A wild god grants no wishes, but miracles spill from his lips; thick and crude and unpolished words that snap and bite at your ankles. And so do your footfalls cause the earth to tremble, for his gifts are not for receiving. A wild god’s blessings receive you.

He eats the flesh raw. A wild god carves no arrows, strings no bows, crafts no swords or axes. He scoops you from the river and sinks his teeth into you as you squirm, tender flesh giving way to the mouth that bloodies itself with doubt and hesitation and tremors of the mind. He deals in terror, takes fear in exchange for a glass of wine.

A wild god dwells in temples, sleeps on marble floors and wakes in the night for the hedonists that chant his name, singing Io, Io, Io! He slips into the crowd to mark the ground with footsteps and spittle and *****, chanting Io, Io, Io! What glorious decadence! What beautiful debauchery ensues on the mountainside.

A wild god ruins parties with the shades of lessons unlearned, entering cracks in the mind and festering, bringing forth memories of agony and aches and falling apart. A wild god makes walls when you run from ghosts, and smiles as you fall to your knees in tears.

For a wild god grants no wishes, but miracles fall from his palms; smoldering like charcoal and lighting little fires to keep you warm in the night as you learn to make your own. Up and up and up they rise, and the flames seem a beacon of hope.

A wild god raises the ground you stand on and whispers “Io.”