Sculpting God: Bedtime Stories for Adults
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About this ebook
“Let us make man in our own image.” -God
“...man, being a gentleman, returned the favor.” -Voltaire
The Award-nominated author of The Antithesis Progression and Down From Ten brings you a genre-spanning collection in the American Gothic tradition of Flannery O'Connor, Ray Bradbury, and Ambrose Bierce. Stories of creativity, hubris, sacrifice, and longing, these tales put you to bed with visions of eternity sharp in your head. Bedtime stories aren't just for children anymore.
Contains:
Lilith
Angels Unawares
The Coffee Service
Control Room
The Man in the Rain
Train Time
Six original poems
as well as a new essay and introductory material by the author.
J. Daniel Sawyer
WHILE STAR WARS and STAR TREK seeded J. Daniel Sawyer's passion for the unknown, his childhood in academia gave him a deep love of history and an obsession with how the future emerges from the past. This obsession led him through adventures in the film industry, the music industry, venture capital firms in the startup culture of Silicon Valley, and a career creating novels and audiobooks exploring the worlds that assemble themselves in his head. His travels with bohemians, burners, historians, theologians, and inventors led him eventually to a rural exile where he uses the quiet to write, walk on the beach, and manage a pair of production companies that bring innovative stories to the ears of audiences across the world. For stories, contact info, podcasts, and more, visit his home page at http://www.jdsawyer.net
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Sculpting God - J. Daniel Sawyer
Sculpting God
Bedtime Stories For Adults
J. Daniel Sawyer
AWP Fantasy
A division of ArtisticWhispers Productions, Inc.
© 2011 J. Daniel Sawyer
Containing
Introduction and interstitial material © 2011 J. Daniel Sawyer
Lilith © 2008 J. Daniel Sawyer
Angels Unawares © 2004 J. Daniel Sawyer
First print publication in Podthology by Dragon Moon Press, 2010
The Coffee Service © 1999 J. Daniel Sawyer
We Create Worlds © 2008 J. Daniel Sawyer
Control Room © 1999, 2007 J. Daniel Sawyer
The Man In The Rain © 2009 J. Daniel Sawyer
First print publication in Podthology by Dragon Moon Press, 2010
Train Time © 2007 J. Daniel Sawyer
All poetry © 1999-2011, J. Daniel Sawyer
Published here for the first time
Cover art © 2011 Kitty Niciaian
Book Design by ArtisticWhispers
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.
This file is licensed for private individual entertainment only. The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into an information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or otherwise) for any reason (excepting the uses permitted to the licensee by copyright law under terms of fair use) without the specific written permission of the author.
Dedication
For Kitty
"Let us make man in our image..."
-God, Genesis 1:26
"We all create God in our own image,"
-Harold Livingston, Star Trek: The Motion Picture
"God created man in his own image, and man, being a gentleman, returned the compliment."
-Inherit The Wind
Sculpting God
Bedtime Stories for Adults
J. Daniel Sawyer
Table of Contents
Introduction
Poem: Andromeda Alone
Intro to Lilith
Lilith
Poem: A Walk in the Evening
Intro to Angels Unawares
Angels Unawares
Poem: Song of the Sirens
Intro to The Coffee Service
The Coffee Service
Poem: The Old Song
Intro to We Create Worlds
We Create Worlds
Poem: Cartesian Man
Intro to Control Room
Control Room
Poem: The Sleeper
Intro to The Man In The Rain
The Man In The Rain
Poem: Pillow Talk
Intro to Train Time
Train Time
Author Bio
Also By
Introduction
AN INTRODUCTION IS the customary place in a collection of stories to make apologies and justifications. Although I don't have much to offer in the way of apologies for the flights of fancy in these pages, perhaps a bit of justification is in order. It has been pointed out to me a number of times that Sculpting God is, as titles go, both immodest and impious.
Of impiety I stand justly accused, and make no apologies for it. As far as immodesty, I can offer only the following in my defense:
This is a book of bedtime stories. In a fortunate childhood, such stories send you to sleep with a head full of images—frightening monsters, heroic deeds, confusing forests, gorgeous vistas, strange creatures, vexing puzzles, and enigmatic temptations.
I was fortunate in the bedtime story department. The house I grew up in I was equipped with two excellent storytellers. One moonlighted as a professor, and was an excellent interpretive reader. He did the voices in The Hobbit, recited macabre epic poems from memory, and managed even to breathe life into Greek and Hebrew tales that most five-year-olds find impenetrable and stuffy. Because of his stories Jason and the Argonauts, David and Joshua, Tom Sawyer (with whom I felt an immediate kinship), Bilbo and Thorin, and Aslan all ran rough-shod through my early dreams. I couldn't have asked for better.
When he had the night off, my brothers and I were regaled by tales of adventure in the wilds of the Amazon jungle by the other resident storyteller, who grew up there. Between them, I never lacked for a good story to latch my imagination onto as I drifted off to sleep.
Then there were the tales of Rod Serling's Twilight Zone, showing always in re-runs, and Ray Bradbury Theater, and Amazing Stories. Here too, were bedtime stories, but these were bedtime stories for everyone. I watched them with adults—adults who found them even more chilling and enthralling than I did.
J.R.R. Tolkien, in his essay On Fairy-Stories, compared the work of a writer to the work of a god—creating a world, peopling it, laying in its history and politics and economics until the world comprised a whole and separate sub-creation.
He was talking of speculative fiction—science fiction, fantasy, mythopoeic—the traditions from which all bedtime stories draw.
Stuart Brand, in spotting humanity's effect on the environment, said We are as gods and might as well get good it.
In an era where we can directly harness the energy of the sun, move mountains, walk on other planets, create new life forms to suit our purposes, and stand on the verge of medical advances that threaten to bring us face-to-face with immortality, is it any wonder that we crave storytellers who speak in terms of gods and monsters?
Storytellers don't just do the work of gods when worldbuilding, as Tolkien spotted—the very stories they tell create the pictures of the gods that live in the minds of other people. Homer did this, as did Shakespeare, Lew Wallace, Mark Twain, and Neil Gaiman. We storytellers create and re-create the gods as our bread and butter—their faces in every era come from our stories.
Good storytelling also provides an escape from a drab day-to-day world filled with injustices large and small—from predatory wars to children being forced to give up bedtime stories when they leave the nursery. This slim volume is an effort to, in some small way, to correct this latter injustice.
Tolkien said something else in On Fairy Stories. He ventured a theory as to what bedtime stories are for. Talking of children, he said Their books like their clothes should allow for growth, and their books at any rate should encourage it.
The same is true for adults.
Andromeda Alone
The sullen sky at eventide
A rippled movement blowing wide
The waters of the sundering sea
And breaking open, wild and free
A serpent from the cavern-time
And there upon the rocky wall
They chained her to the feeding-stall
A ransom for the prideful king
Immobile, ravished, quickening
She waits the monster's killing fall
No champion came up to save
Her blood, her bone, her soul engraved
Alone up on the rampart rock
She, slack against the granite dock
And dared the fates her strength to waive
Poseidon's wind whips high and hard
The monster now has bared his sword
Above her stands, his beastly feying
Revenge ancestral, savage, preying
And poised to snap her like a cord.
She looks up at the serpent's jaws
And gives herself into his claws
He snatches up, she lets him hold her
No champion upon this boulder
And so fulfill great Ammon's laws
And then the serpent's stone foundation
Betrays him in his last temptation
In seizing tight, she slips between
His fingers down into the green
The solemn power now his damnation
And sailing on upon the greening
Waves of night, the stars a'keening
Sing the song of woman met
Her fate and payed its gruesome debt
And won her freedom, life revealing
Andromeda, the heavens' pealing.
Introduction to Lilith
ALL GOOD STORIES have a beginning, and the story of our world is no different. What precisely that beginning was has been the subject of debate since humans first learned to speak aloud, and though the answers are now less murky, the stories of our ancestors can sometimes still cast their spell over us.
One of the subjects of this great debate, in the Western world, is Eden. Who was there, and when, and why? What did they do? And what did it mean? The Talmud records a tale told to explain the differences in the way the book of Genesis describes the creation of humanity—first, it says, there was a woman, not quite a woman, whom Adam rejected before God made Eve. The Rabbis blamed her for crib death, and identified her with Aserah and other goddesses that have vexed the Rabbinical authorities throughout Jewish history—and now, with the resurgence of mythology and neopagan ideas, she's a popular icon once again.
Night hag? Dark goddess? Disgraceful wife? She's been maligned for centuries as the source of women's misery. That is the story they told in the Talmud. But this is her story, in her own words. The story of Lilith.
Lilith
YOU SAY I AM the night hag, the bewitching moonlight, the child-eater who causes crib death. You say I am the woman your husbands see at the temple when they are seeking something more than you can give. It is true that I seduce, and I destroy, and am unjustly maligned for both. Your jealousy pushes me into the darkness, makes for me the role which you imagine I play. It keeps me at the edge of your firelight and behind the ghouls in the stories you tell your young men. You are the daughters of man, but I am the daughter of the earth.
I came first.
And that was why he hated me.
I awoke in the ground, the mud crumbling off me in the drying Mesopotamian sun. I knew nothing at first but the sun on my skin and the breath in my lungs; a lavender fire. I heard his breath, but I did not yet know what breath was.
The date palms above filtered the light into dozens of fractured, dancing spears, warm on my thighs, my face, my vulva, my toes. I awoke on the ground, and came out of the earth, and heard the Voice whose breath awakened me, whispering secrets in my head. I alone was given the power of creation, the dominion of immortality. I was the Voice's delight in the world wrapped up in clay, and the man on the ground beside me was the order of life, and from the intercourse of chaos and order would come the future of the universe. We were the progenitors.
And