James Howerton

Twenty-nine Tales James Howerton

You don't talk like God.

"How do you know? Have you ever once talked to Me? What do you want Me to do, start throwing a bunch of thees and thous at you? I'm not the threatening kind, Andy. But you owe Me a favor. And it would be better to pay it than not."

"Oh, Please!" Andy crawled off the couch and got to his knees. He clasped his hands in supplication. "Please, just leave me alone!"

"Get off the floor, Andrew. Get off your damn knees. And stop folding your hands in front of you, it creeps Me out. I've had a stomach full of people whimpering on their knees, believe you Me. I never made people to be on their knees, they somehow learned it on their own."

Andy stared up at the bumpled-white ceiling. What's the favor you ask of me?

"It's a small thing," the voice said. "I want you to rescue my daughter."

Andy stared at the ceiling. Then he scrambled off the couch and staggered into the kitchen.

"Andy?"

"I need a drink. Maybe four or five. Oh, God! He touched his chest, heard his heart pumping too hard.

"Yes?"

Drink until I pass out and this goes away.

"Are you talking to yourself, or Me?"

What? Rescue your...

"My daughter."

The daughter of God.