portion of the artwork for Bobby Parker's fiction

God’s Finger
Bobby Parker

Sick of screaming outside churches at night after the pubs had closed, I begged God to come into my life and save me from this dark bellyache. It took me a while to ask.

In the meantime I drank too much and wrote love letters that I flushed down factory toilets or sailed along muddy rivers at dusk.

My mother sobbed, “Please donít kill yourself.” I hugged her but I felt cold. Cold enough to kill myself.

My dad took me to see Bob Dylan in concert which warmed me up a bit. We went to the local pub afterwards. They locked the doors and we took speed and sat up all night talking about music.

I didn’t kill myself. Now what was I going to do?

Walking the streets late at night with my friend Jack, feeling sorry for myself after another girl had rejected me, my heart like a busted old shoe in the rain, Jack stopped and said, “Ask God for help. Go on …”

So by the steps of a video rental store I fell down on my knees in a puddle under the sneering moon and wept, “God help me … God help me … please!” and I think I felt something happen.

Jack said I had God’s finger inside me.

Before I went to bed that night I wrote REMEMBER YOU FOUND GOD LAST NIGHT on a scrap of paper and put it beside my bed and went to sleep for the first time in weeks.

When I got up in the morning I sat on the end of the bed and stared at the scrap of paper. What happens now? I thought, as my dad’s gruff voice drifted up the stairs like cigar smoke, “Come on. Youíll be late for work.”


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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 35 | Winter 2012