The meadow was lush—an unnatural green, almost glowing. In the center stood a large pot of gold, from which all colors known to mankind (plus a few bonus ones) wove themselves into a majestic rainbow.
In front of the pot stood a person in impeccable white robes, a saint’s hat perched on their head. Smiling broadly, they spoke to a person in a blue suit and another in yellow—clearly a well-groomed groom/bride and a bride/groom.
Nobody cared.
“With these words, these vows, I pronounce you spouses,” the person in white announced cheerfully. “You can kiss now.”
The kiss that followed—one of two people deeply in love—elicited the proper amount of woo’s and aah’s.
After waving to the crowd (who, as was customary at divine weddings, were dressed in all the colors of the rainbow), and under a flurry of beads and flying gnomes—as was tradition—they walked, shouting their thanks over the high-pitched panicked screeches of the bearded confetti.
At the edge of the meadow, they entered the Party Dimension, which was exactly like the Wedding Dimension—just with fewer dead gnomes. More festive that way.
All of the invited gods followed, ready to party.
Except Slorms—the God of Party.
He sighed, eyes red behind eternal sunglasses.
“When will the suffering stop,” he cry-muttered into his fifth shot.
He had recently applied for the opening of God of Eternal Regret. The other gods were considering it.
Until then, he was supposed to be the life of the party.
The God of War—a large, bald man with a face tattoo far too specific for comfort—was already hammered beyond mortal comprehension.
It was his child who had just gotten married, and he had taken his role of “parent most likely to be eternally regretted” very seriously.
He was now performing a semi-strip routine on the dancefloor.
The band—consisting entirely of leprechauns—had, regrettably, named themselves The Lepre Quartet.
As they set up their instruments, they debated quietly among themselves about what the appropriate music was for a divine wedding strip show.
They all knew the mood of the God of War could shift at any moment—slip too easily into something far more befitting his title.
Behind him, the God of Hunger was proving unusually untrue to his name, stuffing his face with every divine delicacy in reach.
He had petitioned the pantheon to be renamed God of Food, a title more befitting both his current interests and expanding waistline.
The other gods were considering it.
In the corner stood Bill, calmly eating an apple.
She waited patiently for the moment she could return to her divine stable and get brushed.
***
The party started.
First—as was tradition—the parents of the happy couple were expected to give a speech.
A twelve-minute-long burp from the God of War opened the segment.
It was followed by a surprisingly well-written stanza from the God of Nature—though everyone knew she probably hadn’t written it herself.
She had trouble forming coherent sentences.
“Too much ‘nature’,” the God of Comedy whispered to his neighbor,
who was, at that moment, silently cursing whoever had seated them together.
Despite the elegant writing, Nature still botched the delivery.
She paused too long at the end of every line, eyes scanning the crowd, as if searching for someone who still had some ‘nature’ left to offer.
“As my child is getting its………..wedding.
My work as parent is……….done.
It soon will lead to their………..bedding.
Then they surely will get——”
“Please stop!” someone screamed from somewhere deep in the dimension.
All in all, one could say:
Divine weddings were surprisingly close to non-divine ones.
Suddenly—with the slam of a door—someone entered.
Which was odd.
This dimension had exactly zero doors.
It was the God of Awkward Entries, of course.
He stumbled in, muttering apologies at a divine volume, tripping over nonexistent thresholds and looking for his seat.
He made as much noise as humanly—and divinely—possible.
Everyone turned to stare.
He panicked. Waved at the God of Comedy.
“Tell us a joke!” he shouted, desperate to redirect attention.
The crowd groaned in unison.
When asked, the God of Comedy had to tell a joke.
It was in his divine contract.
Although he Inherited title and all.
The jokes were never good.
“How do you call a whoring leprechaun?”
The God of Leprechauns, seated next to him, sighed with the weight of twelve centuries.
“A leprecunt,” the God of Comedy said.
A divine silence filled the realm.
Bill left.
***
The party began in full: drinking, dancing, yelling awkwardly into each other’s ears.
As was tradition.
Until the God of Insight made a remarkable observation.
The God of Magic—dressed in a stunning gown dyed in her color (which only she could see)—nodded in agreement.
She was a striking individual, and no one ever objected to anything she wore. Ever.
Together, they yelled for the music to stop.
Unfortunately, the band was mid-performance of “It Rains on Pasta More”, right in the emotional height of the bolognese stanza.
Naturally, they kept playing.
“What’s wrong?” the God of War slurred, staggering to his feet while using one of the God of Magic’s… appendages… for balance.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
She pointed.
“Look.”
Willow—the God of Gnomes—stood in the center of the room, blinking.
The God of War squinted hard, trying to see whatever it was he was supposed to see.
Willow, unaware of the scrutiny, looked around in confusion.
Then decided to wave.
Awkwardly.
The God of Awkward Entries approved.
Loudly.
Everyone laughed.
“Stop!” Karen—the God of Insight—shouted. “This is no laughing matter!”
She marched two divine steps toward Willow, then grabbed the edge of his cape and thrust it into the air.
“This is Magenta, not Crimson!”
Nobody cared.
“It’s in our charter—which you all agreed to,” Karen said, jabbing a finger at several of her most vivid opponents.
“Magenta was removed from the rainbow palette.”
She nodded, as if that ended the matter.
“We have to exclude her from the party.”
“What?” Willow blinked, tugging at his cape. “I’m color blind. And you know that.”
“No excuses,” Karen snapped. “Get him out!”
She pointed at the God of War.
Which, in hindsight, was probably not the best idea.
***
The God of War—or Dennis, to his friends—picked Karen up and hurled her across the dimension.
She landed squarely in the lap of the God of Comedy.
Disliked by all.
“Manager! I would like to speak to the manager!” the God of Comedy shouted,
another painfully misplaced comment from a god who was clearly trying too hard.
The God of Leprechauns, feeling bad for him, smiled gently—then smacked Karen with his little stick.
The band played on.
The song was becoming… epic.
“But now the rains fall in my dish,
with pasta cooked no more…”
The God of Food looked down at his holy bowl of ravioli—now tragically soaked by Karen’s airborne drink, which had, impressively, flown even farther than she had.
He let out a guttural cry and charged, flattening six gods at once.
The God of Magic began weaving her divine rage into a spell.
Willow, noticing the rising arcane tension, was not amused.
So he went for the throat.
“You do know you’re completely undressed, right?” he said calmly.
“Nobody can see your ‘shade of magic’.”
She froze—shocked, as if the idea had never occurred to her.
Then, in a panic, she covered herself with both arms, to the visible disagreement of everyone else in the room.
Tension thickened.
Now more gods were upset with Willow, still wearing his Magenta-not-Crimson cape.
He stood her ground.
“You tall people are all the same,” she said, voice trembling.
“Thinking we are of little matter.”
Some gods chuckled.
The God of the Air, a particularly light-hearted fellow, outright gniffled.
So Willow headbutted him in the groin.
He collapsed instantly, all the air gone from his lungs in a single divine whoof.
Things understandably got out of hand a bit.
***
When the band hit the last lines of the song:
“Till Carbonara calls the brave,
to feast… forevermore.”
The last god standing was the God of War.
His eyes were blood-soaked red, both arms missing.
Somehow, he was still dancing.
He staggered toward the Lepre Quartet to compliment them on the great evening.
Then he fell forward—
—flattening the last of the divine party.
Silence fell over the meadow.
The Party Dimension now looked remarkably like the Wedding Meadow.
Just with more glitter, fewer limbs, and significantly less ravioli.
None of the gods survived The Rainbow Wedding.
The complete pantheons of the known universe…
obliterated by a colorblind God of Gnomes who mistook magenta for crimson.
The nerve.
The final thought the gods passed on to the realm became a widely accepted truth:
“Gnomes are dicks.”
From that day on, people mocked them by placing tiny statues in their gardens—
to repel rats, pigeons, and divine retribution.
***
All gods perished—except five.
Five gods who had been invited but never made it to the venue.
They were lost, wandering aimlessly in the crevices of reality.
The Lost Gods.
By a coincidence normally only possible in books—the good ones—they were already called the gods of the Lost Pantheon.
- The Lord of the Disc – always hatted, master of illogical logic.
- The Patron of the Terry Cloth – perpetually dry in mood and in soul.
- The God of Bare Soles – musical, barefoot, and vaguely Australian.
- The God of Felt – blue, furious, and oddly articulate.
- The Protector of the Stick – defender of stick-based narratives.
And then… There was Bill.
Bill had left before the madness commenced.
Bill had a knack for running from danger.
Bill was a horse.
(A culinary ballad of sorrow and sauce)
And who are you, the cook once said,
with pasta on the floor?
Just one who dropped the sacred bowl,
and slipped in marinor.
With penne limp or fusilli proud,
no noodle stands secure—
And mine are lost, in sauce embossed,
beneath the kitchen drawer.
And so it steamed, and so it screamed,
that pot of ancient lore.
But now the rains fall through the roof,
and pasta’s served no more.
Yes, now the rains fall in my dish,
and pasta… hits the floor.
The bolognese was thick and bold,
a ragu rich and deep.
But now it stains the floorboards red,
where meat and onions weep.
The grated dreams of parmesan
lie dashed across the tiles—
Oh curse the spoon that flipped too soon,
and fate that slicks our aisles.
And so it steamed, and so it screamed,
that pot of ancient lore.
But now the rains fall through the roof,
and pasta’s served no more.
Yes, now the rains fall in my dish,
and pasta… hits the floor.
And lo, the forks lie rusting still,
their tines a mournful choir.
The colander, once crown of kings,
now slumbers in the fire.
Yet should the creed of carb and cream
be whispered through the door—
the Carbonara dawn shall break,
and pasta spill once more.
And so it steamed, and so it dreamed,
that dish of mythic yore.
Till Carbonara calls the brave,
to feast… forevermore.
https://rjjmoll.carrd.co/ — is considered praise.