The Confessions of Zeuspater

The story of the great God Zeus’ confrontation with Christianity, as told to the magician Edward Whistman by space-aliens.

THE CONFESSIONS OF ZEUSPATER

1

If inspiration means the spirit comes in, then how does man take any pride in the art he creates? I am a pencil. I am a piece of victimized paper. I am limp carbon programmed by a spiral of prehistoric commands plotted out by ethereal forces. I am exactly what the universe wills me to be.

This is not my story. This is the story that I was used to tell. It was put into my mind, like false evidence placed into a suspect’s car. The television does not create the images that flicker across her face. These are not my thoughts. This did not come from my dreams. I have been a passer-by. I have simply watched my disloyal hands typing.

So, none of it is my fault. Please keep that in mind and be charitable.

My name is Edward Whistman. I was born in Wales, but my family moved to London when I was two. I don’t know when they found me, or why they picked me, but they were always there in the dark. I understand that now. I remember.

I told my parents that there were eyes in my window at night. I’d point to where they were standing; right there in my room with the light on and no one else would see them. I had to learn to sleep with them standing there and watching.

I was ten before they started talking.

They’ve been talking to me for many years now.

Now, if I were you reading this, I would assume that the author was hallucinating. I’m not. I’m not crazy. This is real. This is no different from the blue sky above me, the pavement under my feet, or the gasoline in my tank. I’m just not the kind of person who would make this up. I don’t want attention.

They started telling me this story, and then they told me again and again. I’ve heard that thousands of years ago the bards and poets used to learn how to memorize long works like the Iliad and the Odyssey. They could just recite them by heart. I don’t have that good a memory, but they’ve told me it so many times. I know this story like I know the lyrics to all of my favorite songs. I know it like you know the lines from your favorite movie.

It repeats itself when I’m sleeping, like a pop song.

I don’t know if they would want me to write it down or not, but my hope is that once I do, I can expel it. Maybe it will leave me and go into the pages?

Here goes:

          They call him Zeuspater. They called him that - half-way between Zeus and Jupiter. I think “Pater” means “Father.” I hope I’m spelling it all right? They have strange accents.

 COMING VERY SOON.

Copyright 2011 Noah K. Mullette-Gillman