Cole wasn’t sure where he was. He had awakened to find himself sprawled across a white floor that had the texture of paper. He was surrounded by a vast expanse of white. The quiet hum of fluorescent tubes led Cole to believe he was indoors, but he couldn’t see any lights – or the ceiling, or any walls for that matter. It seemed a long time. There was a rush of light and he was standing in a crowded street, then in a desert oasis, then on a snow-capped peak. The snow melted away and the mountain was felled, the color draining until Cole was standing in the void once more.
Cole didn’t know what to think.
He saw the bicycle he had owned as a kid rise up out of the floor. It rolled past him lazily, and he saw the seat was still secured with duct tape where it had broken. The floor turned to water, and Cole found himself in the middle of a lake. As he treaded water, he heard a speedboat vrooming closer. He turned to look in time to see the boat turn nearby, its towline swinging toward a ramp in close proximity. As that which held the end of the rope vaulted over him he couldn’t help but wonder whether the boat was using extreme fishing techniques or if the shark was going water-skiing.
A rustle, a shuffling noise and the lake dried, leaving a bed of papers, which rose to the plane of the floor. Once more, Cole was in the room of paper.
Out of the ground rose three men in ornate robes. The sky turned to night and the men began walking around the hill. Cole followed, and he noticed the entrance of a wide cave and a distinct odor of animals. He followed the three men through a group of men holding crooks and was stunned by what greeted him. A lily white woman robed in blue sat serenely beside a box filled with hay, in which a child lay wrapped in a white cloth.
“No, no, no! This is all wrong,” Cole cried. “There are so many things that…”
He released an exasperated growl. Everyone was looking at him.
Cole first directed his ire at the finely dressed men. Each wore a crown of gold and each held an intricately decorated box.
“First off, you’re not kings. You’re scholars: sages from the east who were familiar enough with Jewish prophecy to recognize the star as a portent of the promised messiah. You may have wielded some influence as learned men, but you weren’t kings.”
The men looked at each other, and the crowns fell apart, scraps of paper hitting the ground and melting into it.
“Secondly, there were not necessarily three wise men. There are three gifts. The bible never says how many wise men came. If you think about the distance they would need to travel it would be readily apparent that there would at the very least be an entourage, a caravan of students or servants to bring the supplies you would need for the journey.”
There was a rustling noise, and everyone turned to see several carts waiting outside the cave. Cole shook his head.
“Thirdly, the wise men don’t show up on the night of the birth. They show up a couple of years later, give the gifts, and warn the family to head to Egypt. Herod had all children two years and younger in the area killed. You weren’t here on the night of the birth.”
A sound, a breath of air. The wise men and the caravan fell into the landscape. Cole’s gaze fell on the shepherds, who became slightly worried at the attention. He stared. He mused.
“I don’t suppose there’s anything wrong with you guys. You smell strongly of sheep, which is slightly off-putting, but entirely appropriate.”
He turned to the woman and the child.
“Take those golden dinner plates off of your head. You didn’t actually have a halo. That was artistic license so people seeing the art would know it was you. Also, you’re wearing blue. Blue was not a common color. It was expensive. You got blue dye by crushing these specific seashells. Blue was the color of royalty. A carpenter’s wife would not be wearing blue. And the ‘swaddling clothes’ on little baby Jesus are pure white. You can’t just make cloth like that. The cloth has to be bleached. You would not likely have a cloth of pure white with you, and even if you did, it would not still be pure white. Birth is not clean. It’s dirty and gross and fleshy and real. There’s no mess here. If there was an actual birth and he didn’t simply pop into existence, there would be evidence of it. Also, you look Anglo-Saxon. You were a Jew.”
“But what does accuracy give you?”
Cole turned. Walking towards the entrance of the cave was a tall man in a suit. His feet treaded on paper, the ground beneath his foot melting with each step before his footfall fell. He strode toward Cole, separated from his surroundings by the aura of uncreation.
“Accuracy ruins a lot of stories. The myth, the legend, the mystery is taken away when you ask too many questions. And, just so it’s said, you were describing purple dye, not blue.”
“Who are you?”
“I am a personification of writers block.”
[An expression of "Hunh?!" An abrupt end.]
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