Short Story/Fiction
G.O.D.
A short story of introspection, whimsy, and philosophical musings, interwoven with elements of nature and existential questioning
Introduction
The inspiration for G.O.D. was gained from a meditation in which I questioned my own feelings of displacement and the fleeting nature of existence. It was that ‘What if?’ moment which acts as a prompt and starts the creative flow.
The watering can, initially described as weathered and cracked, symbolises the passage of time and the weariness of routine. It transforms from a utilitarian tool to a metaphor for the narrator’s own sense of fading vitality and purpose. Insects shelter in the can before being washed away by the replenishing water, and represent transient beings which mirror the narrator’s own feelings of weakness and helplessness against forces beyond their control.
The story shifts between introspective thoughts, memories, and dialogues with unexpected characters like the talking gourd, which adds a surreal and fantastical element. The use of the song “There’s a Hole in My Bucket” serves as a recurring motif, highlighting the cyclical nature of mundane tasks and the frustration of feeling stuck in repetitive patterns. There’s a juxtaposition between human desires for change and the natural order, reflecting on the inevitability of life cycles and the consequences of human actions.
The narrator’s encounter with the gourd, claiming to be a deity, sparks discussions on life’s purpose, spirituality, and the concept of God. This dialogue challenges the narrator’s beliefs and assumptions about life and existence. The conversation with the gourd-turned-deity delves into deeper existential questions about the afterlife, human desires, and the role of suffering in the world.
G.O.D. includes themes of aging, identity, and the desire for change , these permeate the narrative, as the narrator contemplates the impact of a single word (“madam”) on their sense of self and trajectory in life. Overall, the story intertwines personal reflection with broader philosophical ponderings, using imagery and dialogue to explore themes of identity, purpose, and spirituality. It invites readers to contemplate the significance of everyday routines, the impact of language and perception on our lives, and the pursuit of fulfilment amidst the complexities of existence.
The story is below. I would very much appreciate it is you could read, enjoy, clap and leave feedback.
G.O.D.
My watering can hangs upside down on a pole, useless until filled from the well. Once shiny, robust, now the can’s faded, there are cracks caused by the blistering sun. A song pops into my head.
🎶There’s a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza…
Inside the watering can’s grey-green spout insects shelter from the heat. Despite knowing they are there, I lift the can from the pole and begin filling it, one gallon, two, three, four … The jaded creatures hurriedly evacuate their once dry and sheltered temporary home, like refugees from a flood. The torrent of icy liquid washes away their webs and nests in a noisy deluge. Stragglers, mainly trundling woodlice, erupt from the spout in a virescent torrent of liquid. Waterlogged, they flail on the sodden ground until the warm air dries them. They become mobile once more and scurry off through the myrtle and asparagus to beg asylum from a mellow red brick.
🎶Then fix it dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry.
A random thought pops into my head. I remember it like it was yesterday. How time flies: He called me ‘madam’ — not ‘miss’. Why? Until the moment ‘madam’ slipped snake-like from his spittle-flecked lips, I’d been young. Madam stopped my breath. It shifted my perspective, dented my ego, shocked me like an unexpected slap, sent me rushing to the mirror to see what he’d seen. What HAD he seen? Crow’s feet? Wrinkles? A down-turned mouth, an eye-bag, a shadow? I remember I’d hurried home and cried into a cup of hot tea.
I wash away my frustrations with this garden chore. Watch, as the discomforted insects drag their drenched bodies across the sodden earth, they mirror my own journey as I struggle through the muddy furrows of the-daily-shit-I really-do not-give-a-fig-about-but-have-to-pretend-I-do.
As I water the cucumbers and green peppers, I imagine my nemesis struggling on the boggy ground with broken arms and legs, sopping wet and miserable.
🎶With what shall I fix it dear Liza, dear Liza?
Funny how one little word can have such an effect, how it can make one feel — the speaker devoid of any clue with regard to its consequence.
‘Madam’ robbed me of my playfulness, my joy, my youthful exuberance. ‘Madam’ erased my naivety, my innocence, my childhood freedoms. ‘Madam’ catapulted me into adulthood, to sensibleness, to behaving and responsibilities. Madam’ sentenced me to a life-time of conforming, not complaining — no longer growing but dying.
I’m brought back to the present by the watering can overflowing. I wish, like the can, I could be filled with something different, new, exciting, adventurous. I see myself as a cleansing torrent, a magnificent waterfall, a life-giving tap in a dessert, a verdant meadow, an aquamarine ocean, a healing teardrop, a comforting cup of green tea. Not an uncomplaining waterwheel, going through the motions, on the daily grind, past its best, taken for granted, unappreciated, feelings ignored, growing older.
🎶With a straw, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry.
Dear God, If you’re listening, fill my aging container with green shoots of usefulness — let me become …
“Madam … can you hear me? No? Look down — at your feet — yes, that’s it. Part the ferns then you’ll see me. Hello … madam … can you see me yet?”
“Er … I can hear you. I’m looking for what exactly?”
“Me, madam.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t see anyone … there’s just a few insects dragging their wings, a sprig of apple mint, and a fat gourd.”
“I prefer rounded to fat.”
“What?”
“Are you deaf? I said: I PREFER ROUNDED TO FAT AS AN ADJECTIVE.”
“I’m not deaf, just a little confused … you’re a gourd and you’re talking to me … why — and how?”
“To be accurate, you spoke to me first.”
“I didn’t.”
“I distinctly heard you say ‘Dear Gourd’.”
“When? — no! I was day-dreaming, watering the plants, talking to myself, thinking, singing. I actually said ‘Dear God’.”
“Same thing.”
“No … God is the creator of the universe, the supreme being, all seeing, all knowing, omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent and ineffable.”
“That’s me.”
“No it isn’t. God sits in heaven and passes judgement on the souls of our dear departed. You’re only the fruit of a cucurbitaceous plant whose dried shell I’ll eventually use as an ornament.”
“Ouch, that hurt. I’m not ‘only’ anything. I’m very important in a humble sort of way.”
“What are you talking about? You’re a gourd — grown for decorative purposes — not even a proper vegetable, no one would eat you, you’ve got no flesh, your skin is as tough as old leather.”
“I’ll have you know, madam, this small vessel is full to the brim with spiritual energy, enough to fill up the entire universe, as well as other dimensions your small brain and limited intellect have no idea even exist.
“You’re very rude for a God.”
“GOD, not a god.”
“Whatever.”
“Anyway, GOURD is an acronym.”
So, what does it stand for?”
“To some I’m the ‘Genesis Of Untenable Religious Dogma’ although, to be clear, that’s absolutely nothing to do with me — it’s not my problem if somebody gets a weird idea in their head then runs with it. To others I’m the Granter Of Unusual and Ridiculous Desires but people like to shorten names — which I find very annoying — so now I’m known as GOD — Granter Of Desires, which has a different meaning altogether. Although … now I think about it … most of those people are so selfish G.O.D. should stand for Genie On Demand.
“So, like a fairy, you grant peoples’ wishes?”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that madam — and, by the way unlike me, fairies aren’t real. People need to be careful what they wish for. If I do grant a wish, and I try to do so sparingly, they don’t always like what I give them. Often they find they preferred their old life — and the folk that were in it — and then they blame me for their bad choices. One never really appreciates what one has until it’s gone — hence the ‘ridiculous’ bit when granting desires.”
“Are you suggesting people shouldn’t dream about living a different life, shouldn’t wish for things to change, to be better.”
“Dreaming and wishing get you nowhere. Doing does. If you want something badly enough then find the motivation to do something about it. It’s up to you to make the best of your life, it’s the only one you’ll have.”
“I suppose … hang on … you said one life, what happens when we die? I thought we all get to live with you in heaven.”
“When people turn their eyes upwards they miss so much, life happens all around them and they’re oblivious to most of it. In the soil beneath their feet, deep within the ocean, even inside their own bodies — each is a veritable universe in itself but … what do they do? They look to the sky, see clouds, an odd rainbow, and think that’s where their eternal life will manifest.”
“Are you saying there’s no heaven up there?”
“So naive … life is here … on Mother Earth … this ultramarine jewell of a planet. I made it so everything has a time, and a place, and a purpose. Everything about it is mathematically calculated right down to the tiniest molecule. My idea, madam, and I have to say I was rather pleased with it, was that the circle of life and death would keep everything ticking over nicely. Planet Earth is a perpetual, self-regulating organism, it knows exactly what it needs to continue to keep just the right amount of inhabitants, of all species, alive and thriving. When things become unbalanced, over-crowded — whatever the cause, Mother Earth knows what to do.”
“You mean, extreme weather, natural disasters, wars, pandemics … that’s a bit cruel isn’t it? How can you condone it?”
“Cruel, madam? Like you just were to those insects? I don’t have to — condone it that is. The circle of life is what it is. That’s how the thing works. Everything, and everyone has their day, then they cease to exist to make way for something, or someone else — dust to dust. Of course, you humans make it all about you, your wants, your resentments, your disappointments, your desires, so much thinking, not a lot of doing — never satisfied. You believe you’re all SO much more important than my plan.”
“Oh, for goodness sake, what are you chuntering on about and, while we’re at it, I’m busy — why are you still talking to me?”
“Like I said, madam, you were talking to me … you said a prayer … I’m here to answer it. By the way, what was that song you were singing?”
“It’s a silly one from my childhood, There’s a Hole In My Bucket. It was sung by Harry Belafonte and …”
“Well madam, it’s a metaphor for the futility of life, in case you didn’t get it. By the way, you should put your voice to better use, I’ve given you a conscious brain, intelligence, a creative mind — you could do a lot more with it.”
“My granny used to say if you can’t think of anything nice to say keep your mouth closed, so why don’t you shut yours and leave me to my gardening.”
“Your granddad told you that for a garden to grow and blossom you have to tend to it with love, how’s that going for you?”
“How do you know what my granddad said?”
“I’m GOD and, as you said earlier, I know everything. Now, enough of this trivial banter, let’s get down to business. You made a wish, you can only choose one mind. So, will it be the cleansing torrent, the magnificent waterfall, the life-giving tap in a dessert, the verdant meadow, the aquamarine ocean, a healing teardrop, that comforting cup of green tea or, and may I suggest you think about this very carefully madam — would you prefer to remain just plain old you?”
“Dear God…I do wish you’d stop calling me madam …
The End
