by Ann Kloman
In retrospect, the first solution HE suggested was such a disaster that both of us were appalled at all that wasted work. So I told him to get lost and I started over. On the first day I created nothing⎯and I don’t now know how it will end⎯I hope with neither fire or ice. In the beginning, I knew I’d made a painterly effort, but what a smug mistake to have been so pleased.
Bored after millennia of nothingness and existence with HIM, on a whim I brought into being with a single Big Bang, a masterful chain of events. From my recipe for primordial broth⎯an ion of this; a particle of that⎯emerged both tranquil and tumultuous waters of varied warmth and size. I studded these watery bits with large and small solids, some temperate and others not so hospitable to the flora and fauna that would either adapt or fail. So be it⎯my motto for shucking responsibility. Such a fine variety I conceived and, my imagination exhausted, I needed a day of rest.
But not for long. The implanting of these infinite, self-generating diversities took a minimum of my capabilities and too much sleep is a waste of time. Time to tweak my master plan. To project feelings of virtual reality proved a major difficulty. I wanted to provide the emotions and possible reactions to these variables without personal experience.
Didn’t want to get involved in anything unpleasant.
A pea of guilty discomfort jabbed me while resting on my cushy cloud—but only a moment. I cringed in expectance of those embarrassing curses or platitudes my nouveau humans would produce⎯centuries of literary propaganda in all its forms. The gush of Teachings: the Torah, Koran, the Bible, Book of Mormans, all those dreary volumes of shalts and shants. I grinned. Now that illustrated Kama Sutra was a keeper. Need some heavy gym work to handle those kinky maneuvers.
Back to business. All those platitudes: the end justifies the means, you get what you deserve, an eye for an eye. the meek shall inherit, the good die young, blah blah. Hey believe whatever makes you happy, or for the depressed⎯enjoy being sad. That pitiful belief in Divine Intervention⎯a nice sop to my ego.
Again that pang of anxiety. Being a responsible Creator is a lot of work. Time to release my power point presentation? Or just wing it without a ‘Creation for Dummies’ manual. Egotism nags me. Can’t get it wrong as the new celestial designer. No divine white-out. Wrong moves could be a disaster.
What I needed was an anti-reactive force⎯an angel for each demon. But careful, once the battle between perceived good and evil began that eternal contest, I’d lose control. The Beginning of the End. Chaos theory mucho multo. All those uncertainty principles with infinite choices predestined by the flutter of that butterfly’s wings. Maybe nix butterflies. Oh woe, the onus of it all.
A shadow fell across my cushy cloud and I heard a rumble of discontent. Who did that? I looked around; rested my chin in my palm. All was serene, pleasant, very nice. But was something missing? No, not something. Was some ONE crucial missing? I regarded my corporal image. Shapely legs, perky breasts, round parts here complemented by hollows there. Attractive facial features. Oh, oh. Watch that ego. Be careful. This was the crux of my creation and remember⎯NO eraser. But attractive to whom? I ‘d made only one of each creature. Parthonogensis⎯self-perpetuating. No fuss, self sex. So simple. Why not keep it that way? Another ominous rumble.
Then I recognized HIS big mistake. The slithery snake with its bad rep would never suffer dis. Snakes slide about on their bellies because that’s the best way for the legless to travel. The dire portent of an innocent apple (it was a fig) will remain just a tasty piece of fruit. No fairy tale allusions. Those literary witches will have to find another charm. As for that rib business. Ouch! No way. That was HIS idea? Some male joke of thoracic circumcision?
A eureka moment! Was a MALE person necessary? It would be easy to eliminate those future disasters: Jesus, Mohammad, Moses, Buddha, that Mormon Smith, Hitler, all those Popes and worse. The Grand Inquisitor? Who did he think He was? So Phfft! They will never be born. I sighed. A nano second of regret for the good guys lost to ‘mankinds’ intellectual enrichment, but plenty of women poets, painters, stateswomen, mothers, saints and more moderate sinners will peaceably fill their places.
I pushed send. I’ve done my best on this final day and we shall wait and see.
Ann Cloman is a mystery writer and a 15 year resident of Lyme. She likes to sing and was a member of our choir up until it’s last day. Ann participates in our church from her home and on this website.