Thursday, July 16, 2009
by Jason Evans
Time clicked sideways. Like an itch. An insect whirring, but without fangs.
The god of all things dreamed of delicious, fatal fangs.
But time clicked sideways like an itch. An itch. Or an insect whirring.
The god thought colors, and the universe lit and patterned with colors. It thought about crystals painted with endless dimensions, and the dimensions were. Then, the god bored of painting, and the dimensions that were, were not.
And the insect whirred.
And the god sat. Tired. Listening.
te n i n g
The god woke from a never-slept, and it felt the wind of wings. The whir had gone into the nothingness. No colors patterning. No crystals. No dance of dimensions.
The god gazed out, and edges hardened where edges had never been. Black and cold. Forms the god could not un-form.
A yawn sighed through the universe. A quiet drowsing toward sleep.
"This is my body," the god whispered.
The edges now knew a center, and from the center, the god bled. Red. The only color. Pooling in a glass of left-over crystals.
"This is my blood."
When the last drop rippled, and the glass of crystals fell, the body of the god hovered, hard and still.
The glass shattered.
A cosmic light.
Shards sprayed into the reaches of now-directions. Heat roared on the straightened wings of time.
Harmonies wove where the god sang alone, and the crystals sparked and slowed, igniting the first sea of stars.
Posted by jason evans at 12:00 PM