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God made the world on a Monday morning, ever so quietly, with a crateful of coffee and a hangover. When He was done He lit a cigarette and swore to Himself He’d never drink again.

I see God most days, in strange places around the house, or out in the garden, sometimes. He never speaks to me.

God has bone-pale hair and mismatched teeth that crowd His holy mouth like shrunken crucifixes, waiting for the promise of a prophet. I know people think He doesn’t care, but the truth is he cares all too much, about all the wrong things. Ask Him and He’ll show you His miracles; they litter every surface, flat or vertical, framed and mounted. God is very proud of His miracles.

I watch Him sometimes at his desk in the mornings. He sits with His head in His hands, muttering prayers under His breath, scratching His stubble with half-eaten nails, blue from the ink of His trade. God has blood-soaked eyes and a tannin-coloured tongue, stained with the memory of infinite cups of tea. He keeps His shadow in a jam-jar beside his bed, it screams at Him every day, begging for release.

God only sometimes listens.

Flash Fiction by Philip Webb Gregg

Published in Spring 2017


  1. Mohini Malhotra Mohini Malhotra

    Love this!

  2. Naomi Shuyama Naomi Shuyama

    Really enjoyed this piece!

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