What Happened When Frank Died: God


Frank died.

God whistled a tune.

Frank looked around at the room. Nothing special, walls, mostly. Frank looked back at God.

“Who the hell are you?”

God stopped whistling. “God, I think, right? You guys are stilling calling me God?”

Frank stared, placid. “Uh-huh.”

“Any-who,” God muttered, feeling awkward.

“Right,” Frank stood. “I’m going to go.”

“Wait!” God pleaded. “Just,” God sighed, “wait. You can’t go yet.”

“And why is that?” Frank asked, crossing his arms.

“Well, you see,” God said, wincing, “you’ve been selected, so, you need to decide if you forgive me or not.”

Frank chuckled, then, looked cold at God, “shit, no.”

God sighed, face gone slack. Frank frowned. He sat back across from God.

“Seriously, is this some kind of joke?”

God didn’t move, only looked at Frank the way an old dog looks at a vet with a long needle.

“I–I have to do this, it’s my punishment.”

Frank snorted, leaning back. “For what?”

God looked away, “for creating your world. They said it was too cruel. That I was arrogant to think I could make a world with free will. Cowards, they’re always making these fluffy little playgrounds for fluffy little dumb creations. I wanted to do something new, innovative.”

God looked about to cry with frustration. Frank almost felt pity, then thought about it.

“You know, because of you I’ve gone through a life that the damned would call hell. You took everyone I loved from me, and–and, well screw yourself.”

God moaned. “You would not believe the pain that my world has caused people, yet, some are still willing to forgive. It wasn’t all bad was it? I gave you ice cream. And puppies? Don’t you like puppies, Frank?”

Frank took a breath and stood up. He looked down at God.

“What happens if I don’t forgive you?”

God ran a finger along the side of the chair and shrugged. “I just know I need a certain number of my creations to forgive me.”

Frank shook his head and looked around the room. He saw a door. He started toward it.

“Do you forgive me?” God called after him.

Frank turned.

“How many creations need to forgive you?”

God sighed, “I don’t know.”

“Okay, what happens to you if not enough of us forgive you?”

“I don’t know,” God recited, again.

Frank rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Can you tell me what is through that door?”

God only stared, silent.

Frank waited, then, when God did not relent, Frank shrugged.

“Well, this has been disappointing,” he admitted to himself, and God.

Frank turned and opened the door, he stepped out.

“Do you forgive me!” God called after him.

“Why not,” Frank said, no longer anything but a voice.


  1. Way to go Ben. I love the last line of this installment – leaves us wondering if it might be the last Frank – just a voice! It’s extremely powerful in its simplicity.



    • Oh and the “Why not . . . .” Also elegant, not just for its simplicity, but also for its lack of commitment to an outcome.


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