Ars Poetica

Light Yagami is the god of his perfect world, but it isn't as perfect as he hoped. What happens when he steals The Poet's power and begins rewriting his own story? Humanity is screwed.

In a world weaved and intertwined by illusions and metaphors, concepts and lies, God dances in a graveyard of marble, singing to a living prophet of the hundreds of other dead prophets buried beneath the mottled, white rock. It is a painting, the masterpiece of it blurred by a hazy, ubiquitous smudge across the canvass. |There is no one else for miles, and even those people far away are deaf and blind.|

"Do you even believe in prophecy?"

Her words are an interruption to a long-prepared, well-rehearsed speech; it was one that Kira has given so many times before that it is beginning to feel as though it is worn down like an old, threadbare rag being rubbed repeatedly against a wall of rough cement and broken glass. He thinks that maybe he should change it, but then wonders why it even matters—the recipients of his words are all killed—punished for their sins—promptly after hearing them.

Regardless, he is God and he does not appreciate his words being belittled by some inept prophet intruding on his sequestered marble graveyard.

Mask in place, he chuckles quietly under his breath. "Do you?"

"No." Her words are immediate, and bluntly spoken.

He just laughs some more, the sound echoing off of the tombs of those who once thought they saw a future, and continues on with his speech.

The Prophet stands there in ennui, her fingers aimlessly attempting to tear apart one of the many mats in her hair. She can't remember the last time she brushed it. She has sort of come here expecting Kira to kill her—now she wishes he would spare her the speech and just get it over with already.

She represses a sigh. How great, she thinks, |the gods need me to entertain them. They must be terribly bored with all of the others. And I am too.|

Instantly nothing happens, but, somewhere in the distance, a blackbird appears and takes flight. The Prophet has seen this bird before (will see this bird soon), and the marble it carries with it might hold all the answers in the world and it might not, but it doesn't matter because she has only ever spied it in visions so she pays it no mind because she does not believe in the future because she does not believe in prophecy because the future only exists in the present and that is all there is to it.

(She is a casualist.)

The Prophet knows how far she has fallen. By accepting Kira's invitation tonight, she knows that she is beginning to run headfirst into desperation and she truly ought to be ashamed.

(She isn't.)

She doesn't worship this god any more than she had worshipped the old one, though that isn't saying all that much considering she doubts it possible for her to worship either of them any less.

She thinks this with no intention to offend, of course. It is just that she simply |can connect nothing with nothing.|

He has finally stopped talking (he loves the sound of his own voice, surely), she realizes.

(It sure as hell is about time.)

She looks up at him with an insolent expression—one that he will want to most definitely kill her for—but it's okay because that's sort of what she is hoping will happen. Of course, it's fine if he doesn't—it's just that she won't mind either way.

For just a moment, God lets his mask slip.

"I'm going to kill you, you know," he says, as if it is of no particular importance.

The Prophet shrugs.

"I know."

And, then she pauses, and quirks an eyebrow. "Before you do, though, would you at least give me the reason?"

"Does it actually matter?"

Oh.. The Prophet is somewhat taken aback with surprise. He has asked such a good question—she knows that she will need a moment, maybe more, to consider her answer. She continues to work at the tangles in her hair as she thinks it through. Her mind settles.

"Yes," The Prophet announces, though her voice is grey. She may |want the dead, but she is still with the living.|

A feather, black from being soaked in the ink of the fairytale monsters dwelling in the dark, flutters down from nowhere, as if the bird it came from has been swallowed by that mist.

(But The Prophet knows that it is the mist—)

If there is such a bird, it is here because of the god standing amongst the marble graves of his victims in the fog of evening, not because of her. The Prophet knows she is far too insignificant to be looked upon by such a blackbird.

"You are going to lie to me," God informs her, as though he knows.

"I'm going to lie?" The Prophet repeats, as if to make sure she is clear. "I thought that you don't believe that anyone can predict the future."

"That's an interesting statement coming from someone who believes the same thing and yet makes her living off of it."

"That means nothing," The Prophet objects, "you seem to be under the impression that I enjoy telling prophecy. There's simply nothing else that I'm good at. One need not believe in something in order to do it."

"I wouldn't understand," Kira says smoothly, simpering, "I have never been in a position where I have found myself at a lack of talent."

The Prophet narrows her eyes. "You're quite…pretentious."

"I am God."

His eyes flash, and she finds herself wanting to prove to him his humanity (because the bastard looks human enough to her). She asks him, "And what if I happened to know of someone with more influence? What then?"

"There is no such person."

"She was here, earlier, watching us. No…watching you. She's been watching you—I've seen her. She is virtually unknown, and her influence is invisible, but believe me when I tell you that she holds much more say in the events of the world than you ever have."

"Lying to save yourself is redundant."

She snorts. "Dying doesn't bother me."

"Of course—dying is something |you don't care about because you're in love with a dead man.|"

The Prophet's fist curls. "Well, that's a cheap shot."

"It still worked."

The Prophet rips out a small part of her hair that was a knot and drops it to the ground. "I could always prove it, you know," she informs, stiffly. She paused, and resumed sifting through her hair. "I don't enjoy being thought of as a liar."

"Is that so?" He looks bored. "I'll be interested to see, then."

Names Of Poems Or Concepts Used:

Epithalamium— Matthew Rohrer

this kind of fire— Charles Bukowski

N— Maurya Simon

Hummingbird— Elaine Terranova

Amy Check On My Square Inch of Land— Farrah Field

The End

0 comments about this story Feed