Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret by @thenatewolf

Don’t you hate how some people have read every book?

Are you demoralized by librarians sighing at you?

Tired of fancy Rockerfellas pushing you around?

Well stop lying about books you’ll never read, instead check these new books (I call them shortbooks) that I wrote with the same names as fancy books. Now next time someone asks you if you’ve read one you can say yes without being a fucking liar.

Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret

Are you there God? it’s me, Marg. That’s what they call me now. I’m 58. Sorry I haven’t kept in touch, shit has been bananas.

Middle school was fine, nothing to write God about. I dated a nice boy named Alfredo but it turned out he was a robot, a super racist robot, so he dumped me.

High school was where the magic happened. I became math-goth and started doing a lot of sit-ups. My body was tight, my mind was free, it was an amazing time.

When the birds got their bird hands on that batch of Substance 11 everything changed.

The next 20 years was a living nightmare. Terror soared through the air. Winged death filled the sky so thickly at times it blocked out the sun. Hats with brims became extinct.

We were flatlanders then, our enemies we named Skyrates, or Featherheads, or a million other bird slurs. To the crew we met from Chicago they were Flappers. All the survivors from The South called them Skyotes.

The global economy collapsed and within months we had reverted to tribal living. The most successful groups stayed mobile. The beakbrains were relentless once they found your nest, so you had to be able to move quickly if you were discovered.

My group was strong, for that I was lucky, we called ourselves The Birdhaters and the name wasn’t hyperbole. The Birdhaters killed birds for breakfast both figuratively and literally.

We gave each other new names as a way to forget our past and face the future. I was Sicily Wingclipper, and the man I fell in love with was Ron Featherburn. Our leader was Coolman Beakbreaker and we all looked up to him like a father.

Coolman was a bird expert and hated birds long before the war because a bird killed his pet vole. After he buried Volejinjo, he dedicated his life to studying and killing all birds. That meant he was one of the few men who understood their birdcedures when the birdtzkrieg occurred. He saved my life many times, far too many to count.

From time to time we heard about other tribes like ours, Stonewall Owlkiller and his band of birdboys were famous throughout the north for their feathery stand on Eagle Ridge. People say he killed so many eagles that day the mountain wept into a time machine and created the great Mississippi River. There were many stories like that during the dark days. Man needs legend. Legend and water and bird meat.

Was it was hard to survive? Yes, but I never felt as alive as I did during those dusky days of war. Me and Ron Featherburn would kill birds by each other’s side all day, and when the sun set we would make love like it was our last night on earth together. For all we knew it was. If we were fortunate enough to have a few hours where the birds weren’t trying to eat our brains we would hold each other and talk about how we were the luckiest people alive.

Ron’s luck ran out in the most ironic twist, his ankle, when he tripped over a rock and fell to the ground. That’s where the scorpion stung his eyeball. We were so busy looking at the sky we forgot to keep our eyes on all the other motherfuckers like rocks and bugs chillin’ on the ground.

We buried Ron under a pile of seeds inside a coffin made of windows, as he had requested. We all knew each other’s final wishes, with all the mayhem it was a natural thing to talk about. Death was just a part of life during the first birld war. I couldn’t even cry, I had used all my tears on my first husband and children.

Oh yeah I had a family, three kids, husband, yadda yadda they all died but that was before the bird thing.

We lost more good people after Ron died, some to the birds, others to the rock/scorpion tag-team, eventually it was just me and Coolman Beakbreaker. By that time I was referring to him as Frownman Bleakfrowner right to his face because he was acting very unchill and sulking around all day.

His plan to mobilize cat troopers to join the resistance failed when he attempted to pick one up and it scratched him. Next he hatched a plan to poison a bunch of bread but that was scrapped after we realized the birds had developed an insatiable taste for manflesh. Finally he tried to make the whole sky be electric but he couldn’t find Tesla’s grandson.

Part of me did feel bad for him, but it was a bird-eat-man world out there with no room to be sentimental, I had to accept that our once glorious leader had been reduced to a walking pile of bird bait.

When I left him he was trying to dress like a bird to “infiltrate and destroy from within.” A few years later I heard a rumour he made it all the way to bird General, only you know, but I wouldn’t put it past old Coolman.

Eventually the birds got bored of earth and flew to space, but I suppose you already know that.

The years after all blend together, I traveled around for whatever work I could find in the rebuilding cities. In New Portland I was a barrow wheeler, in Wasconsin I sold bootleg Coca-Cola. Mostly I begged for scraps on the street like a seagull.

Which brings me to why I’m writing you.

Recently I’ve discovered my passion and it has totally transformed my life. I think everyone has a calling, and mine is politics.

Crazy, right? Lil’ Maggie Thatcher, who would have thunk it?

But it’s true, lately I’ve been getting more and more into it and it turns out that I love talking words and then getting money and prawn dinners for it. It’s been a whirlwind and I’ve learned so much about myself in this process of discovery.

All these years I was searching for something and it was right there in front of me the whole time. I think that’s a pretty common story with people like me, who find their path later in life.

This is where you come in.

If it’s not too much trouble I was wondering if you could just go ahead and keep your goddamn mouth shut. I told you things, things that could destroy me. As far as these people know, I’ve never even had my period. If any journalists start snooping around please just say you are a big fan but we’ve never spoken.

You don’t want to stand in my way, God. I will tear you down from the heavens if you cross me. You saw what I did to those birds and you don’t have half the pluck that they do.

Other than that, everything is going whatever the opposite of a birdpocalypse is. Hope you’re doing well.

Best wishes,

Mags

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