A thin red figure with irregular horns, a long tail, long pointy ears and pointy black fingernails sticks out his long curled tongue. He wears a long red cloak lined in a mangy fur that might once have been white. He holds a switch in both hands. Behind him the curve of the earth and a vague aurora. Text reads, “168, krampus – small god of secret santas”

“Are you doing Secret Santa this year?”
“Yeah, but I got Chloe, and you know she never likes what anyone gets her, and she always comes in under the dollar amount by as much as she can get away with ... ”

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A flame-maned black goat with huge curved horns and glowing golden eyes rears up against a fiery apocalyptic background. Text reads, “167, Yul Byrner ~ the small god of harvest sacrifice”

They weave his earthly incarnations out of sticks and straw, erecting them as monuments to the harvest, as bulwarks against the closing cold. They build him because they can, because they are compelled to do so, because they remember ...

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A lovely polar bear stands tall amid falling snow, modeling her red and white winter coat and white snow hat. Text reads, “86, AUNTIE CLAUS ~ the small god of POLAR FLEECE”

She began with a mondegreen. This is not a unique origin among the small gods, although she is perhaps uniquely proud of it, as had the mishearing occurred under other circumstances, it might have turned out far less well for everyone involved.

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A black pony with large rust-brown eyes and a smiling pumpkin on her hip stands on golden and orange fall leaves. Behind her, the dark sky is filled with stars and her flaming orange mane shines brightly against the blues of night. Text reads “24, The Small God, Pumpkin Spice”

People assume she’s a newcomer, a fad, a frivolous flash in the pan. But she was there when the first pumpkin pies were being baked; she was there when the first colonist cookbook was published, in 1769.

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A pointy – and grinning – green dragon holds lance in his giant claw. On the lance, the largest marshmallow you’ve ever seen. Lightning crackles in the background and a bright orange fire lights the scene. Text reads, “3, SMAURS, the Small God of Perfectly Applied Flame”

They call on him so much more than they ever realize.
Want a car to start? Want an engine to fire, an egg to cook, a cigarette to light?
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A tiny Oriole sits cheeping on a branch. But this wee bird has tied a big colorful toucan beak over his own, and added a bright red-orange comb. We see him against a bright green rainforest background. Text reads, “18, YUCAN TU, the small god of faking it until you make it”

Sometimes education isn’t enough. Sometimes you can study and study and try and try, and never quite cross the last bridge between where you are and your heart’s desire.

Sometimes you need to tell the perfect little lie to get there.

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An elegant black cat with a long tail sits in profile on a block of black marble, blocking the view of Assless Chaps behind them. Text reads, “55, Obsidious ~ The Small God of Occluding Cats”

The cat is in the way.

This is a basic fact of the universe, simple and immutable. The sun is shining, the wind is blowing, the cat is in the way. The world is spinning, the atomic structure of the universe is decaying, the cat is the way.

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An eight-armed figure in a blue dress and shoes, a striped blue and white apron with the tine figure of Small God Hummel sewn on, feathered headdress and blue bakelite bracelets stands in front of a dark larder – in which outlines of food jars and dishes can be seen. They bear 5 glowing jars that seem to be candles in primary colors. Text reads, “50, Kitsch Annette ~ The Small God of Organized Pantries”

If she could make people understand one thing and one thing only, it would be this: that food has no moral value, and that anyone whose pantry can be considered “full” is a virtuous person in her eyes ...

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A long-haired girl of about 4 smiles mischievously. Hovering over her left hand is red light bulb that lights the scene. The bulb has been colored red with the magic marker she holds in her right hand. Text reads, “155, little miss chief ~ small god of harmless pranks”

It’s not a joke unless everyone’s laughing.

It’s not a prank unless no one gets hurt.

A prank that ends in pain is something altogether different. We call it “cruelty” and “abuse” and “malicious.”

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A pale, impeccably dressed figure stands before the stone arch of a fallen castle. Her hair is pale as the rest of her and cut very short. She holds the top of a cane in one gloved hand, and raises a goblet in the other. The goblet, her ruby stickpin, eyes, and lips glow red in the viridian twilight. Text reads, “154, Carmilla ~ Small God of Vampirism”

There’s no single way to be a vampire. If you’ve met one vampire, you’ve met one vampire, and even those who have walked the night for centuries won’t pretend to have met them all.

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A young girl stands on your welcome mat, costumed in three colors of seamed foam rubber as befits her name. In her right hand she holds a roll of toilet paper, in her left, a plastic pumpkin-shaped bucket for holding treats. Behind her, past the lawn and sidewalk, a toilet-papered tree is visible against the starry twilit sky. In a 3D candy-corn inflected font, the Text reads, “153, CANDY CORNELIA ~ SMALL GOD OF TRICK OR TREAT”

Sun’s going down, and now’s where you have two choices: turn off all the lights and go to bed right now, or light the pumpkin and set it out in invitation.

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A horse’s – well, the animated remains of a horse – looks disapprovingly out at you from the ember that glows in his ruined eye socket. Upper left, a word balloon: “You’re just beating a dead horse here Wilbur…” Behind him, ruined shapes stand silhouetted against an apocalyptic red sky. Text reads, “152, MISTER DEAD ~ SMALL GOD OF ALL THOSE DAMNED ZOMBIES”

A corpse is a corpse, of course, of course, And no one can talk to a corpse, of course, That is of course unless the corpse Is the famous Mister Dead!

He walked among the world of the living before his ascension to the ranks of the divine.

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A massive serpent (so large that King Kong wouldn’t be big enough to fill its mouth. It looms over the city and coils around the Empire State Building creating – however briefly – the shape of a dollar sign. The top of the snake is gold, but its underbelly is ebon. Text reads, “151, BLACK FRIDAY ~ SMALL GOD: FALSE PROFITS”

She slithers in through any opening she can find, so much smaller than she looks from the outside, so much larger than anyone wants her to be. Her coils can constrict empires, her jaws encompass unions ...

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An earnest looking soul in a cook’s uniform – a bright orange shirt, a striped apron, and a hat, around which a University diploma can be seen. Dark acrid smoke billows up in the background. Text reads, “149, ‘3rd Degree’ Burns ~ small god of the Over-Qualified”

He got used to being treated as a cautionary tale a long time ago.

Every time a parent points to a sanitation worker, a janitor, a cafeteria lunch lady, a salesclerk with derision in their eyes and judgment in their hearts, he is there ...

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A cell phone – open to a texting app – sits on an inlaid wooden table. An impish red character with a floating crown and long pointing tail rests at the bottom of the screen. Above it, a conversation between someone and their Dad (visible in a circle at the top of the screen). Text reads, “Dad: Have you seen your Mom anywhere? Reply: she can’t hear the phone she’s in the grave. Dad: WHAT? Reply: garage. duck. Dad: Always with the swearing.” 148, AUTARCH ERECT ~ the smell good of AUTO’CORRECT’”

Every time you send a message that paints you as a wild duck enthusiast, she is there.

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A bald cosmonaut floats upside down in space, where the Milky Way and a panoply of stars reflect in his spherical helmet. Text reads, “147, Yuri Polithane ~ Small God of Bubble Helmets”

He is a god of frontiers.

He is born again in every child who turns their eyes toward the stars, toward the sea, toward the horizon, and he grows with them. He is young and old at the same time, all ages and all things, and always looking outward.

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An Orangutan yawns widely, showing off her remarkable dentation – despite the fact that it’s still broad daylight in the rainforest. Text reads, “146, Sharon Cher Alike, Small God of Contagious Yawns”

Okay, so Carl, you were—you were—excuse me. Just need to…

What? No! No, you’re not boring me! Just sucking all the air out of the room so I need to—need to—damn it!

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A mobile phone rests on a huge pile of US one dollar bills. A wee robot with a slot machine arm and two cartoonish silver feet is emerging from it, green pupils spinning in its three eyes and a US 20 dollar bill in its mouth. Text reads, “145, iBandit ~ The small god of Electronic Gambling”

Doesn’t feel like real money when it’s a swipe card or a button on a screen, does it? Does it? Doesn’t feel like gambling when it’s a loot box of random cosmetics and power boosts that can make your character better, does it? Does it?

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A lovely woman with freckles, a mass of wavy red hair, a diamond ring as big as the Ritz, a leopard print cocktail dress and scarf, and lacquered nail holds a ginger root. Text reads, “17-1444, The Small God Ginger”

She didn’t always look like this. Blame the British for occupying Malaysia in the late 18th century, when they encountered the ginger flower for the first time and came home calling all their redheads gingers.

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An ugly puckered old coot scowls from an old TV screen that’s been turned 90 degrees to the right. He is bright yellow against an orange backdrop, and badly pixilated. Text reads, “143, Premeditated Murdoch ~ Small God: Yellow Journalism”

He’s aiming for the big time. He always has been. And he’ll tell you, if you ask, that he’s an All-American God, as patriotic as sunshine and apple pie and the fourth of July—all things, that if you stop and think about them, aren’t patriotic at all.

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Profile view of gigantic rock head atop a very steep cliff. Text reads, “142, Eld Hamtunscīr ~ Small God of Treacherous Cliff Faces and Taking Things for Granite”

Goin’ climbin’? Just be sure you’re ready to be careful out there. Eld’s been active lately, and not everyone we see heading up this trail has been seen again heading down this trail, if you get my meaning. He’s a tricky one, that—

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A small character with a black glyph and a red circle wedges itself into the mouth of a bloviating figure of intolerance and hatred. Steam issues from the silenced man’s ears and his eyes cross as they try to understand the sudden silence. Text reads, “140, Shush ~ The Small God of the Mute Button”

If there’s one god who deserves the pity party they occasionally throw for themself, it’s Shush. The poor kid. Everyone used to love them, once upon a time.

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A vexed-looking violet-colored woman wears a costume featuring black shoulders and red lightning-bolt V over a violet top with black shoulders. She nervously bites her red thumbnail. The city above and behind her is visible through her transparent midsection. Text reads, “139, Ultra Violet ~ The Small God of Invisible Labor”

Those who take the most benefit from her presence, and from the presence of her faithful, are the least likely to admit that she exists.

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A complicated TV/DVD/BluRay/et al. remote control. In addition to its 42 buttons (in all shapes and sizes), it features devil-horns, a long twisted tail that ends in a point, a wicked smile, a pointy mustache, and a look of excitement in its UP and DOWN arrow eyes. In the background something (a forest? a movie set? The whole world?) burns. Text reads, “138, Confoundula ~ The Small God of Overwrought and Underthought Remotes”

Riddles have always been used to protect places of great wisdom. Solve a puzzle to access the wizard’s library; navigate a labyrinth to enter the chamber of secrets.

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A woman wears 18th Century dress accented with two huge pearl necklaces, pearl earrings, and a rakishly tilted tricorn hat. She sits at a round inlaid table. Behind her velvet curtains part to reveal Venice’s Grand Canal. She sits amid smoke and holds a burning tarot card over a table that shows 6 others in the light of a single candle. Text reads, “136, Barbarigo ~ The Small God of Things Man Was not Meant to Know.”

Hey, kid. Sit on down and draw a card.
No, I don’t care how old you are. Why would I care about—ah. No, you’re still a kid to me.

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A figure with side-parted blond hair and a leather jacket sneers with a lit cigarette in their less-than-perfect teeth. The sickly green smoke matches their light eyes. Text reads, “135, Madiel ~ Small God of Smoke”

Yes, it’s a filthy habit. Good luck finding one of his followers in this modern world who isn’t aware of that.

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A steaming silver teapot with a robot’s face. Boiling water is visible through its comically round eye-holes. It rests and reflects on a white surface in front of window of deep blue sky and numberless stars. Text reads, “134, Sam O’Var ~ Small God of Tea Time Machines”

Out of Russia they arose, victor in the remarkably genteel race to become representative of the many and glorious ways for the people of the mortal world to take their tea.

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A stylized 50’s style illustration of a black cat with huge golden eyes sitting atop the world in a bubble-helmet. Teeny flying saucers float in the starry purple space background. Text reads, “133, Nightfall ~ The Small God of World Domination”

We’re not sure what the cats were thinking when they domesticated humans. Oh, sure, primates are useful, with their clever little primate hands that can do useful primate things, like building warm houses to keep the rain out ...

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A blue-eyed blonde in a scoop-neck black shirt, leather jacket, and blue tiger-eye necklace on a silver chain stands in front of a chart of classic hair/wig styles – many of which are named ‘Bob’. Text reads, “131, Simon ~ The Small God of Hairdos”

​She will help you find your better self.
​Beauty is only skin deep, but hair is a form of art, and she is Michelangelo, she is DaVinci and O’Keefe and Franzetta.
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