God gives proof of existence

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
a light hearted humerous peice

Submitted: November 21, 2011

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Submitted: November 21, 2011



God gives proof of existence




  I was outside hoeing the onions when God made his appearance on telly. Alice had to come out and shout to let me know. I rushed in not knowing what to expect.

Out of a very bright white glow which knackered half the TV’s in the country, he declared that ‘I bloody well do exist. I go off creating for just a couple of thousand years and when I come back you lot believe all kinds of nonsense.’ He did not seem best pleased. We were told in no uncertain terms that we had been found wanting  and no mistake.

“You will be in church on Sunday, there will be no exceptions. There had better be a lot more worshipping and praising going on or there will be trouble, and I mean trouble, you know the sort of thing, ‘The moon will be as blood, plagues of boils will afflict the land, there will be much wailing and gnashing of teeth, Understood! Good. Just in case the conspiracy theorists out there decide that this is all some sort of bizarre advertising campaign, I have decided to send down another son, or rather a whole bunch of sons as you lot killed off the last one I gave you.”

He waved a Godly hand

“A tithe of all the women of the world are now pregnant.”

And they were, on the twenty fifth of December 2012 10% of all the women of earth went into labour. Me and Alice had opted for a home birth as every hospital, doctors surgery and veterinary clinic were standing room only. The vast majority of little jesus’s were born in gridlocked cars that never made it to the hospitals.

When our little miracle was born we called him Abel. I looked into his eyes expecting some awesome intellect to skewer me with an unflinching gaze. Our version of the son of God looked at me through unfocused slightly crossed eyes. Alice doted on him immediately and worshipped him from his stubby little toes to the tips of his platinum blonde curls, he could do no wrong, except that he frequently did. When he was two he managed to set fire to the living room carpet, when he was three he announced to both sets of grand parents that old people smelled of wee and when he was five he stole our car even though he couldn’t see where he was going.

It was normal to place all the little Godlings or Christmas gifts as the divine children were often termed in there own classes where they all shone quickly out performing their teachers, apart that is from our own little ray of sunshine. When the other little Godlings turned the other cheek he slapped that one as well and stole their dinner money.

Although I had misgivings even from the outset Alice was convinced that she had produced if not ‘the’ then a least ‘a’ son of god. When Abel was 6 the school informed us they were moving him to a main stream class away from the Godlings who he bullied mercilessly, Alice was mortified.

“Why are they picking on our little cherub?”

  I offered no comment but continued to redecorate Abel’s room for the fifth time that year.

“I really think we ought to at least consider disciplining him.”

I said as I rollered magnolia emulsion over the spray painted obscenities’ on his bedroom wall.

“You can’t discipline the son of God, its almost certainly a sin, and you know what happens to the sinful these days.”

“All I’m saying is, that if he really was the son of God would he be so naughty?”

“Are you saying that he’s not the son of God?

“Yes dear that’s exactly what I’m saying, I think that there’s a very real possibility that Abel is not in the least divine.”

“But he was born on December 25th; he must be a Godling surely.”

“I think that may just be a coincidence.”

“No, no he can’t be!” she sobbed.

“Well look at it this way, would the son of God put a banger up the cats bum, would the son of God have watered his mothers prize winning dahlias with weed killer? I think we’re just going to have to accept the fact that he’s 100% ours, and that we are to blame.

© Copyright 2018 Richard M Bromley. All rights reserved.

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