[ WP ] A god makes their existence known to a staunch athiest . Instead of falling to the ground in worship , as the god expects , things go very differently .

As far as sci-fi authors went, Mel thought that Peter F. Hamilton was still evolving and improving as a writer. The Commonwealth Saga had been great, but the newest book was magnificent - a science fiction Magnum Opus that she hoped would n't be let down by the promised sequel. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and put the book on the growing pile beside the bed. 
 `` Enjoy the book?'' crooned a voice beside her. 
 `` Jesus *Fuck! *'' she squealed, leaping off the expensive counterpane. Lying beside her was a middle-aged gentleman clad in flannel pyjamas and a striped dressing gown. 
 `` Not quite,'' he replied, in a peculiar trans-atlantic accent that better belonged to 1950s radio, `` I prefer *Yaweh. *'' 
 `` WhothefuckareyouandGETOUT!'' 
 The man held up his hands defensively, 
 `` Do n't get carried away madam. I'm not going to hurt you - that's not my thing.'' 
 `` Get. Out.'' 
 Mel's face was white with rage and she pulled her own dressing gown tightly around her body. 
 `` Come now. Are n't you curious as to how I got in here?'' 
 Mel's hand scrabbled in her gown pocket for her cellphone and yanked it out, swiftly unlocking it and calling emergency services. 
 The man on the bed sighed. 
 `` Really. Is that what we've come to?'' 
 The phone evaporated in puff of grey smoke, the wisps trailing around Mel's aghast face. 
 `` Look, I do n't know how you got in here and how you destroyed my phone, but you need to leave my house -'' fear made her brown eyes wide and round, `` - please?'' 
 The man got up off the bed and frowned at his attire, `` this wo n't do,'' he muttered. In an instant, the bedroom clothes were gone and he wore a pair of tatty old'dad jeans', a faded football sweater and ancient sneakers. 
 `` Madam, I really am not going to hurt you. I know that you're a lapsed Catholic -'' 
 `` Lapsed since I was eight,'' she interjected. 
 `` Yes, quite. So I've come to see you and restore your faith.'' 
 `` No... you ca n't be...'' she managed, her thoughts racing ahead. 
 `` Yes Melanie, I am the Christian God.'' 
 `` For real?'' She sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her temples and discarding her glasses. 
 `` Yes. I know you're skeptical, so I am prepared to perform some miracles to convince you that -'' 
 `` Get out of my house.'' 
 The man sighed, nonplussed. 
 `` I thought we were over this part.'' 
 Melanie stalked around the bed, shaking. Whether with rage or fear, even the Creator had a hard time telling. 
 `` How much of the Bible is real?'' she hissed jabbing a finger at him accusingly. 
 Yaweh blinked and took a step back. 
 `` All of it; except the parts where they mistranslated, like the bats thing and the mustard tree nonsense.'' 
 `` And you want me to believe in you?'' 
 `` Well you *do* believe in me, because I'm right here - as real as you.'' 
 `` No,'' she gave a calculating smile, `` you want me to *worship* you, do n't you?'' 
 He blinked again, rapidly. This was n't going well. 
 `` Of course I do. I am God, I created you - and the known universe! Do n't you think that deserves a little respect?'' 
 Melanie was in his face now and he could smell the cinnamon toast she'd had for breakfast and the fruity hints of Lady Grey tea. 
 `` If the Bible is true, then *why* would I want to worship you? You're a petty, mean-spirited, genocidal *child* who throws cosmic tantrums when things do n't go his way. You're a hypocrite, a murderer, a psychopath and a *tyrant! *'' 
 `` That's a bit... strong, do n't you think?'' 
 `` No I do n't,'' he was backed against the nightstand now, his godly buttocks pushed into a rogue collection of frayed hairties and discarded jewellery. 
 `` I'm not going to worship a petty, juvenile toddler who floods entire *planets* when things do n't go his way.'' 
 `` Look, I promised not to do that again - the rainbow and all -'' 
 `` *NO! *'' snapped Mel, her cheeks flushed, `` What about all the death and persecution at the hands of your followers? Have you *seen* how Christian Americans behave? They're a haven for bigotry and hatred. They belong in the dark ages and so do you!'' 
 Yaweh held up his hand defensively, 
 `` Look, I know I made some mistakes in the past and... a-and my credibility is a little low here -'' 
 `` *You're damn fucking right it is! *'' 
 `` But if I could show you how much good other Christians... `` 
 But it was useless. She was right. He could anticipate every counterpoint she would make to his arguments and he knew he was beaten. His actions throughout history were inexcusable. She had no reason to worship him. 
 Oh, she *believed* in him, so she was no longer an atheist, but that was the thing; you could make someone *believe* in you but you could n't make someone *follow* you. 
 `` I know you can rub me out of existence at will,'' sighed Melanie, `` or put me in eternal torture or whatever. Whatever you choose, just get it over with.'' 
 Yaweh considered, nodded brusquely, then vanished. 
 
 As far as sci-fi authors went, Mel thought that Peter F. Hamilton was still evolving and improving as a writer. The Commonwealth Saga had been great, but the newest book was magnificent - a science fiction Magnum Opus that she hoped would n't be let down by the promised sequel. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and put the book on the growing pile beside the bed. 
 Her cat, Lucifer, jumped up on the bed beside her, sniffed the pillows on the other side, then meowed querulously. 
 `` What's your problem?'' she asked him, scratching his head. 
 

