The God of Giving Up

Originally published by NYCMidnight, Winning Stories for the Rhyming Story Challenge 2024

My father once told me, “The stars are for wishin’ –

Like hands are for helpin’; like oceans for fishin’.

Our hearts are for lovin’, our fears are for facin’,                             

And fearin’ yer dreams only means they’re worth chasin’.”

I think on those words on the night that I die

And wish on each star that’s alight in the sky.

The Saint isn’t waiting at the gates outside heaven.

There’s no list and no line and no sombre procession.

It’s cloudy – and dark – but lo! In the distance,

A bright bobbing light putting up some resistance.

My joints do not ache, and my bones do not groan,

And my sight doesn’t blur like it would’ve at home.

In nearing the light, I can see what’s awaiting;

A fisherman sits by a rod that he’s baiting.

“Saint Peter?” I question.

“You’ve got to be kidding,”

He says as he turns, his expression forbidding.

“I’m sorry. First time—”

“And you think I’m a clerk?

Do I look like a God that would do paperwork?”

He casts out his line with a petulant grumble,

His hands all uncertain, his fingers a-fumble.

“I’m God of the dreamers, of feeling ambitious;

Of purpose, and stars that bear mortal wishes.”

He reels in a catch made of silvering fire

That wriggles and thrashes and burns with desire.

“I’m God of surrender. Of giving up passion.

Of all aspirations a soul can imagine.”

He holds up the star, performs an inspection

With measures and scales and gloves for protection.

He mumbles some words and narrows his eyes

Then bows and releases the wish to the skies.

“The God of surrender?” I ask while I’m watching.

He doesn’t look up from new bait that he’s notching.

“Or one of recycling. Nothing new anymore.

All mortal dreams have been dreamt of before.”

He points at the bucket that rests by his seat.

“Ambitions of those who accepted defeat.”

I peek at the stars, at old hopes now forgotten.

“If left in the skies for too long they go rotten.

You tell by their size and the strength of their shining

Which hopes are still new and which are declining.

Oh, don’t look so sad – they don’t stay there forever.

Soon a new human will adopt their endeavour.”

He fumbles the bait. My hands take up the motion.

“A fisherman’s daughter remembers the ocean.”

Another line out and another dream captured

– It’s dim, like the others, but God is enraptured.

“It’s mine,” he says softly, eyes misty and tired.

“I’ve been feeling it waning. A dream uninspired.”

“It’s lovely,” I say, and reach fingers unthinking,

To stroke at the dream that set God to blinking.

The star gives a wriggle – and bursts back aflame! –

I squeak and let go when it whispers my name.

“Well, that’s a surprise.” He admits with a chortle

“My holy ambition carries on through a mortal…”

My head sets to spinning. “I don’t understand.”

“You can’t feel the power of stars in your hands?”

I can, and it’s burning. “I came to find heaven.

I won’t take your power, or life, or profession.”

He shrugs. “You can leave. You’re the God of Surrender.”

“Of Dreamers,” I whisper. “Of Hoping, and Splendour.”

Of Giving Up, Giving In, Being Willing to Try–

The Wishes of mortals pinned on Stars in the Sky.

“You’re getting it now – I see God in your eyes.

   A whole universe with its moons on the rise.”

   His thumbs stroke my cheeks as he says his goodbyes.

My father once told me my fears are for facing,

My heart made for loving and dreams made for chasing.

My father once told me the stars are for wishing.

I think that he’d laugh if he knew where I’m fishing.

This story has been edited since publication in NYCMidnight