Playing God

by Holly Jahangiri

He sits, cross-legged and sun-drenched, in a verdant meadow. Plucking a thin, young blade of grass, he rests it between his full lips and chews upon it, releasing its earthy juices. Nearby, the gurgling of a lazy brook lulls his mind, causing it to wander aimlessly. He is not even surprised when the green fairy appears, close enough to touch. She reaches out to touch his cheek, her long arm lithe as a dancer’s. She speaks: “You have dreamed of me, and I am here to grant the deepest wish of your heart of hearts.”

At this point, you know what he ought to say. You know what you want him to say. Your mouth opens and you form the words with exaggerated movements of your lips, like a parent urging an infant to eat. And yet, by the rules of the game, you must remain silent. You curse the Creator for introducing this damnable concept of “free will.” It’s frustrating – to him, to you, and possibly to the Creator himself. Move, you think, as loudly as you can. Say something.

He squints into the sun, seeing the outline of trees through green gossamer wings that flutter, shimmering in the air. Contemplating the green fairy – the lovely, impossibly proportioned green fairy - he leans back, resting upon his elbows. The corner of his lip twitches. One eyebrow arcs, as if drawn sharply upwards by an unseen thread. And finally, after what seems an eternity, he utters a syllable: “Hmm.”

“Hmm”? Suddenly and inexplicably, you have an urge to kick him in the privates. Instead, your fingers curl and flex, and rabid squirrels run from the forest like an advancing army. Makes you wonder what tiny utterance slipped past Job’s lips. Next week, it’ll make you think twice before muttering “Asshole!” at the guy who cuts you off in traffic.

Beset by voracious squirrels from Hell, he screams. The green fairy smiles. It’s not a friendly smile. It takes him a full three minutes to realize that the squirrels have homed in on him, ignoring this ethereal vision of loveliness entirely. “What?” he asks, brushing sharp-toothed, bushy-tailed creatures from his head and plucking them out of his pockets. “What do you want from me?” He punctuates this sentence with an accusing screech as the vorpal squirrel sinks its teeth into his forearm.

By this time, of course, you’ve forgotten what it was he ought to say. And now that he has gone and opened his mouth, you kind of wish he’d just gone on sitting there in the sunlit meadow, this vision of Adonis, chewing on his blade of grass, contemplating the clouds. His outburst has broken through the surface tension and loosed the flood. The damnable screeching has to stop.

Maddened by the sound of his voice, the green fairy rips off her wings in disgust. Her fingers curl into fists. She stands there, now, in the cloud-shrouded meadow, glaring at the man, willing lightning to strike him mute. He shrivels under her glare.

You laugh out loud. Both of them turn to face you.

This is new. For the first time, you consider the green fairy. She glares back, sending an icy thrill up your spine. You hand her a spear; she looks as though she could use one. But instead of finishing off the screeching creature in the meadow, she hefts the spear and continues to glare – at you. If you handed her a rock…

You shudder at the thought. Reaching out, you touch the glass on your flat panel monitor; it is cool and smooth beneath your fingertips. You let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. No, not a rock, you think. Not a rock.