The heart of the great scientist had beat its final defiance. The ganglionic sparks had begun their exodus from the bland greyness confined to the mind which the world had so treasured.
Their energy encountered an embrace beyond description.
“So what’s this crap about me not existing?” the Creator posed.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion. And sometimes he barges in on subjects a tad too soon… where angels fear to tread.
The eggheads cracked it, opened a door to the afterlife. Come and go as you please. They chose me, figuring I had plenty of questions for the Big Guy. They didn’t know I’d need an appointment. Didn’t know I would have blown Him off if I had one.
Andrew Walo is a freelance writer and a hunter of wild paragraphs and domesticated monsters. He resides in Norfolk, Virginia, but he lives for jacket-weather. More work can be found at AndrewWalo.com
God awoke in a restless state. Something was not right yet. God watched Adam and Eve frolicking in the garden. Perhaps one more creature, something simple and resilient, something that would survive the humans if they actually managed to blow everything up.
God slipped two cockroaches under the garden gate.
Robbie Gamble identifies primarily as a poet. When not obsessing about image and line breaks, he works as a nurse practitioner caring for homeless people in Boston, Massachusetts.
The hospice nurse used an eyedropper to slip more morphine beneath his tongue. The whole problem was God. God’s absence throughout. That summed it up. God at the beginning, pressing dimples into your chin. God at the end, sliding his hand over your eyelids, saying, Shush. That’s enough for now.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net
To Church on a wet and stormy day in November. Father and daughter together.
On the way there, an oncoming truck rushes madly around a sharp curve – hydroplaning.
Head on crash. Trapped for hours.
Days later, the daughter wakes. “Where’s my Daddy?”
Alone, the girl wonders, “What of God?”
Kimberly Hausbeck wrote this story.
About to drink her non-alcoholic communion wine, Jane thought she was certain of exactly two things.
God loved her,
God is in the details.
However, if both those things were true, why did her husband leave her at the altar to be with Greek Leon from the HR department?
John is an English and Creative Writing graduate who splits his time evenly between writing, reading, and procrastinating. He very much hopes that one day the burden of reading his work will be taken off his family and friends and placed onto the general public.
He stumbled headfirst into the river.
The clouds opened up, light shone forth, and a voice said, “Believe in me, and let go.”
Then there was fire and brimstone and another voice said, “Clutch at these straws!”
“Bugger this!” he thought and swam to the shallow side and walked away.
Read more of Connell’s fractured words at paragraphplanet, home.wtd-magazine.com, and postcardshorts.com.
The skies darkened. Rain pelted. The waters rose. Fast.
Through the opening, Noe saw the screaming masses paddling towards the Ark as it lurched in the foaming surge.
He sighed, but nonetheless searched for encouraging words, then shouted, “God still loves you. Oh, by the way, I told you so.”
Joey reckons many of us haven’t got long to live.
Hector heard God, when least expected but most needed, the unmistakable voice dripping intravenously into his brainspace, booming, “Stop! Don’t end your life!”
Hector stepped back, flabbergasted, dizzy with adrenaline and rapturous bafflement as the unexpected unbalancing cocked him over the edge of CityPoint. He fell: weeping, laughing, screaming, praying.
Shark Trager lives in North London and has been writing and blogging 50-word stories erratically for five years. He is a novelist in progress as well as a jobbing copywriter and ghostwriter.