We had been digging all night.  The grave was massive.  We’ve seen images of it, how humans are about one quarter the size of the demon, but in actuality, Moloch encompassed the entire planet.  It was integrated into so many aspects of how humans interact that it had grown in shape and mass over the centuries, from even before it was named Baal, and most definitely before we recognized Moloch as the demon god of coordination failure.

All around us, as we dug the grave, men and women mourned, with heaving sobs.  The gaping wounds, from the belief that we must take what we can get or go without having been torn from the roots, embedded within their bodies, shone red and clean in the moonlight.

I had a layer of skin, all across my face, yanked away, leaving sore raw hypodermis from my hairline to my clavicle.  We all had a layer of skin removed from our faces, the only difference was in how deep the removal went.  An old woman, digging besides me, had only her epidermis removed, and even then it was only around her mouth, cheeks and forehead, not her eyes, nose, or neck. She giggled as we dug.  I watched her pause to readjust the hoodie tied around her back, just below her tightly bound breasts.  I think her back gave her pain, but she seemed to be having so much fun, like a child in the sand at the beach.

We heard the sirens, escorting the demon’s body, approach as the sunrise began to peak over the distant mountain range.   The grave was already dug and some of us were climbing out of it, while others cleared a path in the piles of dark earth.

Some of the mourners tried to jump into the grave.  We held them back. It was an automatic reaction.  I don’t know if it was the right thing to do, but it was quickly agreed upon by the grave diggers with a few glances between us.

Moloch had been cut into five pieces to fit onto flatbed semi trucks, although these extra wide vehicles could not fit down the narrow streets leading to the cemetery.  We were called out to the main highway to help drag the pieces of Moloch down a couple narrow residential roads.

Once we had Moloch in its grave, there really wasn’t anything else to do.  It had already stripped us of all its influence, that we had attached ourselves to, when it was slain.  We had no more offerings, no more trinkets, nor even words, to send into the grave with it.

The old woman, with only her facial epidermis torn away, was the first to pick up a shovel and start covering Moloch with the dark soil we had removed from the Earth, just this last night. She laughed as she watched her first scoop land on the already cold and stiff demon. Her delight made it easier for the rest of us to pick up our shovels again.  Many came from the surrounding streets to help.

When Moloch, the demon god of coordination failure, was removed from our daily perceptions, when the last shovel patted the earth on top of the lifeless body, we all looked at each other in recognition of our shared experience.  It took my breath away.

I don’t know how long it will take for us to heal.  My face wounds are so deep that you can see my teeth through my cheeks.  We’ve agreed to be gentle with each other.  Those of us who were steeped in the beliefs that Moloch fed us, didn’t know they were harming all of humanity in feeding those beliefs, by acting with scarcity and fear.  We’ve all agreed to try on each other’s perspective before we make judgements or discernements.

Teams are already coming together to solve the issues surrounding resource management.  They are focused on fair global distribution for many generations to come.  I, personally, am going in search of a salve for our wounds.  My backpack is light, because I will be staying with my fellow humans throughout this journey.  I trust that you’ll share any learnings about a salve and I will do the same.

We had been digging all night.  The grave was massive.  We’ve seen images of it, how humans are about one quarter the size of the demon, but in actuality, Moloch encompassed the entire planet.  It was integrated into so many aspects of how humans interact that it had grown in shape and mass over the centuries, from even before it was named Baal, and most definitely before we recognized Moloch as the demon god of coordination failure.

All around us, as we dug the grave, men and women mourned, with heaving sobs.  The gaping wounds, from the belief that we must take what we can get or go without having been torn from the roots, embedded within their bodies, shone red and clean in the moonlight.

I had a layer of skin, all across my face, yanked away, leaving sore raw hypodermis from my hairline to my clavicle.  We all had a layer of skin removed from our faces, the only difference was in how deep the removal went.  An old woman, digging besides me, had only her epidermis removed, and even then it was only around her mouth, cheeks and forehead, not her eyes, nose, or neck. She giggled as we dug.  I watched her pause to readjust the hoodie tied around her back, just below her tightly bound breasts.  I think her back gave her pain, but she seemed to be having so much fun, like a child in the sand at the beach.

We heard the sirens, escorting the demon’s body, approach as the sunrise began to peak over the distant mountain range.   The grave was already dug and some of us were climbing out of it, while others cleared a path in the piles of dark earth.

Some of the mourners tried to jump into the grave.  We held them back. It was an automatic reaction.  I don’t know if it was the right thing to do, but it was quickly agreed upon by the grave diggers with a few glances between us.

Moloch had been cut into five pieces to fit onto flatbed semi trucks, although these extra wide vehicles could not fit down the narrow streets leading to the cemetery.  We were called out to the main highway to help drag the pieces of Moloch down a couple narrow residential roads.

Once we had Moloch in its grave, there really wasn’t anything else to do.  It had already stripped us of all its influence, that we had attached ourselves to, when it was slain.  We had no more offerings, no more trinkets, nor even words, to send into the grave with it.

The old woman, with only her facial epidermis torn away, was the first to pick up a shovel and start covering Moloch with the dark soil we had removed from the Earth, just this last night. She laughed as she watched her first scoop land on the already cold and stiff demon. Her delight made it easier for the rest of us to pick up our shovels again.  Many came from the surrounding streets to help.

When Moloch, the demon god of coordination failure, was removed from our daily perceptions, when the last shovel patted the earth on top of the lifeless body, we all looked at each other in recognition of our shared experience.  It took my breath away.

I don’t know how long it will take for us to heal.  My face wounds are so deep that you can see my teeth through my cheeks.  We’ve agreed to be gentle with each other.  Those of us who were steeped in the beliefs that Moloch fed us, didn’t know they were harming all of humanity in feeding those beliefs, by acting with scarcity and fear.  We’ve all agreed to try on each other’s perspective before we make judgements or discernements.

Teams are already coming together to solve the issues surrounding resource management.  They are focused on fair global distribution for many generations to come.  I, personally, am going in search of a salve for our wounds.  My backpack is light, because I will be staying with my fellow humans throughout this journey.  I trust that you’ll share any learnings about a salve and I will do the same.