Lore, Poem, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

In time for supper.

When the sky comes falling down, and fire falls from the heavens, when the waves come to flood the land and death surrounds the world, none can convince the certain that the nightmare has never been so.

None can give relief to those who know much better, for they in turn have been told by their priests and convinced by the works of deceivers that all others are deceivers and blind to the danger which looms around each corner.

They are not the cults which came before them, their reasoning has made certain of this. Their Armageddon is not what others have feared in certainty, but a threat made new and real by the certain words of their priests and kings.

It matters not that those who would gain wealth and power are those that speak the words they have come to know as truth. For their truth is echoed by other priests and kings, and fate could never possibly allow for those to work together in concert.

In the bleak forgotten wilderness, I add more wood to the fire. I cook recipes that are centuries old, and raise animals for meat, eggs and cheese.

In this forgotten nowhere, where surely only the dull and daft would live without the knowledge, certainty and guidance of priests and kings hold sway, I live without the horrors which lurk in other’s imaginations.

And as they kill each other each in their terror, I keep safe both animals and kin, and watch the glow of stars as a flame keeps my world warm and heats the food I raised and slaughtered, in a life as honest as a thousand generations before.

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