Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2018  Vol. 17 No. 1
an online journal of literature and the arts
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Barnum at the Grave of Charles “Tom Thumb” Stratton

We often think of God as large; an accusing finger poking down out of the clouds, or something in the air that covers everything; something, maybe, that everything is made of.

What if, in fact, God is small, dust covered. Unlucky even. Dented. What if God, early on, just stopped growing, never reached its full size? Maybe God can, like even tall men, only be at one place at a time. Wouldn’t that explain the evil bits? That there are places God isn’t, times when it is absent, times it can’t ride the ride and has to wait by the exit? That God is, simply, too small, and so we kill each other for want of a larger one?  

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