Hello all! I'm taking part in Chuck Wendig's flash fiction challenge today, sharing this ever so short story about, well, it's about a woman who broke gods. Iconoclastically. I'm getting more into short fiction lately, so let's see how I get on!
She Broke Gods
She did it methodically, working her way around the incensed alcoves while the men in their robes worked out what to do. Some sank to their knees, praying to the gods even as she smashed them, taking her time to hit them repeatedly against the wall, the floor, anything which might help reduce the beautiful statues to ground powder.
Hands raised in blessing flew across the floor as she hauled each god down from its plinth, and if any of the be-robed men challenged her actions, and they did, tears tracking down dust grimed faces as she performed her iconoclasm, taking her time to get it right, she seemed to pay them no heed. Yet, as she swung the statues down, golden crowns tinkling to the floor, she managed to hit any man who got in her way.
Their broken bodies would be pulled away by their brethren who, once outside, ran to spread the word that the Temple of the Gods was sullied, that female flesh had crossed the threshold and that now the Gods themselves were falling one by one. Gone and gone.
Some had argued that women should be allowed entry, even some of those that were now running. That was before. Now they saw their error. Just one woman, and she was grinding the gods to dust.
She worked her way around. Even the Father was desecrated, his head broken off to roll across the floor, scooped up by fleeing brethren, his tears revealed to flow from a faucet that now gushed water to the rubble-strewn floor.
Not all ran. Some still remained. Not arguing, just kneeling in prayer as their gods fell around them, their robes filthy with the mud of destruction.
Still she went on, silently devoted to the attentions she gave each of the puny gods.
They all fell. All the gods were broken.
Then she turned to those few that remained. “Get up.” She demanded. “Your gods are broken. Get off your knees.”
Hesitatingly, unsure what might be safest, most of the men got to their feet, but two remained on their knees, their praying fervent now, as if they could pray time to turn back.
The woman rolled her eyes and pulled them up. One took to his feet, backing away from her, but the other made no effort to stand, held there with his feet dangling. She brought him close to her, close enough to kiss. “We women have held you up too long.” She told him. “While your gods have ruled us through you. Stand up!”
He went to put his feet down and she dropped him those last two inches to the floor. “That time is passed.” She said.
And she left.
No-one knew where she went to, nor what her name had been, but in the temple a golden statue was built, strong and wild and female, and the temple got a new name: The Temple of the Goddess.
To this day, no-one has torn her down.