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BENTLEY'S RECIPE
  by Matthew MacDonald
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Dialogue between God and man:

Man: So that was it, then. You made the Earth out of a dull old ball
     of clay and stuck Adam and Eve on it. I can understand that. Not
     very glamorous for an omnipotent being, though.

God (slightly hurt): I tried.

Man: Oh, quite all right. Don't work yourself up over it. A ball of
     clay and Adam and Eve, hmm? That isn't so bad when you get right
     down to it, you know. It's not what most of us think, but I can
     understand it: clay and some people.

God: Er, actually, I hadn't counted on that bit.

Man: What bit?

God: The people.

Man: Well, what did you expect?

God pauses, slightly embarrassed.

God: Bunny rabbits. I did expect bunny rabbits.

                               *  *  *

  "You have a lot of explaining to do, Bentley. Thirty thousand
metric tonnes of methane, just dumped on foreign soil. With all the
ammonia and hydrogen to boot! I mean, to start, you knew you shouldn't
go around casting our garbage all over other people's planets!"

  "There was no one there at the time." Bentley sounded remarkably
miserable. "I was under a lot of pressure at the time. Finish the
experiments, Bentley. Test the atmosphere, Bentley. Compile the
radiation spectrographs, Bentley. Make us a spot of tea, would you
Bentley, always Bentley! Did anyone else want to help dispose of some
organic waste? No-o-o. No one understands."

  "Disgraceful, it is. Just disgraceful!"

  "Your point being?"

  "My point is that you've made quite a mess of the place. You're
going to fix it up one of these days. How long has it been now? Five,
six billion years? And look what's happened in the meantime!"

  "Look, I've been back before and things didn't quite turn out so
well. All this fuss and commotion! I couldn't even make myself a glass
of wine without confusing the natives, far less clean the place up.
Maybe when I'm a little less busy."

  "And what are you going to tell them?"

  There was a long and awkward pause.

  "Come again?"

  "I said what are you going to tell them!"

  "You mean "

  "Of course!"

  "You needn't become cross about it. I don't think I need to tell
them anything. Look at what they've done in the meantime. Savage wars!
Unbridled malice! The whole universe is ashamed of this affair."

  "Well, it's your affair. If you don't do something soon, Bentley,
I'll bring you before the Galactic Court. I'll give you a few more
years to fix this up, that's all!"

  "The Galactic Court!" He sputtered his words in disbelief. "On
what charge?"

  "Negligence causing creation."

  And Algernon stormed out, not looking back with a single one of
his twelve-odd eyestalks.

  Bentley reflected. Algernon, he decided, was right. It was time
for him to come again. He had been twice so far (yes, Algernon didn't
know about the first time, but it looked like they needed a little help
figuring out those beastly pyramids). Now, what exactly had been the
problem the second time? He had been so proud of the simulacrum he had
brought down to the surface it looked so much like their odd forms! But
he seemed to remember some Judas fellow . . . .

  Things had not improved much, since then. Oh, there had been the
geniuses Newton, Einstein, Milton, Keats, to name a few. The curious
works of Chopin still delighted some of the eavesdroppers from quite
a few of the races of the Galactic Conglomerate, and the spacecrafts
these humans laboured to build were really a marvel, though they might
save a little effort if they had a better understanding of elementary
quanta.

  Since his last visit, though, there were spiteful wars, rulers
speaking hate, air seeded with venoms, forests ravaged . . . . He was
sure this would clear up before it was too late; they seemed to be a
remarkably adaptable race. Maybe they just needed to see where they
came from; maybe they needed a few more great men and women to lead
them on. Or a story. Maybe they . . .

  Maybe . . . .

  Maybe they just need to be told.

                               *  *  *

Man: I have one last question.

God: Go ahead then. What am I supposed to do, guess?

Man (sheepishly): Well, our bible does say you created everything.

God: Yes....

Man: So I was thinking.... Well, to start did you create the stars?

God: I did.

Man: How about the Earth?

God: That was me.

Man: And the oceans, and the mountains, and the forests?

God: Evolution gave me a little help, but I started it off. Are you
     going to ask me if I created Jerry Lewis, like everyone else?
     You know, these accidents happen; it's no different than slipping
     down a staircase or dropping your pen.

Man: Actually, I was wondering about quantum mechanics.

God: Oh. I don't expect I can help you there. Can't say I understand
     the darned stuff myself.

                               {DREAM}

Copyright 1995 Matthew MacDonald, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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Matthew MacDonald has managed to pursue his craving for creative
writing despite being raised by two English teachers. In his spare
time he dabbles rather dangerously in music composition and assorted
dark, supernatural, and long-forbidden magical practices and worships
his girlfriend (where time permits). He also immerses himself in the
classics of every genre, his reading endeavours spanning from Cyrano
de Bergerac to How to Win Friends and Influence People.
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