Imitatio Dei
by Aaron Klassen
It was raining when John left the office. Astroprint Industries, big letters. Staring him down from the company sign, high above. I could imagine how it felt to walk under those every day.
I remember: John slipped.
The world rolled away underneath him, tossing his perspective skywards and rushing up to meet his back with a solid (and wet) smack. John's briefcase, fleeing from the prison of his grip, split open, and his important papers were strewn across the rain-soaked pavement. Statements, records, notes, memos, lists, and one email address written on a little blue sticky note. My sticky note.
I remember: John cringed.
Two co-workers passed by with twin winces of impatient sympathy. They spared only a moment to pull him up, insisting they really must get home. Left to salvage what he could on his own, John gathered up a few not-too-sopping rags of ink and paper and the blue sticky note. He placed them back into his case, and was he ever frowning.
Rubbing his sore skull and undoubtedly lost in thought, John tried to open his car door. On an ordinary day he would have failed— he always kept his car locked— but today, it popped right open.
John stopped rubbing and blinked. His expression of befuddlement was hilarious, I assure you.
After investigating for a few moments, he seemed to decide nothing was amiss and probably chalked the door up to his own error. I think we both knew full well there had been no error of the sort, but John started his car anyway, and backed out of the parking lot.
The windshield of John's car was speckled with rain. He touched the inside of his windshield.
"Like stars..." he murmured.
The raindrops were spread haphazardly across the glass, indeed like a universe of wet little stars. Constellations and quasars. Nebulas and galaxies. Astrologically fiery and massive, yet infinitesimally tiny and damp. Impossible to destroy, yet—
John hit the wipers.
After a drive of creation (courtesy of the water cycle) and destruction (courtesy of John's new ANCO Aerovantage windshield blades), he finally pulled into the driveway. He parked his car, walked into his house, and flopped onto the couch. I waited while he flipped through the channels on his T.V. I watched while he switched the laundry from his washer to his dryer. I had done this before, of course. But today...
Today was the day I manifested myself, right in front of his exhausted eyes.
That look. I'll never forget the look he gave me.
Then again, I'll never forget anything.
I broke the awkward silence. Me staring at him, him staring at me; you'd be uncomfortable too.
"Hello, John."
He said nothing. His expression bespoke intense denial, probably because of my blatantly impossible appearance.
"I unlocked your door for you," I said.
"What— How—" John blurted, scrambling to his feet.
I began to pace, calmly. To him, I looked like a businessman. Black suit. Blue tie. Short hair. To myself– well, I can't quite accurately provide that description.
"I felt you could do with one less endeavor of mundanity. You're going to need all the energy you can get— if you accept my proposal."
"Who are you? Thief! I'll call the cops!"
"I'm not a thief. In fact, I'm the opposite."
"Don't move an inch! I'll—"
"John."
"—if you know what's good for you—"
"John."
"—my right to—"
"How would you like to be important?"
That stopped him. I took advantage of his closed mouth.
"As I said, I have a proposal for you. Should you accept, you will be thrust into a position of responsibility that none of your species has ever had access to. You will be the first, John. A prototype. A test. But most importantly, a pioneer."
John's breathing was short, and he licked his lips compulsively. I had his attention. With dramatic pause, I allowed a chest-size pane of square glass to come into existence in my hands. Trapped, seemingly just beneath the surface of the glass, were septendecillion stars. A standard-size universe.
"Consider this... a gift. "
Something glinted behind John's eyes. Something that had always laid dormant. For some reason, he did not question his sanity, nor the gravity of the situation. Perhaps it was simply too enticing, the possibility that this was all real, that I had chosen him.
"But— what do you want me to do?"
"I want you to fill the role of god."
"The Christian god?"
"This is not your universe, which is to say, not the one you reside in as we speak. It is another."
"But I didn't create that... that one. How could I ever be its...?"
"Nobody creates anything. Gods merely rule."
"What do you mean?"
"Who created you, John?"
"My mother and father."
"No, they used what they had. They created nothing, only converted energy into matter via a predetermined system. Not created, just converted, and subsequently, ruled."
John was silent. He stared at me, that strange, newly awakened soul still stalking just behind his gaze. Then he spoke.
"I don't much care for children."
"Is that a no?" I queried.
John reached forward, shakily. He gingerly took the pane of glass, fingers tracing the endless galaxies.
"Would it really be mine? No strings attached? I mean, if you get that idiom. You're obviously not from around here."
I nodded, "No strings attached."
His green eyes, reflected on the glassy surface, started to water— whether with happiness or refusal to blink, I did not know. At any rate, the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile.
"Then, I... I accept."
Returning the smile, I started to de-manifest. John shuddered and twitched; he must have been hit by the sudden omnipotence. It's really a kick to the stomach.
"You have my address," I said, and I was gone.
I remember: John slipped.
The world rolled away underneath him, tossing his perspective skywards and rushing up to meet his back with a solid (and wet) smack. John's briefcase, fleeing from the prison of his grip, split open, and his important papers were strewn across the rain-soaked pavement. Statements, records, notes, memos, lists, and one email address written on a little blue sticky note. My sticky note.
I remember: John cringed.
Two co-workers passed by with twin winces of impatient sympathy. They spared only a moment to pull him up, insisting they really must get home. Left to salvage what he could on his own, John gathered up a few not-too-sopping rags of ink and paper and the blue sticky note. He placed them back into his case, and was he ever frowning.
Rubbing his sore skull and undoubtedly lost in thought, John tried to open his car door. On an ordinary day he would have failed— he always kept his car locked— but today, it popped right open.
John stopped rubbing and blinked. His expression of befuddlement was hilarious, I assure you.
After investigating for a few moments, he seemed to decide nothing was amiss and probably chalked the door up to his own error. I think we both knew full well there had been no error of the sort, but John started his car anyway, and backed out of the parking lot.
The windshield of John's car was speckled with rain. He touched the inside of his windshield.
"Like stars..." he murmured.
The raindrops were spread haphazardly across the glass, indeed like a universe of wet little stars. Constellations and quasars. Nebulas and galaxies. Astrologically fiery and massive, yet infinitesimally tiny and damp. Impossible to destroy, yet—
John hit the wipers.
After a drive of creation (courtesy of the water cycle) and destruction (courtesy of John's new ANCO Aerovantage windshield blades), he finally pulled into the driveway. He parked his car, walked into his house, and flopped onto the couch. I waited while he flipped through the channels on his T.V. I watched while he switched the laundry from his washer to his dryer. I had done this before, of course. But today...
Today was the day I manifested myself, right in front of his exhausted eyes.
That look. I'll never forget the look he gave me.
Then again, I'll never forget anything.
I broke the awkward silence. Me staring at him, him staring at me; you'd be uncomfortable too.
"Hello, John."
He said nothing. His expression bespoke intense denial, probably because of my blatantly impossible appearance.
"I unlocked your door for you," I said.
"What— How—" John blurted, scrambling to his feet.
I began to pace, calmly. To him, I looked like a businessman. Black suit. Blue tie. Short hair. To myself– well, I can't quite accurately provide that description.
"I felt you could do with one less endeavor of mundanity. You're going to need all the energy you can get— if you accept my proposal."
"Who are you? Thief! I'll call the cops!"
"I'm not a thief. In fact, I'm the opposite."
"Don't move an inch! I'll—"
"John."
"—if you know what's good for you—"
"John."
"—my right to—"
"How would you like to be important?"
That stopped him. I took advantage of his closed mouth.
"As I said, I have a proposal for you. Should you accept, you will be thrust into a position of responsibility that none of your species has ever had access to. You will be the first, John. A prototype. A test. But most importantly, a pioneer."
John's breathing was short, and he licked his lips compulsively. I had his attention. With dramatic pause, I allowed a chest-size pane of square glass to come into existence in my hands. Trapped, seemingly just beneath the surface of the glass, were septendecillion stars. A standard-size universe.
"Consider this... a gift. "
Something glinted behind John's eyes. Something that had always laid dormant. For some reason, he did not question his sanity, nor the gravity of the situation. Perhaps it was simply too enticing, the possibility that this was all real, that I had chosen him.
"But— what do you want me to do?"
"I want you to fill the role of god."
"The Christian god?"
"This is not your universe, which is to say, not the one you reside in as we speak. It is another."
"But I didn't create that... that one. How could I ever be its...?"
"Nobody creates anything. Gods merely rule."
"What do you mean?"
"Who created you, John?"
"My mother and father."
"No, they used what they had. They created nothing, only converted energy into matter via a predetermined system. Not created, just converted, and subsequently, ruled."
John was silent. He stared at me, that strange, newly awakened soul still stalking just behind his gaze. Then he spoke.
"I don't much care for children."
"Is that a no?" I queried.
John reached forward, shakily. He gingerly took the pane of glass, fingers tracing the endless galaxies.
"Would it really be mine? No strings attached? I mean, if you get that idiom. You're obviously not from around here."
I nodded, "No strings attached."
His green eyes, reflected on the glassy surface, started to water— whether with happiness or refusal to blink, I did not know. At any rate, the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile.
"Then, I... I accept."
Returning the smile, I started to de-manifest. John shuddered and twitched; he must have been hit by the sudden omnipotence. It's really a kick to the stomach.
"You have my address," I said, and I was gone.