Time Doesn't Exist, But Annoyance Is Eternal
"Alright, let's continue your training," God said, rubbing His hands together like He was about to teach a toddler how to drive a nuclear submarine.
I floated beside Him, still processing the fact that my last 'thought accident' had erased an entire theme park from existence. "Didn't we just do this?"
"For you?" God smiled, eyes twinkling with divine patience barely hanging by a thread. "It's been one minute."
"And for you?"
He pointed behind Him. An enormous, floating calendar materialized, pages flipping by so fast they blurred into oblivion. "Almost a hundred years."
I whistled, impressed. "Damn. Time flies when you're stuck with me."
He didn't laugh.
God cleared His throat and snapped His fingers. Suddenly, we stood on a platform made of glowing energy, suspended in an endless, swirling cosmic ocean.
"Time," He began, hands behind His back, "is relative for us. We can go to the past, future, present—doesn't matter. Time isn't real. It's just… flavor text."
I tilted my head. "Flavor text?"
"Like the background story in an RPG. Optional. Fun. But not important."
He waved his hand again. The stars froze. The galaxies paused mid-spin. I could see Earth down below, completely still—birds frozen in mid-flight, people mid-step, coffee mid-pour.
"We can stop time," God explained. "We can stretch it, skip it, bend it."
"Can we rewind it?" I asked, eyebrows raised.
"Sometimes," He replied with a sly grin. "But only when I'm not annoyed."
"Got it." I filed that away for future cosmic blackmail.
God snapped His fingers again, and the universe resumed like a paused YouTube video.
"Now," He continued, "you can create anything. Materialize anything. The rules are simple."
I crossed my arms. "Let me guess: don't destroy anything unless I mean to."
God shook His head, smiling like a kindergarten teacher on their last nerve. "Correction: you destroy everything by existing. You just don't realize it yet."
"That feels… unfair."
"Welcome to your new job," He quipped, conjuring a miniature planet and casually crushing it between his fingers like a stress ball. "Quick explanation: I create, you destroy. That's the cosmic balance."
I opened my mouth to respond, but God raised a hand, cutting me off.
"And before you get any bright ideas, no, you can't kill me," He added, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead.
I squinted. "You sure about that?"
He forced a nervous chuckle, more sweat glistening along his temple. "Positive."
"Then why are you sweating?"
"Cosmic allergies."
"Uh-huh."
God coughed and changed the subject. "Anyway, try materializing something simple. Keep your thoughts clean."
I focused, clenching my fists as energy crackled around me. Think small. Think harmless. Think… marshmallow.
POOF.
A marshmallow the size of a planet appeared.
It immediately started absorbing light from nearby stars like some fluffy vampire sponge.
God's face paled. "What did I just say?!"
"It was supposed to be a snack!"
"That's a sentient, planet-devouring marshmallow!"
I panicked, trying to undo it, but my panicked thoughts only made it worse. The marshmallow grew arms. Legs. A face with sharp, sugary teeth.
"DANIEL—"
I snapped my fingers and thankfully managed to erase it before things escalated further.
God exhaled, wiping more sweat off his brow. "This is exactly why the last Death retired."
I scratched the back of my head. "Starting to understand him more and more."
God gave me a deadpan look. "He lasted eons. You've been on the job for a minute."
"Technically, a hundred years."
"Don't get cocky."
The Temptation of Absolute Power (And Cosmic Panic)
As our training dragged on — years for God, minutes for me — I started to feel the power more tangibly. I could materialize objects with a thought. Rearrange matter with a glance. Create life… well, sort of. Most of my creations were abominations, but still — progress.
God wasn't thrilled.
"You're improving," He admitted, conjuring a clipboard labeled Daniel's Catastrophe Counter™, with tally marks covering half the page. "But your imagination is still a walking apocalypse."
"I'm working on it," I muttered.
"You nearly erased the Moon yesterday."
"It was a hypothetical thought experiment!"
God facepalmed so hard the void echoed.
But slowly, I was getting better. My thoughts didn't immediately unravel dimensions. My creations were less monstrous. I even managed to conjure a sandwich without it turning carnivorous.
Still, the temptation was real.
"Technically," I asked one day, "I can do anything, right? Create, destroy, manipulate reality?"
God tensed. "Yes. Within reason."
"And the only thing I can't do is kill you."
His jaw twitched. "Correct."
"So… what if I—"
"Don't."
I smiled devilishly.
God's eyes narrowed. More sweat.
"Remember, Daniel," He warned, voice low. "Power without control is just chaos."
I considered that. "Chaos can be fun."
"Not when you accidentally implode a star system."
"Fair point."
God sighed, rubbing his temples. "Let's stick to marshmallows for now."
One Step Closer to Accidentally Ending Existence
Hundreds more years — or minutes, depending on perspective — passed in our weird training bubble. I learned to manifest objects without spontaneous explosions. I learned some thought control.
But every now and then, my mind slipped. I thought of a villain. A monster. A catastrophic meme — and BOOM, another universe folded in on itself.
God got twitchier with each incident. His celestial clipboard now had entire sections labeled:
"Daniel's Accidents"
Black hole with googly eyes: Terminated.
Sentient rubber duck: Banished.
Planet made of screaming tacos: Currently unstable.
Random existential dread storms: Ongoing problem.
Still, I was improving.
"Proud of you," God said one day, cautiously patting my shoulder like I might explode at any moment. "Just… don't imagine anything stupid."
I nodded, closing my eyes. "Nothing stupid. Nothing stupid…"
A thought slipped.
"Crap."
Somewhere, an entire city blinked out of existence.
God screamed into the void.