Look, sometimes god lifts you, its palm dry enough to be rock, to be the sun-leathered skin of those who never got to cross the big grey stone and as pink as their outside insides, and suddenly you’re taking the biggest leap yet and your legs aren’t even moving. Some part of you – not memory but the ghosts of many deaths worn into you through generations – understands danger, understands long, thin beaks and sharp claws, but this god has none. A fresher, fragile ghost whispers light, the long grey stone’s flash-noise reckoning that raptures and unmakes and doesn’t stop to notice.
This one stops. Its soft claws are dry as death but it doesn’t squeeze them shut, doesn’t communicate its wants as violence. You are floating softly into light and for once none of it kills you. Who am I, little creature, to deny you miracles.
amhrancas 