The soft snick snick of Oshi's knife licked curls of wood onto the floor and the branch slowly settled into its true shape.
Miro was scornful. "Why do you bother?"
"It is old way of worship, the making of a fresh effigy."
"The gods are gone, Oshi. Fled. Dead. Abandoning us to tyrants."
"So they say." He nodded. "So I pray."
"Ugh." She knocked the figure from his hand and stomped out.
He sighed and followed.
The wooden icon trembled. Stretched its limbs. Blinked.
It coughed wood dust.
"Rebirth," it rasped. "Revenge. Spring is come. I must wake my brothers."
Author bio: John Xero likes to write long, and whittle away words until the drabble’s true form is revealed.
Much like his approach to tweets... @xeroverse
Whittled is part of 101 Fiction issue 3.
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