Bits and Bots, odds and sods, flotsam and jetsam - one-shots, really short contest entries, lyrics for imaginary musicals, poems...random stuff that you don't trash because maybe they'll fit into something bigger one day.
Proxima 5189 sensed one of its distant neighbors burst into pieces. And even though it was just distant enough to not be threatening, it still worried Proxima. It was yet another reminder that it wasn't alone. Chunks of rock would fly by, tearing holes in it: rocks huge and solo, and showers of small to medium ones.
And then, it heard the other, the bodiless sound that was in its head, using strange words. Truth is, Proxima didn't understand it at all, and soon believed that it couldn't understanding anything Proxima was saying, either. It was then that it heard the other refer to itself as 'he.' Which was a dead-end, because it had no idea what a 'he' was.
[2] 1511 A.D., Rome, Italy
MdLBS dreamed of stars the night before he was to work on the hands. His back had begun to hurt, no doubt due to lying on his back from dawn to dusk. His apprentices had begged to assist him to the point of filling in background shades. While he knew they meant well, he could not allow it. And it had as much to do with his pride as with conversations he'd had a week ago. There had been a small earthquake that day, dislodging a few tiny pieces of ceiling plaster and dust.
He watched as old Don Matteo helped a young worker to his feet. Matteo, almost three times the young man's age, made a habit of coming to watch MdLBS work.
"Are you alright?" Maestro Simoni asked him.
"Si, si, Maestro. I just slipped." The young man smiled gloriously at Matteo, and bowed to Simoni. "Clumsy, I guess."
"May I speak with you?" he asked them, "Your hands have given me ideas. I would like both of your opinions."
"Our hands?" asked the young man. "Mine are dirty, Maestro, with dust and grime."
"As would young Adam's hands be, as he was made from the good clay and dirt of God's earth. And Don Matteo's are old, with spots from age and spots from ink, suggesting a life of scholarly pursuit. Come, sit with me. Have some cool water, and I shall ask you some questions." He handed each a common workman's clay cup and poured from a pitcher he'd made himself. They sat under the open archway of La Capella, watching the Dons and an occasional visiting cardinal or politician walking the hallways.
"What do you think of my handiwork there," Simoni asked. "I have stopped for a while, because I am not sure about the hands. I want to have them reaching for each other. Maybe touching, maybe not. What do you think, Don Matteo? Should the Creator be touching the creation?"
"I don't think the eyes of man should even be looking at God, who is beyond the comprehension of man to see. That would be blasphemous, Maestro!"
"And you, young man? What is your name?"
"Tommaso DiSalvo, signore. I am no learned man, like Don Matteo. I am no philosopher, such as yourself, Maestro. But is it not true that God made us in his image? That we look alike? We call him our Father, don't we? What newborn does not reach out for his parent? And what father does not want to hold his son?"
"Blasphemy!" cried the Don.
"Is it?" countered Simoni. "Young Tommaso has said nothing contrary to what is found in the Bible! Thank you both – you have given me much to think about."
[3] Three Score Billion Years Ago
A neighbor had approached Proxima 5189 at an alarming speed. It tore through its lower arm and ripped it away. It had lost much mass, and wondered if there was a way for it to pursue that system and take back what belonged to it.
'He' had been sending Proxima images of two oval rocks that almost touched. It wanted to do all that and more to the system that had hurt it. It wanted its arm back. It fed off this desire, and while doing so, Proxima 5189 began to move. Heat was generated, uncomfortable in its volatility.
It gained speed.
[4] La Capella Sistina, Rome, Italy
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Maestro Michaelangelo di Lodovico Buonarotti Simoni had carefully suggested the placement of hands to Pope Julius II, who became apoplectic with disbelief and dismay. Placing man and God in such close proximity would be theologically dangerous in these turbulent times, the man said.
But Maestro Simoni was fond of young Tommaso's vision – not of God and his creation, but of God, the first father, and his first-born – even though Adam was not born but made. So, tonight he'd come to sketch their hands, accompanied by the guard on duty. Together, they placed two score lanterns around and on the scaffolding.
First he painted God's outstretched hand. A gusty wind had begun blowing outside, causing the lanterns to flicker. As he put the finishing brush stroke on Adam's index finger so that it barely touched the Creator's, the ground bucked, sending several metal candle holders crashing to the floor. The next day, after being reassured that the fingers were not touching, and convincing Julius that the earthquake wasn't God's displeasure but his approval, he continued the work on The Creation of Adam, smiling when Tommaso finally noticed that Adam looked a lot like himself.
[5] James Webb Telescope, 2023
A photograph was taken of a collision between two proto-galactic clouds, Proxima 5189 and Proxima 5192, occurring about 20 billion years ago, resulting in the destruction of Proxima 5192 and the massive explosion of millions of stars.
