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God will see you now.


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Every so often I get ideas which I feel compelled to write a short story surrounding. They're usually based off the need for feeling and emotion. I found this one the other day sitting in my cupboard, and also thought I'd have a quick browse through this forum today. I figured I may as well contribute; comments are welcome. Did you enjoy it? Tips? Etc.






"God will see you now."


The little man bows and draws his outstretched arm from left to right in a gesture beckoning me into the office in front. Around me, everything is white and despite the fact that I've been sitting in the waiting room for about a week now, it's never gotten any dirtier. I've seen people come and go, and for each person I ask, "What's your story? Why are you here?"


Drunk drivers, they say. Internal organ failure, they murmur. Massive blood loss. Murder. Death penalty. Speeding. Drug overdoses. You name it, I've heard it.


And with every person I speak to, I begin to wonder if this really is Heaven. Some are bearable, but the suicide cases are not only on God's bad side by default, but seem eternally disappointed that the afterlife happened to be a particularly large waiting room. Others were just disappointed that there is an afterlife.


The man grins a little too widely and I scoot through the door in front of me, unwilling to remain in his stare.


Cancer, they claim. AIDS, they mumble embarrassedly. Ex-wives, the blokes spit. Bloody ex-wives. They do it to me every time.


God leans over his desk and his features are nondescript to the point of impossibility. He looks like a human being should look like; I recognize bits and pieces in him of every person I've ever known. He is like a a blank template on which to draw, a piece of clay which to mold. Around him lie piles upon piles of documents and books, each sorted neatly into piles, a trend which is broken only by a small TV with rabbit ears sitting on the corner of his desk.


God leans over his desk and his features are so close to mind that I feel like pulling away, but there's something about him that makes me feel unwilling to move, but rather sit and study.


"Hell," he starts off, "is really, really neutral. You would not just believe how neutral it is. You do not want to go there." He pauses, and thinks.


"The opposite of love," he says, "is not hate. It is indifference. When you hate someone, you at least care enough about them to someone to hate them. It's really quite a complement how some people go out of their way just for you. But indifference is not being able to care less; indifference is being neutral. Things that are neutral are boring."


"There is nothing worse than boredom," he insists. "There are only so many things you can distract yourself with. The mind grows numb and unfit, and any hopes or dreams you have are quickly realized to be even more pointless than they usually are."


He leans closer still, and our noses are almost touching. I could not pull away even if I wanted to.


"Heaven," he breathes, "is really fun. But when you are in a universe where there is no bad, there is nothing to define good by. Evil is required. Your memories will quickly fade, and you will be bored."


He breathes out a long, heavy breath of air, yet I don't actually feel it against my face. God slumps back in his seat, and I finally realize what is odd about him. His eyes are bloodshot, his slump one of obtuse proportions, and his skin tired. Although describable as mid-twenties, there is no youth in his bones, nor in his heart.


No-one aged once they were dead.


"Now," he murmurs, quietest yet, his eyes downcast and his head following suit, "go. For the love of God, go. You will experience heartbreak, you will experience love, although probably not in that order; you'll probably get raped in your next life, and thus I envy you all the more. There's a pretty good chance you'll end up as a bum in Perth the way that country's going."


"But by God," he says, his eyes flickering up to meet mine, "it will be a damn sight better than Heaven."


And with that, he leans back, his face absolutely neutral, places his legs on the table in front of him and turns on the TV with a remote that never left his hands. On the TV, I see millions of people living out their lives. There is the emotion that heaven is completely devoid of, the good, the bad, the varying scales of human feeling, and all God can do is sit and envy.


I slowly stand up, the chair noiseless against the floor. The strange little man opens the door from the outside before I can, and I see everything for what it is. His smile is strained and artificial against his stretched and dull skin, which houses his empty eyes in front of his numbed brain. His arm makes the same gesture as before, but tis movements are erratic and too rigid to be genuine.


The waiting room is a pit of zombies. Their eyes bloodshot, requiring sleep but never being able to get it; they are tired and without posture. One by one, they look up at me and I feel the wrench of the demons behind their retinas, their only want being to become God so that they too can gaze into the TV's emotive depths.


And like that, I am thrust out of a woman's womb in the most undignified manner possible, crying and unhappy at this world full of pain that I did not agree to.

Edited by Sillyhed2000
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Very interesting idea for a story. I like this a lot, and your skill for writing really shows here. The only thing that seems to bother me is the way God talks; it doesn't really seem like he would say "by God" or any kind of slang you've used. If you were able to simplify it a little more, this story would be flawless. Excellent work.

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I thoroughly enjoyed it. I had a tough time keeping at it, but it was interesting and well written.


In retaliation to Vercetti's comment, I think it was good you had that in there, because he was an imperfect God. Looks good, man.

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