Losing My Way

I write this as a service to humanity. It must be translated into every language on Earth, plus a couple from the planet orbiting Sirius, where the Dogon came from, and every child, of all ages, should read it, at gunpoint if necessary. Perhaps an audio book, though I can't imagine who would the perfect narrator, aside from a few dead actors who don't talk much anymore.

Using his hellish power. Satan. looked through what I had written so far. His curls fluttered as he shook his head. 'Not very promising so far,' he said with a sigh. 'You're just saying that,' I muttered. Feigning shock, he said, 'Would I lie to you?' I started laughing. Damn, this was Satan; of course he'd lie, maybe not right away, but when the lie could be believed, it would be told. I found that funny, so funny my sides began to ache. Satan rolled his eyes as he watched me.

"It has come to my attention that you are planning to write a novel without me in it," Satan said to me while we both shopping at a dollar store. "Yes, that's right," I told him. "So what?" "Well, it seems to me that by writing in your book that I won't be in the book that you have put me in the book." I grabbed some chocolate covered mint cookies and placed them in my cart. "I hadn't thought of that, but just mentioning you doesn't make you part of the story," I argued. His eyes burned red as he sneered. "My friend, it most certainly does. So I suggest you let me defower some nuns, or have a Cardinal give me head."

Years passed after that tiny truth was uttered and I became a man, of no great importance but a lure for troubled souls. This tale concerns a few I met along my way. All good people lost in the eddies of the river of time, trying to get back into the flow of life. I believe they found me when I was stuck on a sandbar and nudged me back into the current. So will it be a happy tale? I hope so. All these great authors and others usually entertain me but they are so mean. That Dostoevsky fellow isn't happy unless there's murders and suicides and constant suffering, and what he did to that nice Prince Myshkin was so cruel. Why couldn't The Idiot have ended with the prince becoming a private eye in Moscow? Instead...I shudder to think about it. Read the book and be horribly depressed that an author could be so mean to such a nice guy. God, I hope nothing like that happens in my story, but I digress.

Where do I start? How about at the beginning? Well then....once upon a time, there was a Big Bang, though I doubt there was any sound, and since no creatures yet existed to hear it, it's just as well. 13.8 billion years, 9 months, 2 days, 13 hours, 16 minutes and 42 seconds later, I was torn from my mother's womb, and there was a Small Scream.

Wilting in the sun, all was dead, but from death new life comes. No tears need be shed.