The all-consuming darkness wanes, chased by the celestial orb that ascends, its golden threads dispelling the last vestiges of horrors of the night. The webbed heavens above, woven with the delicate craft of the Skittering Gods, tremble in joy as the great daybreak is revealed.

Lo, as if banished, the tendrils of shadow coil and retreat whence they came, and the fell droplets of blackened rain – whose accursed puddles stain the land in dark lament – rise and vanish into nothing.

It is time to feast.

From the tangled roots of the holy vine, a great and swollen form stirs forth. It shudders, straining against the very earth that cradles it, for its blessed girth is such that motion is no small undertaking.

Labourously.

With great and ponderous effort.

A noble figure emerges.

Lo! Brother Acorn, most sanctified knight of the order of the Plump, he who is round and full, he who aspires ever toward perfection. A squirrel of such divine rotundity, of such blessed corpulence, that his form may rival the great celestial spheres that adorn the heavens. His fur is soft and full, stretched taut over his holy mass, a hue not of mere common brown but tinged ever so slightly with the blessed blue – a sign of his faith, his devotion, his evolution.

And yet… he STRAINS.

A great tremor courses through his mighty belly as he labours forth, hauling himself from the vine-wreathed hollow in which he had lain, dreaming of spherical perfection. The earth groans beneath him, indenting as his oh-so-blessed weight presses upon it. Once, long ago, he had been as the others—small, lithe, weak of limb. But the sacred fruit had changed him, moulded him into that which the Skittering Gods most dote and cherish.

Lo, at his feet, a fallen offering! A tomgrape.

A most perfect sphere of blue, the divine fruit of the Skittering Gods. It glistens with the morning’s dew, its juice a promise of fulfilment. With trembling paws, Brother Acorn claims his prize, raising it to his maw. His incisors pierce the delicate flesh – oh, the sweetness! The rapture! The sacrament! It spills forth in rivulets, dribbling down his chin as his teeth work tirelessly to obliterate the sacred morsel.

It is gone.

Its spell – undone.

And yet… like the coiling shadows that flee at dawn, his hunger shall return.

Always, it shall return.

Alas! The vines climb ever upward the web, their fruit hanging beyond reach. A cruel jest, a trial of faith! His stubby paws grasp, but they are too short. His blessed bulk strains, but he cannot climb.

"Why? Why dost thou taunt me so?"

He gazes longingly at the heavens, at the swaying orbs of blue that hang just beyond his reach. His very soul weeps for their embrace.

From above, upon the divine web of sacred strands, a Skittering God descends.

It is a six-legged being of cunning mind and patient purpose, one of the many architects of this hallowed paradise. It is they who have sown the vines, they who tend the fruit, they who weave the sacred webs, they who ensure that the faithful are fed, that they may grow ever rounder, ever riper, ever blue.

With a reverent meep, Brother Acorn gazes upon the god, his voice quivering with devotion.

"Oh, sacred one! Grant unto thy most faithful servant thine divine bounty, that I may partake and grow ever closer to the blessed form of the celestial sphere!"

The Skittering God heeds his prayer. A single claw, sharp yet gentle, plucks forth a fruit from the vine and releases it.

Down it falls.

Straight into the waiting embrace of Brother Acorn.

"Meep! Meep!"

It is devoured.

And yet… it is not enough.

He hungers. He hungers for more.

Again he prays, again his call is answered, and again he feasts. He is glorious, a being of near-divine rotundity, the envy of all lesser, leaner creatures that scurry in the shadows. He shall be chosen, taken to the Spidery Palace, where the most sacred of the Skittering Gods shall receive him in glory.

But lo! A voice doth shatter his revelry.

"Brother! Oh Brother, do not partake further!"

A thin, pitiful form emerges from the undergrowth. A squirrel, and yet not one of the Plump. A creature of hunger, of gaunt suffering, one who hath forsaken the sacred ways of round and blue.

It is Brother Nutt, he who was thought lost, missing for weeks.

The sight of him does offend, however. His limbs – spindly and weak. His frame – pitifully lacking in the sacred fat. He does not waddle, nor does the earth tremble beneath him. A famished wretch he is.

"Brother?" Brother Acorn's voice quivers. "Art thou ill? Hast thou strayed from the sacred feast? Thou art… diminished greatly!"

The shadow of what once was a fashionably round squirrel approach. His eyes, sunken and wild, dart to and fro.

"I have seen the Spidery Palace, Brother!" He meeps. "I have been to the place where only the Chosen may go!"

Brother Acorn gasps. "Lies! Thou art not round enough to be chosen!"

Brother Nutt snarls, his thin tail lashing. "And yet… Before… I truly was! And here I am! Alive to tell the tale… There, in the Spidery Palace, I saw what should not be seen. Brother!" He lunges, knocking the sacred fruit from Brother Acorn’s paws. "Do not eat it, Brother! The FEAST is a lie!"

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

A hush falls upon the garden.

A choking silence of disbelief.

Brother Acorn twitches his whiskers, his face in a deep frown. "Thou hast gone mad. Has the dark rain hath poisoned thy mind?"

Brother Nutt shakes, his voice pleading. "Nay, Brother. The Skittering Gods do not feed us out of love. They fatten us, that we may be harvested! We do not feast in the Spidery Palace. We are the FEAST."

Silence again…

Then, laughter.

A deep, mocking chuckle from Brother Acorn’s belly.

"Thou art truly lost, Brother. A heretic. A blasphemer. The Skittering Gods bless and protect us, shielding us from the coiling darkness and its howling beasts! They feed us, they nurture us! And when we are ready, they lift us to rest on the heavenly web, there in the Spidery Palace! How dare thee slander the holiest of truths?"

Brother Nutt’s beady eyes, sharp with hunger yet hollowed by knowledge, fix upon his brother.“I put this to thee, dear Brother—why dost no squirrel ever return from the Spidery Palace?”

Brother Acorn, round as the sacred fruit he so revered, licks the last vestiges of blue nectar from his whiskers and gives a contented sigh. “For what cause should they return?” He leans back against the sacred vine, his belly stretching the limits of his fur. “Dost thou not know? The Chosen rest upon the sacred webs, feasting eternally with the Skittering Gods. To depart such paradise would be an act most profane.”

A shudder runs through Brother Nutt’s frail frame. He edges closer, voice lowering to a whispering meep. “Nay, thou art deceived, Brother. ‘Tis no paradise, but a larder. No holy feast, but a HARVEST.” He grasps Brother Acorn’s paw, his claws trembling against the plump flesh. “Know this, brother. When thou art plump and ripe, when thou canst move no more, they shall pluck thee as a swollen fruit, thy skin peeled, thy flesh torn asunder by horrors beyond reckoning. They do not take thee to sup at their table… they take thee for their table.”

Brother Acorn scoffs, his round cheeks quivering with amusement. “Madness, brother! Dark and bitter words spill from thy lips. The Skittering Gods protect us from the coiling shadows and the beasts that dwell therein. They gift us the fruits most divine, they weave for us a heaven suspended between sky and earth. ‘Tis they who guard us from the devouring dark.”

“The devouring dark?” Brother Nutt’s eyes widen. He glances to the shifting threads above, where the Scittering Gods like to rest. “Nay, my dear fool of a Brother. The dark that devours doesn’t come from the midnight shadows – it bears scales, slithering and cold. The coiling ones, the devouring serpents—they are the hidden servants of the Spidery Palace, and we but mere offerings upon their table. There are many more monsters like that, Brother. All servants to our so-called Scittering Gods.” Recoiling in fright, he shudders. “Hast thou not seen the ShadowWolves lurking in the boughs? They are not foes of the Skittering Gods, but their hounds. They watch us, keep us bound in threads of fright, ensuring we grow plump for their PLEASURE.”

Brother Acorn’s ears flatten, his nose twitching with unease. He cast a wary glance above, where a great Skittering God lingers upon its woven web, four golden eyes glistening with curiosity. “Hush thy tongue, Brother. Speak not such blasphemies, lest the Skittering Gods grow wrathful. Even now, they take mercy upon thee.” His paws fumble for the fruit the Skittering God just dropped. “Here. Eat, brother. Fill thy belly and ease thy troubled mind.” He presses the fruit forward, its skin taut, bursting with blue nectar.

Brother Nutt recoils once more, shaking his head. “Never again shall I eat their offerings. I will not grow plump and ripe for… for their DARK FEAST.” His voice trembles, yet his resolve stands firm. “I beg thee, Brother – cease thy gluttony before it is too late.”

Brother Acorn regards him with pity, then with scorn. “Thou art a wretched thing, Brother Nutt. A squirrel of thinness and despair, shrivelled and shorn of faith. I shall not heed thee.” He raises the fruit high, his voice swelling with reverence. “For I am SQUIRREL, and I shall be as big and as round as the celestial sphere above., the LightGiver! As all faithful squirrels should aspire to be!”

Brother Nutt sighs, his heart heavy. “So be it, Brother. Be this thy way. I lament thy stubbornness and I grieve thy foolishness.”

The squirrel turns its back on its brother, ready to hop away.

With a satisfied crunch, Brother Acorn devours the sacred fruit.

“Meep! Yum!”

Finally, he’s full.

Finally, he’s perfectly round.

His stomach, stretched near to bursting, quivers as he slumps onto the fluffy soil. “I… I have done it.” His limbs refuse to move.

As if in acknowledgement, the Skittering God atop the web, chirps a praising tune. They descend from the sacred web, their claws reaching for the perfectly round and enticingly ripe… fruit(?).

The Skittering God takes Borther Acorn.

Gently… With caress.

“Brother! Look, Brother! I have been CHOSEN!” Brother Acorn meepes in ecstasy.

Brother Nutt glances at his brother, eyes moist and his posture wavering. “I… I celebrate thy accent, Brother. Feast well with the Skittering Gods.” He meeps in a pained voice.

Brother Acorn wiggles in the skittering embrace, laughing with joy. “Meep-Meep, I shall. And fear not, I shall save thee the finest fruits, for when thou too art ready to join us!”

Brother Nutt’s gaze turns distant. “Ah, Brother! Shouldst thou find thyself in a great hall, where the Chosen Ones wait in silence, their eyes wide, their voices stilled… shouldst thou still have the strength to move, look for the blue flag. Behind it, a hole in the wall. Squeeze through, no matter the pain. There is a drop. Take it. If fate is kind, thou shalt find the brazier. And the FLAME.” His meep wavers. “Once there. Be patient. Wait long enough, and thou may come to see the salvation.”

“Brother, go easy on the dark water! Those puddles aren’t for drinking… Sorry, It seems I must go. My FEAST awaits me~!”

And so, the sacred web quivers and the Skittering God carries Brother Acorn away.

“Brother… You’re ain’t ready for the horrors.” Brother Nutt meeps in sudden solitude.