator. I was created by a long line of life, of unlikely Life happening and colliding and continuing. Eons. Three, four eons, billions of years all lined up behind me, all of my predecessors, their lives and their stories, they are my chapters and I am their sum. I am the story of Life, in all its improbably glory. And gods are as old as humans, but I am as old as Life, and Life is much older.
I think I’ve solved it. I think I know why they seek us. They want what Life wants. To exist. To continue. They need their legends told, at any expense, because:
We wrote them. I said before: gods are stories that we write and tell. We are their Creators. And this is why they scream for me, for my ears, for my attention. Stories exist only so long as they are told. Gods exist only so long as they have a listener. And I know they have nothing to offer me. There are no rooms, there are no gates, there are no hallways, no crowds for me to join. They only keep me here to listen. If I accept an offer, what then? Will they stop speaking, disappointed, and leave me? Will they keep delaying? Will the god of my choice sweep in, desperate, and keep me here as long as I can be convinced?
All of my being is tired. Life is not meant to persist this long after it is through. My presence and existence, temporary from the start, is loosening and loosening. All of my pieces beg to be released. I was not made to last.
I am through. I have given these voices enough.
So I do what life does when it is finished. I dissolve, and return to the world.
