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“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

Except that you don’t actually have to participate in intellectual discourse any time some fucko on the Internet tells you to.

Step 4: Include a section about how you could have fucked around differently

Is your protagonist manipulative? Well that’s awful… until they manipulate the antagonist into making a decision that saves the lives of their friends. 

Is your protagonist a skeptic? Well that’s not good… until someone tries to lie to them. 

Is your protagonist overprotective? That sucks… until someone they love is in danger. 

- Yes that is an actual wild animal. 

- No it doesn’t behave like your dog, and because you are inexperienced in the wilderness you don’t have any idea how to read its body language. Yes this includes you, even if you feel like you’ve got some sort of “special connection to animals”. 

- No it doesn’t like you, it doesn’t want to be pet by you, it doesn’t want you to approach it, it doesn’t even want to be close enough to you that it’s aware of your presence.

- Yes it absolutely will attack you if it feels even a little bothered by you. No this isn’t limited just to bears and other predators, but to bison and moose and elk and basically any large animal at all. 

- Yes, if it attacks you it absolutely will fuck you up. 

- No, you won’t get any sympathy from anyone. It was being a wild animal and you were being a dipshit. I can tell you with plenty of experience that locals anywhere with abundant wildlife love to pass around stories of the latest asshole who got gored by a bison because they wanted a cool picture for their instagram 

- The general rule for being around wildlife is that at a minimum you want to stay 25 yards away from herbivores, and 100 yards away from carnivores. That says yards, not feet. But if the animal seems to be paying any attention to you at all, you’re too close. 

- No, you shouldn’t feed it. Ever. Yes, this includes you again, with your “special connection to animals”. 

This probably seems a tad abrasive and unnecessary if you’re not someone who lives in the backcountry, but let me tell you I probably once a month or so have to yell at someone to back away from an animal as fast as possible because they don’t know how to read its body language and are unaware just how close their photoshoot is to getting them mauled. Just today I had to tell a lady to get away from a bison, because she didn’t know the way it was raising its tail was a warning sign. It’s extremely frustrating and disrespectful to the animals you’re stressing out because you want to post something cool to your feed. They live here, you’re lucky enough to visit, that should be enough for you. If you really love them, you’ll leave them alone.

- “Is feeding wildlife really THAT bad? What if I leave an animal food and don’t approach it?” Feeding wild animals is actually considered a form of animal cruelty, that’s how serious the directive to leave them alone is. Giving them food that they do not encounter naturally changes the dominant bacteria in their stomachs, and can make their actual food sources become indigestible to them. In addition, teaching them that humans are an easy place to get a meal is dangerous for you and for them. If an animal believes that cars mean humans and humans mean food, it’s likely to be hit on the road. And if an animal believes that humans equal food, and it encounters a human that does not offer food, it will become aggressive. If it is recorded as being aggressive, it will be put down. A fed animal is a dead animal.  

- “What if an animal is approaching me and seems like it wants to be my friend?” As aforementioned, these animals don’t behave at all like your dog. However, if you encounter one that IS behaving like your dog, this likely means one of two things:

1. It has learned begging behaviors after being fed

2. It has contracted rabies, or if it is a cervid it may be in the late stages of chronic wasting disease. Its neurological systems have been impaired and it has lost its sense of fear.

In either case, it can pose a threat to you.

- “How does National Geographic get those cool animal photos if you’re not supposed to approach them?” Professional wildlife photographers use extremely powerful telephoto lenses or high quality trail cameras to take the detailed pictures they do. In either case, they’re very very far away. Your iPhone doesn’t come with a telephoto lens as nice as that, and that’s too bad. Not an excuse though. 

- “If it’s really that dangerous to be in the wild then shouldn’t we close it off or make it safer? Why aren’t there safety protocols?” When it comes to safety protocols National Parks have a reasonably appropriate amount in place, especially when compared to the unmaintained parts of the backcountry where locals will spend a great deal of their time. Using Yellowstone as an example, not only are there regularly posted signs both on the road and at every stopping point that warn about approaching wildlife, but any time a more dangerous species has been frequenting a tourist-heavy area they post temporary signs that further warn you to stay in your car and avoid the animal entirely. Incidentally, this is where my annoyance comes from. If you are the type of person who can recognize that they don’t understand something and will instead follow the directions of a park ranger who does, then this isn’t about you. It’s about the people who saw the signs and knew they were out of their element and decided they were above the rules anyway. And how often does this happen? Absolutely constantly. It’s for this same reason that people dying in Yellowstone’s geysers isn’t as uncommon as you’d think either. Not only are there very clear walkways, but there are signs posted everywhere that warn of the dangers of leaving them in case you’ve never seen a path before. And STILL people will leave the trail, which damages the delicate ecosystem surrounding the hot springs and inevitably gets them very badly burned or killed. 

For two digit highways, the last digit (odd/even) tells you if it’s N/S or E/W.

There’s also a tendency for 3-digit numbers with an odd first digit to be spurs, that is, connected to its parent interstate at only a single point, while even digit first digits are typically bypasses (both ends intersecting with the parent interstate) or beltways (making a full loop)

Also, the older US highway system uses a similar numbering system, except that the numbers increase from north to south and east to west, and the major roads end in 0 or 1 (and there’s also a Highway 101 on the west coast, which is a main highway, and not associated with Highway 1, on the east coast).  The interstate system used the reverse order to make it possible to avoid having an interstate and a US highway with the same number in the same state.  However, the numbering is less consistent in the US Highway system

Last night, TPD disappeared a legal observer.  We called repeatedly regarding her, and they insisted they did not have her, while we were calling hospitals and checking her house and literally had search parties out sweeping the streets. Campus Police at UofA were aware of the arrest and even though they couldn’t give us information, kept pointing us to TPD, despite their denials.  We eventually found they’d booked her as a John Doe (yes john, she’s a trans woman and they absolutely put her in holding with men) and had been telling us the whole time they didn’t know who she was and had no record of her.

Watch the cops.  Watch their tactics. They target minorities and vulnerable people, as clearly evidenced by the two cases above. Stay safe and have an emergency procedure within your group.  Know the NLG’s number.  Know your local bail support community.  Send up a flare the minute something seems wrong.  Don’t let them make you vanish.