God’s Confusing Signs

by Noah Giles

A Quirk crestfallen; fallen on his knees, behemoth-size doubt stirred in his abdomen: he had diarrhea; streaming tears running, staining his cheeks clear, and his hands closed together; breathing in, breathing out: his heart rate dropped, anxiety lessened, pharynx loosed; carpet fibers stuck between his long toenails, it annoyed him; and then the Quirk spoke:

“Dear God, Dear Lord, Dear Father, Dear Holy Spirit, Dear Baby Jesus, Dear The Almighty, I need help. Today has been rough. Terrible, my feelings hurt. It’s not lost on me: I know it’s weird. I don’t pray or go to church or read scriptures, and my fingers are sometimes sticky, but I promise with all my heart that if you help me, I’ll start living a Christian life. I figure if you can support death row inmates in their final hours, you can help me. I’m only asking for a sign of whether or not I should pursue or not pursue.” (The Quirk thought, That last line sounds good. A bit Shakespearean, probably from a lesser work’ though, but—in truth—the Quirk read one play, Midsummer’s Night, in ninth grade.) “Amen,” ended the Ignorant Theologian.

Now, sickness scat, apprehensions flushed, no longer fallen on his knees because he knew God was there, he undressed for bed and sang the butchered hymn:

“Amazing Grace! Christian Soldier,

marching to war, that saved a wretch;

with the cross of Jesus.

Going on before: Amazing Grace!”

He whacked off, an epilogue to end the day, an act to every night: camping, a late Christmas party, a friend’s house. He relaxed, in bed, eyes shut but still awake, rummaging through the words of his prayer in his head on a pillow, snuggled under a blanket, the room chilled. He liked his prayer. He imagined. God, in heaven, reading a plethora of messages: a girl wants a doll, maybe a man wants love. Of course, the Ignorant Theologian’s wish won’t be read tonight; after all, billions are Christian, each with their own prayer, and God is only one of three. But, perhaps tomorrow. He felt peaceful. A hug from God and a cuddle from Jesus. The Ignorant Theologian dozed off with a smile.

He dreamt, holding the knowledge God sends messages through subconsciousness. Not this time. It was ridiculous. What happened in that dream are actions he would never do. Nonsense. Too many words would be needed to go into detail, the structure would break down, the form would trickle into the shallow depths of a novella. In summary: ridiculous, infeasible, and nonsense. Describing dreams is cliched. He knew God would help–not by sending signs in his mind, but from the outer world, maybe outside. He dressed, left, and sat on a bus bench.

Sitting on the bus, he etched drawings. Bird feces. Glass cracks. A stain. Stains. Staining. Existing on a window, outside, in dabby weather, slight breeze, a run-on of descriptions: he drew symbols on his palms. It might have led to a sign. Directions to the sign? Would he even know? Could he misinterpret? An influence of the devil? Next to him, he heard snoring (well, actually gurgling…well, coughing…well, dying…well, singing…well, choking…well, yawning…well, burping…well, whispering…well, gnawing. He saw a wino. Drug-induced, alcoholic, smelly, lazy wino. The Asshole poked the wino’s coat. The wino woke:

“What gives?” the wino said.

 “Are you my sign?” the Asshole said.

“What the hell?”

“You would know if you were a sign, right?”

“What the hell are you on about?”

The Asshole’s voice rose, “A sign. Sign. Sign! The way God communicates with us!”

“I’m not your damn sign! I don’t know what that means. You sound insane,” the wino said.

“To me, you’re just a wino loaded with adjectives.”

The bus stopped. The driver demanded the Asshole leaves for “acting a menace;” the other patrons agreed and joined in screaming berates at him: “quirk, ignorant, asshole, menace, creep, muddle, quirk.” He hadn’t minded being thrown out, God’s whims toying. What bugged a testy was the wino allowed to stay on the bus. The Menace wondered, “Was that part of the sign? Or, going to lead me to the sign?” At the height of confusion, three people walked by. A couple. A black man. It all came together: the three wise men. Prime symbolism. They weren’t all side-by-side and men—only two, but close enough—and the Menace knew they would lead to a sign as the three kings were led to Jesus. The Menace crept behind them.

Twenty-odd minutes of tailing, the couple entered their house. The Creep thought of burglarizing, but instead followed the black man. After an hour, the black man ran, so Creep ran, too. The Creep chased the black man into the suburbs. The black man cut through backyards.

The Creep couldn’t catch up to him. The Muddle was lost in a suburban maze.

The Muddle wandered, trying to find a way out. No traffic lights. The behinds of stop signs might have held a sign. Beneath the cars lining the street. Sprinklers in yards and dirt in pots. Black and green trash cans. But, no hope. The more he searched the deeper the suburbs pulled him in. Churches broke through the repetition of identical houses. The Muddle sat on the sidewalk, completely lost, night came. He gave up his search for a sign.

A Quirk defeated. Fallen on his knees. Doubt grew. He wept. His hands clenched his ears. Breathing erratically.

A plastic bag twirled in the wind. The bag opened as it rose and limped as it fell. A square hole was cut into the bottom. The bag was red. The dancing caught the Quirk’s attention. God hadn’t given up on him. That was the sign.

The Quirk interpreted the symbolism. He came to it: he will not pursue.

For the curious reader, the alternative ending: he pursues.

BIO: Noah Giles is from Salt Lake City Utah. Being a film buff his free time is occupied by movies, he especially loves ones from the 20s. It was a different precode era. He also likes to read just about every genre and just about every book. He is currently working on experimental short stories.