God went to the kitchen and fetched himself a glass of lemonade. When he returned, sipping from a thick red straw, he choked, staggered, and spilled the drink all down the front of his shirt.
“Damn it all,” he sputtered.
A ball of fire lit up the black canvas before him, dancing like the nearby sun.
God threw his beverage onto the tiled marble floor, shattering it into a thousand fragments.
“Son of a bitch,” he fumed, stomping around, cursing at humanity and his own dumb luck.
He turned away from the mess – both the planet and the wet, busted glass – and let out a deep sigh.
“You’re better than that,” he whispered.
A fluffy, white Pekinese sauntered into the room, checking things out and sniffing around. At first, she was alarmed. When she noticed the puddle on the floor, her tail wagged.
It took God a minute to cool down. Once his breathing was under control, he walked back into The Overlook, the room that doubled as his lounge and observatory of the universe.
“No, Tiff,” he said. “Get out of here!”
The dog slipped out of the room, looking hurt despite her small victory. Lemonade dripped from her mouth.
“Fool,” God muttered. “Probably cut herself.”
Before he tended to the larger matter, he swept up the glass and mopped the tile. Then, he changed his shirt and washed his hands.
God walked to the oaken shelves in the far corner of The Overlook, where he kept his records. He updated the slim volume titled, “Earth,” citing the date it perished, along with the cause of death: “Slip up – FP.”
God capped his pen and slid the book onto the most occupied shelf, which was aptly labeled, Endings.
God shook his head. “Of all things to say.”
The only wall decoration in the entire room was an ancient roll of parchment, which hung in the corner behind a pearl lamp. A layer of cobwebs coated it. The parchment read:
The Overlook – Rules
1. Work on Sunday is allowed.
2. No drinks after 9:00 pm. (Alcoholic)
3. Use of the Forbidden Phrase is irreversible. You say it, you play it.
God trudged over to the Beginnings shelf and picked up a doorstop of a tome. It was light blue and felt promising in his hands.
He wandered back to the kitchen for a while and poured himself a gin and tonic, which was mostly gin. It had become somewhat of a tradition, especially after such a tough loss.
“Four and a half billion years,” God scoffed. “What a joke.” He filled his new glass to the brim.
God’s previous project blew up due to self-infliction. The inhabitants all nuked each other to a crisp. There were too many lunatics to set it straight – too many conflicts, too much hatred. That’s where Earth differed. Admittedly, it had been unraveling at the seams as of late, but it wasn’t at the breaking point yet. God had faith. It seemed like there was still a chance to turn things around.
Now, either way, he’d never find out.
By the time he returned to the vast, spotless window, which opened up to the limitless expanse of time and space around him, the blazing planet had dwindled to a flickering flame: a child’s attempt at a summer campfire.
God slid his favorite barstool next to a high table, then perched by the window, gazing at his mistake. He set his gin and tonic down. He thumped the book on the table, too.
Then, he went to work.
With a wave of his hand, Earth dissipated entirely. Sometimes he crumpled up dead planets and tossed them like playing dice, but that was when creation was fun. Not this time. He erased the shell of a planet from existence.
The dog tiptoed back into the room and sat before her master.
God glanced away from the window. “Sorry for getting so angry, Tiffany.” He leaned down and scratched the top of her head. She accepted his touch, then curled up beneath his feet.
He picked up his motivation, took a long, hearty swallow, and then morphed some dark matter into a planet. This go-around he placed it further away, in a different galaxy. He would eventually take care of it and cultivate it like the others, but he wanted to give it a chance on its own. He was in dire need of a hiatus: a good, long nap.
Creasing his brow, he brought the planet to life, filling it with landmasses and oceanic regions. The continents harvested great, sweeping plains, which were green and empty. He dropped lakes onto land and wove rivers into the fabric of the earth, connecting them to the clean, wide oceans.
In due time, God would name this newborn world and fill it with sophisticated beings. At some point, he’d give religion another whirl, too.
But for now, antelope would have to do. Antelope for the land, fish for the sea.
God opened the book and scrawled some notes on the first page: the time of conception, planet diameter, and original species. Cold hard facts. He even sketched out a “to do” list. He’d get back to it sooner or later. He snapped the book shut, still in disbelief at what he had done.
His head felt like it was going to split in two, but he guzzled the rest of his gin and tonic anyway. He set the empty glass down.
“Come on, Tiff,” he said in a tired voice. “This one’ll be here when we get back.”
With that, God stood up and ambled out of The Overlook. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept, and that probably meant it had been too long.
The dog followed at his heels.
This is another “vault” story, one that some of you may have read before. I hope you enjoyed its absurdity — it was fun to write.
Thanks so much for reading!
Fabulous but you did have me worried there for a second. All that blasphemy!
This is supremely delightful.