“Shall I prepare a second beverage?”

“Only if you promise to sprinkle a touch of that extra strength brain bomb elixir we found in the abandoned office of a supposed former creator. Of course do not sprinkle so much to make me lose sense of presence or self or whatever the term is these days. I need not see another world like happened last time. But just a sprinkle...”

“Not to nitpick but according to some sources the supposed creator would not technically be former, as apparently creators never cease to be creators. They just become fed up with their creations. That is what the documentary I watched said."

"Hm, well you know what I think about most of those documentaries. Especially when they interview these supposedly educated specialists in - wait, let me do the two-hand motion to indicate quotation marks - specialists in Creator-Creation Ancient Relations Archaeology. They can theorize all day in those voices that say they are more intellectual than we common folk riff-raff. But they don't know for certain. The creator who cannot maintain control over his or hers or its creations doesn't seem like much of a creator to me. Were I a creator and my creations were giving me a hard time, well, seems the simplest recourse would be to hook up the cosmic water hose and let them have it. Good riddance."

She who had risen for the purpose of fixing that second beverage, had reached the counter where the decanters were arrayed, waiting; sought to momentarily mute the words coming from he who was now rambling on about his distrust of contemporary voices who spoke of Creator-Creation Ancient Relations. Rattled and clinked tumbler and ice bucket. Still the extra acts of seeking distraction did not screen out one fateful series of words.

"... of course none of these know-it-alls on Creator-Creation Relations never asked me, but I suspect and suggest they are interchangeable. Then again, since it does not concern me, I have to wonder why I give the subject the time of day. By the way, how is that bev-."

An organ chord sounded in the distance. The organ chord's inception might've entered the scene in a seeming abrupt way, yet the thickness, the richness, said it was the kind of organ chord created for lengthy lingering sustain.

“I think you should take care speaking aloud this idea that Creator and Creations are synonymous. Just in case they are not.”

The creator of this vignette summoned the close-up technician to zoom in on the bosom of she who spoke. And since the creator had overlooked her attire, selected a low-cut garment so as to give amplification to said bosom, rather its rhythmic rising and falling.

“How I happen to see the extent any two or more words or terms - even if they are so ethereal as Creator-Creation - happen to appear synonymous ought to dispense less stress to you than the fact of my sensing we echo another scenic exercise, perhaps not on this plane, but in a dimension that went off on a tangent to the extent of threatening to bump into this one.”

The organ chord thick and rich in sustain as it was, still had to face the inevitable fade-out. And so the off-page organist sounded it again; same chord, same attack that flowered into thrusting out its chest, but not only chest; thrust out its hearty spirit, proclaiming intention to conquer the atmosphere; however, a touch of doubt remained, since the proudly thrusting organ chord knew its chances of continuance depended on the reply of she who whose evening wear attire seemed to magically emphasize her bosom. Aware of the risk, the organ chord dared to venture into high-note hope, because she did not have the history of long-winded dialogue as did the other character.

“Another dimension bumping into us?”

“Dimension might not be the best word. Excuse me if I don't have a thesaurus handy. By the way, is it possible turn the music down?”

The organ chord still in suspended sustain bristled in a way that can only be described as augmented, possibly the most augmented bristle the chord could sustain, and could not bode well for a happy fade.

“I am not comfortable with the idea of engaging with an off-page organist - especially this one. You are the man. You go and ask him.”

“My talents do not include asking an off-page organist who is likely highly sensitive if he cannot please turn his chords down. Of course I don't mean turned to complete silence. Organ chords are supposed to be for background, as these organ chords were for us when we began. But when the organ chord begins to dominate a dialogue, I can only wonder, if we do have a Creator, well, let's just say we did not get a very good one. Oh and maybe I am the man. But if you are the woman, you should possess the greater talent in approaching and making this request, as I would assume organists are accustomed to receiving requests from women.”

Her tone low in volume happened to collide with a stray strain from the organ chord; meaning the stray strain had been caught in reverberation limbo.

“What?"

“I said, I tend to prefer speaking requests to bassists. Especially those gifted with hands large and thick.”

The implications whizzed over his head. However, if some implications whizzed by, a few of the vibes happened to spill and touch the doubting character in a way that gave him a new spark of inspiring the taking of initiative. And as though no such thing as scene transitions existed, he shuffled towards the off-page organist.

The closer he came to the organist the more he had to be reminded of the contemporary fashions for people gifted with greater creative wealth than ordinary humans. Even the typography clerk had to take a deep breath before continuing to type. Anyway, doing his best to refrain from judging the organist who was part of a generation wherein it was possible to be born with a man-bun, he gained the off-page organist's attention.

“Say, I recognize that the good Lord blessed you with enormous, extraordinary, musical gifts, and I do appreciate the atmosphere you crea-”

“Lord? Did you say Lord? Oh for fuck's sake. Another sky daddy idiot trying to force religion on everyone. Fuck this and fuck you!”

The tortured godless organist slammed a fist on the instrument, which was not really an organ in the Hammond sense but more like a synthesizer easy to unplug and carry in his arm; and did so for his impressive performative exit. The last wisps of whatever was left of the chord went with him.

The stance of he who doubted the existence of a creator could be nothing but one of bewilderment as he stared towards the empty off-page space. Combining a shrug with a slow pivot turned towards she whose rhythmically rising and falling bosom was by now on its way to becoming its own celebrity.

"I propose no other remedy can restore our equilibrium better than the beverage you were going to pour. We should both imbibe some of that brain bomb elixir. Maybe a Creator did leave it behind. Maybe not. Maybe we have a Creator. Maybe we do not. What I do know is I could really use a stiff drink right now."

From out of an apparent nowhere, and for no perceivable reason, a tumbleweed rolled by.

Wrizzit

From the Void #1

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