“How can you call yourself a God? You are a monster!”
“Oh, my sweet summer child,” the deity laughed, changing form, “but I am worshiped! And what makes you think your Gods are any better?”
“My God is there to protect me! Guide me! Life me up when I am troubled…but you! You are the source of all trouble!”
“Am I now?”
The God’s laugh was harsh, and yet it sounded like all the beautiful sounds she had ever heard. The windchimes on the street shop she bought on impulse that broke in a week and had to be replaced. The beat of her favourite TikTok song where she only knew a single line that every creator was jumping on.
Wouldn’t it be nice to be as pretty as them?
Too late, she realised- the God was doing what they did best. Trapping her.
Hefting her sword upward, she snarled.
“I am not falling for your tricks! You are a demon!”
“Interesting word there- demon…what makes it so different from a God? I am worshipped, I am powerful- what does it matter what you call me? This is the cost for my power, for the glory I give your world. The cost for your leaders’ mansions child! They are who they’re because they worship me…and so do you.”
“I do not!”
“Easy for you to sat with Daddy providing. Where does that money come from? Goodwill? Do you not own anything- did you never replace something? Run now, child, you are nothing to me.”
Yes, she was nothing to this being. An ant caught in their breakfast perhaps…but she could still sting.
“You are not wrong,” the demon turned, “we all worship you. We are taught to worship you. But I can be better….maybe there is no world without you…but I will never worship you. You are no God. You were a tool…just that.”
The being laughed.
“Just a tool? Child, I make your world turn. Your fragile little systems? They are based on my whims. What do you think you can do against my might?”
Perhaps, if this was a traditional story, the God would have lifted their hands and thunder would have clapped. Our hero, would have dug her heels in, and pushed forward with the sword…but the hero stopped. The demon was right. How could she defeat something that the world had glorified to a God?
She was just one person. A needle.
But…needles could sting. She had power.
This time, she turned away, leaving the demon to cackle thinking they had won.
With each peal of laughter, a new item was born. Someone sent money to Shien when they could afford better and would never wear that dress. Another person opened Temu for the first time.
This was not a swordfight, our heroine realised, as she stepped away.
This was something else…something bigger.
Today’s Gods, built on human hubris, were complex. They were necessary tools but evil masters…and like Franskestine’s monster…slaying them was useless. You had to fight the Frankstein itself.
And so, she went home. Dropped her sword and picked up a pen.
The next day, there was a garage sale…everything not important, not memorable, that she wouldn’t use or get emotional fulfilment from, that she didn’t love, was given away at minimal costs.
The day after, she began to type. A newsletter first. How do we replace fast fashion, if we can. How do we save food without promoting food guilt.
With each word, she wondered, am I winning this battle?
And the day after, she walked in a park for the first time in years. She heard the wind in the trees…unbreakable and strong. Not like a replaceable wind-chime. Yet. She yearned for the sound.
And so, she called a friend. Who knew another friend.
Who knew an artist.
Who tried to make windchimes.
“But today people don’t care about art or quality…they just want the next thing. I am glad you are different,” they said, as they personalized a chime for our hero.
And so she continued. Remembering consumerism was not bad…and that some people needed it.
Unnecessary godlike consumerism? With fantastic worship of the mall?
There was a movie, she told, as she spoke at the big conferences.
“A Confession of a Shopaholic.”
And it had a lesson that was too advanced for it’s time.
She died without knowing if her battle was won. But she died knowing she had done what could be done.
The demon remained. For there were many worshippers.
But it could never return to being a God.
Because one girl built a community that asked- “is it truly worth it to attach my identity to ownership of things?”
Author’s Note: Decided to try a new format to convey my thoughts this time, do leave a review. This story was inspired by CrazyCae on YouTube and my first Dungeons and Dragons OC. If anyone can see hints of American Gods inspo here, that is thanks to my fiancé Anuraag Chatterjee. To support my work, drop me a like, a share, subscribe to my YouTube- The Brown Journal(s) or pay what you will. Read more of my fiction on Muses_Saga.
