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really, a beige so neutral it hid from the eyes. Making his way down rhythmically creaky stairs, he entered his workshop.
The basement was large. Larger than would be expected considering the size of the house above it, but if his house didn’t have to obey reality, it certainly didn’t have to pay attention to zoning policies. Tables took up most of the center of the room, arranged at odd angles to allow space between and around them. Buildings sat atop the tables, tiny and utterly exact. Perfect little windows, perfect little doors, but no perfect little roofs. Nothing had a roof. Perfect little cars whizzed by on perfect little streets, with perfect little cops sounding perfect little sirens as they gave chase. The man with no shadow wandered the tables, searching for the right location.
There, on this table, was a dainty street corner, a coffee shop besides a natural foods store, a few blocks from a movie theater. Reaching into his pocket, he took something out and placed it behind the counter of the tiny coffee shop. He watched the perfect barista go about her business, unaware of any reality-shattering changes in her life as she poured coffee for tiny customers. Customers were easy. He didn’t bother researching extras, just snatched them when they took his fancy. Some found places in other buildings, but some simply lived in the stores, forever ordering coffee, finishing it, and then ordering more.
Next he found a place for the CEO. That one he put at the top of a tiny skyscraper. The CEO immediately got in the elevator and headed down to a meeting. The man with no shadow watched him giving a speech to the other board members, pointing at tiny graphs on a tiny slideshow. A quiet pattering of applause drifted out the window.
He knew exactly where to place the child. A playground in a lovely neighborhood, swarming with children, echoing with faint shouts of
When the end arrives,
all I ask of you is marbles.
Pack this beast with glass
when no one is looking.
Let it burn untouched.
And when the ovens have cooled,
rake us out with your monks,
cascades of marbles in
with the flour of the dead.
Don’t mistake it for treasure.
Don’t go looking for God
in our relics. Throw them high,
long, to the above. Allow the bruises
they leave when they hurtle
Earthward. Make it penance.
Collect the deep blue stains
of what was
for too god damn long.