My flash fiction started from a place of pure question. When I went to find a subject for this story I wanted to move people with my story. I wanted my story of 500 words to last an eternity in someone else's eyes. So when I chose my subject of religion I knew I was on to something.
Being a musician for the majority of my life has lead me to believe that whether it be music or something in the realm of the fine arts, art should be a question to society. Most people see artists as prolific in life, well aged, veritable, while I tend to see them much like scientist- inquisitive.
For these reasons I wanted to tamper with the idea of religion and take something as controversial and as defining as God creating man, and humanize it. I strived to draw out feelings of discomfort and spiritual loneliness from this scenario because in many ways this has been my own journey of religion.
Work Bench
Slumped in His earth-stained white shirt, God waited for an idea to grab His mind. His ripped blue jeans showed the peaks of His legs in their tired, procumbed position. His fingers curled in reflexively, having gripped tool after tool for days on end. His arms pulsed with pangs of tiredness. Yet nothing was as sore as His mind. It was inflamed from the day’s labor, plastered to the inside of His head. Exhausted, He relaxed in His white chair waiting for whatever idea might come to Him. Sure enough, one stumbled its way into His mind. He heaved himself out of His chair, and begrudgingly got to work.
He trudged His way towards his work bench. He put both hands on the table and lowered Himself down onto his stool, sighing as His knees bent. Seated, He plunged his hands into the tank. Probing the cloudy water, He carefully cupped the living knick-knack in the palm of His hands. With one thumb He gently wiped away any excess water from the surface, and looked for any imperfections, and of course He found none. With great care He set the little blue ball down on its pedestal and shifted to molding a small soul from a little spool of yarn.
In and out went His needle, gently pushing through each hole in the personality. One loose stitch and an eccentric ego was conceived. Another stitch and a crude sense of entitlement was woven. Another stitch and there appeared blind judgement. Two more and out came a forgiving heart. Three more and out popped an apathetic initiative. One last stitch and the soul bore its resentment. Finally, He tied His cotton yarn around everything and gave birth to the soul's burden of self-preservation. Delicately, He tied soul to body and in no time had made Man, every last bit in His image.
Man opened his eyes and saw God for the first time. He slowly rose from the floor that was God's work bench. He saw the nasty white t-shirt and tattered jeans. He saw the chaotic piles of tools and writing around Him. He saw the dirt under His fingernails and the weakness in His arms. He gave God a long glare and looked Him up and down as if to ask, who are you?
God's eyes widened in dismay. He had worked His whole life on such projects and never had they awoken strangers. He had made so many different models and prototypes and none ever seemed to look quite right, walk quite straight, talk quite so clear, but they always knew who He was. They would always look Him in the eye with such respect, with such love. But that wasn’t the case this time. God leaned forward in response to Man’s gaze. Who are you? Man stood still, continuing to glare with squinted eyes. God, in an attempt to understand what He did wrong, went to pick up man. He raised His right arm and slowly moved it towards Man. Fingers extended, God timidly tried to hold man but was quickly swatted away. In tears and frustration, God picked up man and earth, tossed them in there black starry tank, switched the lights off, and left.
