At Creation

Sloth on tree at night
Photo by Nikolas Noonan on Unsplash

And then God said, let there be light. Nothing happened. Is this thing on, He said, tapping the mic at the comedy club at the beginning of the universe. We were all there, all the mitochondria and Pangea, all the velociraptors and geodes and epochs of time, waiting for God to set everything in motion.

I am not done up here yet, God says, slurring a good bit of it. Michael shows up on stage, whispering something in God’s ear. Several of the conch shells have lost interest and are trying to suck stones from the Triassic and two sloths are slowly, though loudly fucking in the back row. It’s hard to tell honestly, whether it’s a slow fuck or just two sloths passing time. It’d be easier to tell if you’ve ever seen sloths fuck, God said, but none of us had ever seen anything, so we didn’t get any of His jokes. I think God wanted an audience, but He’d summoned the wrong one.

And now there was no going back, no bringing together of all the matter and density at a single point, we were already expanding into the dark void of space. Gods voice was fading by then, out in the dust belts forming around what one day would become Saturn.

Years later, I swear sometimes, if I drive way out into the desert just stars and Saguaros, far from any human voices, I can still hear, not the voice of God, but those two sloths, slowly fucking, and all the confusion that was to follow.

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