So Many What-Ifs

You try to take in your surroundings, but you’re struggling to make sense of them. The place you’re in is very… nondescript. Literally. Every time you really try to focus on a particular shape or object, it’s as if your vision starts to blur, and when you blink in an effort to clear it, you can’t remember what it was you were trying to look at. You’re not even sure if you’re inside or outside. You think that you have to be outside, considering the amount of people here, but there is no wind, no sun, nothing that indicates you’re exposed to the elements at all. Even the temperature is so neutral that you barely register the fact that it‘s extremely pleasant. Almost as if it’s the perfect kind of room temperature.

Yet somehow the thing that surprises you most about all of this, isn’t the location, or the fact that you don’t know what’s going on, but it’s how all of these people are waiting patiently. Aside from some soft murmurs, and the occasional shuffling of feet when the lines moves forward, there are hardly any sounds. Never have you witnessed a group of people, of any size, wait for something without getting annoyed, or rowdy, or in any way impatient. It’s a little disconcerting.

The next time you take a step forward, a sign pops up to your right. Or perhaps it was always there and it simply moved into focus. It reads:

“What is the one thing you’ve always wanted to ask __?”

Ask who, you wonder, as you move past the sign and look up, there seem to be significantly fewer people in front of you. The line seems to evaporate while you’re pondering potential questions to ask, and suddenly the person in front of you takes a step forward and disappears behind some kind of fog, which then immediately clears up again. Great. Everything is fine, you assure yourself.

Then you feel compelled to move forward as well, and suddenly you find yourself in a small room, facing… Zeus? You scratch your head.

“For non-believers, I take the form of whatever deity they seemed the most interested in, or comfortable with,” Zeus said.

“Right. Okay.” You nod, as if this all makes perfect sense.

“So…” You have to know. “Are you… God, then?”

“It‘s what many people call me.”

You nod again, not sure what to say. Should you apologise for not believing in any gods at all?

“So, tell me, what question would you like me to answer?” God asks.

Your mind is completely blank. All the things you’ve ever wanted to know about life and death (and everything in between) seem to be hiding in a corner of you mind you can’t quite reach. So you ask the only thing that does come to mind, despite not knowing where it came from, or even if this is something you’ve thought about before.

“Why did you make the platypus so weird?” You ask.

“The what?” God replies, confused.

“The platypus? You know, that duck-billed, beaver-tailed, egg-laying, venomous mammal?” You try to clarify, wondering what the title of ‘God’ entails if he doesn’t even know all the animals on earth.

God stares at you. His left eye twitches a little.

“I’m sorry, the what now?” He gets up and you instinctively take a step backward – Zeus was kind of gigantic and more than a little terrifying – but he moves past you, towards a door in the corner of the room.

It’s only now that you realise you can actually focus on your surroundings. The room you’re in is surprisingly mundane. Sure, God/Zeus had been sitting on a throne, but that cabinet against the left wall, with a water pitcher on top of it, looks just like the one you bought at Ikea years ago. The light blue paint on the walls is starting to fade a little, and the carpet looks like it has seen better days as well. (You suspect it might once have been thick and golden, but right now it is almost threadbare, and a faded shade of yellow.)

God is whisper-arguing with someone on the other side of the door. The door has only been opened a crack, so you can’t tell who’s there, but you can tell that God is pissed.

The door closes again, and God stalks to the other side of the room, where he opens a curtain. Instead of revealing a window, a flatscreen appears. He switches it on, and flips through the channels, seemingly without using a remote. Every channel appears to be broadcasting some sort of security footage, but he’s flipping through them too fast for you to really make out what you’re seeing. Flashes of animals, houses, roads, lots of water? Earth, you guess.

He finally lands on a channel that apparently meets his expectations. For a few seconds, all you can see is a river, but then you can see something swimming to the surface. A platypus emerges, and God swears. (He uses many colourful words, some of which you’ve never heard before, but are determined to remember.)

“That sneaky little shit,” he mutters. “Hiding in plain sight. The audacity.”

“Well,” you supply, “the platypus doesn’t really hide. It doesn’t really blend in, you know. It’s far too weird for that.”

God swivels around to look at you, apparently a little surprised that you’re still here. He’s looking less like Zeus now. Smaller, and more human. Or less human, perhaps. Softer features. Kinder, much more tired, eyes. More androgynous. You definitely prefer this look, whatever it is.

“You should probably go,” God says. “I have some things to take care of.”

“Right.” You nod, while staring at the platypus merrily swimming along the river. God follows your gaze, and sighs. “I haven’t actually answered your question, have I?”

You shake your head.

“Okay.” God walks towards the throne again, making a slight detour to take a folding chair from where it had been propped up against the wall and handing it to you, motioning for you to sit down.

You unfold it, and take a – slightly uncomfortable – seat, staring at the being across from you, who now no longer looks like any depiction of “god” (or “goddess”) you’ve ever seen, yet who somehow looks far more ethereal, and far more powerful than Zeus did. An impressive feat, especially since God is currently rubbing their eyes, looking extremely tired and annoyed.

“Well,” God starts, “as you have no doubt been able to tell, I did not in fact create the platypus. I was unaware of its existence up until just now, which is obviously a failure on my part, although I am fairly certain that there are ways that it was hidden from me.”

The pitcher on the Ikea cabinet starts pouring a glass of water, which then floats towards God, who grabs it and takes a few swigs, eyes mostly focused on the flatscreen, where a platypus can be seen laying eggs.

“Eggs.” God mutters. “Honestly.”

“Anyway.” God’s eyes focus on you for a second, and you feel as though they look right through you. It’s not as uncomfortable a sensation as you would’ve expected.

“I have some… nemeses, who love to try and mess with me. Usually to the detriment of people on earth, which means that I often have to take drastic measures to take care of them.”

You bite your tongue to prevent yourself from pointing out that this doesn’t always appear to be successful, but God seems to know what you were going to say anyway.

“I know. But it could all have been much worse. I won’t horrify you with the details. Suffice to say, most of my enemies are dangerous, and their actions are hard to miss. Some of my enemies, however, take a more… playful approach. Less lethal, more annoying. Way more annoying.” God mutters that last bit.

“It appears that one of them has introduced this creature on earth, but I am not yet certain as to why. Perhaps they had intended the platypus to cause significant harm to other animals, or the ecosystem, but if that is the case, then I suppose they have failed. There is a chance they are used as spies, as my enemy’s eyes and ears on earth, but,” here God stares at the screen again, “it seems as if there would be easier, more productive ways to accomplish that. So, perhaps they were simply planted there to confuse and frustrate me.” God takes another sip of water.

“Diabolical,” you can’t help but mutter under your breath, resisting the temptation to roll your eyes. God chuckles.

“Yes. Well. I think I’ve answered your question to the best of my abilities, and I owe you some gratitude for alerting me to the existence of the platypus. I’m sure I’ll figure out what he’s up to eventually.”

“Who?” You ask, figuring you’ve got some kind of rapport going here, so you might as well take advantage of it.

God laughs. “My money is on the trickster you might call Loki. Or Anansi. Or Saci. We all have many names down there.”

“Huh. Okay. Well, thanks then.” You get up, unsure of where to go next.

God points to a door to your left, which you could’ve sworn wasn’t there before. It’s not the same door that God used to argue with someone.

“Alright.” You wave awkwardly, but then another question pops into your head.

“I’m not sure if asking another question is allowed,” you start, and God nods, a little wearily, “but why were there two underscores on that sign outside, instead of just ‘god’, or something?”

God looks annoyed. “Dammit, I thought I told them to fix that years ago. It’s been glitching when it encounters atheists and agnostics. It’s supposed to just show a different message entirely, preparing you for what’s about to happen.”

God walks over to the other door again, sighing. “Well. That explains a lot, actually. I’d been wondering why so many people seemed at a loss for what to ask.”

You hear another deep sigh as you grab the door handle. “It’s just one of those days, I guess.” You nod one last time. Some days are just like that.

God waves you off, and as you walk through the door that wasn’t there before, everything goes blank. The last thing you’re aware of hearing before the door closes behind you, is a softly muttered “eggs?!”.

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Based on the following writing prompt:

In heaven you meet God, and ask him a single question. “God, why did you make the platypus so weird?” You ask. “The what?” God replies confused.