Ship/Member: Wonwoo/Doyoung Major Tags: N/A Additional Tags: Magical Realism Permission to remix: Yes WC: 400 going for [Exactly 400 words]
***
There is a god sitting at Wonwoo’s kitchen table, his head bowed low and eyes closed, forearms resting on the chipped wood. Sometimes, Wonwoo pretends that the window behind the god is a stained glass mosaic, so that he’s praying in a church rather than silently begging for miracles while shoveling dakjuk in his mouth.
Before he leaves for work, Wonwoo peels an orange, slicing through the rind with his nails. He leaves the fruit in front of the god, pith and all, and throws the ribboned peels into the trash. Once he had forgotten and had been greeted by the former kitchen table in flames. He had spent the next day rescuing a stray round table which was no better than firewood from a street curb.
When he returns from his job, the slices will be gone.
The god doesn’t move when Wonwoo’s there. He may as well be marble, a statue carved by a devoted sculptor who detailed the bow of his lips and the shadows cast by his eyelashes— no more than human-shaped cloth draped over cold stone.
His god uses silence as a currency. He pays his rent in quiet mornings and noiseless nights, the only sound the scrape of Wonwoo’s spoon against his bowl as he eats and then retires to his room.
When he was a child, Wonwoo read about kind gods and cruel gods, merciful and merciless. His god is a disparaging god, his silences kinder than his words.
“Was I supposed to grant you three wishes?” his god asks one day, bound to his chair, a modern bronze jar. It is still easy to trap a god. He leans in closer, like he’s telling a secret. “Even divine power cannot help you. You’re never going to be a writer.”
His god is carved in the likeliness of one of his college classmates. His god’s face graces best-selling lists and book jackets.
“Is being a savior lonelier than you thought?” Doyoung asks him in the same grating voice that incited the class’s laughter as he critiqued Wonwoo’s writing.
Like clockwork, Wonwoo goes to his office job and returns to a god who doesn’t love him, and he sits and eats dinner in suffocating silence, and he wanted to be a hero, but he’s long run out of miracles.
“Is this what you wanted,” his god asks, eating an orange slice. “Everything? Like this?”
there is no aging. there is only changing.
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: Magical Realism
Permission to remix: Yes
WC: 400
going for [Exactly 400 words]
***
There is a god sitting at Wonwoo’s kitchen table, his head bowed low and eyes closed, forearms resting on the chipped wood. Sometimes, Wonwoo pretends that the window behind the god is a stained glass mosaic, so that he’s praying in a church rather than silently begging for miracles while shoveling dakjuk in his mouth.
Before he leaves for work, Wonwoo peels an orange, slicing through the rind with his nails. He leaves the fruit in front of the god, pith and all, and throws the ribboned peels into the trash. Once he had forgotten and had been greeted by the former kitchen table in flames. He had spent the next day rescuing a stray round table which was no better than firewood from a street curb.
When he returns from his job, the slices will be gone.
The god doesn’t move when Wonwoo’s there. He may as well be marble, a statue carved by a devoted sculptor who detailed the bow of his lips and the shadows cast by his eyelashes— no more than human-shaped cloth draped over cold stone.
His god uses silence as a currency. He pays his rent in quiet mornings and noiseless nights, the only sound the scrape of Wonwoo’s spoon against his bowl as he eats and then retires to his room.
When he was a child, Wonwoo read about kind gods and cruel gods, merciful and merciless. His god is a disparaging god, his silences kinder than his words.
“Was I supposed to grant you three wishes?” his god asks one day, bound to his chair, a modern bronze jar. It is still easy to trap a god. He leans in closer, like he’s telling a secret. “Even divine power cannot help you. You’re never going to be a writer.”
His god is carved in the likeliness of one of his college classmates. His god’s face graces best-selling lists and book jackets.
“Is being a savior lonelier than you thought?” Doyoung asks him in the same grating voice that incited the class’s laughter as he critiqued Wonwoo’s writing.
Like clockwork, Wonwoo goes to his office job and returns to a god who doesn’t love him, and he sits and eats dinner in suffocating silence, and he wanted to be a hero, but he’s long run out of miracles.
“Is this what you wanted,” his god asks, eating an orange slice. “Everything? Like this?”