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olive tree: Olive tree by the sea
olive tree: Olive tree by the sea

Olive tree by the sea

olive tree: first nice day after a loong winter. my doughter got this little olive tree in an anemone field
olive tree: first nice day after a loong winter. my doughter got this little olive tree in an anemone field

first nice day after a loong winter. my doughter got this little olive tree in an anemone field

olive tree: The Thinking Tree - An ancient olive tree in Puglia, Italy over 1500 years old
olive tree: The Thinking Tree - An ancient olive tree in Puglia, Italy over 1500 years old

The Thinking Tree - An ancient olive tree in Puglia, Italy over 1500 years old

olive tree: This cat sleeping in an olive tree
olive tree: This cat sleeping in an olive tree

This cat sleeping in an olive tree

olive tree: writing-prompt-s Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up. sadoeuphemist Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in. "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'l continue." "Do what you willI," 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 l'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 lay- ered 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 noth- ing 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." And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god. ciiriianan Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them. "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. Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. "You are the god of Arepo." stu-pot Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies-homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow. 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, uncon- ditional 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?" "I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo." corancoranthemagicalman I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I'm crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of. ifunny.co Posting this on here before another tries to repost it on here.
olive tree: writing-prompt-s
 Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a
 farmer builds a small temple to see what kind
 of god turns up.
 sadoeuphemist
 Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some
 stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days
 later a god moved in.
 "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'l continue."
 "Do what you willI," 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 l'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 lay-
 ered 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 noth-
 ing 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."
 And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted
 out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and
 bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their
 wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his
 humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and
 returned home to his god.
 ciiriianan
 Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the
 roof falling in upon them.
 "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.
 Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. "You
 are the god of Arepo."
 stu-pot
 Generations passed. The village recovered from its
 tragedies-homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds
 healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and
 spoke to stone and rubble had long since been
 forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most
 believed it to empty, as the god who resided there
 long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the
 decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though
 mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped
 from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and
 warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare
 and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny
 clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked
 from the surrounding meadow.
 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, uncon-
 ditional 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?"
 "I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting
 friendships. And you are the god of Arepo."
 corancoranthemagicalman
 I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the
 story has grown and I'm crying. This is gorgeous,
 guys. This is what dreams are made of.
 ifunny.co
Posting this on here before another tries to repost it on here.

Posting this on here before another tries to repost it on here.

olive tree: The Thinking Tree, Ancient Olive Tree, Puglia, Italy
olive tree: The Thinking Tree, Ancient Olive Tree, Puglia, Italy

The Thinking Tree, Ancient Olive Tree, Puglia, Italy

olive tree: 2000 years old olive tree. Sardinia. Italy.
olive tree: 2000 years old olive tree. Sardinia. Italy.

2000 years old olive tree. Sardinia. Italy.

olive tree: Worlds Oldest Olive Tree Over 2000 Years Old 🌳
olive tree: Worlds Oldest Olive Tree Over 2000 Years Old 🌳

Worlds Oldest Olive Tree Over 2000 Years Old 🌳

olive tree: ancientorigins:The “Thinking Tree”, an ancient olive tree in Puglia, Italy
olive tree: ancientorigins:The “Thinking Tree”, an ancient olive tree in Puglia, Italy

ancientorigins:The “Thinking Tree”, an ancient olive tree in Puglia, Italy

olive tree: arld landscape Over thousands of years grazing animals and human woodcutters have gradually removed the Covering vegetation leaving the landscape of southern Greece The silver mines at Laurion rainwater collected for silver processing ΘΑΡΓΗΛΙΩΝ DAY 8 At Thorikos we stayed with one of dad's business friends. Dad explained that he was going to Athens because his agent there, Lyrias, had been stealing his money Our host reckoned the Athenians had enough money without taking dad's He showed us what he meant by giving us a tour of Athens' huge silver mine at Laurion. When Peri started messing about and fell into a tank, it was my turn to laugh! arid and barren slag heap slaves camp Hera After being rescued from the tank Peri ane thanks to H YTAAN guard tower The sister-wfe of t was the quardian of women, the home and children She could be cruel though partkularty Workshop towards her husband's girltriends charcoal for furnace molten ore flowing into mould furnace sorting ore bellows ventilation shaft Fire to create ventilation draft pounding ore into chippings silver bars milling chippings into powder oil lamp Oil lamps burn olive oil, one of the many uses the Greeks make of the precious olive tree that was Athene's gift to Athens dead slave Neleus washing clean ore ore drying ladder slavery In Greece, as in all ancient digging societies, slavery was regarded al Slaves were seen as out ore Pert Athenian wealth objects not people, and their Athens' great wealth was based upon trade, tribute (tax) and the profits of mining Every kind of commerce took place in Athens and its port, Piraeus while tribute forced from its so-called allies kept the city's coffers brimming. settling tank owners could do more or less rock pillar what they wanted with them paidagogos covered channel for rainwater Between the ages of 6 and 13 boys from well-off families are looked after by a slave mentor or paidagogos. This elderly and respected man guides a boy and guards him against physical and moral harm. ore removed from workface mine slave Appalling working conditions mean that mine slaves (usually prisoners of wari rarely survive more than a year or two. Consequently, they seam of Siber ore 80 metres processing silver ore below children ground breaking have to be arefully guarded in up ore case they try to rebel or escape ore is sorted by weight and colour to remove limestone ore is mined metallic ore is chippings are ground to dust washing separates dirt from heavier ore collects in settling tanks clean ore is melted in liquid silver solidifies in bars undere d pounded into chippings a charcoal furnace metal-bearing ore 15 18 19 COAL MINE MINING MACHINERY Pithead MOst of the mine is below ground, but work also takes place on the surface. The offices and workshops above ground are called the pithead nside a low tunnel two miles beneath our feet, coal miners operate machines that take great bites out of the earth's crust in order to extract coal from rock. In our briglht homes above, many of us never see the coal dug out by the miners and their machines. Nevertheless we still use it: in many homes, electricity generated by burning coal powers lightbulbs and appliances every day. People began burning coal thousands of years ago. At first they used coal that they found on the surface of the ground, but they soon began to dig pits and shafts to find coal seams rocks underground. In these early mines, miners risked their lives every day to dig out the "black diamonds" using pickaxes, shovels, and, later, explosives. Today's miners are helped by computers and giant machines, but mines are still dark, damp dirty, and dangerous places. I 14 Road-beading machine Shearer-loader The modern mine relies on machinery, not muscle power, to extract coal. The vicious-looking road-heading machine uses its spinning bit to drill out the roads to the coal face (the part of the mine where coal is actually being dug out). The shearer-loader moves across the coal face tearing through coal and rock with diamond- tipped blades attached to a rotating drum. Powered roof supports hold up the roof as the shearer-loader advances They also push forward the conveyor which carries coal away from the face layers of coal buried in the Back to nature A vast amount of work is being undertaken to restore the sites of old coal mines and retun Winding gear POwerful winches at the top of the shaft raise coal to the surface in huge buckets called skips, and lower miners down the shaft in a cage a kind of elevator. Sorting shafts them to nature In the past, mining Sundesnnns but modem pits aA ou sE Storage area In the pithead buildings are storage areas and workshops where machinery can be assembled. poutisop uxq to blend with the landscape and su uo ounur Recreation ball Showers Ventilation At the pithead the miners can eat and take a shower They have ockers to store their work clothes shaft when they go home Moving coal Coal is rarely mined where it is needed. so trains and heavy trucks Bright idea To see in the darkness of the Cleaning and grading Coal that comes out of the mine is mixed with a lot of mud and rock. Before the pit, every miner has a battery powered lamp The lamp is strapped to a helmet, so that the miners' hands are free. The Fan blades Finding coal Coal is found underground in thin vers called seams Some coal lumps of coal can be sold they must be cleaned and graded- sorted into different qualities and sizes. Tanks of water Elevator to miners recharge the batteries in the lamp room Upcast shaft Every mine has at least two shafts Stale me seams are up to 20 feet thick; but a seam as thin as six feet may still Modsup separate coal from rock: the coal floats, but the rock sinks coal face contain enough coal to make mining it worthwhile air is drawn out of the mine through the upcast shaft po un Ruao Mines use many dillerent kinds of transportation Free-steered vehicles (FSVS) are diesel- powered tractor units which also move miners and equipment Coal seam Coal on wheels At the coal face. cars pulled by a locomotive take some of the coal to skips-huge steel huckets holding as mch as 11 tons. The skips carry the coal to the sLurface ivunk road The main tunnels of the Fresh air Ventilation enables the mine are called trunk roads miners to breathe and keeps the working areas from Gate roads Walking to work The coal face may be miles from the shaft. Miners travel to many A road-heading chine cuts the rwo gate roads" at either end of the Coal face Coal scams are rarely level, so the road- heading machine often has to climb steep hills underground getting too hot. Also, without good ventilation, methane, an explosive gas, would collect in the tunnels. In the Downcast shaft Fresh air flows into the mine down the downcast shaft, to replace the stale air sucked out by the fans in the upcast shaft. Vertical track for elevator Ventilation door Doors control the flow of fresh air around the mine. Opening a sliding panel in the door increases the air flow. Doors are in sets of three, so that there are always two doors shut and air cannot escape altogether parts of the mine on trains. In other areas, past, mine explosions were a common occurence they walk to work. Air crossing The flow of air through the roads of the mine is very important, and where roads cross they sometimes snake over each other so that fresh and stale air do not mix All aboard! Trains move people and equipment in many parts of the mine. They are hauled by electric or diesel locomotives A real support Steed planes pport the mo e cl has Armored flexible conveyor From the shCAr uder, coal dops onto the armored Blexle conveyur (AFPCE The &an endles beh of coupled steel sections which are kept moving Skip Coal is loaded onto skips and winched to the surface. In drift mines skips are not used. Instead the coal travels to the surface on a conveyor, up a drift- a sloping tunnel. Shear power beart of e Trunk comveyor Coal fro the gate Bunker Gate belt conveyor Coal the APC i r Water jets Dust is a constant hazard couds .of it can aceap aosasu p Coal waiting ro be loaded is stored temporarily in underground bunkers which hold up to 60 skiploads Other bunkers designed to hold coal underground in case of a conveyor breakdown, have a much larger capacity of up to 1,100 tons explode. and miners in the past saffered from ong disecases as a resuit of mhaling oth he n th t oded ceo a e thel wunro coeyor wbac a alon the gate wad to the nearst runik d the cal whenever it is cut ar moved around ms r os pea Aads sot en uw sp dssy of snp T I love these type of comparisons...
olive tree: arld landscape
 Over thousands of years grazing
 animals and human woodcutters
 have gradually removed the
 Covering vegetation leaving the
 landscape of southern Greece
 The silver mines at Laurion
 rainwater collected
 for silver processing
 ΘΑΡΓΗΛΙΩΝ
 DAY 8
 At Thorikos we stayed with one of dad's business friends. Dad explained that he was
 going to Athens because his agent there, Lyrias, had been stealing his money
 Our host reckoned the Athenians had enough money without taking dad's
 He showed us what he meant by giving us a tour of Athens' huge silver
 mine at Laurion. When Peri started messing about and fell into
 a tank, it was my turn to laugh!
 arid and barren
 slag heap
 slaves camp
 Hera
 After being rescued from the tank Peri
 ane thanks to H
 YTAAN
 guard tower
 The sister-wfe
 of t
 was the quardian of women, the
 home and children She could
 be cruel though partkularty
 Workshop
 towards her husband's
 girltriends
 charcoal for furnace
 molten ore
 flowing into
 mould
 furnace
 sorting ore
 bellows
 ventilation shaft
 Fire to create
 ventilation
 draft
 pounding ore
 into chippings
 silver
 bars
 milling chippings
 into powder
 oil lamp
 Oil lamps burn olive oil, one of
 the many uses the Greeks make
 of the precious olive tree that
 was Athene's gift to Athens
 dead
 slave
 Neleus
 washing
 clean ore
 ore
 drying
 ladder
 slavery
 In Greece, as in all ancient
 digging
 societies, slavery was regarded
 al Slaves were seen as
 out ore
 Pert
 Athenian wealth
 objects not people, and their
 Athens' great wealth was based upon
 trade, tribute (tax) and the profits of
 mining Every kind of commerce took
 place in Athens and its port, Piraeus
 while tribute forced from its so-called
 allies kept the city's coffers brimming.
 settling tank
 owners could do more or less
 rock pillar
 what they wanted with them
 paidagogos
 covered
 channel for
 rainwater
 Between the ages of 6 and 13 boys from well-off families
 are looked after by a slave mentor or paidagogos. This
 elderly and respected man guides a boy and guards him
 against physical and moral harm.
 ore removed
 from workface
 mine slave
 Appalling working conditions mean
 that mine slaves (usually prisoners
 of wari rarely survive more than a
 year or two. Consequently, they
 seam of
 Siber ore
 80 metres
 processing silver ore
 below
 children
 ground
 breaking
 have to be
 arefully guarded in
 up ore
 case they try to rebel or escape
 ore is sorted by
 weight and colour
 to remove limestone
 ore is mined
 metallic ore is
 chippings are
 ground to dust
 washing separates
 dirt from heavier
 ore collects in
 settling tanks
 clean ore is melted in
 liquid silver
 solidifies in bars
 undere d
 pounded into
 chippings
 a charcoal furnace
 metal-bearing ore
 15
 18
 19
 COAL
 MINE
 MINING MACHINERY
 Pithead
 MOst of the mine is
 below ground, but work
 also takes place on the
 surface. The offices and
 workshops above ground
 are called the pithead
 nside a low tunnel two miles beneath our feet, coal miners operate
 machines that take great bites out of the earth's crust in order to
 extract coal from rock. In our briglht homes above, many of us never
 see the coal dug out by the miners and their machines. Nevertheless
 we still use it: in many homes, electricity generated by burning coal
 powers lightbulbs and appliances every day.
 People began burning coal thousands of years ago. At first they used
 coal that they found on the surface of the ground, but they soon began
 to dig pits and shafts to find coal seams
 rocks underground. In these early mines, miners risked their lives every
 day to dig out the "black diamonds" using pickaxes, shovels, and, later,
 explosives. Today's miners are helped by computers
 and giant machines, but mines are still dark, damp
 dirty, and dangerous places.
 I
 14
 Road-beading machine
 Shearer-loader
 The modern mine relies on machinery, not muscle power, to
 extract coal. The vicious-looking road-heading machine
 uses its spinning bit to drill out the roads to the coal face
 (the part of the mine where coal is actually being dug out).
 The shearer-loader moves across the coal face
 tearing through coal and rock with diamond-
 tipped blades attached to a rotating drum.
 Powered roof supports hold up the
 roof as the shearer-loader advances
 They also push forward the conveyor
 which carries coal away from the face
 layers of coal buried in the
 Back to nature
 A vast amount of work
 is being undertaken to
 restore the sites of old
 coal mines and retun
 Winding gear
 POwerful winches at the top of the shaft raise
 coal to the surface in huge buckets called
 skips, and lower miners down the shaft in a
 cage a kind of elevator.
 Sorting shafts
 them to nature
 In the past, mining
 Sundesnnns
 but modem pits
 aA ou sE
 Storage area
 In the pithead buildings are storage
 areas and workshops where
 machinery can be assembled.
 poutisop uxq
 to blend with the
 landscape and
 su uo ounur
 Recreation ball
 Showers
 Ventilation
 At the pithead the miners can eat
 and take a shower They have
 ockers to store their work clothes
 shaft
 when they go home
 Moving coal
 Coal is rarely mined where it is
 needed. so trains and heavy trucks
 Bright idea
 To see in the darkness of the
 Cleaning and grading
 Coal that comes out of the
 mine is mixed with a lot of
 mud and rock. Before the
 pit, every miner has a battery
 powered lamp The lamp is
 strapped to a helmet, so that
 the miners' hands are free. The
 Fan blades
 Finding coal
 Coal is found underground in thin
 vers called seams Some coal
 lumps of coal can be sold they
 must be cleaned and graded-
 sorted into different qualities
 and sizes. Tanks of water
 Elevator to
 miners recharge the batteries in
 the lamp room
 Upcast shaft
 Every mine has at
 least two shafts Stale
 me
 seams are up to 20 feet thick; but
 a seam as thin as six feet may still
 Modsup
 separate coal from rock: the
 coal floats, but the rock sinks
 coal face
 contain enough coal to make
 mining it worthwhile
 air is drawn out of
 the mine through
 the upcast shaft
 po un Ruao
 Mines use many dillerent
 kinds of transportation
 Free-steered vehicles
 (FSVS) are diesel-
 powered tractor units
 which also move
 miners and equipment
 Coal seam
 Coal on wheels
 At the coal face. cars
 pulled by a locomotive
 take some of the coal to
 skips-huge steel huckets
 holding as mch as 11
 tons. The skips carry the
 coal to the sLurface
 ivunk road
 The main
 tunnels of the
 Fresh air
 Ventilation enables the
 mine are called
 trunk roads
 miners to breathe and keeps
 the working areas from
 Gate roads
 Walking to work
 The coal face may be
 miles from the shaft.
 Miners travel to many
 A road-heading
 chine cuts the rwo
 gate roads" at either
 end of the Coal face
 Coal scams are rarely
 level, so the road-
 heading machine often
 has to climb steep hills
 underground
 getting too hot. Also, without
 good ventilation, methane,
 an explosive gas, would
 collect in the tunnels. In the
 Downcast shaft
 Fresh air flows into the
 mine down the downcast
 shaft, to replace the stale
 air sucked out by the fans
 in the upcast shaft.
 Vertical
 track for
 elevator
 Ventilation door
 Doors control the flow of fresh air around the mine.
 Opening a sliding panel in the door increases the air
 flow. Doors are in sets of three, so that there are always
 two doors shut and air cannot escape altogether
 parts of the mine on
 trains. In other areas,
 past, mine explosions were
 a common occurence
 they walk to work.
 Air crossing
 The flow of air through the roads
 of the mine is very important, and
 where roads cross they sometimes
 snake over each other so that fresh
 and stale air do not mix
 All aboard!
 Trains move people
 and equipment in
 many parts of the
 mine. They are
 hauled by
 electric or
 diesel
 locomotives
 A real support
 Steed planes
 pport the mo
 e cl has
 Armored
 flexible conveyor
 From the shCAr
 uder, coal dops onto
 the armored Blexle
 conveyur (AFPCE The
 &an endles beh of
 coupled steel sections
 which are kept moving
 Skip
 Coal is loaded onto skips and winched to the surface. In
 drift mines skips are not used. Instead the coal travels to
 the surface on a conveyor, up a drift- a sloping tunnel.
 Shear power
 beart of e
 Trunk comveyor
 Coal fro the gate
 Bunker
 Gate belt conveyor
 Coal the APC i
 r
 Water jets
 Dust is a constant hazard couds .of it can
 aceap aosasu p
 Coal waiting ro be loaded is stored temporarily in
 underground bunkers which hold up to 60 skiploads
 Other bunkers designed to hold coal underground in
 case of a conveyor breakdown, have a much larger
 capacity of up to 1,100 tons
 explode. and miners in the past saffered
 from ong disecases as a resuit of mhaling
 oth he n th t
 oded ceo a e thel
 wunro
 coeyor wbac
 a alon the gate wad to
 the nearst runik d
 the cal whenever it is cut ar moved around
 ms r os pea
 Aads sot en uw sp dssy of snp
 T
I love these type of comparisons...

I love these type of comparisons...

olive tree: 1000 year old olive tree in Spain
olive tree: 1000 year old olive tree in Spain

1000 year old olive tree in Spain

olive tree: Jordanian Desert Kitten Lounging in Olive Tree
olive tree: Jordanian Desert Kitten Lounging in Olive Tree

Jordanian Desert Kitten Lounging in Olive Tree

olive tree: writing-prompt-s Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up. sadoeuphemist Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in. "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 l'l 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 l'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 lay ered 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 noth- ing 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 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? "1-" 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. And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god. cirianan Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them. "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. Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. "You are the god of Arepo." stu-pot Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies-homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow. 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, uncon- ditional 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?" "Iam the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo." corancoranthemagicalman I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I'm crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of. cropped version of https://www.reddit.com/r/tumblr/comments/d2p5k5/the_kind_god/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x
olive tree: writing-prompt-s
 Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a
 farmer builds a small temple to see what kind
 of god turns up.
 sadoeuphemist
 Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some
 stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days
 later a god moved in.
 "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 l'l 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 l'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 lay
 ered 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 noth-
 ing 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
 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?
 "1-" 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.
 And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted
 out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and
 bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their
 wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his
 humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and
 returned home to his god.
 cirianan
 Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the
 roof falling in upon them.
 "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.
 Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. "You
 are the god of Arepo."
 stu-pot
 Generations passed. The village recovered from its
 tragedies-homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds
 healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and
 spoke to stone and rubble had long since been
 forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most
 believed it to empty, as the god who resided there
 long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the
 decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though
 mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped
 from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and
 warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare
 and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny
 clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked
 from the surrounding meadow.
 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, uncon-
 ditional 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?"
 "Iam the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting
 friendships. And you are the god of Arepo."
 corancoranthemagicalman
 I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the
 story has grown and I'm crying. This is gorgeous,
 guys. This is what dreams are made of.
cropped version of https://www.reddit.com/r/tumblr/comments/d2p5k5/the_kind_god/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x

cropped version of https://www.reddit.com/r/tumblr/comments/d2p5k5/the_kind_god/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x

olive tree: writing-prompt-s Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up. sadoeuphemist Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in. "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 l'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 l'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 lay ered 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 noth- ing 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 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?" "1-" 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. And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god. cirianan Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them. "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. Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. "You are the god of Arepo." stu-pot Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies-homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow. 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, uncon- ditional 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?" "I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo." corancoranthemagicalman I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I'm crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of. ifynny.co The kind god
olive tree: writing-prompt-s
 Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a
 farmer builds a small temple to see what kind
 of god turns up.
 sadoeuphemist
 Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some
 stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days
 later a god moved in.
 "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 l'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 l'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 lay
 ered 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 noth-
 ing 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
 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?"
 "1-" 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.
 And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted
 out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and
 bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their
 wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his
 humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and
 returned home to his god.
 cirianan
 Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the
 roof falling in upon them.
 "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.
 Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. "You
 are the god of Arepo."
 stu-pot
 Generations passed. The village recovered from its
 tragedies-homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds
 healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and
 spoke to stone and rubble had long since been
 forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most
 believed it to empty, as the god who resided there
 long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the
 decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though
 mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped
 from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and
 warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare
 and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny
 clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked
 from the surrounding meadow.
 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, uncon-
 ditional 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?"
 "I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting
 friendships. And you are the god of Arepo."
 corancoranthemagicalman
 I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the
 story has grown and I'm crying. This is gorgeous,
 guys. This is what dreams are made of.
 ifynny.co
The kind god

The kind god

olive tree: "Bonsai" olive tree
olive tree: "Bonsai" olive tree

"Bonsai" olive tree

olive tree: Belly up! Nigel enjoys inspecting the olive tree.
olive tree: Belly up! Nigel enjoys inspecting the olive tree.

Belly up! Nigel enjoys inspecting the olive tree.

olive tree: writing-prompt-s Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up. sadoeuphemist Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in. "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 shive red, 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." And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god. ciiriianan Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them. "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, 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. Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. "You are the god of Arepo." stu-pot Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies-homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow. 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?" "I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo." The Temple
olive tree: writing-prompt-s
 Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer
 builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns
 up.
 sadoeuphemist
 Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing,
 some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two
 days later a god moved in.
 "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 shive red, 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."
 And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out
 the sun, as men were trodden in the press and
 bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their
 wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in
 his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones,
 and returned home to his god.
 ciiriianan
 Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the
 roof falling in upon them.
 "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,
 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.
 Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. "You are
 the god of Arepo."
 stu-pot
 Generations passed. The village recovered from its
 tragedies-homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted,
 wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the
 hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since
 been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name.
 Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided
 there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed
 the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as
 though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that
 seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits
 low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for
 the rare and especially oblivious children who would
 leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they
 picked from the surrounding meadow.
 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?"
 "I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting
 friendships. And you are the god of Arepo."
The Temple

The Temple

olive tree: The “Thinking Tree”, an ancient olive tree in Puglia, Italy.
olive tree: The “Thinking Tree”, an ancient olive tree in Puglia, Italy.

The “Thinking Tree”, an ancient olive tree in Puglia, Italy.

olive tree: Tiny spiderbro looking after my olive tree
olive tree: Tiny spiderbro looking after my olive tree

Tiny spiderbro looking after my olive tree

olive tree: artist-polenov: An Olive Tree in the Garden of Gethsemane, 1882, Vasily Polenov Medium: oil,canvas
olive tree: artist-polenov:
An Olive Tree in the Garden of Gethsemane, 1882, Vasily Polenov
Medium: oil,canvas

artist-polenov: An Olive Tree in the Garden of Gethsemane, 1882, Vasily Polenov Medium: oil,canvas

olive tree: 2000 Year old Olive tree in Greece
olive tree: 2000 Year old Olive tree in Greece

2000 Year old Olive tree in Greece

olive tree: A beautiful olive-tree
olive tree: A beautiful olive-tree

A beautiful olive-tree

olive tree: OLIVETREEVIEWS ORG Pope Francis: World Government Must Rule U.S. For Their Own Good' | Olive Tree Ministries 10 Comments 2 Shares Like Comment Share rian- might have read about this once.) (%ee Bri think Like Reply 3d Kellyso what did you think? Like Reply 3d Brian that Satan likes to use baby steps and convincing us of what is a good thing.at the rate things have went in the last 10 years it's obvious to me it won't be long before most of the people that l know will be for a one world government I did not read the entire article, but it's obvious Like Reply 3d View 1 more reply Pat l call bs...he is not crazy enough to think this way Like Reply 3d JanetDİ.OH YES HE IS CRAZY ENOUGH and he is likely the LAST pope. because we are living out biblical prophecy right before our eyes... you CANNOT afford to "call BS" and/or to be that naive https://veritas-vincit-international.org/../the-last...! VERITAS-VINCIT-INTERNATIONAL ORG Last Pope in Church History? Revisiting the Prophecy of St. Malachy Like Reply 3d Janet have read numerous articles all on this very topic of Pope Francis as the last pope and I believe what I have read. NOT ONE OF MY CATHOLIC FRIENDS defends him. Not one. They know how evil he is. I have many Catholic friends (I am Protestant) and I Like Reply 3d KellyAll I know is it is scary times we live in..but thank God I know how this ends 092 Like Reply 3d Janet AMEN to that. Kelly. Like Reply 3d AMEN i catch myself often panicking over the evils but remind myself, it's all part of His process and the end will be perfect and glorious, but it's scary living in a fallen world! Like Reply 2d
olive tree: OLIVETREEVIEWS ORG
 Pope Francis: World Government Must Rule U.S. For Their Own
 Good' | Olive Tree Ministries
 10 Comments 2 Shares
 Like
 Comment
 Share
 rian-
 might have read about this once.) (%ee
 Bri
 think
 Like Reply 3d
 Kellyso what did you think?
 Like Reply 3d
 Brian
 that Satan likes to use baby steps and convincing us of what is a
 good thing.at the rate things have went in the last 10 years it's
 obvious to me it won't be long before most of the people that l
 know will be for a one world government
 I did not read the entire article, but it's obvious
 Like Reply 3d
 View 1 more reply
 Pat
 l call bs...he is not crazy enough to think this way
 Like Reply 3d
 JanetDİ.OH YES HE IS CRAZY ENOUGH and he is likely the
 LAST pope. because we are living out biblical prophecy right before
 our eyes... you CANNOT afford to "call BS" and/or to be that naive
 https://veritas-vincit-international.org/../the-last...!
 VERITAS-VINCIT-INTERNATIONAL ORG
 Last Pope in Church History? Revisiting
 the Prophecy of St. Malachy
 Like Reply 3d
 Janet
 have read numerous articles all on this very topic of Pope Francis as
 the last pope and I believe what I have read. NOT ONE OF MY
 CATHOLIC FRIENDS defends him. Not one. They know how evil he is.
 I have many Catholic friends (I am Protestant) and I
 Like Reply 3d
 KellyAll I know is it is scary times we live in..but thank God I
 know how this ends
 092
 Like Reply 3d
 Janet
 AMEN to that. Kelly.
 Like Reply 3d
 AMEN i catch myself often panicking over the evils
 but remind myself, it's all part of His process and
 the end will be perfect and glorious, but it's scary living in a
 fallen world!
 Like Reply 2d