Every time you send a message that paints you as a wild duck enthusiast, she is there. (Unless, of course, you’re a birder, or an ornithologist, and then every time you send a coworker or casual associate a message that paints you as a wild sexual enthusiast, he is there.)
Every time you misspell your own name, the name of a lover, the name of a dear friend, they are with you. Ze is in every word, every syllable, every utterance, studying and dissecting, looking for the word you were most likely to have meant and discarding it.
Hey, Dom, are you coming to thinner tonight? We’re having naked potatoes and barbequed rakes.
The only reason we haven’t collectively declared the need for an exorcism is that ze’s not a malicious god. If anything, Autarch is a trickster god, dedicated to keeping us from taking ourselves too seriously through whatever means necessary, twisting our own words into parodies of themselves, making palindromes of poetry and poetry of palindromes. How can we not laugh, when they are with us? How can we not accept the glorious escape from accountability that ze provides?
How can we trust our own words in any context, when hey fight lave tin reformed while we weren’t paying attention?
Some gods are more trouble than they’re worth.
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: