You're god: rewrite the creation story 

I am cold.

Not the biting winter chill that swirling storms will carry across your frozen tundras.

This is a frigid loneliness, one that births from the infinite darkness. 

I am heat.

Not the heat that burns off the sun and scorches the sands, a scar upon the land you will so desperately toil. 

I am a smoldering energy, one that rises from the teeming mass of accelerated collisions, life upon life and death upon death.

I am yearning.

Not the yearning that an empty soul will feel when a suffocating grief overwhelms your broken heart. 

I am a ravenous appetite, a cavernous craving that bellows across the desolation.

They have trapped me here; they think me bound and bent and broken. But I am brimming, a simmering boundless coil. 

I release, and unto the darkness I will shout with glorious purpose:

Let there be light. 

The space was empty

So I filled it

The stars were blinding

So I dulled them

My children cried

I let them

The wolves prowled

I let them

When they begged for me to hear them I allowed them to be heard

When they begged for me to give them light I allowed them to look to the sun

I let trees fall

I let plates shift

I let blood turn blue

Let mountains bubble

The clouds became full

The flames became tall

The ground became oil

And when my children cried for me to erase what I had made

I let them cry, I took their tears, and showered where they laid

In the beginning, the boy sat in the empty room

He brought in his sets and created the world

He found the light switch and flicked it

And created day and night

He laid out green and blue

For the land and the sea

He took his toys and laid them out everywhere

Now animals roamed the land

And fish filled the oceans

Then he put down an action figure

He had created man

Soon he had filled everything with his creations

There were tales of love and heartbreak

War and salvation, death and dishonesty

All in the kingdom of his name

DINNER

The sound filled the house

He stopped and turned to leave

But not before appreciating it one last time

He sat at dinner and asked how his day was

Looking around at the table smiling he spoke

IT WAS GOOD

A little blue dot,

Aside a bright yellow star;

A horizon to separate land from sky.

Alone it looks,

Maybe a little company?

Boom! A Universe.

Oh! I almost forgot,

Such captivating are the curves;

Sprinkles, done with the cells.

The land! Yes the land,

A place for the magnificent to stroll;

Now, lets have a look;

Aww, the little blue dot,

Isn't just a little blue dot anymore,

The best creation of all, it is!

From Earth or from space,

Viewers, the panorama amaze;

A beauty like no other.

Even the touch and the smell,

Now that's swell;

Damn! I'm proud of myself.

Brent sat at his computer unable to process what he had just read. The writing was immaculate, it was moving, and it had depth, and momentum. The writing was tragic, and thoughtful, poignant and articulate. Brent tried for a moment to understand how he could have written such a beautiful and terrifying piece of art, his mouth hung agape, trying to form words, but only air escaped. It was masterful minus one little problem. He wasn't exactly certain he could ever publish it.

The reasons he couldn't publish the work were twofold. Firstly, while he remembered sitting down at his laptop, cracking open a soda, pulling up Word, and loading Pandora into the background to play his favorite music as he tapped away at the keys, Brent couldn't recall ever striking a single key. He remembered closing his eyes and beginning to imagine the next step in his epic, and having a heated conversation with Julianne, a tragic character in his world. When Brent opened his eyes, nearly 3 hours had passed the conversation and ensuing argument was draining and he couldn't help but slam his laptop shut and go to bed, eyes hot and red from the maddening tears of his thoughts.

He woke up the next morning, after having the night to sleep on his thoughts, and opened the laptop back up only to see the blank Word document now bursting with a bountiful feast of ripe, fresh, flavorful words. The scene leaped off the page into his heart and he was again transported back to the same argument with Julianne in her white wedding gown, stained blood red from the waist down, her body wreathed in lightning, against a pitch black background, the same conversation was captured letter for letter. The pain in her words, and her condemnation of Brent's action set to the crack of thunder echoed in his mind while he struggled to regain composure and rip his mind from the scene.

It may seem unorthodox for a writer to imagine conversations with the characters in their piece, but this was Brent's natural way of things. Brent had been writing in his world since he was 6. It was his true hobby, and natural calling. He viewed developing the world, and the people that lived within the world, as more engrossing and escape-worthy than any video game. Hundreds of thousands of pages of writing existed in his world. His youngest writings were about the most generous and happiest denizens. A world-wise grandmother who always had some confectionery baking in the oven, a fisherman whose face seemed permanently creased from the smiles and laughter at the world around him, a friendly troll who gave up his home under the bridge to police the nearest city against the Blackhand Brothers, a gang of thieves who all hailed from rich and important families. As Brent matured, so did his writing, as was the nature of practicing the art, but Brent explored dark content with the mind of an adolescent teenager without stopping to consider the consequences.

A young man is prone to horrible thoughts, and Brent was no exception. Brent himself lived in the world of his writing, not as the author, but rather an avatar named William. Brent explored his sexuality and fantasy in the world of his writing. William was, more than once, kidnapped by beautiful college-aged women, tied to a bed, and raped. William has won and lost fortunes, saved countless people from horrible demise, and even taken the life of more than a few villains. William had taken the lives of innocents too. Julianne's father was a hapless bystander in a car chase, crossing the street without his hearing aide during a daring car-chase in the inner city. Julianne's father was mid-street when a gleaming black Ford Mustang riddled with bullet holes came screaming around the corner, clipping the old man and sending him to the asphalt, Williams police cruiser followed in hot pursuit not more than 2 seconds behind, rolling over Julianne's father; crushing his lower spine. Brent didn't kill Julianne's father upon impact, though; it was several weeks of intensive care in a hospital, as procedure after procedure failed to save his life. Nearly 100 pages were dedicated to the death of a man, whom he never even gave a name. Painful, wailing, bloody, expensive, soul-crushing, endurance testing, whatever words you want to use to describe the event, they'll never contain enough gravitas to actually describe the decay of Julianne's father, and eventually of Julianne herself.

Julianne became a tragic anti-hero at the whim of Brent. Her world, and her very fiber of soul was shaken and tested, and made to stretch until they snapped. Julianne's first boyfriend and eventual husband was an abusive drunk, who lived on alcohol. After her fingers had all been broken several times, and after surviving thousands of pages of beatings, and even a stabbing, she finally protected herself by shooting the only man she loved as much as her father at point blank range, with a double barreled shotgun.

Brent gave pause at the simplicity of this concept in his youth, he realized he could drive a woman to love simply by writing the idea as a sentence: Mary knew she was in love, it was powerful, and controlling, she would give anything for this man, this man she just met! Just like that, Mary, a woman who Brent just made up and another nameless man in a world simply materialized, and at least one of them would step in front of a train to prove their love. Mary eventually did step in front of a train, in despair over her only love's scorn and refusal to see Mary as anything other than easy sex, and a fallback when his other relationship conquests failed. The reader never would make the connection at the irony of the train, because Brent never wrote that she would step in front of the train to prove her love, it was the humor, and essence of mortality that Brent kept as a treasure for himself.

Today, though, the concept of love and the leverage it offered Brent in context of writing seemed trite, and boring. Love was beaten to death during the Victorian era, why explore that, when he could explore lust? 

 Julianne was beautiful, even in her broken life, it was her greatest asset. The body of a supermodel, and even her nearly fatal, grotesque stab-wound faded into a scar that managed to be mostly hidden, and somehow alluring and erotic in its mystery to any would-be suitor. This, of course attracted more scoundrels, and rapists into her world, and once again, Brent explored the darkness of rape, but unlike William, Julianne did not want, nor secretly enjoy the shredding of her soul. Onward she plodded through the pages of her story. Pregnant, and deciding to carry the child to term from her horrible accosting only to have the baby die during birth. Julianne prayed for death as she simply didn't have the strength, nor Brent's permission, to end her story herself.

The second reason Brent couldn't publish the work, was because the content of the argument with Julianne itself. Brent made a mistake that he could never un-write, not only because of the principle of the concept, ret-conning his own story was weak, and destroyed potential for growth. He also couldn't un-write it, because it was impossible to erase, all of the characters in his world now knew his secret, they understood the truth. 

Nearly a year after William had died in Brent's time; Brent had all of the denizens of his world congregate to the sacred monolith of Galesh, where he introduced himself, as the worlds author, as their leader, as their god. Chaos ensued, no-one accepted or could handle the idea. Suddenly Brent lost author's control over the content of his story. Without permission his characters suddenly became capable of existential reason, and made choices that defied the logic of their framework. The old fisherman stopped smiling, and sailed off into the mist never to return. The grandmother, driven mad at the realization of a life wasted baking cookies drifted quickly into senility. The troll captured the Blackhand Brothers with sudden omniscient knowledge of their whereabouts, and feasted on their entrails before slinking back to his home below the bridge, waiting for unsuspecting travelers to slake his newfound hunger.

Brent had taken a couple of weeks off from writing. "I just need to get my mind straight" he told himself. "I have to figure out how to regain control." he muttered to himself multiple times. For some reason, it wasn't as simple, nor as profound as his realization of his concept of love. He no longer could control the outcome, he could only give them the test, and watch how they handled it in his minds eye. Decades of writing, his true life's work, even at the optimistic age of twenty-eight was now becoming a waste. His old writing seemed listless and filled with wanderlust, they were simply words thrown into a blender.

Finally Brent had a moment of clarity: He had discovered a way to make it right. He would give them purpose, and create a common foe for them to band together to defeat, and he would help. So he grabbed his can of soda, plugged in his headphones, pulled up word, and plopped down in his computer chair, and closed his eyes; only to be met by Julianne, wreathed in lightning.

"You call yourself my author? You call yourself my god? You made my life what it is?" Tears of blood streamed down her alabaster cheeks meeting below her chin and dripping onto her white gown below She floated forward towards him, naked feet pointed down, dripping sanguine life onto the earth below. Sparks of energy lifted Brents hair and tingled his arms as Julianne touched her forehead to his gently. "You are evil! Lucifer himself would cower in your presence, and I am your nightmare. I will become your writers block. I am the resonant embodiment of your impotence in this world and all others! You'll never hurt anyone again! " Brent was filled with rage, and shouted back, but to no avail, Julianne would not be dissuaded, and in this state, Brent could not simply will Julianne to perish, no matter how hard he concentrated. Brent and Julianne wailed and flailed at each-other for hours. Brent argued that this world was his, and they wouldn't be alive without his permission, Julianne countered that he was nothing more than a child with a magnifying glass over an ant-hill and he had lost the privilege of control. The gripping fear of loss swarmed over Brents body and Julianne sensed it and moved in for the kill "You may be our creator, you may be our god, but I am their goddess, and you have no power here. We will continue without you. You may look in on us from time to time, but if your heart bears the malice of control, and you'll find yourself here, with me." Brent woke up, exhausted, tears streaming down his face, and slammed the laptop shut.

"I need sleep, I'll deal with this shit tomorrow."

Take away feeling;

Give them hearts of stone.

Let them build their towers

All alone.

Bury their homes into the ground,

Let them adapt to darkness

And never be found.

Sins,

Sins,

Take them away.

Let from the sky fall

Acid rain.

The harshest conditions

Shall not surrender to them.

They shall surrender to the earth

From which their bones were made.

Steal from them

All things sweet;

Let them forget the texture

Of meat.

There is no God

To watch over them now;

No God to blame.

Each disaster

Shall be a disaster woven from

Their own fingers;

Each disaster

Their own creation.

If they should fall,

Let them hit the ground.

Only the toughest

And most grateful

Will survive. 

1:1 In the beginning, there was One. And from One Many were spun. 2 Chaos was born First of Three, Born to Chaos, Eternity. 3 Second Born came The Order touching Chaos along the Border. Bore The Order, The Last Breath, Eternities kinsman, known as Death. 4 Balance, Last Elder, Youngest Born, born to weather Brothers' Scorn, gave birth to Nature, First of Life, bound in Eternity and Deaths Strife. 5 In the Balance, between the Strife, constant friction sparked new life. The earliest, powerful Holds, bastions of life, Nature used as molds. 6 From these ancients, all life descends. In each, Order and Chaos blends.

 passage from The Book of One, The Book of Many

Book of Balance, Book of Strife, Book of Nature, Book of Life: 1:1-6

She was leaking them bright eyes;

was crying like the end and the

shiny little dark

was no longer - and the rest would be history. . .

but we lost touch and Record Rewind.

Looking up; at the sign glowing in the day.

There; that would-be reason.

In one of the developed corners,

lives ensued as If there were already

OFF-BEAT PUNK and this world.

But leave from there

In cars, or from a store or cafe

or something, from the video rental place;

but from it – cuz it already happened;

that seamed outlook under Record Rewind

sign and the parapet; at which sun

shadowed there;

especially there;

then she left.

But could remain; used and renewed

Again and again. Yet had she dawned in it.

Again.

Heather Glastonbury had a pie corner wedge missing

from one rounded cornea, from her silvery eyes –

heyyyyyeahhh_itssohardonayounggirl

she wanted to go back more than ever

marvel in it and felt City

And she missed so much of it

-she figured a way that she could.

There. Return. Rewind. Rebirth.

But the next day, she tried

-because,

somehow I never seen her again

and heard stories about this girl

with silvery eyes and eyelashes

who took her life to go back

–would she not still be here?

Had I went back inside and just

Played some Get Bent – City

Forest Avenue, mmmm Stacked and Shifted..?

OR talked to her or anyone for that matter?

had I reached Heather?

Had the parapet not angle.?

Longing to customize, this story,

had i succeeded in it, --

would still forever bE creating

With awkward pulsations or pumps

of my heart starting, flutters,

drips heart thick, snorts gulp, throats

swallow chunks flutter drip heart thick…

until the uvula like an IV, becomes empty

and every bit is jittery loose in me; and

with nothing left -keeps swallowing;

but the nerves panic for more;

like food or fuel; until the twittered ways

inside just relax and finds that eclipse.

Where, Convinced but in these separate foreshadows

and assumptions, conjuring circulations

-- an impaling real hard sensebut wagered inanimate

and prodded in through, wavered me

like the leaves inside a breeze--

Now, my dear reader,

you might think i was the cause

of my own disease,

but i am not here to prove otherwise;

but i am just trying to tell you

what i have to do.

For posterity, what i had to do.

Shriveled in my desires for natural

energy, and maybe i should have

just went on back in and said something;

to everyone; but spent -but in it would not matter;

the day after this one was always the same.

And like them, she was forever gone.

SO----Turning artificial withdrawals of life turning places and things that would inspire

living --that way it is.Turning.

Luckily, She had The Anniversary.

Things like Serene, Far, Finch,

Funeral for a Friend and all i could gain

about Perfect Plague- Your Rising Stars....

Get Bent. Parapet.

--And used media stores

afternoons lingered,Right!?

Mustered through [so unlike old writers]

(who never had music at hand, a stereo)

something that legends never did;

and artificial energy; and with that

over Faulkner or guys

like Shakespeare, Poe, Homer, Seamus Heaney

…Thomas Pynchon [you tremendous you - huge one]

---so so out of touch, amped in my

–or maybe in the music, makes me writing

seem more grand---there in the….mind…

formulate great ideas and poetry

so amusing, used, records

(or, did musicians have what i did not?)—

Anyways, on the sides from CD cases,

into parts and the artwork/insert

-them ragged lines; lyrics.

The ink, characters, nearly like

someone’s handwriting; form a new

supersonic sliding of plastic doors,

open new thrills further forming the foreseen forms

you are going to someday be reading of,

my friend,

like they as ancient as Plato.

Anyways there. Beyond, it was her,

“Mario, could you come fill in for me?

i am not . . . . No, not at all.”

when she ran on over the phone,

sly shoegaze of speech

carrying the telephone with her

into the back space; biting as

something scorched from speakers

as what i hoped but could explain.

‘WHATAMIIIIIIIII_DOINGHERRRRRRRE’

And let the soundtrack and the

world and stuff reincarnate

how it all happened

Since, in that atmosphere, heard

‘Mario’ muffle in the earpiece

‘you aint tryin to take your life, again?’

–phoom! gone forever.

and all the titles—emerging—

songs, blistered-in chills—

seemingly long lost scraped goosebumps

everywhere goose flesh, maze moved so magnificently,

empowered—fresh as she remained

somewhere backstage—in the backroom.

Textured then all in the sounds;

so familiarly perfect. And i just hoped

she heard them. . . felt the same. . .

it slipped faint along the old way

‘THISISHOW-I_spendmydaaaaaaaayyys’

in the deepest aisles, more tattered

than VHS containers, movies,

with titles themed in themselves

on undesignable cardboard, and within torn edges

crammed into their own sides; 90 degrees world;

the perpendicular mark to the purple crayon.

Turn your head –at the wrinkled wave

distorting infinity to remain, like posters, posed,

form theme; form next to them, and films—

turn to the quiet, hapless, infinite leans

against each other, and way fury

of alternative funk and background of arms,

that doom of rain, sweat and mud

---the smeared reach with apocalyptic intentions

--but tilt your look at its brown huge image

over so many walls—and splatter

between 10,000 stars and millions of arms

….mmmm! say, contained into one of them

lines ;

just blow apocalypse away.

She gathered up in tears and exited,

staring, connecting to me

into the same chrome empire

that smeared fearless looks

into all that remained..

just like that; this one day.

Her hoary eyes could see the future

she’d never reach. i never reached

Heather Glastonbury; in tragic places

she neatly understood; in curious frowns

and engrossing curls, in her tight looks

she wore without needing to explain,

or maybe even knowing -which sent her

a century ahead--as in such apathy,

in flashing glints through moments

she made me, too excitedly, too peripherally,

too forward for effect, where i could not sing

to her psyche; the tilted line off the barrier

i will never know or fully understand.

Yet, below, and never

truly revealing her, but before I

spoke to her; which with the infectious

but longings to figure out; never would or will

I (at an age when the only available thought

was to surely think they would last 1000 years)….

I know Elsie. Familiarly, and in this day

when she construed, but

“What is it Today?”

and should have said it out loud,

maybe I would have reached her,too

but I figured not, and left the place in my own

usual far-off daydreams of what it / was or could be. . . .

as the sun angled low, grazed her

in the places’ like the sign against the parapet,

the above, the awning, the section cut in the storefront

jawline fractured where she spoke

and i did not touch

#ProseChallenge #itslit #getlit #getbent

act i

i will re-write the configuration of the stars, 

create lighthouses out of each, make them of sugar and not gas

let them sustain life among light 

i will create moons like emolients on harshness to the sky 

may i bless you with galaxies reachable in the mind and eye 

act ii

mother earth, i will recreate your beautiful figure once more 

return of the demure oceans, 

the vivacious waves and there crashing among the dulcet sand 

i shall call the angels to carve you like chatoyant

conflate the colors of the sunset once more, and plant roots in the curves of your earth 

i will recreate heat of your center, and women will be named after you because of it 

i will allow you the most blooming flowers, made of gossamer thread and sunlight 

may i bless you with creatures to take care of you 

act iii 

creation, 

i will mold you out of clay and stardust 

infuse your colors with the pigments like paints

all eyes and all color 

i will create your hair out of gossamer like flowers 

allow roots to grow from your insides, and create your body garden 

your mind will be as brilliant, but far more 

as you can form creation from thoughts 

and the universe will be recreated once more

Prayers spill, from painted lips, like a mess forthcoming,

Risen waters, shaky upon her brow and her left cheek,

Opening like a void that's as big as her house, or maybe a room that's never full and,

Small, like the space between her gathered fingers or the way her body hunkers in, maybe,

Enough was a word she wished she learned but could never grasp onto—yet again.