The Bigger Bang
Here’s a short story I found in an old notepad and tidied up a bit. Nothing spectacular, but it might kill 2 minutes.
The Bigger Bang
Although some claim to have heard the wind making a mournful sighing sound just before it happened, most of us only heard the loud bang, the one that shattered windows and set off a choir of boorish car alarms from New York to Munich and, well, every place you could or couldn’t name on a map of the world. That bang, that’s when we all knew that God had killed himself. There was talk that you could see the back of His head sprayed in a delicate crimson mist against the sparkling backdrop of the universe He lovingly created and eventually just got so fucking sick of, but if you ask me, people will see whatever they want.
Personally, I think He faked it. He must have grown tired of all the whining, needy prayers, and “…then why do bad things happen to good people?” and that every time a rapper won a Grammy for their album about guns, rims and bitches, they’d give all praise to Him and make Him feel like the not so proud parent of Scotland’s self proclaimed Sex Pest of The Year.
“Without God, I’m wouldn’t be here today,” said Jizzy G at last year’s VMAs, holding aloft a little golden statue received for his video The Nut-Nut Song, which sampled various cereal advert jingles from the late eighties, but was mostly about unloading a stringy wad of ball-glue into women’s faces when they least expect it, before running away, laughing. The only miracle is that He didn’t do it sooner.
He wanted to get away, to start again, start afresh, without the weight of expectation, or the grandest reputation in recorded history. If He’d really topped himself, we wouldn’t still be here. If you’re abandoning your house, isn’t half the satisfaction and fun watching it burn while you walk away? Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe He knows we’ll burn it down ourselves.
I sat up that night and listened, I don’t know what for. Maybe the splash of His enormous body crashing into the ocean to set off a tsunami that would engulf us all, or the heavy tip-toes and creaks of a creator trying to sneak away, like an ageless Reginald Perrin with planets for eyes. I’d half-expected the end-times chaos of Ragnarok, looters and religious fanatics all, falling through cracks in the Earth, and household pets reawakening their savage ancestral memories to claw and bite at their owner’s faces – but nothing. Everything was normal, everything was still. Except for the crows. All night long, they flew and cawed in gigantic packs, screeching and swooping around like bad kids partying in the house of some poor nerd whose parents were on vacation. I saw a group of thirty or forty rounding on a ragged pair and pecking them to pieces. Those just watching were shrieking with approval, the squawks laced with such a seemingly mocking tone, it was hard not to project a more human psychotic zeal onto their actions. When they were done, they scattered what was left to the empty winds and took off to their next destination. Murder. A murder of crows.
Even now, the people who can’t or won’t let go, the ones who need answers or who never found a way to cope with the issues of abandonment, they’re out there come sundown, peering through telescopes for clues and reasons, searching for the final note they think He might have scrawled in the stars before He pulled the trigger. It was probably a trick of the mind, but when I watched the crows heading off in search of their next victim, in the sky above, if you tilted your head a little to the East, there was a twinkling that looked an awful lot like “Fuck. You. All.”