pocket aces

Something weird was going on, that much was for certain. Tate wasn't really sure what to make of it all, but did that... did that even really matter? What was he supposed to think? The trip to the altar, the blue boy he'd met, the experience at the altar itself... whatever he'd done, the butterflies seemed pleased with him. What on earth was a butterfly even supposed to... to do? They seemed pleased, but Tate was compelled to do more. People pleasing wasn't in his nature, but god pleasing? Were they really gods? Were there really gods in there? Potato didn't get it, but then, what's to say he needed to?

With a roughly hewn flint carving knife, the boy set about wearing down a piece of scrapped bone. Whoever had been using the rest discarded this bit, so he should be fine. Tate set about willing each of the sides smooth, scraping them down with his tool held clumsily. It would still be some time before his dexterity was good enough to do this easily, after all. The sun shone warmly on his back, on his shoulders, where he rested in the sand of the Bay. Comfortable enough as he worked away, gradually shaping the bone into something that would resemble a cube in time. Refinement would come, young Potato just had to work for it.

"Potato"