There was a forum website in the early 2000s called highDEAS where stoners would post thoughts they had while high that others could upvote and comment on. The most popular post in its history was “‘Midget Village’: Buy a forest. Adopt 8 midget babies every year (mixed race). Be the only non-midget around and raise them to think you’re their god. test” The trees They are great The trees They are tall But the trees do not speak So they are not God ~Djimi proverb The hide is used to hold the rest of the carcass tied up at the end of the stick. Pieces: Skin; Muscle; Lungs are no good; Yes; The liver; And certainly the kidneys. The heart however is for someone higher. A naked little hobo roaming around the woods. To home he goes to home to home he goes dreaming of the mashing of the straw beneath his back as he will lie in bed that night. Peaking through the leaves he saw it turn its back to the thicket. The cold. The cold on fur. Warmth. Red warmth and childhood comfort. Lying wrapt in mother. A vague picture of being in the forest in autumn and it only knew that it would be getting cold soon. He would never know there was a red and a green he couldn’t see, and so at least he’d never have that to lament. It was the simplest way to say goodbye. The child sitting outside the thatch-roofed hut. Th wrds cm hd. Speling th ownlee wrd shee nos in blokz. Shee new it and new shee new it. Th lassed blok two playse. Thiss iz Y. W. Th fin grs feale th inevin sirface. Jist won lettir. Th rite lettir. Yes! R. Hanging in a bag of your own skin. The ground has no meaning. If only I’d died looking at the sky. At least then I could fade into the blue. There is only brown and hanging in this bag and bouncing around at the mercy of this creature carrying me off like so many rabbits whose necks I’ve snapped. Less tossing, less jostling. We must be on smoother ground now. We must be going to his lair. And soon I will be opened out. Slowing down now. Stopping now. If only I could see myself in the mirror sometimes. No mirror here. Only the chief and the priest. Only the dirt I'm kicking at my feet. I am left to stare into the water trying to find an easily broken image of myself. But for now I have a coyote as tall as a djimo. He will be happy. I need a fire. I am hungry. He calls to his wife. She tells him she is busy getting the piss stains out of their son’s sheet. He must build the fire himself. He goes to the covered hollowed-out stump and removes the lid. He pulls out several quartered logs and makes a base. He puts some pieces of straw underneath the teepee of logs. He breaks off the bloodied end of the stick. The thigh looks good. The rest is taken by his wife to the smoke hut. No djimo will question his manhood. She is the best. The old stick. Now my leg skewered on it, held roasting over a fire. Warmth. This time orange. She examines the organs. Liver fried or stewed. Roasted gets too tough. Roasting. Never. Should there be blood-liver sausage? Shant. Fur, its skewered face. Its naked face. He already did all the hard parts. First all with the rub. All with a light crust. Then all in grate-bottomed wood boxes. Haze assaulting, a cloud burning smoke choking the eyes the instant the door opens. Left to hang now. Left to cure. The hide. He didn’t need to say he wanted a coat. So long as the top of the mouth sat just right on his skull. Shallow incisions first. Removing the lower jaw requires tact and care. Otherwise it is ruine. Dipping. Careful so the hide tans but the fur doesn’t fall off. And stretching. And left there. To cure. The tall man never believes how miraculously quickly they learned to read. Inso the great giver of knowledge. He was a gift. It is as the blood begins to dry and the meat begins to brown that he sees the blocks left out just beside the hut. What did she spell. These three little blocks begging to be disturbed. And maybe some dream’s been left behind. Firm and soft. Cold and wet slime on the pad of the foot. The earth lurking beneath the grass. An oak segment. Split in the middle then again into quarters. The one quarter. The special quarter. Bark is stripped. Then a piece of vice cord from his side pouch. Even length, width, and depth. Even length, width, and depth. Measuring the quarter carefully. Start with three even pieces. Wait. Ensure three cord lengths. He carves a notch at each third. The hand ax. Short strokes so the head does the work. It’s never the hand—just the hand helping something achieve its end. And sometimes without ever touching anything. He only knows triangle. Not Euclid or more importantly now those ignoring him. The bark needs. The bark needs. I need to pull this damn bark off. Even length. Even width. Even depth. He fuddles around on his stool of a workbench. There is the rough paper. Smooth now. Smooth so no splinters for my angel. He finally grinds down the wood more pristine than a sheet of paper and engraves. The first eighteen letters will suffice for now. She will learn the rest when she can write these in the dirt from memory. Too many and she’ll get confused. He always worries about the blocks. She always leaves them around. He always complains he worked on them. She always says she is sorry. At least she is learning to spell. At least the all important. Three blocks. He feels them and on the underside there is the slight moistness of the ground. Some anger some anger and then he’s over it. It’ll happen again and if he bitches she’ll just hate him. This is what the wife is for. She’s much better than I at yelling at that girl. I guess she never yells though. I yell. I get fucking angry. He was only fourteen when he had the idea. He didn’t know how he just knew it could work. In his brilliant little mind. There would be costs certainly but the majority of his supplies could be found out in the woods. He’d need a chainsaw, otherwise it would all be a real bitch. And straw is everywhere. Everywhere out there. Just needing a place to do it. It shouldn’t be a problem. If he ate the wrong parts he would die but the right parts were delicious enough he’d learn. He’d learn no matter what. He would do it because he was the best at everything he’d done yet. Only since my last pangs shot. For the first few seconds—before you understand. It feels like you’re glowing. Warm and glowing. Warmer and the glow fades. Warmer and it is now all glowing inside. And it burns. To hold them in your hand. So small at first they can fit in one palm. Their first cradle my hands. Their first words heard my voice, and the first words spoken as though to me. I am. The last, the key. She saw the special cord tied to it and set it aside for her final act. In a special box. The one her mother claims was blessed by the prophet Inso himself. It is made of a cream red-ish wood. Not like the normal oak. They say it is called mow-hag-nee, the spirit wood from Their world. Please. Please. So now in the pit placed atop a vented pillar. And filled around the base with wood chips. Fire. Then covered in a mat of moist leaves. She will come back for it all later because it is all truly hers. Why should anyone care what happens in my world? Fools hide, cowards run, and us master…we create. In ten days time it will be ready. In twelve days he will arrive. There once was the world of magic. A land of gods great and many. But then came the fire in the sky and the end of all things. But we are safe here in the last oasis of the last God. We are His embrace. And there will be no further magic to burn our world. Inso. Come. You will be known as the one who learns, and therefore the one who teaches. He knows the voice. It is one of the voices that taught him to speak. He wanders out. Black. Where are my eyes? It is his first new moon. Maybe one day a man could be forgiven the sins of his father. Today though he waits by the pit, praying. They have been absolved. He bears the curse. He must be the man of sin: he who society burns to douse itself. May this offering suffice. Th preest lyks to vizzit at mid-sun. Da-dee toks two hym haff th day. Thae leeve two fined fued for us to eat. But thae all ways argyou. And th preest poynts at mee. The heart is not the center of emotion. Rather it is what makes the blood flow throughout the body. It is nothing to feeling. Children eating fake hearts. For love. No. this is the magic that destroyed the world. No more falsehood. Our god is nourished by the hearts of his creations. There will be no fallacy. Dadee plees tel mee a bowt gra-pa. He was born with magic. He was cursed. So too are we. Looking at his feet. Staring at the pit as he prepares. Now the final act. What only he can do. What only the stewards of his word can create. It must be flawless. A perfect offering to our Lor. The angels have spoken that on the tenth, after sitting one in fire and nine in smoking embers., then on the eleventh day it must be brushed for a last cure. A cure that can only be made by our Lor’s Hands on Earth. And on the twelfth day He will come and the offerings shall be judged. She sometimes wonders why she chose the burden. Forever damned. The grinding of teeth and the feeling of hands melting into the water in the basin. The dry clean after the water falls off. She is always certain that whatever the ultimate reason it all relates to her role—the one she’s known without knowing her whole life. It’s all the ritual she’s been told. The words, as I have read them regarding the prophet: When you were young Barely a spec in my palm There was one among you Who bore the mark One who was born With my world’s curse And for a time Pit was taken upon him But the time came When he began To play with the magic And so the Lor Seeing his folly So struck him down Lest he make the sun go dark And the moon fall to the Earth They say. I am my father. Only not so great. Only not so knowing. I have chosen to know what I can. I have no desire to open the Hellbox like my father. I will be the greatest of what I’m expected. Nothing more. A gravel path winds and ends. Nothing more than an almost invisible offshoot. Green grass. Roads. Stop. Park. Now a thirty mile ride by ATV. Many of the trees blur into each other. The leaves fall forever on top of each other in dazing canopy. And a two mile hike. You really only notice it alone. Slow. Brown and jagged. Finally not just a blank green wall passing by. Finally the canopy settles. If you were to guess could you tell me what color my underclothes were three days ago? You cannot. I can. Because I am. They were green. You are. I was, I am, and I will be. There will always be magic so long as the branches keep reaching further away from the ground. Kill the stump, kill the branches. Every moment she sat by the fire was 10000 thoughts. It was that which her husband did not ever want anyone to know. Not the way it could be seen in him so deep down in his blood. She had to remain silent. She had the magic. She could splice numbers. She could move, turn, and twist them. She saw them compound and bend the lines. She saw them foil. Nobody, and she meant nobody, could ever know. Her husband knew. So the grey burned in her eyes. I’d like to start by saying this is a sacred day. The time is holy and burnt onto the earth around us. Let us not forget every day we are saved. We are the only left to keep His world. Now join me in the invocation. Lor, protect us, See not our mideeds But the offerings Which we will lay Graciously at your feet Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. He walks. The offering. I am not my father. If only I did not body and soul, if only I couldn’t tell you how four collapses to two. It would be no matter. He had only passed the words. No greater magics. Nothing. The Priest. Nothing. Now Him. Nothing. Light. Nothing. Altar. Noth-. Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk walk walk walk walk walk walk waaaaallllllkkkkkkk. Come. Just follow. To left. To right. To left. To right. To left. To right. To left. What has been done to this child? She is small and she is young, but she has words for Him. It is not all evil. It is not all bad. He told me so. Speak. Luhking at thiss Lor. So tawl. Butt hee haz dadee’s ize. Speak child. Speak to our Lor if you have words. Quiet. Waiting. Fear. Power. Dadee sex yew r th Lor. El. Owe. Ar. But yew looke lyk a tawl boi. Yew looke lyk a regular boi ownlee tawl. Silence. The priests eyes are darting around. The Lord is harsh in errors but he is kind and forgiving. But the lord is Smiteful. So it begins in this child too. So it began so simply with Inso. They must learn. The same old curse. I don’t get what you think could change. Oh well. I must be merciful for now. She will have her time. Too much silence. Red. No fire. Simply the priest shouting curses of blasphemy. And the tall man holds him back with his sweeping arms. I take this form so you can bear to see me. I take this form so your eyes not melt at my sight, or your heart not explode at the sound of my voice. But really he knows. This may not be the final question as he looks to see the heart outstretched in offering hands of the scared little man. The heart he can take or leave. He knows there will be more sacrifice. But he does not feel like going home and cooking after driving so far. Now in these greater hands it is time to say goodbye as the canine tears through the aortic valve. It is done. But it too will be shit out, feed the Earth, and eventually in a million pieces it will be animal again. Everything both that should and shouldn’t will repeat itself. But maybe next time this fucker teaches his damn kid how to do math he will use a little less spice rub. But I can’t tell him that or he’ll shit himself. Any time I have to talk these imps go nuts. Oh well. At least it’s just some child. The idiot hasn’t gone and tried screwing around with numbers and wasn’t making steam engines in his free time. Not yet at least. So I guess for now they’re safe. I guess I just choke down this spiceball and go home. And I guess like always my wife will ask me why I smell like fox piss. But oh well. At least this remains. At least they are secure.