Long time readers of this blog, if there are such, are familiar with stories I’ve posted here in the past for free with God as the protagonist. Â I would try to sell them, but there are already too many folks making big bucks off the divine. Â Enjoy.
â€”The Boy Scout motto
God’s walking in the woods.Â God’s into woods, forests, jungles, like in Eden and Spligg (which is just the other side of Betelgeuse in case you’re wondering).Â He’s about to meet Thomas Paine Crawford who is the reason God’s here, but He’s also on Spligg on another matter at the same time.Â I’d explain it to you, but you wouldn’t understand.Â The human mind can’t grasp it.Â Short version:Â He’s everywhere. Continue reading
I suppose I should want to talk about the President’s bold new plan for Iraq, but it’s all too depressing, isn’t it? So I figured it’s time for another godstory. The character of God owes a lot to a certain kind of sentimental movie version of the miraculous done so well in the 40’s by guys like Frank Capra. My adolescent religion was watching those things on tv every afternoon. Those stories owe a debt to Dickens, whose A Christmas Carol is a touchstone of sentimental magic. So here’s my Capraesque-Dickensish godstory:
Julia Prays to Forget Evan
Julia loads the dishwasher, wipes all the counters and splashboards clean and everything on them, scours the stovetop and the sink, vacuums and mops the floor, and watches it dry. She kneels to get a stubborn spot in front of the stove when, all of a sudden, she feels the overwhelming need to pray. It’s that or sob again. She hates that.
The tile floor under her knees is hard and cold. She’s eye-level with the digital clock on the stove, which hasn’t been reset since the thunderstorm three nights before. It blinks hypnotically: 12:00 12:00 12:00 12:00 12:00 12:00 . . . Continue reading
At Amy’s request, here is another godstory.Â This one grows out of my fondness (and God’s) for the hard-boiled detective genre.
11th and J
God feels lonely, that pointless, empty, feeds-on-itself kind of lonely that knows no relief.Â He’s also deliriously happy, but that’s another story.Â He’s stretched out in the void like it’s an empty hotel, and he’s the only one there, and all the stars are streetlights, and time is just a slow walk down a dark street going nowhere.
He has good reason to be lonely.Â Nobody really understands him.Â How can they?Â Not the Froobahs, not the Gullimulligans, not the Clydions.Â Not even the angels–especially the angels, now that he thinks about it–praising him constantly eon after eon, as relentless as a dripping faucet, so full of adoration youâ€™d think theyâ€™d all pop like ticks.Â Theyâ€™ve all watched Itâ€™s a Wonderful Life a few too many timesâ€”who hasnâ€™t?â€”and haven’t watched Barbarella enough. Continue reading
The is the first of the godstories I wrote. It’s quite silly. I trust God can handle silly.
The Berovian National Orchestra
While passing by Earth on his way to a barbecue the Qwilps are throwing in his honor, God moves through the usual tide of human prayers like a sewer worker in waders. Humans are big prayersâ€”me, me, me, me, please, please, please, please, why, why, why, why. Make me good, make me rich, make me forget, make an appearance, make a religion, make the bastards pay. Thy will be done, kingdom come, save my bum, thank you, thank you, thank you. Forgiâ€”
â€œOh, leave off it,â€� God mutters and stops just long enough to interrupt Larry King Live to say he wants to ask humansâ€”his favorite species in all the universe, he assures Larryâ€”to do him, God, a personal favor: â€œIâ€™d like a concert,â€� he says. â€œSomething real pretty. Iâ€™m especially fond of the Brandenburg Concertos, but anything will do. Surprise me. Mornings are good. Iâ€™ll plan on January 26th. Sorry I donâ€™t have time to talk, but Iâ€™m expected somewhere else.â€� Lots of somewhere elses, actually, but God doesn’t elaborate. Continue reading
One of the attractions of starting this blog is the opportunity to give stuff away. For several years now I’ve been working on a collection of short stories, in various states of completion, with God as a main character, sometimes as the protagonist, sometimes not, with the working title godstories. I’ve never much attempted to market them. God, according to my sources, generally approves of giving stuff away. This one, “Waiting For a Train,” serves as an introduction to the tales:
Waiting for a Train
God stands on a cracked concrete platform waiting for a train. A hundred yards behind him on the highway, cars whiz by in a great hurry in both directions. It’s August. Everybody’s on holiday. Except God.
Nothing moves on the rusty rails except the train, still several kilometers away, and a few kilometers beyond that, a cat who enjoys the smooth steel beneath his paws. God notes the railsâ€™ parallel linesâ€”the idea of them anywayâ€”converging in infinity, an image of eternity. Somewhere between here and eternity that same cat gets smacked by a train.
That’s the trouble with being God. The universe is lousy with images of eternity, littered with dead cats. He can’t let it bother him, though. Infinity is his stomping ground. The unknowable is a piece of cake. The unthinkable?â€”just something heâ€™s already thunk. He’s God.