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athousanderrorsvia http://ift.tt/2AOKejq:
worldsinside:
writing-prompt-s:
For lack of better candidates, someone’s parents jokingly named the Norse God Loki as the child’s godfather. He decides to take this seriously.
The whole thing got started because my dad was a professor of Norse Mythology.
When I was born he and mom had both just gotten jobs at a new university, which meant moving to a new town where my parents didn’t know anybody. That was my dad’s excuse for naming an ancient Scandinavian trickster god as my godfather.
He claimed it made sense at the time; apparently I was something of a trickstery child myself, always getting out of my playpen and into strange places, or making rude noises at hilariously inopportune times, or crying for no discernible reason and laughing for no better one. Plus, it was pretty soon apparent that I had inherited my grandmother’s bright red hair. So my dad liked to call me a child of Loki, which amused my mom. It didn’t amuse her so much when he told her dad, after he got a bit too pushy about me not having a godparent yet, that in fact I did have someone looking after me and his name was Loki Laufeyson.
Still, even my mom didn’t expect anything more to come of that than a bit of a row when my grandfather got home and looked a few things up, so they were both completely stunned when Loki himself showed up on the doorstep a few hours later.
I was much too young to remember that particular meeting, but from what I found out later, I can imagine something of how it went. Loki would have looked like a tall, lean man with hair like fire. Not red hair like mine, which isn’t even really red but orange-ish; this was hair in licks of red and orange and yellow, really like fire. He would have had eyes like fire opals, strange and glittering from one color to the next. And he would have had scars running along the tops of and bottoms of his lips, little rows of puncture marks, white and old but still clearly visible. But the rest of him would have looked handsome and charming, like a movie star, only better. He would have looked like what movie stars dreamed of looking like, and he would have flashed my mom a brilliant gleaming grin when she opened the door.
“Hello,” he said. “I’ve come to see the child.”
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worldsinside:
writing-prompt-s:
For lack of better candidates, someone’s parents jokingly named the Norse God Loki as the child’s godfather. He decides to take this seriously.
The whole thing got started because my dad was a professor of Norse Mythology.
When I was born he and mom had both just gotten jobs at a new university, which meant moving to a new town where my parents didn’t know anybody. That was my dad’s excuse for naming an ancient Scandinavian trickster god as my godfather.
He claimed it made sense at the time; apparently I was something of a trickstery child myself, always getting out of my playpen and into strange places, or making rude noises at hilariously inopportune times, or crying for no discernible reason and laughing for no better one. Plus, it was pretty soon apparent that I had inherited my grandmother’s bright red hair. So my dad liked to call me a child of Loki, which amused my mom. It didn’t amuse her so much when he told her dad, after he got a bit too pushy about me not having a godparent yet, that in fact I did have someone looking after me and his name was Loki Laufeyson.
Still, even my mom didn’t expect anything more to come of that than a bit of a row when my grandfather got home and looked a few things up, so they were both completely stunned when Loki himself showed up on the doorstep a few hours later.
I was much too young to remember that particular meeting, but from what I found out later, I can imagine something of how it went. Loki would have looked like a tall, lean man with hair like fire. Not red hair like mine, which isn’t even really red but orange-ish; this was hair in licks of red and orange and yellow, really like fire. He would have had eyes like fire opals, strange and glittering from one color to the next. And he would have had scars running along the tops of and bottoms of his lips, little rows of puncture marks, white and old but still clearly visible. But the rest of him would have looked handsome and charming, like a movie star, only better. He would have looked like what movie stars dreamed of looking like, and he would have flashed my mom a brilliant gleaming grin when she opened the door.
“Hello,” he said. “I’ve come to see the child.”
Keep reading
(Your picture was not posted)
