New Header

After the feedback I received I've been busy making the edits. It's certainly been a challenge and if I'm honest I was aware of many of the faults, so these comments just kicked me in the pants.



But making these changes is tiring and often demoralizing, especially when I hit a brick wall. To get over the hump I write other things, a change of pace and a change of scene often does the world of good.



With that in mind here's one I knocked up earlier.







A Deists Dream



The Universe was not, as some would believe, a master stroke of engineering
created by some divine being. It was a fluke: a one in an infinitesimal chance
against. It made the chances of finding you're holding the
winning the lottery whilst being charged by a herd of elephants in your high
street, seem  pretty big. And then there's life, sentient living
breathing rutting life.  You think that there's life on your cheese after
it's been left
in the fridge to become a hairy scrotum after a sweaty day playing rugby. Nope
that's just mold, absolutely no chance of anything interesting happening there.




It basically takes, as any scientist will tell you,  a lot more luck than
that.



Tuesday
afternoon and our hero is bored, he's sitting through another lecture
on
the
history of someone or other who did something
really amazing. With a pad of paper on his lap and a clutch pencil in
his
hand he started to doodle. The lines flowing, like a melting glacier,
that
would etch their way into the papery fibers coating the micro-filaments
with a
gray
powdery soot. By the end of the lecture. it's a mess of  assorted lines
and shapes,
nothing of any interest to him or future archaeologists. He tears the
sheet of paper off the pad and shoves it deep into his jacket pocket.




The next day he finds himself sitting on a bus, going to meet some friends.
It's a long journey and he hasn't got a book to read, so he shoves his hands in
his jacket pockets and pulls  the collar up around
his chin to ward off the biting cold.  Inside his pockets he finds the paper he'd drawn on the previous day,
he looks at it, smiles and stuffs his hands back, hoping that the thin fabric
will have some kind of curative effect on his circulation. He drifts off to
sleep and dribbles slightly. Waking with a start he finds he's missed his stop,
where is he? He panics momentarily. He's at the end of the line, miles away
from anywhere. He gets off
and waits for the next bus back.




Lunch the following day was lasagna and chips from the college canteen, he's
all but
forgotten about the paper that's still in the pocket of the coat he wore the
previous night. The frost from the previous night, has melted, leaving his
pocket slightly damp and smelling like his parents' wet Spaniel after a romp
through a muddy field.




He wakes late, misses his lectures, drags on his
clothes including the now musty jacket, he greets it like an old
friend, shakes
it and the paper and pencil fall onto the floor. Picking them up, he
shoves
them back into a pocket and heads out of the door. It's raining, the
harsh wind
drives it hard into his face, his coat wasn't designed for this, he
wipes the
spray from his eyes, hoping that his eyelashes will stay clear enough
to cross
the road. They don't,  and as he crosses the road he momentarily finds
it odd that he's suddenly flying through the air when just as suddenly
he lands on the cold wet tarmac. Muffled noises surround him and then
silence.




His fish supper went cold that night. He wakes the next morning in a
strange bed, and,
except for the beeping machines complete silence. He tries to move,
everything
aches. He sees his clothes in the corner of the room. A nurse comes in,
he asks
for them. The black jeans have been torn and sliced, from the tarmac
and the nurses'
scissors; the jacket survived more or less intact. The paper and pencil
are still in the pocket: battered but still working. He bites through
the pain
and draws more, adding more complexity to  Tuesday's doodle.




And there he leaves it. He closes the cover of his pad and darkness
envelopes
his etchings. Unknown to him, the water, the cold and collision with a
car have
created the perfect storm and a universe is created and our hero has
become a God. In time this universe gives birth to sentient beings, but
he doesn't know about them. 




Time passes and he grows older, the young man becomes a young father
who becomes a middle aged parent before becoming a grandfather and finally an old man. Still
unaware of the lives he kick-started all those years ago. He dies and his
unknown legacy lives on, still foolishly worshiping a man who knew nothing of their existence neither knew nor
cared.