Creation, Evolution, Destruction, Slurp

Creation, Evolution, Destruction, Slurp

     by Ken St. Andre

     He was a minor god, living his humdrum life in the world of the gods, but he woke up one morning determined to create a world that day.  He entered the numinous room and gathered the material from which he would make his mini-universe.

     First he took the Sacred Container and filled it with the Water of Life.  He purified the Sacred Water for two eons.

     Then he took the Sacred Powder from the Sacred Rectangular Tin of Crimson and White and with the Holy Spoon of Creation poured the Earth upon the Sacred Water where it floated in a massive mountain.

     Let every nanosecond of god time equal 1000 years of world time, he decreed.  And evolution began.

     After 5 billion years, the god began to stir the mix.  The sky-towering mountain sank into the sea, and became one gigantic continent.  And still the waters swirled in divine agitation.

     The continent broke into many parts and became hundreds of islands, each continuing to melt into the sea in one cataclysm after another.  With one billionth of a second equal to 1000 years, the destruction of the earth was vast and slow, but inexorable.  A time came when all the land was gone.

     And then the god lifted up the world and drank his morning cup of coffee.

The End

It was the most beautiful world the minor god had ever made.


You have to admit, that may be the most trivial fiction you’ve ever read.  I’m very pleased to tell you that I have something just a little deeper for my second offering of the day.  Some people have started to send me flash fiction–or, at least, very short fiction at the email address I set up for the purpose.  If you’d like to see your work published here, please send it to:  It’s that simple.  Send it!  If it isn’t utter crap, I promise it will get published here at trollfic.  Even if it is utter crap, I may publish it.  One man’s slagheap is another man’s gold mine.


This is the skull of a Templar Crusader named De Molay. Is he the man in the story?


A lonely man in the City of the Gods

By M.Scott Verne & Wynn Mercere Copyright 2011

D’Molay sat at his hearth, staring into the flames. They moved and flickered, almost like they were dancing for him, or worse, beckoning him to join in their dance. He closed his eyes and managed to look away for a moment, trying to think of something else. Distraction was provided by the goblet of run sitting on the table. A swig from it swirled in his mouth then burned its way down his throat, sharp and sweet. He carelessly dropped the goblet on the floor. It rolled slowly away from him and caught the light from the flames, causing him to look upon them once again. “Well, that’s the last of the rum,” he said to the empty room. D’Molay’s voice was low and gravelly. He hadn’t said a word for hours, and he hadn’t drunk this much rum in a long time.

That desire to stare into the flames always came when he was near a fire and wasn’t in a rush to get somewhere. There were many flames in the City of the Gods: funeral pyres for high priests and treasured slaves; eternal flames devoted to various gods; candles or torches to light temples and dungeons; and fire hearths, much like his own, used for keeping warm on cold nights. Fortunately for him, he was usually in a rush and time allowed only glance at their heat as he passed them by. 

Opening the small wooden box next to his foot, he took out the silvery object and felt it in his hand. Without even looking at it, he knew its every edge and groove like it was a part of him. He smiled wanly. Once, long ago, it had been. D’Molay squeezed it one last time before tossing it into the flames.

The metal object sat atop of the fire logs, blackening as the heat and the flames did their work. D’Molay watched like a man entranced. He wanted to see every detail of what the flames would do and how his once treasured item might survive the heat.

After a moment, the scorched object seemed to relax on the top of its burning log bed.  Then it started to lose its shape and a trickle of brightest silver spilled over the log and disappeared into the glowing red coals. Finally, the whole mass of gleaming liquid metal flowed down the log and emerged at the bottom of the hearth’s black andirons. The silvery liquid formed a misshapen puddle on the ash-covered stone inner hearth. A few stray drops of the metal added themselves to the slowly congealing glob as it started to take on a grayish hue.

A tear formed in the corner of D’Molay’s eye and ran down his cheek as he beheld the fate of the object that had been the last vestige of a life that had no use for him here. He wiped his eye with the back of his sleeve and stood up. Well, that answers that question. It was made of pewter, not silver. The bitter thought echoed though his head as he walked across the room and headed upstairs for bed.

Unpublished Prolog from City of the Gods: Forgotten

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