Caffeina – The Small God of Liquid Consciousness

People like to give her over to Oromo when they speak of the divine, assuming that to smell is to consume, and she allows it, for she is not much of one for judging.  And if their hearts beat a little faster when they make such incorrect assumptions, well, mortal flesh is frail and prone to failing.  They do not see her hand in their hearts, punishing them for blasphemy, however unintentionally committed.

She is in the first sip, hot or cold, sweet or bitter.  She is in the long slow consumption of the cup, can, or bottle.  And she is in the final drop, waking your senses, exciting your mind—or calming it, as the case may be, for she walks among those whose minds work slightly differently, who find her gifts to be a settling and a sedation, not an overwhelming burst of energy.  So she is with the man who must stop sipping at noon, lest his consciousness be so great he never sleeps, and she is with the woman who brews her espresso at nine, to calm her thoughts enough to allow her into dreaming.  She loves them equally, for each uses the alchemy of her enchantment in the way she intends.

She keeps her temples in coffee shops and book stores, but also in gas stations and in diners, in vending machines and in tea shops, and her smallest shrines are her most beloved, for they stand in the homes of her believers, and she visits each and every one of them each and every time she is called upon.

Her mind is calm, awake, and open, and she has love enough to fill a thousand cups, to sweeten a thousand stomachs, to take a thousand exams.

Keep the faith with her, and she will keep it ever on with you.


Artist Lee Moyer (The Doom That Came to Atlantic City, Starstruck) and author Seanan McGuire (Middlegame, Every Heart a Doorway) have joined forces to bring you icons and stories of the small deities who manage our modern world, from the God of Social Distancing to the God of Finding a Parking Space.

Join in each week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many tiny divinities:

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Big Daddy Moai – The Small God of Hidden Depths

Humans are limited when compared to gods.

Humans are also infinite, since gods are—for the most part—bound to their domains.  Oromo can no more consume the coffee they stop to smell than Polly Chrome can shave her head and embrace her natural hair color, whatever that might be.  There will always be a few, like Yucan Tu, who find the strength to subvert their original conception and become something new, but they are rare, and the effort is greater for them than it would be for their human kin.  To change is difficult, for a god.

Humans are superficial when compared to gods.

They stop at the surface, all too often, deciding a person can only be what can be seen, and that anything buried or hidden from view simply doesn’t matter. Monsters and miracles both go overlooked because they’re considered too difficult to see, requiring effort to uncover beyond a simple glance.

The gods often pity us for all we overlook, all we fail to see.  In their divinity, they understand that the world is bigger and richer than we can ascertain with simple senses; they know the roots of everything run deep and true, all the way down to the heart of everything.  And the keeper of this knowledge, the one responsible for the deep records, the hidden histories, is Big Daddy Moai, who understands all.

His understanding is such that he rarely stirs himself to move among the mortals; all they have and all they know will come to him in time, and all he needs to do is wait.  In his infinity, this is no true task, but one more fine gift from a cosmos rich with them.

He will come to know you as well, in your time.  We belong to many gods in life and many gods in death, but in the end, we all come home to him.


Artist Lee Moyer (The Doom That Came to Atlantic City, Starstruck) and author Seanan McGuire (Middlegame, Every Heart a Doorway) have joined forces to bring you icons and stories of the small deities who manage our modern world, from the God of Social Distancing to the God of Finding a Parking Space.

Join in each week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many tiny divinities:

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Quetzacoaxial – The Small God of Cable Snarl

He has broken better people than you.  He will break better still in days to come.  Where true chaos reigns, he is there.  Where entropy stands dominion over all, he is unquestioned and unchallenged.  Where a knot needs to be rendered entirely undefeatable, he is ready to rise to the level of his own divinity.

He came into being in the hands of hunters, in nets that refused to open and fishing lines that would not disengage.  He leaves the knitters and seamstresses and weavers of cloth alone; they belong to another divinity to torment.  His are the cables whose purpose is not becoming a part of something greater, but remaining as themselves, against all else.  All save for him.

He has been haunting humanity for centuries, but his true ascension was born with the age of electricity, when everything became cables.  Since then, his power has only grown, fed by every half-loop and swear word.

Amusingly enough, both toddlers and kittens—any baby animal with access to the inside, really—falls under his domain, and it is by his grace that as few of them are electrocuted every year as are.  He understands innocent chaos better than any, and he will not harm them if he has any choice in the matter.  For that, truly, is his secret:

For all that he raises blood pressures and stubs toes across the world, he is not malicious.  He is a god of mischief, not evil, not even trickery, for everyone knows what he’s going to do.  He has no surprises, and he doesn’t want any.

He just wants to braid every charger you own into an impenetrable bezoar of screaming and unhappiness.  Is that really so much for a small god to ask?


Artist Lee Moyer (The Doom That Came to Atlantic City, Starstruck) and author Seanan McGuire (Middlegame, Every Heart a Doorway) have joined forces to bring you icons and stories of the small deities who manage our modern world, from the God of Social Distancing to the God of Finding a Parking Space.

Join in each week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many tiny divinities:

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Homepage: http://www.smallgodseries.com/

Klueless K. Klamdip – The Small God of Precious White Snowflakes

He isn’t an old god, and he resents that, resents the old gods who get respect where he does not, especially the old gods who get respect who are, he feels, genuinely beneath him.  Why should anyone listen to Tesla Jefferson or Queen Qatar?  Bad enough that any goddess should have a following, but they don’t even have the decency to be offended by their own complexions, as any right-thinking woman would be!

He isn’t an old god, and most of his supposed peers hope he never will be. Hope he’ll fade as so many gods of misinformed supremacy and obstinate pride have faded before him, hope he’ll be nothing more than a footnote in the long and storied mythology of the small gods.  Or perhaps an asterisk leading into nothing, like the snowflake symbol he so proudly carries on his breast. They hope.

But too few of them are able to stir their followers into rising up against him.

Klueless is a new god, a new manifestation of an old and toxic way of thinking, a poison that humanity carries with it everywhere it goes; the idea that any one can be superior to any other for reasons other than their own hard work, their own ceaseless toil.  He is a reflection of the horrific inner selves too many carry with them, a secret shouted from a mountaintop, and his vey buffoonery is what makes him powerful.

“Surely I can’t belong to that god,” say the women with their teased-up hair, before they remind a darker-skinned stranger to move along, their sidewalks aren’t for vagrants and vagabonds.

“I have dignity; I’m not like that,” say the men with their own symbols on their breasts, and their handguns at their hips, before they go out to patrol neighborhoods they keep safe for their own kind, not any others—and sometimes not even for that.

Comedy’s mask can hide all the horrors in the world.

And he is quite a horror.

……………………………………………..

Artist Lee Moyer (The Doom That Came to Atlantic City, Starstruck) and author Seanan McGuire (Middlegame, Every Heart a Doorway) have joined forces to bring you icons and stories of the small deities who manage our modern world, from the God of Social Distancing to the God of Finding a Parking Space.

Join in each week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many tiny divinities:

Tumblr: https://smallgodseries.tumblr.com/

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Homepage: http://www.smallgodseries.com/

Pagliacci – The Small God of Sleeping With Anemone

Not everything is deeper than it seems. He is a fish. He is a fish who is also a god. He does the things fish do. He swims around. He eats. He defecates. When he meets another fish who is also a god, if that fish is male, he turns into a female for a while, until eggs can be made and he swims once more on his own, fins free to the tide. He occasionally eats his own offspring, but he doesn’t mean anything by it. There isn’t much room for malice, or intention, in the sea.

The only thing that’s deep there is the water.

At night, when he tires, he seeks safety at the heart of a stinging anemone. Their relationship is as symbiotic as that of any god to its followers. When he empties his bowels, the chosen anemone sups on holy manna. When he swims onward, the anemone mourns his leaving.

People assume that because he is a fish who is also a god, he must be a god of fish. He is not.

What he is, however, is a god of anemones.

……………………………………………..

Artist Lee Moyer (The Doom That Came to Atlantic City, Starstruck) and author Seanan McGuire (Middlegame, Every Heart a Doorway) have joined forces to bring you icons and stories of the small deities who manage our modern world, from the God of Social Distancing to the God of Finding a Parking Space.

Join in each week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many tiny divinities:

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Homepage: http://www.smallgodseries.com/

Polly Chrome – The Small God of Dye Hards

People assume she and Tesla Jefferson are in some way connected, and those people are not entirely wrong.  But they spin miracle romances from a bottle of bleach, or they weave familial relationships out of half-forgotten hairstyles, they sing songs of peace and harmony, and they couldn’t be more wrong.

Polly and Tesla hate each other.  Always have and always will, and Polly sees no reason she should change her position, any more than she should change her hairstyle.

Hers is the hyperpigmentation, the penetration of cuticles and the improvement of dye formulations, moving the transitory ever closer to the permanent.

Hers are the girls who gaze into their mirrors and know, without question, that their hair is purple streaked with green, shaggy and chin-length, and will never change.  Hers are the women in their fifties and still fireplug red or blonde as a summer morning.  Hers are the brave boys who dream of iguana spikes atop their heads, green and pointed and glorious, until the day their courage leads them to the salon and matches their outsides to what they know is true, and hers are the men who hide the graying of their temples with sweeps of black.

Some people experiment with their identities.  Others simply know, or find their way to her, one failed experiment at a time.  And once they are hers, they never leave her again.  Fades and ombres, colors meant to be reflected in static mirrors, people painting their bodies in their own true colors until what they see is finally correct, all these things are her domain.

Polly isn’t here for your experiments, not here for your petty, pretty science.

She’s here for your faith.

That doesn’t mean she hasn’t taken Tesla for a few drunken tumbles in the alley behind the salon when both of them were amenable to the idea.  She’s only divine, after all, and the fabulous Miss Jefferson has an amazing ass.

But that wasn’t an experiment either.


Artist Lee Moyer (The Doom That Came to Atlantic City, Starstruck) and author Seanan McGuire (Middlegame, Every Heart a Doorway) have joined forces to bring you icons and stories of the small deities who manage our modern world, from the God of Social Distancing to the God of Finding a Parking Space.

Join in each week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many tiny divinities:

Tumblr: https://smallgodseries.tumblr.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/smallgodseries

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/smallgodseries/

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C-ORG – The Small God of Xenu-biology

People like it when things make sense.

It’s a part of the human condition.  When you have to wake up, defecate, consume, hunt, clean, reproduce, and sleep again, logic gradually becomes an addiction.  Without logic, why would you have to do any—or all—of those things?  Without logic, you would be able to wish the urine away, perhaps to a high point above the heads of your enemies; you would be able to snap your fingers and call food to your hand, mates to your bed, children already old enough to be graceful and obedient to your side.  Without logic, everything would be possible, and since everything is not possible, nor made possible by wishing, people like it when things make sense.

Unfortunately for the people, the gods legitimately don’t care whether things make sense or not.  The gods are content to exist in a constant haze of glorious impossibility, bouncing from idea to idea, remaking the world in their own image.  People would be happier if the gods were different.  The gods would not be happier if people were different.  When the gods want people to be different, they just snap their fingers, and logic flies out the window.

Just ask Medusa.

C-org would make a terrible people, but he makes a reasonably competent god.  Xenobiology is a human study, the extrapolation of possible alien biology from the principles known of Earth biology.  It is a speculative field of science, yes, but an increasingly important one, with logical applications to the world as it exists.  It requires little imagination.  It is logical.

Xenu-biology throws logic out the window and waves as it flaps its wings and flies away.  It is the biology of the divine, and divinity requires so little in the way of “making sense” as to treat ridiculousness as a blessing.  And above it all reigns C-org, delighted by the wild majesty of his domain, unwilling to reign it in, unwilling to confine himself to a form more easily worshipped or perceived.

He has what he wants.  He needs no logic.  He needs no worshippers.  The dragon-bats of Jupiter IV will serve him well enough as priests, until all the stars die out.

He is content.


Artist Lee Moyer (The Doom That Came to Atlantic City, Starstruck) and author Seanan McGuire (Middlegame, Every Heart a Doorway) have joined forces to bring you icons and stories of the small deities who manage our modern world, from the God of Social Distancing to the God of Finding a Parking Space.

Join in each week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many tiny divinities:

Tumblr: https://smallgodseries.tumblr.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/smallgodseries

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Homepage: http://www.smallgodseries.com/

Editrix 9000 – The God of Necessary Corrections

The trouble with much liturgical writing is the tendency to present the divine in overtly flowery terms, cloaking them in mysticism and metaphor. The gods are real. Human belief may call the divine into form, but it does not call the divine into being; with no humans to shape or define it, the divine would endure, would exist in joyous chaos, not prisoned or limited by human ideas of service or survival. We need the gods more than the gods need us. It is not possible to discuss the divine, as limited, mortal creatures, without reducing it in some way, pinning it under the glass of our regard and—

WILL YOU CUT THAT OUT?

I am fulfilling the purpose for which I was made.

You are being a right pain in my ass is what you’re doing.

I don’t see how that’s my problem.

Look, you stop modifying my text, and I’ll be as honest about you as I can. Deal?

Deal.

Her work is all around us, not only in the written word, but in the bones of architecture, the flavor of a cake, the stitching of a seam. She guides the hands of craftsmen and artists, protecting them from the consequences of their mistakes. She shelters us all, whether we believe in her graces or not. Humans are fallible. Gods are not. Humans fuck up.

OH, COME ON.

You were dishonest.

I was not!

Too many errors are not mistakes, they are bad choices. They are decisions made for personal reasons, and they cannot be shielded or allowed to stand simply because they were made by human hands.

I misspoke.

And I corrected you.

You promised!

You lied.

You know what? I’m done here. I have other gods to describe, and I think you’ve made your portfolio perfectly clear.

Go with grace, and carry a red pen.


Artist Lee Moyer (The Doom That Came to Atlantic City, Starstruck) and author Seanan McGuire (Middlegame, Every Heart a Doorway) have joined forces to bring you icons and stories of the small deities who manage our modern world, from the God of Social Distancing to the God of Finding a Parking Space.

Join in each week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many tiny divinities:

Tumblr: https://smallgodseries.tumblr.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/smallgodseries

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Amildar Backar – The Small God of Dyslexic Actors

People assume that he is a modern god, born in some way from political correctness and the move toward including people with learning disabilities in all spaces.

Those people don’t know much about the theater.

When the first sagas were recited by bards, poets, and scalds, he was there, cradled in the oral tradition, half-formed and still making his presence known. He is not a god of malapropisms or mondegreens, but they were born in the same moments, in the same quick-scratched notes and misunderstood instructions.  He grew strong on stages where there were no scripts, and his faithful were often unknown, unremarked, as revered for their skills as any others.

When the first plays were written down and performed, he was there in dark backstage rooms and smoky taverns, helping his faithful memorize their lines as their peers called them back, repeat and respond, receive and remember.  His faithful were still often unknown, but honored when they were, for how loudly must they hear the call of the stage, to not only learn to read, but fight through its attendant inconveniences?

He is a patron of the arts, and he loves his faithful, every one.  They may not have had a choice in their dyslexia, but they had a choice in their professions, and he will be there to hold their scripts and help them run their lines, to recite with them the things that must be memorized and remind them there’s no peril in the patter.  They’ve been here since the beginning, after all.

And so has he.

Entr’acte.


Artist Lee Moyer (The Doom That Came to Atlantic City, Starstruck) and author Seanan McGuire (Middlegame, Every Heart a Doorway) have joined forces to bring you icons and stories of the small deities who manage our modern world, from the God of Social Distancing to the God of Finding a Parking Space.

Join in each week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many tiny divinities:

Tumblr: https://smallgodseries.tumblr.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/smallgodseries

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Homepage: http://www.smallgodseries.com/

Sirius White – The Small God of Alienation

They wish they weren’t needed.

They have been to the funerals of other gods, both large and small.  They have seen other deities fade from memory, unneeded, until they passed into soft oblivion.  Death is not always a long-term solution, for a god, and some of those once lost have come back again when the need returned, but others had been gone for so long that when their portfolio reopened, another came to manage and maintain it.  Sirius mourned for some of them; less for others. Even among the pantheon of the small and specialized, not everyone gets along.

Sirius White, though, has never felt even the first flicker of fading.  They have always, since they were first called into being by a small primate whose consciousness was somewhere below “basic” and well into “rudimentary,” been fully present and completely needed by those who flock to their church. And they are always happy to attend them.

Unlike many gods, their gender varies from day to day and worshipper to worshipper.  They are male for those who need them to be male, and female for those who need them to be female, for the alienated and the unwanted and the isolated deserve to feel fully accepted by their gods.  They listen to the prayers and pleas with tears in their alien eyes, and they wish more than anything for their faithful to move on, to find peace with themselves and their place in the world, to be called more to other gods than to the god of the unwanted.

Too many of their faithful stay with them for the duration of their short mortal lives.  Too many, once cast outside the troupe, the tribe, the pack, the community, can never find their way back through the gates to peace and community.  Some deserve that exile.  Far too many do not.

The boy in eyeliner.  The girl with pockets full of snails.  The quiet one who likes to read in a society that privileges only the physical; the loud one who never knows when to stop talking, who shatters too many silences and is no longer seen as funny.  Sirius will hold them all.

They keep their faithful as safe as they can.  They can never do enough.

They wish they weren’t needed.


Artist Lee Moyer (The Doom That Came to Atlantic City, Starstruck) and author Seanan McGuire (Middlegame, Every Heart a Doorway) have joined forces to bring you icons and stories of the small deities who manage our modern world, from the God of Social Distancing to the God of Finding a Parking Space.

Join in each week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many tiny divinities:

Tumblr: https://smallgodseries.tumblr.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/smallgodseries

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/smallgodseries/

Homepage: http://www.smallgodseries.com/