[ WP ] Gods are around as long as they have statues and images of themselves to look out through . Write what happens when their last statue is smashed .

Seasons... years... a spinning wheel that flickers past 
 
 The orange yellow of meadow flowers, 
 turns to the browns of autumn, 
 To be encroached on by the slate grey blues and whites of winter, 
 Which in time cracks, spoilt by the tooth sharp points of green that spread and bring spring. 
 
 Yellow 
 brown 
 white 
 green 
 Yellow 
 brown 
 white 
 green 
 Yellow 
 brown 
 white 
 green 
 
 Watch this flash past 10 times and a decade has gone, 20 times, and a man has been born and become an adult, 40 times, that adult has grown, and beget children of his own. The colours flash and the cycle continues., 
 
 I have seen that rhythm repeat... well at least 250,000 times, at least since I had eyes to view it. 
 
 They gave me eyes. Before that I was a boulder, a great grey rock picked up and dragged by the crushing arms of ice, a glacial wall that lifted and entombed me hauling me along as it ground out valleys and shaved the sides of mountains, till one day it stopped and as a warming sun lit its retreat, I was left alone in the wide flat grass land, this grassy steppe capped by boundless sky. 
 From here, I saw the woolly rhino pass by, the roaring long toothed cats, then the thundering charge of the mammoth as thy rush across this landscape of tufted green, pursued by the thick browed shaggy men and woman who eventually one day would stop to stare. 
 
 They ran hands over me, and at first sharpened their bark stripped stick spears on me, then used my edges to polish stone points, and then rest in my shade to chip crisp shiny flints, into stabbing tools, and cutting edges. Returning successful from the hunts leaden with steaming meat and bundles of fur, they worked on me adapting my natural shape to the sweep of a hip, the protrusions into breasts, and grinding stone on stone, they gave me a face, nose, cheeks, eyes! I SAW. 
 
 I watched them leave, return, the faces changing as the flickering cycle of seasons cropped young into old, and old into sons of the old who came back as their fathers has told them to leave gifts of skin and flesh at my carved monolithic feet. Gradually the mammoths came past less, and with them the strong limbed thick faced children became fewer, replaced by lither figures who garbed in tailored leather, watched from distance, aware of my heritage, and careful of my power. Till they left, and for longs seasons, baked by sun and periodically buried in snow, I watched this wide flat plain sprout a hut, then two shaggy thatched buildings that became farms, and fields patch-worked the plain. A brown road bisected the sward, and on it travellers. 
 
 Some who at times stopped, resting in the shade of my stone bulk, I would hear them comment, on how I might... if you look at a certain angle, have a form not unlike a fat lady, the endless seasons having long softened and worn down my carved features into faint almost invisible lines. The bones of the meat joints left at my feet had long bleached white and crumbled. 
 
 I am again a rock, 
 
 Plain grey, rounded, with flecks of feldspar that catch the sun. 
 
 And now a sign, a placard that reads. PLOTS FOR SALE, shortly replaced with one that reads SOLD. And soon after men comer again and stand round me, only these are thin pale stripling so similar and yet unlike the stout hairy giants who gave me face. Wrapped in patterned fabrics and bright yellow waistcoats, and plastic helmets they unroll tapes and hammer stakes and then a thunder. 
 
 Not the endless rumble of distant storm promising a damp slash in the sheet of dry summer, but a smoky throaty growl of a yellow machine with broad dozer blade, that catches the sun, as it presses into me, and I realise I am tumbling backwards into the hole dug behind me, the world spins, but this time on an axis unfamiliar to me. 
 
 Darkness now.
