by Sean Cunningham

You suppose there is a God, trapped somewhere between the stars. You write it ill-phrased letters and sketch new, convoluted constellations for its cage. You swear you hear it calling out every time you close your eyes, asking only why.

You tell others about God and they don’t care, or don’t want to hear a word you say, but you tell them that a lifetime is but a moment and eternity is just another day for it. Others tell you that God could never be confined because God is omnipotent, but you know that they are wrong. You tell them this, you say whoever lied to them must be the jailer – but they have no time for you, only for anger. You read what they’ve been told about God, looking for clues as to who is behind this cosmic mystery. You pore over every chapter, every sentence, phrase, word, letter, but nothing reveals itself.

You continue to write your letters and hold them up to the universe in vague desperation. You pinch the edges between your fingertips and stretch your arms upwards as far as you can, you want to reach the stars but you need to touch the moon first. You stretch and you stretch, and you pull the paper as wide as you can until it casts its shadow over the entire Earth, just yearning to be noticed for a moment.

Sean Cunningham is a writer of very short prose and poetry, from Liverpool. His work has appeared in publications such as Fugue, Bending Genres, FIVE:2:ONE, and Ellipsis Zine, among others. He can be found on Twitter: @sssseanjc





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