First World God

So, I follow a cool blog group of writers called The Conceited Crusade. This week one of the talented contributors suggested a prompt and I, because fuck it, have decided to do it.
After all, if what Gordan says about the only people reading blog are writers is true, I should assume the same of all of you.
Because that’s why we’re all here.

So his prompt was basically, “write a story about God not helping the Syrian refugees because he isn’t omnipresent.”

Thanks for the fun little prompt.
I officially feel silly and blasphemous. But it’s Easter, so it’s perfect timing.

—————

The mother held her children close together and prayed for their safety. “Oh Allah,” she cried. “Please keep my babies safe and alive.”
She pushed her children forward and watched them step onto the boat.
The mother gave thanks then turned her attention to herself. “And, Oh Allah,” she cried. “If you could… Please keep me safe as well.”
A guard called to the waiting crowd, “All right, that’s all the room we got this go around. Better luck next time!”
Mohammed and Aseel sailed along the Mediterranean without their mother, wondering why she couldn’t come along as well.

Little did they know, there was a very good explanation. But they didn’t know because those-in-the-know wished to keep it “on the down low.” It was, in fact, because God was not omnipresent.
So they continued sailing over perilous seas to a unknown destination with their hope that Allah would take care of them.

For it was Allah’s very intention to have their mother join. He had her penned down for a few years to come. However, after she said her first prayer, another call came along.
And it was a call that he just couldn’t miss. So by the time she opened her mouth to plead for her life, God was halfway across the world in the bedroom of Ms. Goldey.
Ms. Goldey was a MILF in her forties who would occasionally return home from her dates and pray.
“Dear Jesus,” she’d say, “I messed up again. I did it. I pray you’ll forgive me, Lord. I’m a dirty, dirty girl.”

God felt something vibrate in his pocket.
It was his phone. His assistant was calling. Hesitantly, pausing to hear Ms. Goldey beg for mercy some more, he answered, “Yeah?”
“Listen… Little Mo and Aseel aren’t doing too well right now.”
“Don’t I have angels designated to do stuff like this?”
“Well, yes…”
“And Jesus’ Mother deals with prayers a lot, doesn’t she?”
“That’s mostly for Catholics.”
“See, they know not to bother me.”
“I kinda think it’s important that you’re there. The world needs you, the phones are off the hook about these refugees. They’re in some serious hell.”
“Could they at least call me ‘Lord?’ I don’t like all that ‘Allah’ nonsense.”
“I’ll see what I can do… … … so… if you could… they need food on the boats…”
“All right, all right. I’ll be right there.”
God waited for Goldey to finish. Then he poofed back to Syria.

A few miles away he found them. Aseel was praying, “Please, Allah, feed us.”
So God commanded a school of fish to jump onto the deck. They all praised Allah.
Someone else was calling him, this time a yoga instructor from Seattle with constipation.
But he ignored it. Let Gabriel take care of that.
No, this time he was going to really wow these guys. As the boat dwellers started to grab the fish with their hands, God reached out his finger and said, “Bibbity boppity boo.”
The fish turned into pizza pies of all varieties. And when one reached their hand out to grab a slice, another slice was in its place. So that all of the people rejoiced!

Speaking of pizza party, God said to himself.
And he appeared at a birthday party where Timothy’s mother was leading grace, “God is great! God is good! Let us thank him for our food!”

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