FLASH FICTION - The First Mistake

Hello there, reader. It's been too long. Our ties have frayed , but I'm here to mend them. A Blog is a difficult endeavor for an unimportant man. We writers only believe ourselves heroes in the secrecy of our offices, library nooks, cafe booths, and porch swings--those places we sit with a pen or a laptop, threading otherworldly tapestries. But here, before the public eye? I am a nothing; we all are, deep down where it counts. And yet, we are everything. A spiritual paradox. 

That being said, this Blog will function as my toilet. When Nature calls, you'll hear from me, be it memoir, poetry, philosophical tripe, or flash fiction. Here's a little ditty that took ten minutes. An alternative theory to the Big Bang.

 I call it, The First Mistake. 

Darkness everlasting. The silence drove him mad. There were voices, sometimes. But when he realized the voices were only cosmic churnings, black digestions of galaxies to be, knowing not himself or any other, alone and forgotten, chained at the center of time and space, he unhinged his ancient mouth and screamed.

                

The light exploded, flowered, vibration and swollen color in a great opening eye. It was rage and love and madness unleashed into the blackness, opening wider in his throat until the throat itself ripped open, sending flesh in a dust-storm across the universe. He looked on in frightened agony, but the light was too far to take back, swelling with thunder, building with heat, a trillion-fold sea transmuting across the velvet dark, twisting bright serpents and seraphims, totems and talismans, born in this moment, the first moment. 

He tried to shut his mouth, but the power was a thrashing lion, though he knew not what a lion was.

His teeth exploded in mists of ice, his spine a detaching arc of gristled comets. He couldn’t scream, only flail, flail and regret the visions of churning oceans, of stagnant methane pools and red-silicon deserts canyoned with glittering spears. All the things to be, now were, inside him. 

His eyes disappeared in plasmic red bursts, and stars flamed into life at the edge of the nimbus, already a million lightyears wide. His bones a singing liquid in the void, he spun there in the center, devoured in a ballet of light, the first sacrifice, of himself, for himself, for the worlds and places already forging, for the darkness and gas and cooling rock, upon which things one day would stand self-aware, looking up toward the cosmic umbilicus in wonder, in frustration to know their God, their purpose, their origins.

(Thank you for reading! Comments are appreciated! Find Novelist Carson Standifer on Facebook!)