Drabble a Day

by Simone Robinson

Inspired by others who have undertaken this challenge, to write a drabble a day, I've decided to try. I'm not sure if I can do it, but I'm going to try. To improve writing skills, to gain insight, to explore the written word, the written worlds and those who live in them. Humour, angst, romance, a meeting of genres to create a collection of drabbles updated as often as possible.

14. Creation

Creation

---

Bishop could write in cold blood if he had to, but he liked it when it was fresh and almost too hot to handle. He liked it when the memory still bubbled in his mind, when he could still feel the warm life pulsing through his gloves, long after they had been stripped off and thrown into hazardous waste.

Snatching pen and paper, he sat down. The glide of a pen in a technologically dominated environment was pleasurable. He scratched out his notes, the paper as white as his skin, which was bleached from days under artificial lights.

The light of intelligence lit his eyes. It had turned cruel over the years of work. His eyes flickered with each new fact, each new finding, with each detailed response of the subject they had observed. His creation.

He rifled through the notes of his assistants, snarling at each error as he took down what was needed. His eyes darted across the page in a frenzy, wild in their marble prison, wild with the ecstasy of remembrance.

Bishop liked writing when the blood was fresh and almost too hot to handle. He liked it very much.

After scribbling his latest findings, Bishop rubbed a hand across his shorn hair, pausing in thought. Then, closing the book with a snap, he slipped it into his briefcase and locked it.

Bishop slid his glasses from his nose, cleaning the lens as he wiped the sweat from his brow, a look of satisfaction passing his lips, glut on feelings of achievement. In the background, he could hear the scurrying of employees as they adjusted the equipment to cope with the changing weather conditions.

Bishop pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, letting them settle into place. The scurrying employees, so much like the mice in their labs, caused his tired mind to click back into place and his eyes to turn into flint. Bishop dusted the lint from his coat and shrugged it on. Picking up his briefcase, he punched out, striding into the hallways, which were heavy with the smell of disease, masked by sterile sweetness and rubber.

Bishop didn't pause.

Never does a god fear his creations. Only when he realizes his humanity, does he begin to fear what he has done.