High on a dusty hill,

Lit by grief and pain,

Is a graveyard of Pentecostals

Reaching for the Holy Stone in vain.

~

“Zāne, this is amazing!”

Brown eyes sparkle with wonder and pride as a young woman greets another golden eyed person excitedly. The short brunette happily accepts the warm praise from their blonde friend before linking arms with her and making for the dessert table. The two giggle playfully as they pass by nightmare fuel after ghoulish horror. The paintings hanging around them on gated walls and from guarded ceilings are all the work of the golden eyed brunette and painted especially for this Halloween event.

And, as always, each one features Zāne's trademark half-moon.

“I think I like the Haunted Halo best,” comments the taller friend, gesturing to it with a free hand. The painting in question is of a white ring, broken and falling around the artist’s signature. Like a failed accretion disk, the halo is suspended in unnatural arrest, invoking a feeling of loss.

“I think another name for it would be Broken Heart.”

The blonde raises an eyebrow as the two black-clothed friends stack their tiny plates high with sugar cookies and brownies before sequestering themselves in a cotton-webbed corner. “I thought you only ever titled your works via alliteration?” She nibbles on a frosted heart—not a valentine—amusedly.

“That’s why I didn’t name it that.”

The two share a laugh before tucking in together. They talk, between bites, about the other titles each painting could have; coming up with things both ridiculous and envious. Their conversation changes to the upcoming Thanksgiving event and what they want to do for it. They talk animated with passersby while compiling a list of core themes and images they want to use for November.

Neither of them notice the silent figure staring at the golden-eyed person's paintings.

Specifically: at the trademark half-moons.

~

“Going to carving this one too, little brother?”

Sapphire eyes smile into green orbs as two brothers come to stand before the Terrestrial Tombstone. Together, they stare at the Holy Stone on the canvas and the intricately painted blemishes on its face. The blue-eyed man is certain he can replicate it, as he always does; it’s the rest he’s thinking about.

“The tombstones are looking like a hand.”

“Agreed,” the stone carver nods, scratching his chin as he wonders if he can take that a bit literally. Making a hand is never that hard for him and it would certainly fit with the theme while making it his. But what of the namesake? “Perhaps I can make them nails?”

“Or fingertips,” the older brother suggests.

The younger nods, eyes lighting up. He contemplates the logistics of that, how he would cut and chip that out, before humming contemplatively, “Should I make the forearm or hand the hill?”

“Good question,” the green-eyed man murmurs; “I do not knowing the answer.”

“That is fine, brother,” the younger man soothes. He debates the possibilities and how they would work before settling on making each finger a tombstone and using the curves of the palm as the hill. Satisfied, he pulls out a notepad and writes the idea down for his future self.

The green-eyed brother glances at the message with amusement, “You are really something, Fihr.”

Fihr grins, “So is this Miss.”