The Big Ba — er, Sneeze

The explosive origin of everything. A short story.

“Once upon a time, in an age long ago, three withered crones drank themselves to sleep in caskets encrusted with precious gems.

All was dark. All was quiet. Every so often a gasp, not unlike the sound of a frog passing wind, penetrated the stillness, lingering pungently.

Beneath the caskets crouched a wide Nothingness. It waited patiently for — Timmy, get your finger out of your nose — for gravity to realize the caskets were, in fact, suspended by nothing, and like all things suspended by nothing, must fall into it. Eventually.

And if one were to pop their head into the left nostril of the third still crone (for to look into the right nostril would be unthinkably disgusting) one would discover a wealth of swirling, glimmering galaxies —All of Creation — including our very own planet.”

Professor Bogart shut the history textbook with an audible snap.

"Well?" the tiny man squeaked. A quiet minute passed. "Very well, then. Class dismiss — "

Faster than a flicked booger, Little Timmy shot his hand in the air and shook it.

"Yes, Timmy?" said the professor, whose allergies were acting up. He honked into a hanky and gestured for Timmy to speak.

Timmy, almost six, coughed. "Well gee, Sir, I couldn't help but wonder, Sir…”

“Spit it out, Timmy,” the professor said. “And close the damn window when you’re finished. The pollen is polluting my nostrils.”

Timmy nodded and ran over to the windows. “What would happen, Sir, if — and only if, mind you — if one of those old ladies’ noses itched and scratched something fierce?"

For a long moment, the universe froze, pondering this loaded question.

The professor sneezed. “Crones, Timmy. Are you trying to kill me?”

As for Timmy’s question? It floated through the open classroom window, up and up, until it passed through The Hole in the Nose and crept into the ears of three sleeping crones, who awoke to Timmy’s nasally query.

Three caskets slid open. Three ancient women peered groggily into the Nothingness, which peered right back.

“What was that?” asked Marge, the crankiest of the three, and a light sleeper. “I heard a noise.”

“Something about itching and scratching,” said Pat, who was a bit of an airhead, and a compulsive gambler besides. “Terribly bothersome.”

“ACHOO!” said Gale, the kindest of the three, who contained all of creation in her left nostril. “Oh, dear.”

The crones surveyed All of Creation from their respective caskets. Planetary crust and gassy suns shot through the shocked Nothingness, which caught most of it. The Nothingness only had a moment to shudder before it exploded with supernovas and protons and other gooey, packed particles.

“Now you’ve done it,” Marge said. “You’ve gone and blown up Nothingness, the poor fellow. I hope you’re satisfied.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Three bucks says Gale’s snot grows sentient lifeforms in 13.8 billion years,” said Pat.

“Deal.”