The auto-da-fé

It won’t stop snowing.

This isn’t funny anymore. If it ever was.


Not now. Not now that this may be the winter of our undoing.

‘Tis the season of bad moons and black moons, cold stars and colder sunlight.

‘Tis the season of ever winter and never Christmas.

‘Tis the season of the Inquisitor. All our defenders and best angels are flown to warmer climes. Not even Loki emerges from the shadows of the forest to shake up the horror of the vibes.

We are to be prosecuted, we are guilty, we will be convicted. And we will be sentenced.

We will be sentenced to burn.


The horror of this is real, the death looming immediately before us – and yet we’ve arrived at the part of the cycle where only our burning is called for.

How else to purge us of time and memory and desecration but the torch?

It seems like so recently that the fire we called down from heaven was asset and ally – now it merely sets the tower on fire and scorches all the villages like war crimes.

Cry out for mercy! Cry out for salvation! Beg all in the universe that we may not yet be wholly thwarted from planting our annual seeds and continuing on with life –

That we may postpone annihilation but one more day, that we may not be left eternally at the mercy of the Cold Inquisitor.

Good luck.



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