Prometheus

Were I a god
I’d start
here
here, with nothing
a great compression of
nothing
till the built-up force of spaces between the nothing nothing nothing
exploding
expanding
extrapolating
cause slivered bits of, simply, everything.

Were I a god
I’d start
there
there, with slivers
a sparkling shower of
slivers
till, gathered, they form a winking blinking ball of thunk thought think
longing
learning
living
condensations of, really, sentience.

Were I a god
I’d start
everywhere
everywhere, with sentience
a malleable mess of
sentience
till the clumps of godmade intelligences breathe stretch move
dreaming
daring
dancing
flaming forms of, actually, life.

fire-2593636_1280

In answer to Frank Prem’s analysis (in the end the flame)

Sanctuary in the Sands

The days without wind had been impossible. The days with, however, proved impassible. Hot desert breath pulled and pushed at his shaking, stalking frame in confused bursts of sand. He squinted every few steps for a bearing, yet was always rewarded with another hill.

He stood and breathed heavily through his makeshift scarf. Moving air whipped more gritty dust across his face, obligingly. He blinked, then couldn’t believe his eyes. Surely the wavering green upon the horizon was another imagination-induced reprieve, an apparition of his thirst-starved mind. Blearily, he licked the moist dirt from his lips again and again.

Step by sliding step he mounted the dune before him. Why not, since he had nowhere else to go but a forever dust-sleep? No one would ever find him as the sand piled over his prone form. He would become a sand hill himself, upon which other wanderers might slowly stumble to a dehydrated death.

I am the Sandman, he thought.

Taker of dreams…

Then his worn boot found footing more solid than dune. Then his other. And his ears realized a silence in the days-long howling of wind. He breathed simply air. He squinted, rubbed a gritty hand beneath each brow, fully opened his eyes.

Oasis. The word flitted across his mind as it tried to accept the picturesque glen his dust-crusted eyes could see.

He fell to a kneel and his swollen tongue slurred thanks to Heaven. His filthy hands dipped forward to the ready pool and scooped liquid manna into his parched and gasping mouth. Lovely, wet, clear water ran everywhere in his fumbling haste.

Nearly a full ten minutes of bliss passed before he noticed he was not alone. Large, beautiful eyes stared at him from beneath the rippling surface. Feminine eyes.

She smiled.

 

Written in response to Carrot Ranch’s 24-Hour Free-Write contest.