Yellow and red

Kira had never paid much attention to the god, but that morning, standing in line and looking up at it, it seemed at once ludicrous and terrible: a bear’s muzzle and teeth on a human face and body, the entire thing made of clear plastic, filled to the shoulders with dark red blood and beyond that, a yellow liquid that looked like fat. Where the two liquids met they swirled into each other, red wisps in deep yellow and vice versa.

The line moved, and there was only one person between Kira and her daily sacrifice. She looked around herself at the bored and yawning office workers, their cups of coffee clutched in their oft-punctured hands, and wondered if they had ever really looked up at the god, its huge, shiny shape illuminated from behind by the morning sun, if they had ever felt the strange awe that clutched her this morning.

The man ahead of her stepped up, put his hand into the mitt, hissed as the sharp needle inside punctured a random point on his fingertips. He must have been not quite awake, because he jerked his hand away automatically, and splatters of blood hit the pavement and speckled Kira’s blouse.

She sighed. At least she had a spare blouse at the office, she thought, and stepped up to make her sacrifice.

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