Corey Miller: 1 flash fiction
Jesus Sat In The Lifeguard Chair Applying Sunscreen SPF 500
while the humans attempted to walk on water. The pool was the shape of America with a max capacity of a prison. Toddlers ran uncontrolled along the rim of North Dakota and teenagers played Marco Polo in Texas. Jesus turned the water into wine so the swimmers drank and tired. When he grew bored, Jesus would watch them sink in the Deep South and allow them to drown, the bubbles popped like the end of fermentation.
All Jesus thought about was deer hunting with his father. They did it for the thrill, for the meat, for controlling the population.
More families entered the gate and lounged their lives in beach chairs. Synchronized swimmers performed their daily routine in Kansas: shop/litter/drugs/clog pipes.
Jesus sat near the sun, skin crisp like puff pastry, and cleaned his gun. He counted the deer population on one of his several hands. How many would he and his father have to kill? There was plenty of room in the freezer.
Jesus blew the whistle for pool break and everyone complained. Look at me! Each one demanded.
Jesus held the scope and sighted them between his crosshairs. He waved, Hello there. I see you.
The people dived onto one another and fucked because they had free time. When Jesus blew again there were twice as many people. They inhabited the pool like goldfish flushed down the toilet.
Jesus witnessed California dry up all Stone Age. Maine’s filters couldn’t trap all of the pests. Washington, D.C. had bodies stacked like Lincoln Logs forming cabins. People came quicker than they left.
Jesus conceived that this high vantage point would be the perfect hunting blind. He put on camouflage, ready to punch-out.
Where did Jesus go?
The pool attendees drank the sunscreen to avoid cancer.
More people came like dandelions. No one wanted to leave. All of the wine depleted and it became a mosh pit with no room to roam. They climbed on top of each other to find Jesus as if playing chicken fight.
Jesus, what should we do?
Jesus stood on the other side of the gate and told them to figure it out themselves, he was off-duty.
Corey Miller lives with his wife in a tiny house they built near Cleveland. He is an award-winning Brewmaster who enjoys a good lager. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in MoonPark Review, Pithead Chapel, Barren, Cleaver, Lost Balloon, Hobart, Cease Cows, and elsewhere. When not working or writing, Corey likes to take the dogs for adventures. Follow him on Twitter @IronBrewer or at www.coreymillerwrites.com