God's Confessions

James Joyce gets God's confessions in Heaven

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-mind-atlas-peter-liam/1150184226https://books.apple.com/au/audiobook/the-mind-atlas-compelling-short-stories/id6769707768https://open.spotify.com/show/0qaqT21Dpl9bSJ3suLIYtA?s

https://peterliam.hearnow.com/mary-janeMake sure you add Mary Jane to your playlist 

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 1:03

The heavy velvet curtain of the celestial confessional creaked open. Inside, James Joyce adjusted his thick glasses, peering through a wooden grille carved from a single piece of Mother of Pearl. Heaven was beautiful, certainly, but Joyce had insisted on importing a proper, gloomy Dublin-style confession box to his cloudside estate. A figure sat on the sinner side, radiating a warm, golden glow that smelled faintly of ozone and freshly baked sourdough. Bless me, James, for I have sinned. A booming, yet surprisingly weary voice echoed in the tiny box. It's been well, since the Big Bang since my last confession. Joyce's eyes widened behind his spectacles. The Almighty. In my box? Well, I knew eternity would have its perks, but I didn't expect the ultimate creator to take a seat on the penitence bench. What burdens the infinite mind? God sighed, a sound like a gentle cosmic wind rustling through the pearly gates. James, I need to get some things off my chest. The angels are too sycophantic. Always holy, holy, holy this and glory that. You've got an eye for human messiness, and frankly, I need an editor. For the next three hours, Joyce listened in rapt, frantic silence, his fountain pen scratching furiously against a scroll of parchment. God wasn't confessing to malice, he was confessing to improvisation. The divine confessions. As the Almighty spilled the cosmic tea, Joyce realized he was sitting on the literary scoop of eternity. The flood fiasco. Look, regarding the great flood. God whispered, sounding deeply embarrassed. I honestly didn't think Noah would make it. The logistics alone were a nightmare. I actually had a completely new, upgraded species ready to deploy. Much more polite, built-in wings, excellent at sharing. But then that ridiculous wooden box cleared the horizon. I had to scramble and hide the new species on Kepler 186F. They're still there, just waiting. I feel terrible about the cover-up. The dinosaur oversight. The asteroid? Total accident. I dropped my keys on the cosmic control board while reaching for Nebula Latte. I panicked and blamed it on a rogue space rock. The Mosquito Regret. I created them on a Friday afternoon at 4:55 p.m. I just wanted to log off and go to weekend mode. A massive design flaw. My bad. From confession to bestseller, Joyce promised absolute pastoral confidentiality, but he was, after all, a writer. He didn't write a controversial, dense masterpiece this time. No, he channeled the raw, gossipy energy of the universe into a breezy, scandalous, yet oddly heartwarming novel titled The Creator's Diary, published by Heaven's Literary Press. The book didn't just top the afterlife charts, it broke the celestial culture. Suddenly, the souls in heaven didn't just revere the Lord. They wanted to grab a pint of ambrosia with him. God's casual admission that he accidentally muted prayers from 1492 to 1503 because he couldn't find the remote turned him into an overnight relatable icon. The reality star of the afterlife. Seeing the public's obsessed reaction, the Almighty decided to lean into his new persona. He didn't need burning bushes anymore. He needed a camera crew of cherubim. Within months, Heaven was treated to its first ever hit reality show, Keeping Up with the Cosmos. Keeping up with the Cosmos. Episode Guide. Episode 1, God does a closet tour of his favorite nebulae. Episode 2 The Archangel Michael confronts God about who really broke the original stone tablets. Spoiler, God did. Episode 3 God gets cancelled on the Celestial Forums 4, admitting he actually prefers cats over dogs. Every week, God would sit in a confessional-style reality TV booth made of solid gold, looking directly into the camera to deliver dramatic, reality star monologues. So, Lucifer text blasts me out of nowhere, God would tell the camera, rolling his eyes dramatically. And I'm just like, new phone, who dis? Like, you haven't been relevant since the Bronze Age. Honey, don't try to come for my throne. Joyce sat in a heavenly replica of Barney Kiernan's pub, sipping a perfect, gravity-defying Guinness. He watched the pub's grand screen as the Almighty argued with a panel of saints about whether Pluto should be reinstated as a planet. Well, Joyce muttered to himself, a wry smile spreading across his face as St. Peter leafed through the latest gossip magazine. I wanted to forge the uncreated conscience of my race. But making God the ultimate reality TV star? That's a much better plot twist.