Okay, several reviewers & PMers have expressed dismay at the content of these stories and concern for the state of my soul, so from now on, to spare everyone psychic pain, I'm going to put clear warnings at the head of every ficlet, explaining why it may or may not be offensive. Then you can decide whether it's for you or not.

Confessions of a Messiah Who Has Had It

Warning: Jesus briefly exhibits a bad attitude.

Today didn't start well. A guy was praying for help, really praying, and though he had my full attention it is rare these days for a person to hear me as clearly as I want them to. They talk, but they don't listen. He didn't hear me, and he put the gun in his mouth, and now he's damned as a suicide even though he wasn't that bad a person to begin with.

I don't like it; it's a rule we need changed but of course I can't get to it today, not on Easter when everybody and his brother has something to say to me.

I listen. The first thing I hear is: "Dear God, I have a question. There's this woman…"

Does he really want to ask a 2000-year-old virgin for dating advice? I breeze by him, feel around for a child because children tend to listen a little better and I don't feel so much like I'm banging my head against a wall. There – a girl. She's crying. Omigod it's over, it's like my whole LIFE is over because nobody is ever going to take me seriously again, he put this picture up online, he swore he would never show anybody, omigod now EVERYBODY saw it…

Oh, yeah? Poor thing. How would she feel if people took her baby pictures - no, sorry, fabricated her baby pictures and made her look all deformed on top of it - and distributed them all over the world? Literally carved them in stone? I have a six-pack, and a head about four sizes too small for a human infant, in at least half of my portraits. Do you know what I actually looked like as a baby? I was fat, and covered in drool, and had smudges all over my cheeks because I used to eat dirt. Like every other baby.

I growl some of this to the girl, but she's not listening… which, given my current mood is probably a good thing. But still. I am sick and tired of people complaining with their ears closed! I want someone whose heart I can reach today, someone who is actually trying to receive me…

I don't stop to think that such a person would deserve better than the snarling ball of bad attitude I have become this morning. Easter is always like this, always full of questions like was it all worth it and for all my "followers" have I really managed to make any difference to anyone-

Aha. I hear something. "Jesus, please take this rage, take it away from me because I know she's cheating again, I know it and I'm afraid I'm going to hurt her. Please Jesus make me calm. Take away my anger, calm me, please you have to take it away, or else something will happen, it really will."

Normally I'd have a lot of encouraging words for someone like that, but not today. "Do you expect me to do all your work for you!?" I give him an instant migraine with the force of my presence but I can't stop. "So you've got rage; so does everyone! Man up and do the right thing anyway! No, it's not easy. But do it!"

He's holding his head now, he's had enough. I tune him out, but a million other voices take his place at once. Churches are the worst. Today they're packed and it's like loudspeakers, thousands at a time, all just a little off-key or off-tempo so that it forms this colossal anti-symphony that makes me want to pull my hair out. I try to focus on just one, that usually helps.

Except today the one I've chosen is a joke: the prayers in there are empty, every single one. "Goddamn it they need cushions on this damn thing," someone is thinking. "God she looked at me again. She's definitely looking at me. Should I smile back? Or pretend I don't notice?"

Do they not realize I can hear what's going on in there? It's like the Jerusalem Temple all over again. What are they doing in my house!?

All of a sudden I'm there, in the flesh or as good as, and boy do I have a lot to say. "Not one of you is actually present!" I shriek. "Don't you dare set foot in this place again until you can bring your hearts with you!" My father's going to kill me (again) for this, but it's done. And it seems effective; immediately I start hearing actual prayers, words that are actually aimed at me. "Jesus forgive me, my God how could I have doubted, fuck Jesus I'm so sorry I didn't know, I believe, I do, tell me what you want…" Etc.

"You all know what I want," I say. "People spent their entire lives writing it down for you and you've all got a copy sitting right there!" I take a breath but just before I figure I'm finished, something else catches my eye and I decide to get another pet peeve taken care of right here and now. "You know what else I want?" I ask, pointing to a big fresco on the wall. "I want you to stop painting my head at a 45-degree angle." And I gesture to the huge crucifix behind me: "And stop making me look like a girl!"

On the one hand I'm already forgiving them, telling myself ah but they didn't know any better, but on the other hand that's just too bad. Now they do. Because suddenly I'm standing there in just a loincloth, which is somewhat ratty at this point considering it's my favorite and I've worn it for two millennia. "This is what I look like," I say, gesturing to all the hair and muscles. Then I throw my arms wide. "And this is what I look like on a cross. Understand?"

They're staring, minds abuzz with a bunch of bizarre thoughts and then I notice I've got stigmata today, bright and messy and glowing. It happens sometimes, some days more than others, and this morning it seems to be a heavy flow day and I've left puddles all over the floor, staining the carpet.

Heh, something tells me attendance at this church will be up for a bit.

Which reminds me: the priest is still standing right behind me, dumbstruck. I drop to a knee without thinking and kiss his hand. "Forgive me for disturbing your sermon, Father." His other hand brushes over my head for a moment, and I like what I sense from him: awe, but not shocked disbelief like some of these people. It calms me, and then I feel myself fading from their nutty little circus and then I'm home.

God's there, a thick warm presence like a blanket all over me and suddenly I feel kind of bad. "Forgive me my temper," I sigh right away. "I will pray about this and I'll try to be more patient with all your other children…"

But he doesn't seem angry at all. "I had you because I wanted a human son," he reminds me. "And all humans have their weaknesses at times."

Forgiveness pours forth from him so readily that I feel far more chastened than if he'd actually done anything to me (which he has on occasion, and though he calls it teaching I do believe I know a punishment when I see one).

Anyway, I feel good now, at peace, and I want to share it. "I'm ready to hear prayers now," I tell him. "In love and patience this time."

He smiles at me and I melt into a thick gooey puddle of contentment right there. I sit down and open up my heart.

The first person to get hold of me is a kid again, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old. "Dear Jesus. I'm miserable. I don't know what to do, my parents are so mean to me, it's not fair, you'll never believe what they're making me do this weekend…"

An hour ago I would have blown a gasket at that one, but now I just chuckle. "Trust me I sympathize. I'm sure they love you anyway. Go ahead and tell me about it – I'm listening."

The End.

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