MARQUEE DE SADE ~ SMALL GOD OF HORROR MOVIES

[image description: A short-haired woman in a grey evening gown stands in front of tied red theatre curtains. She raises the short grey top hat from her head, and blood pours out, splashing everywhere. Though her mouth is open, she seems more excited than alarmed. Text reads, “157 MARQUEE DE SADE ~ SMALL GOD OF HORROR MOVIES”]

No one ever expects her to be happy, but she is.  She is comedy and catharsis, she is merriment and murder, and she is a bucket of blood balanced over a half-open doorframe, ready to fall upon the first person to push it open.  Her laughter is a constant and a genuine delight, and she is truly glad to be here.

And yeah, she’s had her moments.  Sometimes the newest “hot young things” to join her priesthood think she needs to be taken more seriously, and they bring their own opinions to the sound stage, their own angles to the shoot, and you get a batch of gospels that are humorless and hard.  But the pendulum always swings back, whether or not there’s a pit beneath it.  The House of Usher always falls, and people remember it more clearly when it falls in hope and joy than when it falls in grim inevitability.

She wants to be remembered.

Some people say she’s one of the ascended, a former mortal who loved the genre she now represents so purely and so absolutely that she woke one day after dying and found herself divine.  This may not be true—this probably isn’t true—but Marquee encourages the theory, if only because it would be a sort of horror movie in and of itself.  Human woman dies, wakes up divine but also condemned to spend eternity in a waking horror movie?  Oh, the pathos!  Oh, the drama!  Oh, the sequel potential!

Other people say that she’s the natural end result of all those midnight movie festivals, the pinups of Elvira, and the dulcet tones of the horror hosts whispering through the night, and those people may be closer to the truth than anyone can understand.  It doesn’t really matter either way.  Marquee is a sweet, sunshine soul who guides her little slice of creation with an unwavering hand, and she’s going to keep doing that no matter what people want to say about it, or her.

But she does suggest you keep the lights on.

Because that sound wasn’t the wind.


Artist Lee Moyer (13th Age, Cursed Court) 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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little miss chief ~ small god of harmless pranks

[image description: A long-haired girl of about 4 smiles mischievously. Hovering over her left hand is red light bulb that lights the scene. The bulb has been colored red with the magic marker she holds in her right hand. Text reads, “155, little miss chief ~ small god of harmless pranks”]

It’s not a joke unless everyone’s laughing.

It’s not a prank unless no one gets hurt.

A prank that ends in pain is something altogether different.  We call it “cruelty” and “abuse” and “malicious.”  Someone who plays pranks that hurt is not a friend.  Someone who plays pranks that hurt is an enemy.

But that laughter in the distance after you open the door and dump a bucket of glitter on your own head?  That giddy giggling down the hall when you grab the bathroom doorknob and pull away a hand covered in whipped cream?  Those receding footsteps running along the sidewalk as banners of toilet paper wave from the tree branches to the evening air?

Little Miss Chief has been here.

Too many who consider themselves her acolytes serve crueler gods, and would know it if they stopped and examined their own motivations.  But by claiming to serve the Little Miss, they can veil themselves in righteousness, can convince themselves that they’re only having fun, even as they’re harming people.

She doesn’t care for those “acolytes,” is happy to foil the antics that do fall close enough to her domain for her to complicate, reveals their location to anyone who opens their eyes to see.

She is the giggle on the wind and the superglue on your shoes.  She is the smile from the darkened hall and the dollar bill on a piece of fishing line.  She is not here to hurt you, but she needs to hear you laugh, and she’ll keep trying until you do.

So let the peeled grapes become eyeballs, and the ketchup on the doorframe become blood.  Surrender to the silliness, and she’ll let you be, and remember, Little Miss Chief will never, ever intentionally do you harm.


Artist Lee Moyer (13th Age, Cursed Court) 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/

Carmilla ~ Small God of Vampirism

[image description: A pale, impeccably dressed figure stands before the stone arch of a fallen castle. Her hair is pale as the rest of her and cut very short. She holds the top of a cane in one gloved hand, and raises a goblet in the other. The goblet, her ruby stickpin, eyes, and lips glow red in the viridian twilight. Text reads, “154, Carmilla ~ Small God of Vampirism”]

There’s no single way to be a vampire.  If you’ve met one vampire, you’ve met one vampire, and even those who have walked the night for centuries won’t pretend to have met them all.

There are vampires in the classic mode, suave sanguivores who only come out after the sun goes down, who sing to the wolves and transform themselves into flocks of leather-winged bats.  There are vampires who reach into the minds of their targets—their prey, if you will—and twist them until all they see is what the vampire wants them to see, all they know is what the vampire wants them to know.  There are vampires who feed solely on the blood of virgins, of infants, of the dying, and vampires who only consume menstrual blood.  And all of them are vampires.

In death, they have found community more complete than any they had known in life.  In death, they have found acceptance.

And in Carmilla’s case, in death, they have found a lot of lesbians.  Lesbians, she must say, like hot dead chicks who smell like roses instead of rot, and have agency and wit and functional credit cards.  Maybe everyone likes that.  The occasional bisexual who has followed her back to her boudoir definitely seemed to enjoy her presence, and when they get down on their knees to worship her, as befits a god, she worships them in answer, as befits a lover.

Divinity was a bit of a shock, she must admit.  Everyone assumed that when the world finally manifested a small god of vampirism, old Vlad would take the shiny trophy and the rest of the undead would be left to do his bidding.  Carmilla hated the idea of doing Vlad’s bidding, the old creep.  She just wants wine and roses and beautiful women, and none of this world conquest or inappropriate luring of strangers.

But here she is, and this is her world, and her night, and all the children of that night are her children.  What beautiful music they make.

What beautiful music indeed.

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Join Lee Moyer (Icon) and Seanan McGuire (Story) Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many small deities who manage our modern world, from the God of Social Distancing to the God of Finding a Parking Space.

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MISTER DEAD ~ SMALL GOD OF ALL THOSE DAMNED ZOMBIES

[image description: A horse’s  – well, the animated remains of a horse –  looks disapprovingly out at you from the ember that glows in his ruined eye socket. Upper left, a word balloon: “You’re just beating a dead horse here Wilbur…” Behind him, ruined shapes stand silhouetted against an apocalyptic red sky. Text reads, “152, MISTER DEAD ~ SMALL GOD OF ALL THOSE DAMNED ZOMBIES”]

A corpse is a corpse, of course, of course, And no one can talk to a corpse, of course, That is of course unless the corpse Is the famous Mister Dead!

He walked among the world of the living before his ascension to the ranks of the divine.  This doesn’t make him unique by any standards—the heavens and the hells are filled with horses of a different color—but it does make him well-equipped to understand the trials and travails of the human world.

And one of the things he figured out shortly after he died (on the set of a penny Western) and watched the children of the extras prodding his corpse with sticks—he!  Who had been the hero of Hollywood, the best known of the equine actors of his generation—was that humans, by and large, are dreadful creatures, all the more beastly because they fight so hard to deny that they are beasts.

So he decided to remind them.

His gifts are inner peace, contentment with the world, and a gnawing, endless hunger that will eventually bring even the most pacifistic of humans to consume their neighbors.  He reminds them that they are animal, and then he reminds them that they are dead, even as he is dead, even as all flesh will one day be dead.  He sets them free.

And if he triggers a nice apocalypse in the progress, well, he’s down for that.

The other gods argue over whether he should be considered a god of vengeance or pestilence, or even war.  Mister Dead never gets involved.

He knows, above all, that he is a god of mercy.


Artist Lee Moyer (13th Age, Cursed Court) 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/