The Parlor of the Uncommon Frozen God by Mari Mitchell (Random Title #19)

They licked and sucked the warm confit from the bone saucers and painted cups. Once tongues were dry from the sticky thistles of the confit. The bones were promptly placed under the cushions of the ottoman and Kintsukuroi began to bounce. “Crush, cry, crush, cry,” the ottoman did proclaim.

Peony, who sat neatly on the mantel of the fireplace that burned bright blue, stopped washing her mischievous paw, and said, “What a cornucopia of cadavers.”

The cook, who had been busy in the graveyard of the great black bees, slid on butter dishes, past the ice window-walls, waving at those who had worshiped the Frozen God - Kothar-wa-Khasis, or perhaps Urcuchillay – no one could quite recall.

Kint inquired as he snapped his spiny tail, “Do you think we shall have any visitors today?”

“None.”

He sighed.

Peony gave a false smile and said, “What a shame,” for she enjoyed the parlor in its now common form.

The great black bees of the graveyard hummed as they scraped the dark red dust of cayenne pepper off their back legs. Piles of hot spice gathered in front of the worshipers encased in ice.

 A bowl, with zigzags of shimmering gold liquor was carried by the cook; filled with her latest concoction of salsa, of Red Savina Habanero, red tomatoes, purple onions and red bell peppers; all grown in the sands of the Sahara Desert, all drank the waters of the Two Boats and the Sister Peak. All grown in a hot house that could melt the devil himself.

Kint slithered toward the hearth and grabbed the bowl greedily.  He used his claws as chopsticks to shovel the searing salsa to jagged lips, and past teeth of cracked pottery, formed from leftovers and replacing the absent.

The cook lifted the cushions of the weeping ottoman and gathered the crushed contents in her apron.

The great black bees hummed as they sat on the now quiet ottoman and put clotted cream on raw skin. The cook laid the crushed bones of saucers and painted cups upon the table.

Bee Bee, started sorting, finding sharp edges that almost fit, forming fractions into wholes.

Dees Dees stuck out his long tongue and filled in empty, rough space with golden liquor.

Peony leapt from the mantle, past Kint and landed with a soft tinkle. Her patchwork coat clinked as she walked. She picked up the renewed cup. “All that is broken can be.” She placed it on the sideboard. “Lovely.”

“No matter their forgotten ways.”

In a glaciered wall, the remains of shattered, uncommon god watched.

Kint considered the forgotten god. “In the keeping... came the silence of warm prayers.” His breath formed a ghost of a cloud.

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Mari Mitchell lives in the high deserts of California. Her backyard looks out to an airplane graveyard, tumble weeds, and the world's first space port. As is the rule, is kept by three cats. She is also married and has two boys. She has a strong dislike of wood chippers and noisy eaters, but has a fondness for cake and coffee. Cookies are very nice too as long as they have no raisins.