To have your challenge entry recorded, please write your piece as a reply to this thread.
As a central theme of Consistency is the existence of time — ensuring that you are writing on a timely and daily basis — the theme of this month’s prompts will also be about time.
Today's prompt: [Calendar]
Definition: a chart or series of pages showing the days, weeks, and months of a particular year, or giving particular seasonal information.
╰┈➤ Write a piece inspired by this object.
Word Count: Minimum 200 words, no maximum.
"Why do you flip your calendar backwards?"
"Because maybe, that way, the days will go back to what it was."
People usually laughed or called her crazy, but still she did it, day after day after day, and for some reason, the universe listened. The daylight outside the window cycled counter-clockwise, as did the clocks on the wall. Her hands never grew worn, but instead more smooth. Her aunt walked in the door with a pan of casserole, as if she had never been buried that spring day. School buses came and went, students ventured back to summer vacation, the leaves on the trees shrunk and became tender, soft. And still the days passed, those days that had already passed, passed again.
"Hey." His voice was soft by her ear. "Can you stop doing that?"
"I don't want to go to sleep again." He seemed as a ghost; when she turned, there was only that rapidly fading afternoon sunlight.
She looked at her calendar, that old worn thing that had been with her all these years. The floral design on the side, the little notes here and there marked in pencil and pen...
She traced the squares with her fingers, swallowing a hard lump in her throat.
What if she turned the days forward again? Would time follow her?
"Can you face tomorrow...again?"
Without much further thinking, she flipped the calendar once more.
Word Count: 277
I look at the big red circle in the paper. The red marker bleeding around the edges like my heart.
I grip the black pen in my hand, hesitating to cross off today’s number from the calendar. You left this morning and I haven’t cried yet. I don’t want to think about it. I can’t. You wanted to have a better life, to give continuation to your dreams, and now I am only a part of your past. Why couldn’t you bring me with you? I could hide inside your bag, suffer through the air pressurized cargo hold just to be with you when your eyes glittered as you saw the lights of the big city.
To get to know the streets and the rocks on the pavement alongside you. To ride our bikes around town, each carrying a grocery bag. Making dinner together after a long day.
Instead, you are on the other side of the continent and I am in my room denying you ever left. Denying the fact that this day has come and gone and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. The red jumps from the page at me, the red wet line falling to the ground and climbing my leg. Twisting, holding, leaving bruised marks to only stop right above my heart and sinking underneath my skin to further squeeze my poor excuse of a heart.
I feel faint and I slide to the ground. A mockery of what the line had done just moments before. The sobbs bubbles up to the surface, the black pen falls from my grip and I hide my face with my hands.
I already miss you.
"And for this reason, this sacred object is our heirloom." In front of Sara stood her father, the most serious and proper man she knew, and now what he was showing her, after she had spent countless trials and years fighting to be the heir to the family business, her father was presenting her with an old, faded calendar.
A calendar the size of his palm, the kind you could find in every stationery store, with an abstract art cover and a cheesy phrase.
"I will never tell you something that is not true. Between us, always the truth. Even if it kills you to know it, even if it kills me to tell it." -Mind of Brando
Sara didn't even know what to say. She thanked, took the calendar, and without knowing how she now found the blessed heirloom she had worked so hard to get on the desk in her room. It was a calendar. It was a fucking ordinary calendar. Sara was filled with an anger and weariness she never thought she would feel towards her father, the family and the world in general. She walked in circles in her room trying to calm down, swallowing all the swear words she knew, and tried to think clearly. Maybe it was a test, maybe in the calendar was the key or the way to the true inheritance. Yes, that had to be it, she thought.
With his spirits high once again, he sits down in front of the calendar to look at it once more, but now observing every detail, and it was there that he realized that the calendar did not have the year that its days represented marked on it. It had nothing on it, as if the calendar had never been used, however, it did not look like a new but old calendar, the calendar showed obvious wear and tear from use. What became a desperate weighing turned into genuine interest as he noticed increasingly confusing and disturbing details in that, at first, simple and harmless calendar. She checked every date up to that day, August 22, which matched even the day, a Monday, but Sara found nothing. As it was late at night, Sara decided to put a petal from some flowers she had on her desk to go to sleep. The mystery wasn't going anywhere anyway.
The next day, Sara discovered when she woke up that her room was filled to the brim of flower petals everywhere.
I look at my calendar. It’s from 2021, last year, but that’s fine, because I don’t want to spend more money on another one when I have this one that I forgot to use. I have another calendar on the wall, to the left of my desk, except it’s actually a weekly planner that’s a white board. And then of course, I have my bulletin board.
On my bulletin board, I pinned a few sheets of paper: a table of contents for my novel, a motivational quote, and a little paper pocket to keep my markers in. I also pinned up my consistency tracker. Every day that goes by, after I complete consistency, I write what the prompt was next to the number of the day.
It’s day twenty-two of writing. I don’t think I’ve ever had a writing streak this long, though to be fair, I haven’t been writing too long. Today I have no clue what to write for the prompt “calendar,” and I know it’s only 9:37 p.m., but I’m tired and I can’t think.
I glance back at the calendar over my shoulder. I just want to write the prompt on it and do something that doesn’t require any brain cells.
This month is a good one for streaks. Not only is it my longest writing streak, but also, the longest streak I have of using a calendar. I usually don’t.
Maybe I’ll continue to use calendars….We’ll see in time whether I’m that consistent.
I tried doing research on ancient calendars but uh.... I gave up :///
“The day is right, the month is right, the year is right, so that means that in exactlyyyy– or well, semi-exactly 4-ish hours the lunar eclipse should occur, which would be the perfect moment for our entry!” the young man spoke, mostly to himself as the pair made their way through the desert village. The sun set in the distance of the sandy hills, casting its final rays on the world below; a last attempt to leave behind a blanket of warmth before the moon took over.
Galena looked over at her companion beside her, watching him as his sole attention was fixated on a strange looking screen disguised as some form of ancient tablet that he held in his hands, showing a collection of calendars. It wasn’t quite like anything she’d seen for well over three thousand years… and even then, it was vastly different.
“How do you know when there’ll be an eclipse?” she finally asked, pulling him out of his incoherent mumbling to himself.
Tae looked up, blinking up at her with a smile. “A friend calculated all the dates for me and compiled them into this handy history-calendar” he held up the device for her to see which showed a whole sheet of numbers in neat little boxes labeled by names.
“Calendar?” she asked, eyebrow raised. “It’s awfully small for one of those”
“That’s what sh–” he stopped himself mid sentence once the realisation hit him and he quickly cleared his throat before answering properly. “Well, everything in the future is condensed into small machines. Or well, almost everything. It's easier to carry that way, you know”
Gal hummed lowly in response, her dark eyes scanning the street they traversed. She looked behind them, catching sight of a brief image which forced her to an abrupt stop. The wind howled as the darkness of night finally encompassed the town in its cool blanket, casting dark shadows across every corner. Galena searched but found nothing out of the ordinary behind them, though that did nothing to ease the nettle in her gut.
Something was wrong, she could feel it. And a little voice in her head told her that it was Tae and his strange calendar thing they were after.
I mark off another day with the same red “x” that I always have. Some days, I feel it's my only sense of accomplishment. I know that I do more than just survive, much more, but it's hard when people only pay attention to your mistakes. Really, when you're offering to help and even helping without that (which, really, you should be doing anyway, but I digress), and the one time it's ever acknowledged is when you forget something or you do something wrong, it's very demoralizing. When people hone in on what's wrong with the way you act and how you speak and *you* altogether, you tend to internalize a lot of that. And then later, when you apologize for every little thing and you have all these insecurities and worried that seemingly came out of nowhere, and they act like you're being ridiculous and that it all spawned from thin air, and you never once get an apology for anything they say or do to you, you tend to get angry. You become a very angry person. This is my outlet for that aggression. The end of my day is a time to regroup and really think about what's been happening in my life. It's a time to actually pause for a minute, where I can stop the world around me for just a few moments and try my best to calm myself down. But still. When you have no one to really talk to about it, and you hold your tongue even when you get the chance to speak because you're afraid of how it'll go down and somehow be turned on you, it's very stressful. It's a *very* stressful thing to have to deal with on top of everything else. They act like I don't know responsibility, that I don't know the worries of the “real world,” that I've never faced hardship when I have. I have been through things, real experiences, and it's been so much more impactful on me than they could ever imagine. It's so much worse than they could possibly conceive. And when I tried to get them to conceive it, they came to the conclusion that I was at fault for existing, rather than the harassers being at fault for ... harassment. Very solid logic there. But it makes things difficult. Very difficult. Making it through every day is a chore, and I am constantly exhausted. ... But I've made it through every day so far, as hard as it can be. That's gotta be worth something, right ...? It is to me. That's all that matters. I mark off another day with an “x” on the calendar. Just one more year. One more year and I'll be gone, and I'll never have to come back.
Tearing another batch of sheets from the pile of calendars as his feet, Jason slipped the stack into the paper shredder before him. The machine buzzed to life quietly and decimated the months that had been packed into it. January, February, and March were left in a messy pile at the bottom of the plastic casing. Pulling together April, May, and June, Jason moved to put them through the shredder too. Calendars were a fucking waste anyways. May as well get some enjoyment out of this.
“What, exactly, are you doing, Jason?”
“Okay… Why are you shredding things? And more importantly, why is that pile entirely calendars? Where did you even get those?”
“One, it’s cathartic. Two, calendars are fucking stupid. Three, you are also fucking stupid. And finally, four, I found them.”
“...Were they at least old calendars?”
“Nope. They’re for this year.” Jason glanced up from sorting through the pieces of each calendar to shove another handful of papers into the shredder. “Problem?”
“Jason! You cannot just destroy merchandise! Especially not the newest set to have arri—”
“Okay, counter argument. They’re stupid and no one uses them.” He made eye contact with his coworker as he shoved yet another group of months into the shredder. The plastic casing meant to catch the remains was nearing full capacity. “You ever done paper mache?”
“How is that remotely relevant right now?” Jason’s coworker snapped back.
“Do you want to make paper mache out of the useless shreds of these equally useless calendars?”
“I— Sure. God fucking dammit.”
WC: 287 I remember reading somewhere that it takes three weeks of consecutive practice to start a habit. Knowing this, you can imagine the excitement I felt when I realized the X I drew on my totally real and not made-up physical calendar yesterday fell on August 21. I may be counting my eggs before they hatch, but I'm really proud I've been able to submit Consistency entries regularly for three weeks straight, especially knowing I've stacked the challenge on top of a closing academic term, an unpredictable and draining work schedule, and a rather demanding personal life. In hindsight, I'm actually really impressed in myself for biting the bullet even in the face of a daunting final project that I'd foolishly procrastinated on until the last day. I still have ten more days to go, and my totally real and not made-up physical calendar is still missing a row and a half of Xs. I really hope I can make it to the end, even if I don't win anything. It feels weird seeing myself struggle to get even less than 500 words in a day, considering how I make a point of attempting NaNoWriMo multiple times every year. I've wondered if I was just past my prime several times during this event, but now I've started regaining some of that lost confidence. I'm not sure how I can close this entry out, and the sleeping pills are starting to get the better of me. Just imagine I wrote a very pretty and motivating conclusion paragraph here—one that includes the word "calendar", for good measure. Okay, with that being said, I'm signing out. Peace. (Is it really forming a habit if I'm always just cutting corners like this?)
Isolation welcomes me with warmer arms than any fireplace ever will. It nourishes me until the day I am free, who you will finally show more than an ounce of regret for keeping me here.
Six hundred days ago, I began to count each day with carvings on the wall. This box was nothing short of a prison that not even daylight could enter, nor air leave.
The only sound I hear are ticks, a clock should be somewhere, but ever since they found out I had discovered of it, it faded ever so slightly, until I could not hear it at all.
I haven't seen the sun in that amount of time, and I wonder if my drawings on the walls are enough to keep me aware that there is something out there for me to return to. Just not a home, or family to feel safe with.
Maybe the world's changed, maybe I'm allowed to walk the earth without fear clutching my throat, never letting my speak my mind.
The room's been repurposed into my very own time tracker, across my bed are the carvings I had mentioned before, a calendar of some sort. It tells me that tomorrow, I will never see it again.
I hope this letter never finds you well, Father, for you will be aware of the methods I used to keep myself sane whilst you drove me into the complete opposition.
And if it does, well, I do pray you won't read it until after tomorrow.
Each year, we get a new big calendar to hang, and, out of habit - or should I say personal tradition? - I buy another one, small and paper, where I can - or could - write things in it, mark the events that are going to be important that year. This had started when I was very small - 9 to11 years old or so. I wanted to have my very own little calendar, because I thought it would be amazing to mark the birthdays of my friends instead of my mom's friends, put events down that I thought were important and draw little icons to make them visual. Most importantly, to leave the boring adult things out that my mom always wrote every month. Blurgh. So, I got my first small calendar. In the beginning, I put more effort into following along, but even then there were a lot of empty periods where I was too lazy to do so or just forgot. What to do, my little self thought. I know!, she thought. I'll just draw over the empty spaces, she thought. And so, from around the time when I actually could draw more than stick figures - before 11 I always just scraped by on arts class, getting 4's and 3's - I decided to fill my calendars with colourful squibbles. Now, now, you may be thinking: won't the lines in a calendar make drawings harder to see? That's right. Didn't bother me one bit though. Plus, if I wanted that extra visibility, I could always just draw on the plain paper back of each page. Which I did. My calendars from when I was 11 and 12 are the most colourful, so I've kept them safely tucked away in a corner of my room. There was also one specific year, when it wasn't only drawings that made it to the pages. I think I was 14 when I had a hobby of writing small snippets of stories, inspired mostly by anime and other stories, when I found myself without my usual notebook and only with my calendar. So what did I do? I wrote on the calendar instead. With a pencil. I can barely read it now. Funnily enough, some years ago I found a manga online which had an extremely similar plot to my calendar-story - it was released years later, so there was no way my subconscious could've taken it from there, but still a fun fact. So that's my story! My calendar-obsessed self has died down, and I barely write in them anymore, but I still buy one every year; it just feels incomplete without them. In my research I have also discovered that certain calendars can be used more than once, if you live to see the year. There's an online calculator if you're interested. Moral of the story: if you thought of it, you might want to put it out there before someone else does. DON'T write it in pencil. Please don't hoard calendars like me. If you have one just write in it please, or the calendar will be very sad. The sky isn't always blue.
Word Count: 609 words //cries I am really running low with ideas now a;sldkjf this is so ????? hahaha
Fiddling with her dress’s loose threads, Ever curled up into her pillows. She trained her eyes on the piles of canvases on the dusty, stone floor, lit by the light glaring through the solitary window. The skies faded into the space between day and night; indigo and summer orange shadowing the yellow sun.
Any minute now, she told herself as her heart rang hollow, as it always did once the world began to sleep. Curling her fists, she—
—the cold, jade bracelets on her wrist, up and down. Her head pounded.
Ever clutched her head, sitting up. “Yep, it’s time,” she mumbled. Sighing, she rolled out of bed. As the hour of golden dust, the last glimmers of the day, came into its end, she reached for the slab of wood on her bedside drawer.
Messy, slanting cuts littered one side. Clicking her tongue, she turned the slab over, reached for the chisel and carved a new tally—
—ringing, filling her ears.
Ever’s feet stung. Looking down, her chisel laid beside her foot. There was a fresh scratch on her toe.
“Hm.” She crouched, reaching for the chisel and completing her tally carving. “Day 3703 done,” she whispered. Another carving, another stroke, another day—and with each one, another piece of faded hope crumbled.
Setting down the wooden slab, she turned to the window to prepare. As she passed the pile of canvases lying on the floor, mocked by the light sent from the outside world, she glanced down. Numerous marks of various lengths were inscribed on the surface of each canvas. Haphazardly piled on top of each other, Ever guessed there might be at least four of those.
If she counted the wood slabs beneath them, then those would be another six. At least ten years, then, she mused. She didn’t know if the Outside still followed the same calendar, but she really had to find something else to write on or carve. Maybe the walls would do?
Leaning by her window, looking down at the towns spread over the emerald hills, Ever sighed. As her heart rang hollow, she yearned once more. The sky, an infinite dome painted in shadows and fire with threads of sun and wisps of cloud; the earth beyond her tower, a haven of people and beauty and dreams.
A world she once knew, until she turned nine.
Ever chuckled, empty eyes trailing down to her small hands. Well, she’d been nine for ten years now, so she’d need another way to mark that cursed day.
The last glimmers of sun peeked over Crown Mountain. Straightening up, Ever clenched her fists. The day’s final breaths, like water draining and flowers withering, fanned over the sky in a last surge of fiery gold—passing over her head, her arm, and her body, caressing her skin in a final mocking kiss as it faded into night
The sun had set. She—
—haze. Darkness filled her room. Outside, the stars hung unaware, uncaring.
Ever felt her feet, clenched and unclenched her fists.
As the first wisps of dawn broke from the earth, she blinked. Air returned to her lungs, bringing with it the iron smell of blood and dust. She scratched her cheeks, not minding the dried tears and scarlet mud.
She trudged forward. Her feet, heavy and bleeding—as for whose blood it was, she couldn’t be bothered to wonder—dragged on cold stone.
Standing before her pile of muddied, bloodcaked dresses, she tore her current and threw it down.
Another day, another ruined dress. Bundling all the dress, she headed for the door and into the shadows. Hopefully I won’t have to wear a white one today.
Word count: 210 🍂
the pure PANIC of the prompt coming out an hour earlier omg
The orange tree child stared down at the changing leaves from his perch in his guardians’ branches. He didn’t like it when the leaves faded from green to orange. The branches thickened at this time of year to prevent the ground from getting too soggy, but the orange inevitably became brown mush eventually.
Just one little focus…
“Child, you know that you shouldn’t mess with the leaves,” one of the giant trees he was sitting on called up. “We need to let them cycle naturally.”
“But they’re sad,” he mumbled. They both knew the leaves weren’t sad. Becoming crunchy was probably quite fun. The child was the sad one.
The other tree pulled him down and placed him on the ground to face his wooden face. “The leaves are the easiest way to identify the changing seasons. They can’t show us days or weeks passing like human calendars can, but they show us the broader strokes of nature.”
“Why do the seasons have to change?” he asked quietly. “Isn’t there something we can do?”
The trees scowled at him, but spoke evenly in unison. “You mustn’t consider such things, child. Nature’s passage is no tragedy. The leaves must change to grow stronger next year.”
The child was unconvinced, but relented.
alone on valentine's
Word Count: 1k Summary: Takuto spent his first Valentine's alone.
The small calendar icon on his phone said it was the fourteenth. The days long blended together by that point. Takuto squinted at the date, his mind confirming it had been definitely a week and a half since he deemed himself able to go outside again. By the moment he stepped out the door of his apartment, he was sure of it. He only needed to buy himself some groceries. He didn’t want to stay out and make himself miserable because of the roses and cherry blossoms strewn around the city. “I can do this.” He told himself, hope laced in his voice. “I can go through this day… alone.” Takuto took one last glance at his phone. It still said the fourteenth. He scowled, and vaguely wished, now, that it didn’t. He departed from his doorstep, heading into the Shibuya crossing to head to Central Street. The slow lethargy of the middle of spring and summer waned in inches, coyly calling the next day with a wind like shy, beckoning fingers. Today was definitely one of those days. He was supposed to feel the most loved, but since a year ago, he felt less and less. His footsteps prolonged the minutes it took him to get to a grocery store. Each waking minute reminded him he wasn’t spending the day with a significant other. He wasn’t spending the day with everything he could have. He couldn’t blame anyone though. It would only be cruel to place blame on something he couldn’t control. However, the feeling wasn’t foreign to him. It hasn’t wavered or changed, as far as he knew. And so he asked himself quietly. Why did he feel as if he was a ghost wandering the streets? Why did the feeling dawn harder than it did on most days he was recovering? He knew he was supposed to be happy now. He recovered, he was handling being on his own quite well. And he promised to prioritize himself first, before anything else. He looked the part to a great degree, but it didn’t make him keep a smile on his features. Pretending to be happy, when a piece was missing from his heart. Takuto sighed. He entered the grocery store. He was swift to pick up a few packets of ramen, a couple of bottles of juices, and a pack of cigarettes. The cashier, thankfully, was equally quick to scan and accept his money. Before long, he was on the walk home in less than an hour. The walk was vague and indistinct in his memories. Takuto realized he was home when his back leaned against his closed door. A heavy sigh released itself from his throat. For a second, he was surrounded by couples and the warm hues of red and pink. And the next, he was home, embraced by the cold dim colors of his apartment. He was alone. He didn’t mind it, he adored it actually, but he hated the fact that loneliness loomed and attached itself to him. A part of him craved to be alone with someone he loved. But he knew he could never satisfy it. He had already sacrificed so much, and yet, here he was; alone and conflicted. Suddenly, the rest of his day was thick with sorrow. Takuto set the bag of groceries on his kitchen counter, shoving a hand to tug out the pack of cigarettes. He went up to his room, and pushed the window on the left of his bed open. The sunlight rushed into his bedroom, coating it with a bright yellow glow. It was enough that he didn’t need to flick his light switch. The bed shifted as he climbed on it, and the mattress dipped. His hand rested on his chest, warm and comfortable whilst he gave steady breaths. He sat on his bed, knees curled close to his chest as he now pulled out a lighter from his drawer. With his other hand, he opened the box and grabbed a cigarette. One end was immediately between his lips, and the lighter made the other end glow a soft orange. A few minutes passed, filled with draws and exhales. Takuto flicked cigarette embers into the wind outside his window. A silent hope rumbled within him, the wish that the embers would somehow find his significant other. However, the wind wasn’t strong enough. The embers melted onto the side of his apartment. And after a few moments in desperate anticipation of the feeling of sorrow to wash away. Takuto once more learned how his feelings alone could make his skin burn and his insides ache. Yet despite wallowing in the remnants of his love, Takuto willingly admitted that the day hasn't gone how he pictured it would. It was a welcome change from staying in bed, from doing nothing and staring at the view outside his window. Sure, it wasn’t healthy, but he found it a good way to make the day move faster. Takuto glanced at his phone, which he found laying screen up on his stand beside him. It was still the fourteenth. He knew without needing to check. But the silent beckoning of the device for him to open it, to scroll through his pictures, forced him to flip it screen down. He took a long draw from his cigarette, the nicotine flowing down his body. He felt the habitual tingling rush to my fingertips, mixing with the cold breeze. It was unwise to smoke on his bed. He could still see some spots on his sheets where they were burned by cigarette burns. It was a habit he attempted to break on multiple occasions, but old habits take a while to be torn apart. He could stay here forever. Alone, and comfortable with only himself. Takuto could feel his chest moving with each inhale, each exhale of smoke. The cigarette would be thrown out his window before nightfall, and the box would be gone before the summer arrived. He could stay here forever.
A calendar had a circle on the 31st of October, below it was written, "Night last seen". A man looked at a web of red string on the board, all having pictures of children, and all of them linking to the calendar. He looked around frantically, heaving a sigh, looking at the child that stood beside him. "Alright, let's do this again, alright? I have been trying to find out what happened to these children, and you were seen last with the most recent one. Edgar Steele. Do you know what happened to them?" He crouched down. "But...Ms. Nice Lady said to not tell any of the adults." The kid fiddled with their fingers, looking away with a small frown." "Well, Ms. Nice Lady isn't a very nice lady, she took your friend away." The man explained. "But she said she took him to candyland, and, and that she'll take me there next Halloween too! It's just that she can only take one child because she has a really really small car." The child snapped. "Alright, what else, tell me." --------------------------------------- "But I didn't tell him the truth, and since then they've always kept me in whenever it's Halloween." A group of teens sat around in a campfire. "Bro...we said a scary story, not a traumatizing one." The girl, wrapped herself with her arms. "Well, let me scare you a bit more." He chuckled. "Before taking my friend, she said," All the others leaned in to listen. "If you see me, cover your ears. If you hear me, cover your eyes. If your tongue feels sweet, don't move. If you feel someone behind you, lull your tongue out, slowly. And lastly, if you begin to smell a foul stench, you have to first close your eyes, shut your mouth and bite your tongue. Then you have to cover your eyes and not move until the smell isn't there anymore." All the others felt a shiver down their spine, as suddenly, his eyes widened, looking up and then covering his ears. All the others chuckled. "Hey, Damian, stop scaring us!" The so called Damian didn't move an inch. Suddenly, all the others heard a female voice. "Oh, he didn't tell you about the last part of the game? If you tell someone all the rules, you get to play one last time, and after that, they're the ones who have to keep playing." They began to see a beautiful woman where Damian looked at. "And you all failed the first part." Damian kept his eyes open as he saw all his friends suddenly vanish, along with the woman who he had to keep preventing all these years. He heaved a sigh, "I'm sorry, I just wanted it to be all over." He walked over to his tent, grabbing a cut out piece of a calendar, the 31st of October, and threw it into the fire, soon heading to bed, no longer stuck in the game.
Esmoli inspected an object, turning it around in his hands. A cardboard box of some kind, for a purpose he didn't quite understand yet. Written on it, in that colour layer even their brightest fokineers couldn't replicate, were numbers, from one to twenty-four.
Trash tells tales, trash from other realms especially so. So when in a timespan of one or two months they kept finding cardboard boxes, some unopened ones filled with chocolate, and other plastic packaging, all featuring the white god Santa Claus, Esmoli knew that there was some kind of tradition at hand. A sacrifice, perhaps? Offer all chocolate to the white god, to devour itself?
This particular cardboard box read Santa's Advent Calendar and featured a house covered in snow. Inside, people sat in front of a fireplace, and drank something brown.
An idea sprang forth in his mind; he slapped his head, hoping to get rid of it. But the resemblance was too uncanny. The chocolate, flesh of the white god, and the brown drink, steaming with air. Perhaps they were wrong. Perhaps the brown flesh was not an offering to the white god, but a breverage.
He took out a couple of the chocolate, and held them over fire. The drops he collected in a bowl, typically used for blood sacrifices but now devoid of liquid, until the whole chocolate has melted. While it is still a liquid, he extended his proboscis, a small trunk,