Everything is a religious symbol to someone.
When two sticks lain across each other can carry religious significance, you know the bar has been lowered. There’s another one—the bar. Some people find faith in a simple line. It’s like there are no standards whatsoever for what carries meaning to the faithful. Rabbits and eggs, trees and stars, anything can do the job.
Which means, technically, that every action is an act of religious desecration. Eating a sandwich? You have defiled a temple of Homeslice, small god of nourishment held between pieces of bread (or bread-like substance). Walking on the beach at low tide? Beware offending Silica, small god of sand.
Even the larger gods can be offended unintentionally. All know that declawing is an offense to Bast, but how many have considered that the removal of a dead bird from the kitchen floor might carry similar weight? We are all blaspheming every day of our lives, transgressing against gods both large and small, any of whom might decide to smite at any time, striking us down for our sins.
And that is where Fishier Spooner enters his domain. His tentacles were designed to grasp and rend, his rubbery skin created to absorb lightning strikes and static alike without showing any signs of damage. In his many arms are we forgiven, in his suckers are the broken things made more broken still, until the traces of the first crack are obliterated.
Without him, we would all be dead a thousand times over, and almost none shall know or speak his name.
He is resigned to that.
He is less okay with all the calamari.
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: