#daily reminder that love stories can occur in all sizes and shapes

[cancelmecowards]

i just finished binging the good omens book and series what do you MEAN to tell me that there are people that think aziraphale and crowley arent in love ???????

[pangtasias-atelier]

Endless (W)eight

Well this story kinda ended up changing a rather bit from what I initially planned lol. But I am kinda content with how this was especially cause struggling to write immense sizes. Of which this is cause I kinda just kept making Freyr fatter and fatter lol. 

This was meant to be like a semi sorta sequel to the Joshua Gerik story I wrote but this isn’t even really summer themed anymore. If you do understand the reference with the title, I love you. Anyways, enjoy but please do not fucking perceive me cause while this is far from horny or anything this is self indulgent and feels kinda weird since it isn’t the same characters I gush over and also cause this is like the biggest I've written lol

Askr's Order of Heroes enjoying a now endless summer, the revelry continues to increase throughout the weeks just as the heroes' waistlines. Heroes summoned from the beginning of the Order's creation to those summoned during the current reigning peace partake in the merriment alike. No hero quite forced into enjoying themselves and their time, the bit of nudging from the food's addictive nature and decreased metabolism only strengthens the feeling laying dormant inside a hero, one particular new recruit is completely absorbed in enjoying themselves to the fullest.

The King of dreams, Freyr, appears nothing like he once used to. The God who governs dreams appears to be enjoying his own blissful, hedonistic dream. Never having eaten a morsel of human food in his entirety of living, he more than makes up for it now, Freyr having eaten more food in his short time of being summoned to Askr than any  human could possibly imagine in their lifetimes.

Absolutely corpulent, Freyr's overwhelming fatness is enough to put even whales to shame. Unable to move unlike a whale, Freyr's size is simply from pure, unabashed hedonism. So content and obsessed with stuffing his face with the divine delicacies produced by humans, his ballooning waistline had been of zero importance to him. It still is, what with his ever ongoing display of wanton gluttony. Immobile several millions of calories ago, Freyr's current appetite is enough to put the entire Order to shame. Far more than even a dozen times over. Unable to get up and move around, the same is true for the entirety of Freyr's castle crushing weight. His hands and feet are gone in their entirety. They're absorbed and smothered under the enormity of his weight. The near same is true for even his head with his numerous flabby back rolls and engorged cheeks. An overly ridiculous amount of fat is caked all over his blubbery, rotund form. His appendages are just as useless as the rest of his bloated body. In a constant euphoric dreamlike state, Freyr has no need to do anything besides enjoying himself. Especially with the aid of the summoner. Kiran perfectly willing in enabling the perpetuation of Freyr's overconsumption, the summoner is able to at least transport Freyr from place to place through magic. Albeit at an increasingly concerning amount of magical and physical strain on Kiran's part with so much required to move the meaty mountain that is Freyr. And at the cost of creating more monumental goat sized craters throughout Zenith with every transportation. Not that anyone is able to tell that Freyr is a goat. His once magnificent horns appear to be nothing more than sad little stubs on the overflowing stack of pancakes of a man. Not like most would even be able to discern Freyr as a human either, the man more akin to a gelatinous blob. Completely nude, all people get upon the sight of Freyr is a staggeringly wide wall of blubber. Clothes had been forwent long ago. Not that anyone could remember; Freyr's sheer weight alone is more concerning for everyone else. All his fancy adornments are no more. His bright lei had been torn asunder from his several chin folds and doughy neck. His pristine white shawl had fallen off from his melon breasts and ample back tore the strap. His gold bracelets snapped in half by his overburdened arms and calves. And his flowing lower garments which grew too tight for his widened rear and hips. Clothes too much of a hassle back then, the time and material needed to clothe Freyr now makes a shirt back then seem like an expert working on a simple scarf.

The beach no longer suitable for Freyr, what with the sun's heat combined with his own overabundant body heat, Kiran had brought him to Nifl. The icy cold region suits him perfectly. A nice freezing temperature provided year-round, the nice cooling helps keep him from feeling like a furnace about to explode all the time. Nifl also a rather sparsely populated country, Kiran had moved him to the absolute most desolate place. It had taken a modicum of convincing on Kiran's part at first, Freyr unwilling to hide his splendor and immensity from humans. Until Kiran cajoled him throughout several talks, reminding him that his enormity can be seen from those all around him from great, vast distances and that the move was only to ensure him a proper space to grow comfortably. Freyr large enough to fill up and destroy the entirety of Askr castle from his abundant acres of adipose back when he had first been magically transported to Nifl, his efforts in simply grazing and lazing worked wonders on his body, Freyr now large enough to occupy Nohr's Castle Krakenburg and even the entirety of Windmire and then some. His frame towering just as imposingly as it spreads, the great, mountainous man is indeed visible despite residing weeks from the nearest inhabitable place. His own size indeed a great issue, the amount of food required to merely keep Freyr fed, much less the food necessary to ensure his continual growth, is also another concern with regards to space. The summoner able to find another spell to aid with just that, a small portal floats above his face. His feeding tube comes out one end of it, the other end coming out another portal somewhere in Askr. The contraption alone is the size of a castle, such great quantities of food needed to feed Freyr and Freyr alone. Speaking of food, giving him enough complete meals to satisfy his hunger is completely out of the question. Instead, his feeding tube houses a mixture that Freyr can never quite place. Some days, he tastes an arrangement of the most cloyingly sweet desserts paired with an assortment of decadent toppings. Other days, an impossibly wide array of spicy yet savory dishes enter his mouth. And on even more days, the mixture changes throughout the day, his taste buds never left unsatisfied with the selection. Though such a thing is impossible with Freyr simply caring about stuffing his gullet. Freyr currently devours away at his unending torrent of food with the same fervor he always does.

His growth still occurs at a rapid pace, hundreds of pounds slathered onto his elephantine body daily. But at such a prodigal girth as extraordinary as Freyr's, the extra few hundreds is nothing but a pathetic drop of blubber into the oceanic bucket of lard that he is. Completely unrecognizable as even a human figure at this point, a passing semblance lost tons and tons of weight ago, his stomach puts even the largest of doomsday dragons several heroes once faced. His soft, flabby expanse of lard oozes and flows forward in all directions. His mountainous stomach spreads for miles as far as anyone could see, his expansive pale blubber blanketing the snowy landscape as it takes up the area in its need for more room. Rivers for love handles jut out the side of his mountain of a gut, the ginormous rolls of flab melding into an indiscernible shape. The upper roll of his gut lurches forward onto the lower valley filling slab of fat that is the lower half of his gut. Or what can be construed as it, Freyr's towering body hard to discern. His cavernous navel is in a constant state of twilight from the overhang, the space reminiscent of a black hole. His enormous breasts remain flopped on his great cushiony gut. Freyr's own corpulence the only thing able to rival itself in terms of sheer size, the two titanic tits take up a sizable, meaty portion of his stomach. Each breath alone can crush the entirety of Daein Keep alone. The bright pink hue of his areola is the only real demarcation of his breasts, the sagging tits even managing to mesh together with his mound of a gut. Above his gut is Freyr's unfathomably high amount of neck rolls and chins that simply crash upon one another to form a ringlet of uncountable rolls. Freyr's ass surges out behind him. The tremendous ass cheeks splay out further than even the Mila Tree's canopy. Freyr's ass and gut take up the most space of himself, both assets spreading wherever they please unlike his bloated, sunken appendages. Not that there is much distinction between his ass and gut, both absolutely massive piles of blubber with little shape to speak of. His back is riddled with hundreds of soft plush rolls. His legs useless several hundreds of feasts ago, the two oceanic thighs are bunched up together in a mockery of what a leg should be, rolls upon rings of fat smothering one another to make up a leg. The same is true for his arms, dozens of rings of fat making up his arms uselessly splayed to the side from his uncountable plush love handles. Freyr's cheeks occupy an even greater amount of space than his head, the bulbous mounds of fat splaying out to the sides of his face even as it takes up most of said face. And yet, even at such an inconceivable size, Freyr simply needs more. He craves it. To eat and grow to the absolute inordinately massive that he can possibly be.

The telltale sound of a ripple sounding out, Freyr nearly misses it over the crashing pleasant torrent of his muffled moans from his eating. Knowing what is to come, his monstrous guzzling somehow becomes even more fervorent. A figure comes out of the portal and steps onto Freyr's corpulence.

Kiran is merely the molehill to Freyr's mountain. Yet, even such a comparison is far too diminutive of Freyr's grandeur, Kiran neither even being an anthill, merely an ant in the presence of someone as monumentally fat as Freyr. Always visiting daily to check upon his process, Kiran's next action is not done so often. He closes the portal housing Freyr's feeding tube, the colossal man going without food for more than a second for the first time in weeks.

Freyr's eyes are constantly closed now just as they were when he was once thin and fit, an image hard for those to imagine with his size being what it is now. Able to more easily attune himself to the dreams of others with his eyes closed, he keeps them closed for his own dreams. Dreams of the future. Dreams of living as the god he ought to. Of nothing more than to simply eat and grow. To further display his greatness for all humans to see and awe. To tower over them in immensity and power. Of growing so immensely fat that even the mortal realm will be unable to withstand his divine corpulence and returning back to Ljósálfheimr only to continue eating and growing with the aid of his realm's infinitely expanding space. With his treasured human who benevolently offered unto him the knowledge of human delicacies and set him upon this path.

And so, he opens his eyes as his most loyal devotee rests comfortably atop him. It is only right for him to offer such a pleasure to a mere mortal. For despite the summoner's abilities, that is all he is in comparison to one as great as he. A delicate human before a god. His own titanic waves of lard fills up the near entirety of his vision. The fat from his waves of back fat folding on up to his face just as his greatly stuffed cheeks do.  The only break to the monotonous view of his pale blubber is the summoner's face peering down at his sunken face.

"Kiran…" Freyr's deep rich voice is magnified from all his fat pressing down on him. His luscious mannerism in speaking in a near hazy drawn out whisper is magnified as well, speaking a time and energy consuming task at his monumental size.

A relaxed smile on his face, Kiran allows himself to rest a ginger hand on Freyr's cheek. Unable to lift a single cheek with even both hands, he merely pinches at the plush malleable lard. His eyes never once leave Freyr's own. Keeping them fully open is also too taxing of a task for Freyr. Instead, they remain half lidded. Kiran's hands explore only the near perimeter of Freyr's face. Enough rolls on his expansive lard, Kiran could spend hours simply exploring such a small section of Freyr's corpulence. Freyr's churning stomach is a turbulent, raucous machine with its tremor like desperate growls. Freyr's taxed wheezing mixes in, the two filling in for the silence. Freyr's slight moans trickle in as Kiran's hands wander off towards Freyr's horns, his delicate hands wrapping around and rubbing the tip of them.

"Hnnn… Kiran…" Unable to even squirm from the touching, every single part of Freyr immovable, he remains still as the red tinge of blush on his face deepens and darkens.

"I am here to serve you," Kiran drapes himself over Freyr's enormity, one hand never leaving Freyr's horns. "Whatever you may wish for, I will perform," Kiran's smile widens as Freyr's black hole for a stomach seems to respond to the thinly veiled offer, Kiran always being like this whenever he has come to increase Freyr's intake of food.

"Haah, so hungry,,, I hnngh-require food," Freyr wheezes from a mere sentence, the energy required of him to do anything a foreign concept now. "Much more hah food,,,"

"Of course," Kiran reactivates the portal spell. A bright iridescent blue portal appears above Freyr's face. A ripple in the sky, Kiran reaches his hand inside it and rummages around. Grabbing the thick wide tube, he drags it out of the portal.

"Wait,,," Freyr slowly croaks out right before Kiran brings his feast of a snack to his lips. His stomach wrenches in pangs of hunger at the tantalizing offer of food dangling right in front of his face. "I shall haah have you stay,,," His bloated face puffs out in exertion. It is only fair to offer such a devoted human such a great right of basking in his presence.

Kiran's face softens. "Of course," They respond as if asked to hand over an item, not remaining atop an inconceivably obese and growing man. "Now, I mustn't keep you waiting much longer," With no interruption on either end, Kiran slots Freyr's feeding tube back inside his mouth. Freyr begins guzzling away at it before Kiran even activates it. Kiran huffs in amusement before activating Freyr's feeding machine.

"You deserve to grow as big as you wish. And I would be delighted to remain by your side as you do,"

Freyr merely half grunts half moans in affirmation, preferring to eat and to not disappoint his loyal devotee. Especially as he wishes to find out his possible limit, not that he'll ever willingly stop growing nor that he even presumably has one.

[pamphletstoinspire]

Spiritual Warfare for Moms

During my pregnancy with our daughter, Sarah, I had a vivid dream. In it, I entered what appeared to be a basilica. Gargantuan in both size and wondrous beauty, I noticed it was empty as I crossed the threshold from the outside into the sanctuary. It occurred to me that I was in another realm, certainly not earth. 

I didn’t know what I was looking for or why I was there. I patted my round belly and soon noticed an older man dressed in papal vestments descending an elaborate spiral staircase. He was accompanied by another individual whose image was blurred to me. 

Not recognizing who this man was, he looked upon me with such tenderness that I knew I must be in heaven and that I was in the presence of a saint who had once been pope. He took both of my hands in his and spoke to me about the love of Christ and cloaking myself in His mercy every day. Then he blessed my womb, and we parted ways.

When I awoke, I realized that motherhood is a form of spiritual warfare. The battle begins at conception. For those of us who are blessed to carry a baby to viability and eventual birth, we instinctively notice that we are fighting for our child and his or her soul. 

Pregnancy is such a vulnerable and delicate state of being for both mother and child. We see this in the life of Our Lady as she carried Jesus through dangerous terrain, political strife, and religious persecution.  How do we begin to care for the spiritual wellbeing of our children when we can control so little that happens to them?

As a mom of five children ages ten to infancy, I am confident in two aspects of parenting: that God is sovereign over all, including my (His) children and that He has given me authority over evil on my children’s behalf. 

This is why infant baptism is so vital. As a Sacrament of Initiation, baptism includes a minor exorcism and imparts upon our children divine grace to aid and inform their consciences. We begin our spiritual formation as mothers when our child is in the womb, and once born, we draw upon the wellspring of grace to mold and shape our child’s understanding of right and wrong, good and bad.

God Is Sovereign Over All

In the creation story, God gave dominion to Adam and Eve, which means dominion originated with God Himself. Synonyms and definitions of the word dominion include sovereignty, reign, and rule. 

In Christianity, dominion refers to God’s reign as King. We know that God is the Creator, that He has granted humanity the ability to act on His behalf. Knowing this can be quite an encouragement to a weary mother who is fighting an invisible battle for her children. Just a daily reminder that God is leading us and that we can access His grace through prayer increases our strength.

Mothers Have Spiritual Authority Over Their Children

In a world filled with skeptics and reason-over-faith critics, it might seem outlandish to believe there are actual prayers of deliverance against evil that parents can (and should) pray. One of my favorites is called the binding prayer, which can be found in Father Chad Ripperger’s book of approved deliverance prayers for the laity.

Exorcists, including Father Ripperger, agree that demons are legalistic and only follow the hierarchy of authority ordained by God. This means that husbands can pray on behalf of both his wife and children, and wives can pray on behalf of their (biological or legally adopted) children.

We literally have the weapon of prayer at our disposal to rebuke evil. To be clear, I am not saying that your children will never fall into sin, including mortal sin, nor am I saying that nothing bad will ever happen to them. What I am saying is that it’s important for us to engage in spiritual battle for our children, because have confidence that God grants them an abundance of grace at their disposal. Our hope is that they access it according to their free will.

Start your day with morning prayer, if possible. Pray to your child’s guardian angel. Ask for special protection against evil. Keep your own soul in a state of grace by regularly going to confession and avoiding sin. Teach your children how to make sensible, wise choices in different tough scenarios. 

We can do our best with what we have been given, then release the rest to God. As we relinquish control, we remember that God reigns over all and that our children first belonged to Him.

BY: JEANNIE EWING

[anonmomca]

Getting Beyond the “B” Word

I want to talk about the B word. Not because its prevalence and sometimes tragic results are increasingly making news headlines, but rather I felt it was not touching my community. I am now the first to admit that I was blissfully unaware that bullying was occurring at my child’s elementary school until this B word turned our world utterly and unstoppably upside down. I want to share a few thoughts and lessons learned on this unexpected journey because children all over the world at some point in their school years will likely be affected by bullying whether they are the bully, the victim, or an innocent bystander who witnesses the bullying. Unfortunately I learned the hard way that there is more we as parents, schools, districts, and communities can and need to do to address the B word!

I chose to write this article anonymously to maintain my child’s privacy. However, I do think that these situations and issues need to be more out in the open.  I would have tremendously benefited from more concrete tools to help navigate our situation. In the news we hear about the tragic outcomes of bullying situations, but what we don’t hear about are parents’ perspectives and how they navigated these life changing situations.  

My child is the kid you see around school, on the sports field, and in the community. You know my child as a sweet, smiley, and fun-loving kid.  And yet, little did anyone know (including me) that my child was being bullied at school day after day.  It started with some name calling. Then it turned physical. I went to the principal who had the other child apologize and tell my child they would never do it again. Fast forward to the next school year. It happened again. Not just once or twice but daily for weeks and weeks even after the school administration and the district were made aware of the situation.   Over our two-year bullying journey, here are some things I learned about how bullying is currently handled at our school/district that might surprise you, because it surprised me:

1.  Avoiding the B Word:  Surprisingly, I noticed the administration avoids actually using the word “bullying”.  Perhaps this may be from fear of litigation, but it was something I could never truly figure out or understand. Instead, I heard that my child was experiencing “unkind and undesirable behavior” which “is not tolerated by the school/district.” And if the cause of the bullying is believed to be the result of a triangle of kids, it is treated as ‘typical’ kid drama. So many times, I was told that feelings are hurt and that is why my child was being treated that way.

2. Defining Zero Tolerance: Do you really know what zero tolerance means? Given all the suicides of young kids as a result of bullying, you would think zero tolerance means that the school/district does not allow bullying period…. in any size, shape, or form. Based on my experience, zero tolerance does not mean the unwanted behavior will be stopped. Rather, zero tolerance means that the school/district is doing something; whether it is effective or not.  For my child, it meant that my child was given easy access to report any incidents to school staff and the school counselor as well as trying to help empower my child.

3. Privacy Trumps Transparency: Due to privacy concerns, the school was not able to share what steps were taken with the other child, just that ‘something’ was being done. Day after day, it was completely obvious that the steps they were taking were not effective, yet I was continuously told the situation was being handled.

4. Victim vs. Bully: My child was treated like the bully. My child was the one who was expected to walk away and avoid interaction or the situation. My child spent a lot of time talking to yard supervisors and school counselors or had to find alternate places to enjoy recess or lunch like inside the library or classrooms to avoid the bully. And, I was told that my child was not reporting each incident immediately.

Here are some personal strategies that helped me.

1. Document everything. It is hard to remember all the details.

2. Communicate with your child. One of the hardest parts about this whole situation was feeling like I couldn’t protect my child. Despite me doing everything at the school/district level to get the bullying to stop, to my child it seemed as if the responsibility was solely on my child’s shoulders to feel safe at school or resolve the situation.

3. Talk about options or solutions with your child. Have your child make a list of what he/she thinks will stop the behavior and then discuss them. Ultimately it is your child who has to face the situation on a daily basis. Telling him/her or forcing him/her to do something that is not in his/her nature will not help the situation at all and in fact will likely cause more anxiety or stress for your child.

4. This is likely the hardest thing your child has experienced to date in school and maybe even life in general. However, this will not be the last time your child is faced with a difficult or damaging situation. Use this situation to teach your child how to stick up for themselves and how to make sure they are taking care of themselves.

5. Seek outside therapy. Sometimes help and advice is better received from others.

6. Don’t assume anything. After a year of bullying, I thought there was no way they would put my child in the same class with the child that bullied. If you don’t want your child to be in the same class with a bully say so. The school may need to be reminded of prior incidents as not everything will be documented and/or reviewed prior to making decisions on placement, etc.  

All parents, moving forward PLEASE do me two important favors:

1. Talk to your kids about bullying. If bullied, encourage your child to tell someone so that it can be addressed in the early stages. Also, explain the importance and encourage your child to report any incidents of bullying that they witness.

2. As a parent, please don’t take the ‘my child would never do that approach’. If you receive a call from your child’s teacher or principal, take it seriously and really look into the situation. Do not defend your child as a knee-jerk reaction or ignore the situation.

Here is what I want schools and school districts to consider, as there is more that CAN and SHOULD be done to effectively address bullying:

1. Do not tell children that when they are experiencing bullying, it is a result of someone’s feelings being hurt. Or when incidents are happening that they are likely just ‘accidents’ and ‘jokes’. Doing so diminishes the “victims” thoughts and feelings and increases the likelihood that they will believe the administration doesn’t really care. 2. Be able to articulate school policies on bullying. Parents don’t want to continuously hear “something” is being done. Parents want to know and understand the exact strategies and tactics at various stages. Parents want their child to feel the school is supporting them. A defined plan with steps and timeframes would be appreciated. 3. Follow through with action items that are agreed upon. When a parent requests something as easy as coming up with a code word or signal to help your child let an authority figure know something, do it. When you tell the parent of the child who is being bullied that you have advised the other student to stay away from your child, don’t make excuses as to why it is OK for the bully to sit at the same lunch table as the other child or why it is OK for the bully to follow the other child around campus.  

4. The ultimate resolution of the situation does not need to be remediation. Every child and every situation are different, so what may work in one situation may not be the right plan of action for another.  

5. Encourage and strongly recommend counseling for the bully as well as the family of the bully.   6. Implement best practices. Talk to other schools both in and out of the district to see how they deal with “unkind and undesirable behavior” and zero tolerance.

Getting beyond the B Word for us:

To get beyond the B word my child changed schools midyear. I have heard many reactions to this decision, including “you should have moved your child into a different class, you should have sued, what message is this sending to your child and the bully, etc.” Here is what I can tell you: My child’s goal was to have the bullying stop immediately.  The school had been aware of the situation for basically two years and certainly daily for the last 2 months, yet incidents continued every single day. How was my child supposed to stop the bully, when the bully was spoken to by the teacher, the principal, and the school counselor. In addition, the bully’s parents were spoken to by the principal on a couple of occasions.

Having my child feeling anxious and scared to go to school each day wondering what was going to happen was unhealthy. My child still has a lot of school years left and it is our job as parents to make sure our kids are safe at school. My child, my husband, and I knew we had done everything we could to stop this ASAP.  Sadly, on our extended list of possible options, this is the only one my child felt could guarantee this situation to stop. When all other options have been exhausted, sometimes you need to remove yourself from the negative situation. I am so proud of my child for being able to recognize this. It takes a lot of courage to switch schools (even more so during the middle of the year).  

My hope is that if children and families do find themselves in a bullying situation, moving schools is not the only effective option to make the bullying stop. Bullying is no joke and can be done by people that you would least expect to behave like that. Bullying can take many different forms, but all forms cause harm and/or emotional damage forever. So, I am asking every child, parent, teacher, and school administrator to truly take our story and lessons learned into consideration.

If you currently find yourself in this situation or have suggestions on bullying in schools in general, please feel free to contact me anonmomca@yahoo.com  

Together we can give a more tangible meaning to zero tolerance.

[thebrierpatch]

THE SEED

I was walking in the Arizona mountains next to Starry Song, the shaman who had the gift of using music to perpetuate the wisdom of his people. Eventually, we reached a plateau with a charming view. He laid a multicolored blanket on the ground, lit his unmistakable pipe with a bowl made of red rock, and asked me to prepare a campfire. Then, with his two-sided drum, he set the rhythm for a heartfelt ancient song which asked for protection to never ‘abandon the sunny side of the road’. We remained silent for I don’t know how long, as travelers in the world of ideas, until the shaman broke the silence: “There are many elements in nature that I consider sacred because they are symbolic. Dawn, as light is important in our lives; the flight of the eagle, as it teaches me to see things from the heights; the stars, because they remind me there are other worlds in addition to this one; the four seasons, as they teach that cycles are renewed; the butterfly, that reminds me that a caterpillar can have wings; the river, so that I never forget that eventually, all waters will reach the sea. However, nothing fascinates me more than the seed.” He gave his pipe a puff and continued: “There are lessons all around us. The sacred is mixed with the mundane, waiting to be revealed.” I was about to interrupt him, to ask about the seed, the conversation changed course. It was when he added: “Just like magic awaits the timing of the sorcerer.”

I told him it was difficult for me to understand what this magic was, so noted by magicians and shamans. I revealed that in the culture within which I had been raised, most people considered this power as originating from old beliefs or fictional stories. I also confessed that, like everyone else, I also wished to possess such power. Starry Song closed his eyes, as he would do whenever he knew the conversation would be long, and explained with his coarse voice: “This power is within anyone’s reach; we are all children of the Maker, with no distinction or privilege. Everyone has the power, suffice to learn how to use it.” He paused briefly, and continued: “Magic is an alteration of a state of reality. If you pay close attention, you will see that there are situations, people and places that make you nervous, aggressive or sad, while others elicit a feeling of quietness, lightness and joy. Isn’t it so?” I nod my head in agreement. He continued: “This is a very common type of magic. The word, for instance, can spread dissent or sow peace. This makes us sorcerers, because we have the power to change the environment. When this change illuminates and soothes us, it becomes sacred. To define the sentiment that moves us influences the word and determines the magic that will involve us, whether subtle or dense, speedy or slow.” He made a brief pause and added: “Therefore, pay attention every time you open your mouth: your words involve the power of transformation; thus they define the type of sorcerer you are.”

“In the universe, it is all mergers and expansion.” Seeing a huge question mark on my features, Starry Song explained before I even asked: “All that happens in the universe repeats itself within us. As we are all one, the laws that govern the stars also apply to me and you.” I told him I had not understood, and he patiently explained: “For instance, the starts attract the energies that surround them, gain strength and, in acknowledgement, reciprocate with different degrees of brightness. In turn, from the energies that surround us, we attract those we have an affinity with, metabolize them and then, depending on the level of awareness and capacity to love, share it as light or shadows.”

Shadows? I thought it odd. The shaman was unequivocal: “Each one offers what they can.” I interrupted him and asked how I could determine the energies that magnetize me, so that I could reflect only light. Starry Song arched his lips in a subtle smile and said: “Through your choices. Only they have such power. There are stars that are able to illuminate and maintain the life of an entire galaxy while others are black holes that suck in all that is around them.”

The shaman puffed his pipe and continued: “You should bear in mind that light is, in short, the cohesion of many virtues that do not exist alone. For instance, wisdom needs love in order to serve the common good; love needs wisdom to expand in all its comprehensiveness with intelligence and justice. Courage is a necessary requirement to overcome inactivity and hardships, such that love and wisdom are not just contemplative virtues. Finally, good must be experienced until it is merged to the soul. By illuminating yourself, you fulfill the mission of shedding light over the world as a reflex of your choices.” He looked deep into my eyes and said: “The best sorcerers are those who focus on the magic of transforming themselves.” I told him that that seemed selfish to me. Starry Song shook his head and said: “No. Quite the opposite, they know that only if they enhance their own way of being will they be able to illuminate the steps of all people. The true magicians, little by little, through humble gestures, shift the reality that surrounds them in waves that ripple all the way to the edges of the universe.”

“Every sorcerer understands the importance of ceremonial magic which is, in fact, each and every ritual for the transformation of being. Many get lost in the fantasy of secret full-moon night-time ceremonies around bonfires invocating powerful spirits. Yes, these rituals exist and have their importance. However, similarly powerful are the small, almost imperceptible daily ceremonials in which, oftentimes, we waste the opportunity to sow the best magic: a tight hug in time of distress, a sincere smile to provide assurance, a kind gesture at a hard time, tenderness at a time of conflict, a word of hope in the face of pain, true forgiveness, settling a quarrel, a choice made out of love. In short, all that makes it possible for you to keep the strong flame of light and, if possible, change the mood of the other person. This will serve as a lever so that both can expand their mind and strengthen their hearts. Then, personal transformation occurs. Don’t deceive yourself, this is pure magic.” He made a brief pause and added: “These are some simple instances that only the best sorcerers use to change reality.”

Silence reigned again. I spent some time I cannot quantify thinking about the simplicity of power and magic, at the reach of everyone, while many, in search for the alchemical understanding of life, the one that transforms the shadow’s lead into the light’s gold, get lost for not unveiling the fogginess of delusion. This is when I recalled that Starry Song had said, earlier in the conversation, that nothing was more emblematic for him than the seed. Questioned, the shaman picked from the ground a small seed of a huge oak, which, undaunted next to us, seemed to bless the lesson. The shaman explained: “See how tiny this seed is compared to the greatness of the tree, and see how its form changes during the process of transformation. Imagine an apple seed and remember its shape, color, taste; do the same with the scent and the beauty of flowers. Can you understand the power of the light in you?” He pointed to the secular oak, whose trunk seemed a pillar; then he showed the frail seed, and said: “The tallest tree, the sweetest fruit or the most beautiful flower are but a tiny seed that allowed itself the proper transformations. This is like that light which dwells within ourselves. Like children of the Maker, we carry His seed in the core. In essence, we are light.”

“A seed of light never gets lost. It may take thousands of years to germinate, but its true destiny will be, relentlessly, the one of the tree that cools the heat of days, of the flower that embellishes and perfumes life, of the fruit that nourishes humankind.”

Starry Song puffed his pipe and observed the smoke dancing before our eyes. He arched his lips in a mild smile and completed: “The light that is manifested in you through infinite transformations define the size of your wings, the height of your flight and the distance of your journey. It is the only piece of baggage that you can take in your sacred bag, the heart.”

“Allowing the seed of light to fulfill the entire cycle of tree, flower, fruit and seed once again is the most important magic that pertains to each and every sorcerer.”

Kindly translated by Carlos André Oighenstein.

Other texts by the author at www.yoskhaz.com/en/

[cecilspeaks]

Bonus episode - an excerpt from the next Night Vale novel!

One. 

Not everyone believes in mountains. Yet, there they are, in plain sight. Scientists insist, rather halfheartedly, that mountains are the bulging results of tectonic shifts along massive rocky plates. Mountains develop naturally over the course of many millennia, scientists say under their breaths.

Most people believe that mountains aren’t there at all, even if mountains are visible, as they often are. Nonbelievers will explain that our minds create sensory illusions to help explain what we cannot understand. Like the shapes of gods and monsters in the stars, or messages in tea leaves, or government codes in cloud patterns.

Mountains, real or not, ring this desert like the rim of an empty dinner plate. Scattered sparsely along the flat middle are small towns with names like Red Mesa, Pine Cliff, and right in the center, Night Vale.

Above Night Vale are helicopters protecting citizens from themselves and others. Above the helicopters are stars, which are completely meaningless. Above the stars is the void, which is completely meaningful.

Through this crowded sky mysterious lights often pass. These are just alien space crafts, or the auras left by inter-dimensional travelers, but these simple explanations are boring. The people of Night Vale often come up with elaborate stories to explain the lights to themselves.

The sky once loved a certain rock, but millennia of erosion transformed the rock to dust. The sky, not understanding, still signals for its friend who abandoned it. The rock never knew about the sky. The rock only loved the wind that was slowly eroding it. Sometimes it’s OK to find something beautiful without correctly understanding it.

In the center of Night Vale, like in many cities, is its downtown with the usual things a downtown has. City Hall, community radio station, hooded figures, a library, a shimmering vortex blocked off with yellow police tape. Dangerous stray dogs, and propaganda loudspeakers on every corner.

Beyond downtown is Old Town Night Vale, a residential and shopping area planned and developed during the booming economy of the early 1930’s. After the war, the neighborhood fell into disrepair but in recent years, it has seen a regenesis of home owners, neighborhood shops, tall metal trees, and predatory cats.

Beyond Old Town Night Vale are the Sand Wastes, which are exactly what you think they are. And beyond the Sand Wastes are the Scrublands, which are sort of what you think they are. And beyond the Scrublands is the used car lot and Old Woman Josie’s house, and finally, out on the edge of town, the house of Larry Leroy.

Larry had lived by himself for as long as he could remember. He owned a phone which was broken and a car, which sat wheel-less atop four blocks of concrete out back. Hidden under the car, he had an underground shed full of canned goods and bottled water, and a year’s worth of pork sausage preserved in animal fat.

He used to have a shotgun, but he traded it for the car without wheels, figuring a car without wheels was safer than a shotgun. Despite the friendly reminders from the Night Vale chapter of the National Rifle Association: “guns don’t kill people, guns are the new kale, guns are healthy as all get-out”, Larry never felt safe around guns.

When he was in his early 30’s, Larry’s father took him hunting. He didn’t like his father. He didn’t hate him, either. Once when Larry reached into the back of his Dad’s pickup to grab the shotgun, a scorpion resting on the barrel had stung Larry’s hand. He had distrusted guns ever since.

These days, Larry actually liked scorpions. After all they eat squirrels, which he really hated. He rarely paid much attention to the illogical way in which the human mind develops certain phobias.

This evening, he bent over the shoebox on his desk. He was carefully pasting a tiny brown mustache he’d made from a sliver of tree bark, to a tiny W.E.B. Dubois’ face. He still needed to build the arm-mounted laser canon Dubois was known for. Larry heard what sounded like the small claws of squirrels running around in his basement, and he hoped the scorpions were hungry. He turned his attention to his miniature version of the five-headed dragon named Rachel McDaniels, that Dubois often rode when speaking. Dubois spoke from a place of moral and physical authority to the intellectuals and politicians, who stood in the way of equal rights for black Americans. He also spoke from the back of a flying dragon.

Larry was building a diorama celebrating Dubois’ famous defeat of the German army in 1915, depicting him and Rachel in their library, high-fiving upon a copy of the declaration of surrender.

Larry adored this war hero and great orator of civil rights. He enshrined Dubois in fine detail in the cardboard shoebox. Larry’s family never cared much for history, often telling him history didn’t exist, because it was no longer happening. The moment anything occurred, they would say every night at dinner, it was gone. Relegated to the fiction of memory. They would say that with their heads bowed, and then they would begin eating.

Perhaps he had been a rebellious youth. Or perhaps he’d just wanted to explore the often wondrous, often tragic myth of human history. Larry adored his heroes. W.E.B. Dubois. Helen Keller. Red Fox. Luis Valdes. Toni Morrison. He believed it was his responsibility to help carry on their legacy by enshrining their great stories and deeds so that they still felt present in the present.  

History is real, regardless of truth, Larry often said – not with words, but with his actions.

Tiny clothing, facial hair, painted set models, most pieces no bigger than any one of Larry’s fingers. They took a steady eye, a steady hand. Unlike most men, he had grown more steady as he aged, more dexterous in his lack of speed. He expertly placed Dubois’ mustache below the great intellectual’s nose and set the tweezers down to begin working on the diorama’s library backdrop.

Larry heard a whirring hum. He felt it throughout his body. There were undulations in the waves of the noise, smooth ups and downs, easily lulling the subconscious mind of a man hard at work. The troughs and crests of sounds accelerated, soon going from steady ululations to a bumpy roar. The metal plates and cups in his hand-built kitchen were the first to start rattling, followed by the creaking of the roof against the metal trusses. He glanced at the earthquake calendar tacked to his wall. Agents from a vague yet menacing government agency delivered these calendars each month, sliding a manila envelope under the door in the middle of the night. According to the calendar, there was no earthquake scheduled for today.

He looked down at W.E.B. Dubois and Rachel McDaniels in their vast academic library. A drop of Larry’s sweat the size of Dubois’ head landed on McDaniels’ back, smudging the paint and knocking off the freshly glued spines.

Larry wiped his brow. He didn’t sweat often even in the desert heat. “It’s a dry heat,” people from the desert often say to others, trying to disguise the fact that they’re kidding themselves. But the heat today was unusual. He felt it not from the air, but from below his boots, and not the heat of the sun, but a friction. The sun underneath his plywood floor burned, like two worlds rubbing together.

His sleeveless brown undershirt was drenched dark down its sides. He heard the crash of metal plates and cups falling out of the doorless cabinets. The ground, his house, his whole self, shook. It was not the soft wobbling slide of a government-run earthquake. This felt like being punched from below. The desert was being pounded by a giant subterranean fist.

As he stood and staggered into the living room, there was another hard thump and shake of his house. Larry tripped forward, face first, into the frame around his open front door. He wasn’t afraid put for his dioramas. He knew one day there would be an end to all of this, and long before that, there would be an end to Larry. He was not so arrogant as to refer to his own death as The End. Just one of billions of ends before The End. Death is only the end if you assume the story is about you.

He knew one day he would be found deceased in his home out on the edge of town. He was unbothered by this. He may not have had children, but the legacy provided by children is limited. Few people know the details of their family past their great-grandparents, and many people don’t even remember that generation. Two generations of memory is all that children provide. And then, everyone is forgotten. But he would leave behind stacks of writing, dioramas, and patchwork quilts. He had a handmade history: his attempt to offer immortality to heroes and perhaps extend his own story as well. Instead of a brief obituary in the Night Vale Daily Journal, he wanted his death to be a story of the discovery of his great collections, the work of his then finished life. He had already written letters for Sarah Sultan, president of the Night Vale Community College; instructions to donate his dioramas to the school’s art department; Leann Hart, editor of the Daily Journal; and Cecil Palmer, host of the community radio station. An obituary he had written for himself, and also ones for Leann and Cecil. And Michelle Nguyen, owner of Dark Owl Records, who would no doubt be pleased to inherit Larry’s vast collection of polka music written, performed, and recorded himself using a concertina and a micro cassette recorder. Michelle loathed any music popular enough to have been heard by more than her and the Dark Owl staff, so Larry’s tunes would be welcome. According to his will, the letters were to be delivered and his belongings distributed accordingly. His artistic and academic endeavors were his children. A legacy that would hopefully last for much longer than two forgetful human generations.

He could feel the bruise beginning to form on his cheek from where he ran into the doorframe. He turned back into the house. The pounding from below was bringing down his kitchen and living room. He watched as the walls and ceiling collapsed and twisted into dust and scrap. Pages of his books and personal writing scattered up toward the helicopters and stars above and fluttered lazily in the wind like unmotivated pigeons.

Lurching forward, arms straight out, using the walls for balance, he rounded the corner back into his art studio. His Dubois and McDaniels diorama was slightly damaged, but recoverable. He picked it up. The wall of other dioramas was still there, decades of meticulous work and loving craftsmanship. His “Pride and Prejudice” diorama, which had been his first, still showed the inconsistencies of a neophyte, but also the bravery of a young artist. Elizabeth Bennett’s sword was soaked with blood; Larry had used his own. And for her eyes, he had used polished onyx. From wherever you stood in the room, Bennett appeared to be staring you down with the passion and vengefulness this dangerous literary villain was known for.

He set the Dubois box down on the work table and walked toward his wall of dioramas. The long plexiglass windows were secured and locked over the displays. The thumping floor jostled him violently. He tugged a bit on each shelf, seeing they were safe, but needing to touch them all to believe it.

Crack! The floorboard below Larry split. He lost his balance, but regained it against the support column next to the shelves. Another loud thump, and half the worktable buckled into a sinkhole growing in the floor. He saw Dubois’ box sliding down toward the opening. He jumped. He rarely jumped or did anything quickly, but now he did both. He grabbed the box, then stepping with his right foot onto the sinking table, he pushed off, hurling himself uncontrolled into the far wall, but managing to cradle the diorama of his favorite orator securely to his chest.

It was silent for a long moment, just Larry breathing. He heard a drop of sweat tap the floor below him. The earth was hot. His feet were beginning to cramp. His head was light. He took Dubois outside and set the box gently on the ground, safely away from the shaking building. He grabbed his wheelbarrow out of the ditch and raced back into the collapsing house. He tossed any important documents he could find, along with his letters to the people of Night Vale into the wheelbarrow. He grabbed the poems and plays he had written. He rushed back into his studio, his arms straining, wheelbarrow already half full. He set his dioramas carefully atop one another in the wheelbarrow, his life’s work, a delicate pyramid of paint, plastic, and paper. He heard the ceiling creak. He placed Jane Austen’s masterpiece on top of the others in the wheelbarrow. As he did, a loud pop and a harsh crunch. His ears were ringing immediately. He fell, or rather slid to his knees. The floor buckled. The empty shelves collapsed. He glanced down into the hole. He saw dirt and wood and plexiglass falling, falling and hitting – nothing. In that hole, he saw a deep endless nothing.

The floor tore away, the wood bending down into the hole below. He struggled to keep his boots’ grip on the steeply angled floor. He gave the wheelbarrow a strong push, knowing if he didn’t make it, he’d at least give the dioramas a fighting chance. The cart lurched a couple of feet and then began rolling back toward him. The pyramid of his life’s work quivered on the verge of tumbling. His boots were sliding. Larry gave one more great shove with his calves, his knees unbent, his body thrust upward. He pushed up the sloping floor, straining but eventually gaining traction and then momentum. He rolled his cart off the top edge of the pit, leaping as if from a ramp into the living room, away from the growing hole behind him. He turned the corner and ran out the front door.

As daylight dwindled slowly across the desert, Larry emerged onto the patio. Out toward the sunset, away from the collapsing home and toward a collapsing earth. The front lawn, mere pebble dirt and leafless shrubs, was gone. Everything up to the ditch was an empty pit. The earth before him was completely gone, and with it W.E.B. Dubois and Rachel McDaniels.

Larry barely had time to process what had happened when there came one more thump. He didn’t know it yet, but it would be the last and the most terrible. The front few steps gave way to an implosion of sand. His palms burned as the wood handles of the wheelbarrow were wrenched from his hands. Elizabeth Bennett’s eyes flashed an angry orange as she fell along with the other enshrined heroes into oblivion. He watched everything that proved he ever had existed fall into the nothing below.

Behind him, he heard the remainder of his house collapse into the pit as well. He stood on a patch of wood in an open doorframe surrounded by a growing, gaping nothing. He stared at the earth dropping away around him, he stared at the stars and the void, which were falling upward away from him. As the ground under his feet dropped away, as he started his fall toward the deep nothing below, Larry didn’t believe what he was seeing. Of course, he didn’t believe mountains were real either, yet there they were, in plain sight. If only for a few seconds more.

Joseph Fink: Hello again. That was an excerpt from the novel “It Devours!” which is out on October 17, and is available for preorder right now. Regular Welcome to Night Vale episodes resume on August 1, plus we have a very exciting new show that is joining the Night Vale Presents family around that same time, so keep an eye out for that. Thanks for listening, have a good summer, or winter if you’re in that part of the world.