This essay is not an artistic work.
It is a guide for those struggling with Substack.

Ashmore is not abandoning Substack.

You may not want to read further if you are only interested in the ritual.

Substack changes, and these changes show painfully that we, its inhabitants, are not in control. In recent weeks, I have heard many of you considering leaving. Some are hesitating, worried about losing their circles.

There is a way in the middle, and in this essay I want to show you how to regain some of your control. These words are never complete, and I might update them over time or with thoughts found in the commentary.

Build your vault

Some creatives write in the Substack editor first, considering it a safe place for their work. It is not. Only one year ago, I read multiple times how a programming mistake destroyed their whole Substack.

We never know if this will repeat or what will change in the future. Therefore, you should not work or edit in the Substack editor. Similar problems might arise with Google Docs or Notes. I consider them safer than Substack, but I don’t trust anyone when it comes to my work.

I use an offline editor that lets me work on my hard disk. Many decades ago I used “Corel Write”, but they disappeared, and my files became almost inaccessible. Since then, I write in text-based formats.

My main editor is Obsidian. With it, I can also take notes or write when I travel.

It stores the files in Markdown, which can be read with any other editor too.

My vault is constantly copied to a secure location outside my computer.

Build your temple

Today, it is simpler to build or run a website than ever before. Some providers give you cheap webspace with publishing software, such as WordPress, preinstalled. If you are technically interested, you can even run your own Ghost website on your own server.

Since your writing was saved in the vault, you can use any provider you want. You could always restore it if the provider disappeared.

Except for one thing: your temple should have your own name on it. I bought the domain cultofashmore.com to point at my temple. Nobody other than me can change where it points.

If my provider disappears, I build up a new temple. This is not easily possible when I use cicadacult.substack.com (as I did).

Substack can be your Signal

Even if you don’t like this platform any longer, you could stay and keep in touch with the people you love. Your posts can be signals that only show an excerpt of your work and a link to the temple.

Those who are truly interested in your work may continue to your temple. The others may leave a “like” whether they have read it or not.

Don’t miss out

Most publishing platforms support RSS.
With an RSS reader, you can follow all your favourite creatives and be notified when new work appears.

I follow most Substacks, websites, etc. using NetNewsWire on Mac and iPhone.
On Windows and Android, you could use Inoreader. There are plenty of other options.

RSS is old technology. It still works.

Build paths, not platforms

Once, websites linked to one another.

There was no algorithm feeding you, almost no search engines or social media. I linked to pages of people whom I believed deserved to be visited.

With the rise of social media, we stopped building paths between our homes and started renting rooms inside the platforms.

Today, the algorithm introduces us to one another.
It decides who we see.

The algorithms make us adapt our work so we are found.

Perhaps we don’t need the algorithm to find our kinfolk.

We only need to agree on one small thing.
What if every website of an independent creator creates a page called:

/recommends

And starts recommending other independent websites they believe in?

We have already built a network.
A network which we can trust.

We don’t need influencers because every creator becomes a curator.If two creatives appreciate each other’s work, they simply link to one another.

Every recommendation links to:

• the homepage

• the /recommends page

If you like, add one sentence explaining why.
Nobody can own this network.

Nobody can own /recommends except you.

What about Ashmore?

I am not leaving Substack.
But I recently completed my temple.

In the future, I might use Substack only as a Signal. I have not taken this step yet, but I have considered it for a long time.

I will soon add my own /recommends page.
This essay is my invitation to build paths. With me, or anyone else.

If you have something to add, you may speak.

Aurelian Ashmore

†

Photo taken by mk. s. Manipulated by Ashmore under Unsplash license.

Corrections:

1. Added an RSS section

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This echo is preserved in the catacombs.
Enter “Final Command” at Cult of Ashmore →

The crows woke me.
My head hurt, and dried blood glued my hair to my skull.
A cool breeze made me shiver in the dark.
The heat of the battle turned to memory.
I got to my knees.
I stood.
Again.

Bodies lay around me.
Some had lost their limbs.
Some were pierced.
Some were cut open.
Their faces turned towards the sky.
Mouths open.
Not breathing.

I moved forward.
In my ears, a familiar beat returned.
Poch, poch.
I stumbled over the others more than once.

Fell.

Landed among splinters of bone
and torn bowel, in a pool of blood.
I found my friend.
His guts had spilt from his belly.
As much as I loved him,
I hated the smell of his body.
I could not reach for his ring.
It was buried beneath him.
I could not make myself turn him.
Poch.
Poch.

The clouds moved.
The moon unveiled
what we had done.

I found my way towards the camp.
On the hill, a head was impaled on a pike.
It was the commander.
His lips moved slightly, but I heard no sound.
Up close, I recognised his wrinkles.
Blood and mud had filled
the small cuts
left by the enemy’s blades.

A tired man.
Old.

“Look at you, Commander.”
The crows called in the distance.
“Everyone is dead, but I still walk. Did I win this battle?”
Wind blew hard.
Cold.
It carried the stench of the fallen to the villages.

Soon, they would come
picking pockets and taking
what belonged to the widows.
They would come to burn the warriors,
before the stink reached their children.

The head gave no answer.
“Farewell, Commander.”
I took a last look at what was left of him.
“Perhaps the victory is mine.”

I wanted to move on, but the head opened its eyes.
“You have lost because you did not die, Soldier.”
His voice cracked.
Still, I turned back.

Moonlight shone on his pale, waxy skin.
His eyes were open.
“More of my enemies’ blood covers me
than my own runs through my veins.
I may not make it home.
But if I do, I alone will bring home victory
while you will burn with my comrades.”
The commander laughed.
He spat out a tooth.
“You will never taste victory. Take me with you.”

The moon stood high.
The dead lay on the ground.
Brothers and sisters, arm in arm with the enemy.
Upon them sat the army of the crows, too many to count.
Then I knew who had the better commander.
A battle for us.
A feast for the crows.

I turned to mine.

Years before, he had sucked pus from my wound.
I had sworn I would die for him, if I had to.
My mother wept when she heard.

His broken teeth and ruined face brought back the warmth I remembered.
The commander inhaled.
Slow.
Heavy.

I raised my axe.
I split his head in two.

No more, poch, poch.

Not tonight.
Not in this life.

The commander could not follow.
He may return another day,
wearing another face,
to command another me
into battle.

Original photograph by Tasya Shmilo on Unsplash, modified by Ashmore.

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gave her voice to Little Light (on Substack: Little Light).

She did not merely read Yasuko. She entered her.

Through subtle changes of voice, she separated innocence from memory, tenderness from fear, and the child from the hunger waiting beneath her. Yasuko became more alive—and more disturbing—than I had imagined possible.

Luciana is from Romania and translates poetry across languages. Perhaps that is why she listens so closely to what lives beneath the words. What I can say for certain: she is an artist worth following—and hearing.

Enter, and listen to Yasuko’s voice.

†

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Schlussstück

Der Tod ist groß.  
Wir sind die Seinen  
lachenden Munds.  
Wenn wir uns mitten im Leben meinen,  
wagt er zu weinen  
mitten in uns.

- Rainer Maria Rilke, ~1900

Finale

Death is vast.
We are his
our mouths laughing.
When we believe ourselves
in the midst of life
he dares to weep,
within us.

- Translation by Aurelian Ashmore

Original photo by Fabian Irsasa (Mountains). Original photo by unknown (Rilke). Manipulated by Ashmore under the Unsplash license.

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This echo is preserved in the catacombs.
Enter On the Third Moon at Cult of Ashmore →

Father! Mother!
I cannot move!

The parents came to see their child.  
You must be strong, get up.  
But the boy stayed in bed.  

The teachers came.  
You must open your books.
But the kid just cried.  

The elders came.
You must meet your friends.
But he stayed in bed.

When his friends came to visit,
he could not play.

Word spread.
Doctors came from everywhere.
They gave herbs
and made tinctures
but there was nothing they could do.

On the third moon,  
the parents buried their child.  

Many people met at the grave
to grieve with them.
They had much to say, 
but not a word was uttered.

Mother went into the water.
Father drowned himself
in wine and wandered.
Never returned.

†

This poem was inspired by the realities of ME/CFS and other severe chronic illnesses that leave many people confined to bed for months or years.

Original image by Annie Spratt and manipulated by Ashmore.

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This echo is preserved in the catacombs.
Enter The Ropes at Cult of Ashmore →

A young man fell dead from his horse, and nobody knew why.

The villagers watched for other bad omens.
Many birds were born too weak, and the weather was too cold. The moon hid behind shadows for nine days.

At a council, they wondered about its meaning.
“When the crops don’t grow fast, we must starve. It must be punishment,” said a farmer.
Some reached for their loved ones’ hands, fearing the hunger.
Soon, their whispers turned to noise.

The old hag knocked her wooden stick three times on the floor.
She walked into the middle of the room.

“I told you so!”

Villagers had thrown eggs when she spoke at the market:
A strong man would die without an enemy in sight and poison the fields.

“The Blasphemer has come.”

Nobody laughed now; some shivered, and one even cried in the corner of the room.

“The crop fouls at its roots. Erect a gibbet. Who poisons the earth must hang.”

The woodworker doubted the prophecy.
“No crop will grow under the shadow of a gibbet.”
“In the next village lives another man with an axe.”

The Priest rose. He was drunk.
“God’s children don’t hang each other.”
The hag didn’t even turn to him.
“Then you will share the holy wine with the hungry?”

The herb woman didn’t speak up.
The hag stared at her.
“I already smell the rot.”

The next day, the woodworker brought the wood, and everyone helped build the gibbet.
Elders cooked the food for the hardworking man and woman, and the children carved holy symbols in the wood.
“Higher, higher!”
The gibbet grew so tall that the church’s windows would never see light again.

When the work was done, the villagers came together.
The sun set behind the gibbet, and a cold wind blew from the east.
The hag stepped before it.

“The stench blows from the fields. Make ropes!”
She waited, but no one uttered a word.
“Tomorrow,” said the Ropemaker.

The next day, the villagers gathered at his place. He taught them all how to make ropes, and the villagers worked hard.

“More, more!”

Visitors avoided the village after they saw the skinny people sitting quietly, with bloody fingers, binding until light was gone.

The hag called for another gathering late at night.
“The gibbet whispers at dawn. Some of us turned to blasphemy.”
Torches lit pale faces.
“Tie a rope around your neck. Throw the other end around the gibbet. Wear it all day and all night.”
The herb woman sobbed quietly.
A man shook his head.
Nobody said a word.
At sunrise, the herb woman took a rope, bound it, and left.
Everyone else followed.

Ropes lay on the streets like snakes.
People were fighting with each other when the ropes became entangled.
A farmer wanted to remove it. His friends avoided him.

The crops still didn’t grow. The Woodworker called for a council.

“These ropes cut deep into our necks.
I can barely move or work.”

He pointed at the old hag.

“Why is she not wearing a rope? Her bony fingers control our lives. How is this right?”

The villagers muttered. Many nodded. Some had red marks on their necks.

The hag climbed the podium. Instead of speaking, she pulled one rope.
The woodworker was lifted to the top of the gibbet.
She laughed while his face turned blue, then purple.

When all was silent, the hag let go of the rope.

“Purple is the color of blasphemy! Wear your ropes.”

Everyone left, except the crows who had already gathered close to the dead body.

Many years passed.

A mother greeted her child with a smile.
And when it smiled back,
a tiny rope was gently put around its neck.

Original image painted and manipulated by Ashmore.

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This echo is preserved in the catacombs.
Enter Ministry of Speech at Cult of Ashmore →

That day, I arrived at the Ministry of Free Speech.

People had begun to disappear without warning.

So I came to obtain a speaking license.

After all the rain, my clothes were soaked and cold. I froze as I stepped into the dark and endless aisles that led from one room to another. Countless people sat before closed doors, and nobody talked. They stared at the floor, as if trying to remember happier days.

It took me a long while to find the hearing room. Many people sat outside, but none of them appeared to wait. They sat as if they had nothing else to say. The smell told me they had been here for days.

As I passed them, I saw a man or woman who looked very sad. I couldn’t tell, as the person appeared strong, yet carrying a quiet beauty I could not place.

“Do you wait to enter?” I asked.
“Not anymore.”
“What are you doing here then?”
“I have nowhere else to go.”
“Didn’t they hear your case?”

The person looked at me. Their eyes revealed the strength this body once possessed.

“They did. I tried to explain that I just want to live. They called me sick. Now I sit here until they bring me to my friends.”

Only a few steps later, a young boy sat. He should be in school, but at first glance, I knew he wouldn’t return to it. I offered him some of the chocolate I always bring with me, but he refused:
“Chocolate is bitter for me now. You can keep it.”
“But why is it bitter, my young friend?”
“All the trees in my village had died, but they said it didn’t happen and called me young and stupid.”
I left the chocolate on the floor for him.

The corridor leading to the hearing room felt endless, filled with people who did nothing but sit.

At the end of it, a woman sobbed quietly. I didn’t know if she was angry, sad, or both. I kneeled before her and offered a handkerchief.
“Are you too young? Do you live outside the recommended life?”
“No.”
There was a long, cold gap. I was sure she wouldn’t speak again, so I got up.
“I had the right age. I was raised and educated well. I followed the rules. I even voted for them.”
I stared at her.
She wore fine clothes and spoke as if she attended a good school. A woman in her thirties who should clearly be heard.
“I am a woman.”
My mouth went dry as I began to understand.
“That’s all?”
“It is.”

I didn’t talk much my whole life. Now, I was not a young man, and in many ways, my life was the most boring one could imagine. It outraged me that all these people had to sit in the dark, without a place to go, without being listened to.

When I looked at them, they didn’t look that different from the stones surrounding them. I wondered if they would melt into the building and shivered.

Before I entered the hearing room, I turned.

“Listen! What happened to you will not happen to me. I will ask them to review your cases. Don’t fade.”

The young boy took the chocolate and threw it further away.

The door opened and closed behind me. Many people sat around, some with guns. They didn’t look at me when I entered.

One started laughing.

“Look at this relic!”
“Is he even breathing?”
“I wonder, what else do we have to deal with today?”

Then everyone laughed.
Except me.
Suddenly, I felt very tired.
I hoped I could make it home.
Perhaps I would sit outside the hearing room for a moment first.

Original image by Pierre Châtel-Innocenti. Manipulated by Ashmore.

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This reading centers on Gothic Whispers, the chapbook written by and published by .

Handmade.
Analog.

Poetry slows even further when held on paper.
It resists scroll speed.
It demands attention.
It shifts from content back to object.

Emma’s poems do not perform darkness. They inhabit it quietly.

In this Black Tape, I read three of her public works:

• The Wisdom of the Woods

• Darkness Comes in Pieces

• The Tyranny of Winter

These pieces move with restraint.
Not theatrical Gothic, but structural Gothic.
Shadow as architecture.
Silence as design.

If you have the chance to hold the chapbook, do.
If not, listen.

Poetry deserves slowness.

The page may be paper.
The voice is breath.

And breath still matters.

Listen: Bandcamp — YouTube — Spotify

Leave an offering †
Enter the Catacombs.

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Original photo by Alexander Grey. Manipulated by Ashmore under the Unsplash License.

HQ, come in.

HQ, come in.

Approaching the hole. 100 feet. 

Repeat.

Repeat.

Mike, I didn't get it. Can't hear your radio. Boost signal. 50 feet. Closing in.

That's better. I'm almost there. 

Oh man... It's huge, man. It's fucking gigantic. 

Affirmative. Looks like I can go in.

Yeah. Three hundred feet max.
Drop the avatar, get the fuck out of it. Easy. Not sure I can make it three hundred.
It's pitch black and smells like a shithole. 
Ever been in a horse stable? Smells like someone burned horse piss and an overheated car. 
Can't breathe.

Safety line holds. Unwinding. Avatar is active. Cam is on. 
Confirm signals and vitals.

Affirmative. Lights on. Closing in. 

HQ—can you see that?

Looks like the cars got rammed into the ground with it.
Poor guys. Don't look human now.

Fuck, man—
Mike, Mike did you see that? 
Did you see that? I just tipped the body with the gun, and it's just... dust. 
What's that shit? 
It's still hot here. How deep am I?

Can I drop the Avatar?

Affirmative. But you owe me a good bourbon. 

Can't eat for a week, man.
Stench is horrible. Bourbon will do. Moving in. 

HQ, see the glow? What is that? Looks like funghi?

Sure, man, I am not an idiot. Not touching shit. They are fucking hot anyway. Smells like some overripe fruit. This is nose torture, man. What's that—can you see that?

No, I'm good now. 
Sorry. The smell and heat are bad, man, it's bad. It's fucking bad down here, man.
I wanna go home. This is all shit.
I think I hit the Avatar. 
That guy... fuck. Fuck. How much further?

Are you stupid? 
Not going through that. 
You see that? 
That's the fucking entrance of hell.

Repeat. 
Can't hear you.
Repeat. 

Affirmative. Moving in. I hate this job. I fucking hate this job.

HQ, can you hear me? 
I'm back. Can you hear me now?

Dropped the Avatar beyond the gate. 
I'm right at the gate now. I need to get out. Coming out now.

What do you mean? Avatar is supposed to send a signal. 

I can't go back there. You don't know what it's like. Can't go back. Avatar's lost. Returning to base. Going home now.

Did you not see the guy here? Want to see again? Did you see his face? Are you fucking kidding me? Wanna see Ellie, I'm going home now. Fuck this shit.

Did you hear that?

What do you mean you don't hear anything? 

It's like... a creak. Smell is better. Maybe it's cooling down. It's... beautiful. Like a choir. They sing.

You have a signal? Confirm detonation? Thought I should go back?

Wait.
Wait.
I'm going back. I need to look. Somebody is back there.

Negative. Give me five minutes. Need to check. Something's going on there. Mike, can't hear that? It's really beautiful. Like Chopin. I love Chopin.

No. 
Fuck you, man. I am going to check. 
It's.... like... la la la. 
You know? It's human.
Do NOT detonate. 
Hear me? 
Do not blow this shit up.
Removing my clothes now. Heat is unbearable.

Shit—Mike. 
Mike, the funghi are on my skin.
They're fucking beautiful. 
Love them.
I love this stuff. 
lalala

Related document: You’ll go, then I’ll go

Part of ’s and ’s series “Loving the Alien”.

Original photo by Adam Percem. Manipulated by Ashmore under the Unsplash license.

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This echo is preserved in the catacombs.
Enter Ravens Mouth, Crying Chains at Cult of Ashmore →

They say when the ravens leave the courtyard, the kingdom will fall.

I watch one now, eye to eye. His feathers look black at first, but in the sun they seem different, a shimmer of blue perhaps, as if he hides the truth before the gods. How can he stare at me for hours, while my eyes are forced open until tears flow down my cheeks and wet my clothes.

Black in black, dressed for mourning, here, now, tomorrow, and for all times. He attends an endless funeral, with no reason yet to leave the banquet.

I cannot leave him or his kin, as they don’t leave the courtyard. Bound to their magic spell, a poisonous blend of beauty and graveyard dust, their eyes forever judging my deeds and thoughts.

My eyes can now see what the ravens see; the truth made them wise and blind at the same time, and in their agony, they decided that they no longer believe in the mercy of colors and turn black.

When the kingdom falls, it will fall not quietly, but with the devastating heartbeat of a dying moon. Fish may travel the sky, and gray snow will cover birds’ corpses.

I don’t care if the ravens leave or not.

Black sees black, one is mute, the other has a voice.

A monstrous beauty with a mouth that forever screams:

Chains.

Chains.

Bound by chains, you cannot even cry for your own death.

Original photo by Ashmore.

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This is one wound in the Okkult cycle.
Enter “Coda” at Cult of Ashmore →

A new god
stood on heaven's edge.
They called him Naj.
He slew the Gods.
He buried the Witch.
Aeons died.
Aeons born.

Behind him
burned the ruins of Skreiburg.
He stared
at what he had done.

Steps approached Naj.
Needlebones arrived.
A thousand cogs—
ancient clockworks,
all alive—
came to rest beside the God.
He waited, again.

Tick. Tock.

A child was born.
A second.

The mothers brought their children.

Son of a rebel.
Daughter of a rebel.
You have slain their father.
You have slain our husband.

Who was their father?

Dog-beast stared back from the children.

The stars mirrored themselves in the daughter's tears.

I return this child to her father.

The daughter understood and fled.
She took her rightful place:
next to the stars.
Her strength broke the endless night.

The son envied her and cried.

Naj drew Mutemaker.
He cut the night in two,
kissed the blade goodbye,
and threw it into the Gap.

I cannot kill one while the other lives.
The son understood and followed the exile.
His kingdom was far from hers.
Burning anger
flashed in mortal eyes.

Sun ruled the day.
Moon lit the night.

The children's rage
formed a battlefield
between summer and winter.
Many shadows woke
beneath melting ice
and burning sand.
Naj saw their cause.
He dropped to his knees.

I feel the weight of the throne I tried to burn.
Advise me.

Needlebones,
older than the gods,
grabbed the God
and threw him into the Gap.

With an aching sound,
rusty claws
built a gate of metal
from dead soldiers' armor
and sealed the Gap.

He broke a piece of his spine,
locked the gate,
and forced it back into his body.

It is shut.
I will not break my bones again.

Mortals feared.

Needlebone went far away,
seen by many,
survived by few,
but sensed by every mortal.

Nothing can be so Okkult.

Photography taken by Filip Kominik. Modified by Ashmore under the Unsplash license.

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This echo is preserved in the catacombs.
Enter That’s how at Cult of Ashmore →

The master knew:
What is empty must be filled.

He soldered an iron heart
and planted the seedling.
It grew from drips of ivy juice
and feasts on human souls.

Eyes pierced by coins.
Ears rotten by words.
No light nor music
can touch them.

A scent like molten metal,
rust
and blood
is everywhere.

If a cog is gone, the next is made.
There are many, but only one.

Every night, they see their master.
He asks them quietly:
Who barked loudest?
Whose teeth touched flesh?

No death, they are beaten.
One, they earn a smile.
Ten, food drops from the table.

That's how these creatures live.
That's how they die.

Original photo by Matt Artz, modified by Ashmore.

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This echo is preserved in the catacombs.
Enter Tyrants at Cult of Ashmore →

Sometimes, late at night, I hear the whisper of a demon or bird from outside the house. Its voice, sweet like dates ripening in the Mediterranean sun, but also salty like its ocean, tells me things that I don’t want to hear; I cannot excuse myself from the tyranny of my ear which laughs at the limitations of my cold and detached eyes, a constant drumbeat in my head, echoed by the many thoughts and fears the sound brings up:

Kill
Fuck
Die

Again, again.

But I don’t want to kill. I am not a murderer.

I am doubting myself when I think back on these feverish dreams from that night years ago, full of unpleasant fragments of images:

I could be one of them.

The memory pains me every second it returns, and that is why I hate the drumbeat and the sweetness of all dates.

I see myself in the blue hour, sweating in the heat, and my hand goes up and down, up and down, turning the blue to red and the smell of my body to the scent of something else that should not be here.

But when I bend my head and want to look down at what I have done, I don’t see; my eyes refuse to see, and my arrogant ears barely hear what I was told, so I have to believe that I am not a murderer.

Is this craving lust between my legs because of the one word

Kill

Or because of the whisper of the bird before me, breathing out as loudly as it could but remaining quietly

I forgive you

Maybe I should forgive myself, too. Let go of the drumbeat, let the hands do what hands must do, and the memories fade like the moon in the morning sun. Give up, and give myself up to the salty ocean and sweet dates. Live or not live with a stinking body, and remove all thoughts, and make the tyrants’ drumbeat stop.

With thanks to for the inspiration and feedback.
Original photo by Dylann Hendricks, modified by Ashmore.

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This is one wound in the Okkult cycle.
Enter “No More Gods” at Cult of Ashmore →

Godslayer entered.
Seven grey gods expected him,
breathing fog.
At the window, Vindman watched.

Moments or aeons might have passed.
No stone moved. 
Trees stopped growing.

Imirdostan broke the silence:

What will be–
When there is more than grey?
When humans are born, not given?
Revenge is what must pay debt.
We killed time.
It cannot turn shards into glass.

Godslayer saw only the burning stakes.
Smoke. The smell of burning flesh.

The second, Anagostan:

No good can come
when everything is different.
War pretends to rest.
Peace is not king.
Smell or taste, even color
are metal for the forge.

Equaristhadan, the third:

The Grey remember what was.
Agur built the world.
Egir drowned it in fear.
Igar carved will to bone.
We crucified the mother of decisions.

Burning feet, dancing quietly.
All the pain, swallowed, mute.

The fourth, Norzostan:

Fire burst from titan bones.
All directions burned at once.
Chaos.
We, the Grey alone,
keep mortals safe
from joy and color.

The fifth of them, Mauauristan:

Madness.
As if we all deserve the same.
As if we were all the same.
You are a thief
who steals a slave's chance
to grow and prosper.
Tyrant dressed as a rebel.

The child is dying with its mother.
No sound.
There was never a chance.

The sixth, Xytholostan, spoke:

Slay us. Make room for the next.
What was, will be.
Life does not live in chaos.
The wise teach with pain.
Gods must be paid.
Destroy the Grey.
The next asks the same price.

A bird on earth dared to whisper.
It fell dead from the tree,
Vindman would not give it air.
Silence must be complete.

The newborn stars watched from above.
Godslayer had no tongue to answer.
He had no eyes to see a god.
All words were wasted upon him.

Imirdostan stepped forward.

Listen!

Godslayer grabbed the God by his neck,
tore off his head with a pull,
followed by a snakelike spine.
Convulsing. Blood spread far.

Down to earth, like rain,
a color returned,
touched the grass and gardens
painted flowers into life.
Roses, spined.

The first of the seven gods had died.
Silence died with him:
Bells sounded down on earth.
The end of an era had begun.
Blood drew roses on Godslayer's bones.
Burning spines.

The seventh God, Barabuktustan:

We are purity and order.
We prevent degeneration.
Women lie with women.
Men lie with men.
Different tribes mix their blood.
We alone know what—

Mutemaker fell. 
Barabuktustan's head split in two.
His eyes stared east and west.
Vindman understood.
Down on earth, a storm came up,
carrying no water—
a whirlwind of chaos.
Godslayer's right eye turned blind.
He did not stop.

Xytholostan reached for his sword.
Godslayer pierced him with all his strength.
Mutemaker tore through the body,
broke through clouds and winds,
and killed a valley far.
Earth trembled in pain, moved.
It never forgot.
All memories came to Godslayer;
he remembered every word
and every scream.

Anagostan shot a burning arrow.
Godslayer pulled it from his body.
With swift steps, he lifted the God
and rammed the arrow in her left eye.
Her voice turned into a Stitcher's blade:
Mountains lost their heads.
They spilled the burning bowels of Earth.
The heat burned the lungs of Godslayer
until he didn't need them anymore.

Stench of blood.
Mutemakers wailed in joy
while cutting Equaristhadan's limbs.
They broke through the walls,
fell into the ocean.
Waves built up as high as trees
and drowned many mortals.
Godslayer heard the screams of thousands.
He could not close his ears.

Norzostan attacked with claws,
like a bear, he grew beyond himself.
Godslayer got hold of his hands,
cut them off,
and slipped into them like gloves.
Then he opened the God's breast.
There was no heart—
but millions of locusts 
fled to feed on earth.
Never felt Godslayer such hunger.

Mauauristan trembled.
Her time had come. 
She knew.
Her mind grew dark.
Her body grew old.
And before Godslayer could strike,
she turned to wax
and died of fear.
And so did many of her heirs,
now and in future.
Godslayer coughed.
Blood stained his hand.

All bodies dropped.
Where the grey once stood,
balls of light grew.

Earth rumbled.
Ancestors had withdrawn their heritage.
The Gap widened, but there was no one left to eat.

Chaos turned to Kaoz.
Nothing kept its shape.
Fog turned to a dream.

Godslayer swallowed a seventh of each light.
He sent a seventh to the stars and made them eternal.
He sent a seventh down to earth and broke red into three.
He sent a seventh to the trees, and their roots grew deep.
He sent a seventh to the woman, and breath returned to them.
He sent a seventh to the world, but it was not enough to heal.

The rest he cursed and sent to earth.
To dwell in cats forever,
and grieve their sins
and seduce the weak.
Their era was forgotten.
They live as echoes of a dark age.

The seventh of the seven lights.
A light shone down on Godslayer.
He was no longer mortal, no judge.
No more gods.
Godslayer was dead.

He who gave birth to himself,
who ate seven shards of God,
became God.

Artwork by Ashmore. Incorporates heavily modified Unsplash photography.

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The queen had died.

She was brought to a great hall where she lay on a bed carved from dark wood and adorned with gold. Black linen covered the windows, hid the gray walls, and dusty paintings. When night fell, candles were lit, painting dancing shadows on the walls.

Forty-nine soldiers and their captain kept watch in the anteroom.

At midnight, the men heard wheels on the gravel. A carriage approached, pulled by six black horses.

A guard opened the door, and a woman stepped out. She was dressed in mourning-black, from veil to shoes. When she spoke, the captain recognized the fine words that only the old nobles knew. He lowered his gaze, not knowing why.

She asked to see the dead queen.

I don’t hold the power to grant such a visit, the captain responded.

She did not relent.
She leaned close, whispered a name into his ear. The men saw their captain’s face falter.
Then she told him she had a right to enter.

She was the Queen’s Oberhofmeisterin, keeper of her household and as such, permitted to see her once before burial.

He hesitated, but she pressed, and so he led her into the hall.

He closed the doors behind him and waited, restlessly walking up and down. After a while, he stopped before the door, listening.

Then he bent to the keyhole.

The dead queen sat upright in her bed and whispered to the woman in black.

Her face was pale and waxen; she didn’t move anything except for the slow shifting of her lips.

The captain shuddered, called his men, one by one, to look through the keyhole. Everyone saw the same: the dead queen speaking softly in the candlelight.

When the captain looked again, she was sinking back. Then she lay in her pillows as if nothing had happened.

A moment later, the woman in black opened the door. The captain escorted her to the carriage. When he helped her climb inside, his hand touched hers.

It was cold as ice, like a breath of death itself.

The horses whinnied, and the carriage rolled away as quickly as it arrived.
Further down the road, the captain saw sparks trail from their breath as if they exhaled fire.

At dawn, a messenger arrived.

Grave news, I carry. The Oberhofmeisterin of this house, who lived many hours from here, died last night, at midnight!

The exact hour, as the captain saw her talking to the queen.

Zusammenkunft der Todten

Mündlich, aus Hessen.

Eine Königin war gestorben und lag in einem schwarz ausgehängten Trauersaal auf dem Prachtbette. Nachts wurde der Saal mit Wachskerzen hell erleuchtet und in einem Vorzimmer befand sich die Wache: ein Hauptmann mit neun und vierzig Mann. Gegen Mitternacht hört dieser, wie ein sechsspänniger Wagen rasch vor das Schloß fährt, geht hinab und eine in Trauer gekleidete Frau, von edlem und vornehmem Anstande, kommt ihm entgegen und bittet um die Erlaubniß, eine kurze Zeit bei der Todten verweilen zu dürfen. Er stellt ihr vor, daß er nicht die Macht[S. 442] habe, dies zu bewilligen, sie nennt aber ihren wohlbekannten Namen und sagt, als Oberhofmeisterin der Verstorbenen gebühre ihr das Recht, sie noch einmal, eh sie beerdigt werde, zu sehen. Er ist unschlüssig, aber sie dringt so lange, daß er nichts schickliches mehr einzuwenden weiß und sie hineinführt. Er selbst, nachdem er die Thüre des Saals wieder zugemacht, geht haußen auf und ab. Nach einiger Zeit bleibt er vor der Thüre stehen, horcht und blickt durchs Schlüsselloch, da sieht er, wie die todte Königin aufrecht sitzt und leise zu der Frau spricht, doch mit verschlossenen Augen und ohne eine andere Belebung der Gesichtszüge, als daß die Lippen sich ein wenig bewegen. Er heißt die Soldaten, einen nach dem andern, hineinsehen und jeder erblickt dasselbe; endlich naht er selbst wieder, da legt sich die Todte eben langsam auf das Prachtbett zurück. Gleich darnach kommt die Frau wieder heraus und wird vom Hauptmann hinab geführt; dieser fühlt, indem er sie in den Wagen hebt, daß ihre Hand eiskalt ist. Der Wagen eilt, so schnell er gekommen, wieder fort und der Hauptmann sieht, wie in der Ferne die Pferde Feuerfunken ausathmen. Am andern Morgen kommt die Nachricht, daß die Oberhofmeisterin, welche mehrere Stunden weit auf einem Landhause wohnte, um Mitternacht und gerade in der Stunde gestorben ist, wo sie bei der Todten war.

Deutsche Sagen (Grimm, 1816)

This reading is an adaptation based on a traditional folk account recorded in the 19th century. The language and structure were shaped for oral transmission.

Original photography by Branimir Balogović. Manipulated by Ashmore under the Unsplash License.

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Some snowflakes reach the ocean too early.
I remember this one.

Snowflake

If you can bring her to me, I beg you.

Listen.

†

Original photography by Branimir Balogović. Manipulated by Ashmore under the Unsplash License.

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A winter tale reached me from .

How Cold Are You, Really?

Then may every fire you kindle die choking,
may the roads rise against you,
and the months betray you.

Listen.

†

Original photography by Branimir Balogović. Manipulated by Ashmore under the Unsplash License.

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One night, a midwife heard knocking on her door.

Make haste! Come to my wife!

It was deep night, the moon hid behind clouds. But a midwife cannot ignore her summons, so she dressed quickly and stepped outside.

The darkness was so heavy she could barely see the path.

Let me fetch a candle, she told the man.

No time, he said. I will show the way!

The urgency in his voice left her no choice but to follow. Halfway, he tied a cloth over her eyes. She gasped, ready to scream.

Do not fear. No harm will you suffer.

So she followed, knowing this might be the end of her.

After a while, she heard the slap of a rod hitting water.

It felt as though they were descending into water.

Finally, they entered a room. He removed the blindfold.

Only the woman in labor was there.

The midwife told him to leave, and he obeyed without a word.

She worked through the long hours of the night. She tended the mother and delivered a child. She washed it clean, laying it in linen.

When everything was quiet, the mother whispered into the midwife’s ear.

I am a Christian woman, as you are. But the Wassermann stole me away. When I bear him a child, he devours it on the third day. On the third day, go to the pond. Blood will be in the water.

The midwife trembled.

If he offers you money, then don’t take more than you would from the poorest souls. He’d strangle you if you took more!

The door opened.

The Wassermann returned. He looked angry, but he praised the midwife’s work. He set a bag of coins on the table.

Take what you want!

The midwife bowed her head.

I take from you only what I’d take from the poor. If even that is too much, I don’t ask for anything else, except that you bring me home.

He gasped.

His eyes became small slits.

Your God made you speak these words!

He paid her a small sum and brought her back home.

On the third day, she didn’t rise from her bed. She never went back to the pond.

Der Wassermann

Prätorius Weltbeschr. I. 480-482. aus mündlicher Sage.

Gegen das Jahr 1630. erzählte in der Pfarrei zu Breulieb, eine halbe Meile von Saalfeld, in Gegenwart des Priesters eine alte Wehmutter folgendes, was ihrer Mutter, ebenfals Kinderfrau daselbst, begegnet sey.

Diese letzte wurde einer Nacht gerufen, schnell sich anzuziehen und zu kreissenden Frauen mitzukommen. Es war finster, doch machte sie sich auf und fand unten einen Mann warten, zu dem sagte sie: er möchte nur verziehen, bis sie sich eine Leuchte genommen, dann wollte sie nachfolgen; er aber drang auf Eile,[S. 62] den Weg würde er schon ohne Licht zeigen und sie sollten nicht irren. Ja er verband ihr noch dazu die Augen, daß die Frau erschrak und schreien wollte, allein der Mann sprach ihr Trost ein: Leid werde ihr gar nicht widerfahren, sondern sie könne furchtlos mitgehen. Also gingen sie miteinander; die Frau merkte darauf, daß er mit einer Ruthe ins Wasser schlug, und sie immer tiefer hinunter gingen, bis sie in eine Stube kamen. In der Stube war niemand als die Schwangere. Der Gefährte that ihr nunmehr das Band von den Augen, führte sie vors Bett und ging, nachdem er sie seiner Frauen anbefohlen, selber hinaus. Hierauf half sie das Kindlein zur Welt befördern, brachte die Kindbetterin zu Bett, badete das Kindlein und verrichtete alle nothwendige Sachen dabei. Aus heimlicher Dankbarkeit warnungsweise hob die Wöchnerin an zur Wehemutter zu sprechen: “ich bin sowohl als ihr ein Christenmensch und entführt worden von einem Wassermann, der mich ausgetauscht hat. Wenn ich nun ein Kind zur Welt bringe, frißt er mirs allemal den dritten Tag; kommet nur am dritten Tag zu eurem Teich, da werdet ihr Wasser in Blut verwandelt sehen. Wenn mein Mann jetzt hereinkommt und euch Geld bietet, so nehmet ja nicht mehr Geld von ihm, als ihr sonst zu kriegen pflegt, sonst dreht er euch den Hals um, nehmt euch ja in Acht.” Indem kam der Mann, zornig und bös aussehend, hinein, sah um sich und befand, daß alles hübsch aufgelaufen, lobete darum die Wehemutter. Hernach[S. 63] warf er einen großen Haufen Geld auf den Tisch, mit den Worten: “davon nehmt euch, so viel ihr wollt.” Sie aber, gescheidt, antwortete etlichemal: “ich gehre von euch nichts mehr, denn von andern, welches dann ein geringes Geld gewesen, und gebt ihr mir das, hab ich gnug dran; oder ist euch auch das zu viel, verlange ich gar nichts, außer daß ihr mich nach Haus bringet.” Er hub an: “das hieß dich Gott sprechen.” Zahlte ihr so viel Geld und geleitete sie richtig nach Haus. An den Teich zu gehen wagte sich aber den bestimmten Tag die Wehefrau nicht, aus Furcht.

Deutsche Sagen (Grimm, 1816)

This reading is an adaptation based on a traditional folk account recorded in the 19th century. The language and structure were shaped for oral transmission.

Original photography by Branimir Balogović. Manipulated by Ashmore under the Unsplash License.

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A myth reached me from .

Jólnir

A flawed god, forever hungry

For knowledge, for devotion, for mortal souls.

Listen.

†

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In Schwatz and Innsbruck, they speak of a ghost that appears when death is near.
At first, it is small.
Then it grows, taller and taller, until it stands as high as a house.
It wanders the streets without sound.
And if it stops at a window
and looks inside,
someone in that house
will die.

Todes-Gespenst

Erasm. Francisci höll. Proteus S. 419. u. 1044.

Zu Schwatz und Innsbruck in Tirol läßt sich zur Sterbenszeit ein Gespenst sehen, bald klein, bald groß, wie ein Haus. Zu welchem Fenster es hinein schaut, aus demselben Hause sterben die Leute.

Deutsche Sagen (Grimm, 1816)

This reading is an adaptation based on a traditional folk account recorded in the 19th century. The language and structure were shaped for oral transmission.

Original photography by Branimir Balogović. Manipulated by Ashmore under the Unsplash License.

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