Working in the open

This is not a story bone. Unfortunately this piece, which just dropped into my head a few minutes ago, is for a book I've already worked through and found that there's no real story, no matter how much my brain says there is. I wrote out about 3,000 words in January as a quick treatise on the idea to find out only the villain had motivation. I didn't have anything for a protagonist. Maybe there is something there after all, lurking just behind these words.

In these later days the world has become decadent. Kings forget their obligations to provide, sacred fires dim, learning has become ridiculed, children disrespect their elders, fathers abandon their families, oracles become mute. With the world neglected the desert has grown, spices turn bitter, water is brackish, iron dulls, the wild places throng with beasts and elder things that had been locked in slumber quicken and sing dreams into the minds of the weak.

Still, the Goddess provides. In her abandonment she still moves the tides and fertilizes the world. The loving mother cares for her indifferent children.

Into this time we come. Better days behind us, hardship our sustenance. A beggars dinner for our inheritance.

The Goddess provides. Will we hear her call?

The muse says share, and so I must. She is, after all, why I write this blog.