A Message From God

         *Preface: I couldn't fit all I wanted to say about this into the description so I'm saying it here. This is not a satire on any particular religious group. I wanted to write something unusual for the "Short Shot" Contest and had this idea. I am not trying to start a religious argument (Although, if you'd like to talk religion, I'm up for it). Next, I wrote this between the hours of 1 and 4 in the morning. It needs help. The contest allows for 2000 words or less, and I've only used 945. I have lots of room to work with. I already have some ideas on things to add, but I want to start getting help now. Sorry if prefaces like this are frowned upon or something... I really haven't a clue. Thanks!*


        It had been days since the last ship had passed. After all the work he had done in making fires, Andrew was certain he had lost any chance of being rescued. Weariness came again, and he lay in the shade for a while; nauseous.
         Since his arrival at the island, he had been afflicted with a fever and nausea. Perhaps he was unable to adapt to the climate. Perhaps it was his terror.
         He hardly remembered what happened before he arrived there, and the amount of time he had been there was growing unclear in his mind. Had it been two weeks, or a month? He knew he should have kept a tally. Irretrievable days were forever forgotten, buried in the sand like a fictional treasure, cast in the ocean like a child’s secret message.
         He slept in his fever for hours. When he woke, he was hungry, and it was a nearly impossible task to catch anything edible with his makeshift spear. He gripped it in his hand and watched the water keenly.
         His reddened eyes caught a glistening thing that moved toward him with every wave. He waited, still unsure as to whether it was significant, and still certain of his hunger. Andrew found no fish, but the item for which he patiently endured arrived only a few yards down the beach.
         It was a bottle.

         Not knowing and not caring what it said or why it came he dashed along the shore, forgetting his hunger. He had a new hunger, one for an answer. He wrested the cap from it, and the tightly bound note slid out easily. He loosed the ribbon and read:

“Being punished for sins. No help now. Pray.”

         For a few moments, his pounding head could not process the words. He read them again and again, but no understanding came. Maybe it was some foreign language, or some code he did not know. Maybe he was dreaming, and the answer would be revealed when he woke. Andrew walked to the water and put a foot in nature’s cleverest barrier.
         He shivered. He was awake. Returning his eyes to the note, he found that it was a little clearer. He understood the words, but the meaning still perplexed him. Was he to believe that some Messenger of God was condemning him, or that God’s own hand had written this and wrapped it so neatly to send him?
         
         It did not look like it would be God’s handwriting. He had set the letter aside, continuing with his task of acquiring food. He finally managed a fish and a fire, and ate solemnly with the bottle at his side.

         “If there was no hope for me, God would not have told me to pray.” He reasoned aloud with the bottle. Its silence was condemning. He imagined the bottle’s response.
         “Alright, then. I will pray.” He set his fish aside, coughed, and began.
         “God, I got your letter. I have to say, I’m not crazy about it. I don’t think it’s fair for you to punish me like this, after all the good things I’ve done, even if I haven’t strictly followed you all my life. If you would please get me off this island, I’ll do whatever you want. Amen.”
         The bottle seemed to approve.

         The next morning came with clouds and heavy rain. He kept the note and bottle with him, allowing his few other possessions to be washed away in the storm. A cold and defeated man cried out to God in the whipping rain, clinging a bottle to his chest. A weary and deathly man lay on the shore that noon, whispering to God.
         “Have mercy on me.”

         The storm had cleared by mid-afternoon, and Andrew sat with the bottle, watching the waves. Another bottle.
         “Dear God, please…” he muttered under his breath as he opened it.

“Need more weed. Almost out.”
         
         What he thought had been a growing clarity of mind was shattered. He thought God had been drawing him closer, correcting him, and would tell him with this note that he had been approved.
         “Weed?” he said aloud. He wondered vaguely why God wrote him in incomplete sentences.

         He spent the rest of the evening collecting seaweed, and piled it on the beach. After a time of prayer, he felt that he was to burn the weeds in an offering to God. This would be pleasing in the sight of the Lord.
         
         The next morning brought a happier, more fulfilled Andrew. He felt he was doing the work God had called him to, and that God would rescue him from his trial very soon. After waiting awhile for a message, he decided to seek more seaweed. His zeal took him all over the island. He was some miles away from his starting point when he saw something up ahead. Something ahead of him was moving.

         It was a human. Carefully, fearfully, Andrew approached him. The man seemed not to notice him, even when Andrew stood at his side and spoke.
         “Hello.”
         The man turned away from Andrew, took three steps, and fell. A plastic bag dropped from his hand. He smelled like marijuana.

         Andrew looked around at the collapsing world. The clouds dropped into the ocean. The ocean dropped into the sky. He turned to see the scattered, empty beer bottles; identical to the one he had left to guard camp. They were laughing at him. Their laughter rose to a hysterical throb above all else, and it was difficult for him to even hear the man whispering:

“Being punished for my sins… almost out of weed… no help now.”

Word Count= 945