A STORY by COREY MILLER
Jesus Christ Mows The Lawn by Cutting Each Blade of Grass Individually
answering them like prayers. The grass shears squeak from rust built up over time. The chlorophyll splashes onto the metal blades, breaking down steel one atom at a time.
Jesus names the grass, random letters forced together—TöffDñ or QbžJśū—no matter to him, they’re all the same. He posts signs “Stay Off The Grass.” He doesn’t want anything to come between their faith.
Sometimes Jesus hovers parallel over the grass he’s grown from seed, his white robe splayed in holy trinity, longing to be his Father, yet, remain himself, yet, a ghost. He combs his hands through the perfectly manicured tops. The grass reaches for the sun—for consumption. His carpenter hands confirm the lawn’s uniformity and conformity. Straight. Nothing out of line. If any grow taller than the others Jesus snips their heads. He can’t comprehend objects straying from his guidance. The grass feels sharp and spiteful to him, like wooden splinters needing sanded fine.
Jesus sprays his lawn with chemicals to keep the weeds down. Humans invented this Roundup. A way to poison things that don’t belong. It amazes him what humans force together from his father’s creations: grains and water to create beer, beer exposed for airborne acetobacter to create vinegar, vinegar and bleach to create chlorine gas, chlorine gas and chemical warfare to kill your neighbor! Jesus thought humans would last longer, it’s why he took their form when entering life.
It hasn’t rained in a long time. Jesus sings, each blade moistens with spittle. When the grass needs fed, he squeezes the pulp out of the sun. He babies them as if they stood a chance.
The grass crowd each other, space to stand without moving. A concert to hear Jesus. To believe his performance.
He decorates with lawn ornaments: a sand pyramid here, a volcano there. He sings too many hymnals and his spittle flash floods oceans, spilling into the street.
There’s a blade of grass in Jesus’ front yard, right next to the mailbox, that is browning. This displeases Jesus. Why won’t they all listen and obey my gospel. He uproots it, puts it in his mouth and chews. Spits it out into the clogged street drain, reincarnated as mush.
The other blades of grass scream for attention. Something is wrong, Jesus thinks. Maybe the nouns he didn’t get to know on a first name basis want more water. He pisses on the lawn, because it’s his lawn. He created it himself. Maintained it himself. Doesn’t he deserve to be the one to test or destroy it?
Jesus digs up the earth, decimating the lawn he’s worked so hard to manage, revealing what’s beneath the loamy soil. He expected worms and parasites disrupting his ecosystem. All he finds are fossils that look like dinosaurs, but Jesus doesn’t want to believe in dinosaurs. This planet has become a reality show to Jesus and he’s the producer needing to ensure this shit is programmable. Humans only care about the views. It’s not always positive events that make newscasters word-vomit. People tune in to see the disgusting ways bodies are mutilated or never found at all. Jesus’ father would approve—he invented murder.
The last blades of grass look up to Jesus and know in their green pigmented hearts that he exists to punish them. That they were the ones to create Jesus so their neighbors would behave. How no one knows if the chicken or the egg or the ghost of the dead chicken aren’t the same being. The humans realize how evil they must have been for wavering. The only choice left is whether to repent and give up growing—or—proceed to the afterlife, a world said to be better than Jesus’ lawn, if such a place exists.
Corey Miller’s writing has appeared in Booth, Pithead Chapel, Atticus Review, Hobart, X-R-A-Y, and elsewhere. He has been awarded the 2023 Literary Cleveland Breakthrough Residency. He reads for TriQuarterly and Longleaf Review. When Corey isn’t brewing beer for a living in Cleveland, he enjoys taking the dogs for adventures. Follow him on Twitter @IronBrewer or at CoreyMillerWrites.com.