by Jennifer Moore

It took Block Hutchinson just seven days to create the world. With the tank already taken care of, day one was easy. A quick trip to the local DIY superstore and he had light. And not just any light - an angle-poise energy-saving red-bulb wonder of a light, with sleek black metal legs and a polished chrome foot. He even had change for a packet of gum.

On Tuesday he fitted the blue plastic sky-lid with its compass-drilled air holes.

On Wednesday he laid down soaked cotton wool liberally sprinkled with cress seed. In the centre he placed an upturned lid from a coffee jar, filled with tap water.

A thick cold and general sense of queasiness kept Block in bed for much of Thursday. He fitted a new timer switch to the lamp towards evening before retiring back to his duvet with a cup of hot lemon and a dog-eared copy of Playboy.

By Friday he was fully recovered. He collected spiders from the webs at the corners of his windows, ants from the cracks in the patio paving slabs and three fat woodlice from underneath a large stone in the garden. They sat in the tank looking glum and malevolent while the ants set to work tunnelling through the cotton wool and the spiders busied themselves spinning brand new webs despite the lack of flies afforded by their new accommodation.

On Saturday Block woke early. He collected together everything that he would need: a dead mouse-like animal he had rescued from the jaws of the neighbour’s cat, a well preserved cockroach, the computer chip from a stolen laptop, a battery with connecting wires, the voice box from a toy robot, a tired copy of Frankenstein, the unmarked contents of an ancient chemistry set and the Idiot’s Guide to Creation. He worked steadily throughout the day, measuring, snipping, soaking and scorching, stopping only for cheese and pickle sandwiches around one and a strawberry milkshake mid-afternoon. By dinner time he was finished. The creature, a misshapen scrap of burnt fur and bent antennae, lay hunched and heaving in the far corner of the tank. No sooner had it breathed its first gasping breath than it had limped away on its ten uneven legs and bedded itself down in the short softness of the new cress meadow to sleep. Block enjoyed a hearty meal of pork chops and chipped potatoes before turning in for the night himself. Tomorrow he would rest.

“Goodnight, Nicodemus,” he whispered. The creature whimpered and twisted lightly in its sleep as the timer clicked off the lamp and the tank disappeared into the darkness.

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