He fell to the earth in pieces, fat fluffy flakes of cold-water life. He covered roads, cars and houses.
When his coal eyes blinked open, he stared down his carrot nose at the divine imperfections of his creators—the wrinkled red hands and snot covered lips of tiny gods—and he knew he was doomed. He stumbled forward, not like a toddler but like a man with atrophy. He wasn’t learning to stick one foot in front of the other. He was remembering how to walk. He had been here before. The ratty scarf, the crumbling corncob pipe, the splintered broomstick cane, the tall silk hat: recognizable artifacts, proof of prior existence. He had known life and death, over and over and over again. He was made in the image of his creators, and he was both temporal and forever.
Donald Quist is a writer and editor living in Bangkok, Thailand. His work has appeared in Hunger Mountain, Metazen, The Adroit Journal, Numéro Cinq, Slag Glass City and Publishers Weekly. He received his MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts.