What I Told God by Sarah Carson art by Karen Prosen Everyone in heaven hated the new girl. In her former life she'd been addicted to jello shots and pool halls, and, where most of the people in heaven come from, those sorts of things are frowned upon. But I didn't mind her much. Sometimes she said things that were mildly funny. But mostly I hung around her because everyone in heaven hated me, too. In the lunchroom one afternoon I asked her if she wanted to come home with me for the weekend. The trip would be long, and I could use the company, and it seemed like the kind of thing you'd do with someone who was kind of your friend. As we got in the car, God said it was the first time he'd ever seen her smile. She spent the whole way down talking about the telephone repairman who found her facedown on the bedroom carpet, and I nodded and smiled and said things like "That's crazy" or "My goodness, then what did you do?" When we reached what used to be my apartment there was a "for rent" sign in the window. I knew from experience that the door would open even if they'd tried to lock it, and from the looks of things it was obvious they had yet to send the maintenance man around to clean up. The new girl, not wanting to get into trouble, stayed behind on the sidewalk while I surveyed the damage done by the living—the stray shoe propping open the closet, the empty spaces where the furniture used to be. Out in the courtyard the neighborhood children had taken to calling my dog, "Wally." They led him around on a piece of twine, and he seemed content in a way that made it clear just how easily things can continue on without you. Lighting the first match was my idea. Letting the whole complex erupt, I'd tell God, was the new girl getting carried away. Read the interview. Sarah Carson's work has appeared in Poet Lore, Barrow Street, Cutbank, Cream City Review, Diagram, Guernica, and Wigleaf, among others. She is also the author of two chapbooks, Before Onstar (Etched Press, 2010) and Twenty-Two (Finishing Line Press, 2011), and she has one forthcoming: When You Leave from H_NGM_N in 2012. Karen Prosen has been taking photographs for about five years now, and although she has newly branched out into various other modalities, photography will always be her most favorite and most natural way of sharing with the world. She believes photography is like being a mirror for someone, and saying, "Did you know that this is the way I see you?" It's why she loves portraiture—the ability to turn beauty in all its forms around to show the beheld. To Karen, photography is a gift. All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2013 by its authors. Issue Thirty-Seven (September 24, 2012): Two Boyfriends by Simon Barker «» Two Days in American History by Patrick Allen Carberry «» What I Told God by Sarah Carson «» Partners by Simon Jacobs «» Wreck by Will Kaufman «» Keep It Down by Harry Leeds «» Ants by Lindsey Gates Markel «» Quantifiable Consequence by Adam Padgett «» The Temperature At Which Paper Burns by Young Rader «» Bad Traffic by Matt Rowan «» Clearings by Joseph Spece «» Texas Vs. London by Jon Steinhagen «» Clichés by Aaron Teel «» When I Was Twenty-Three by Dan Townsend «» Revived by Eugenio Volpe «» Jalapeno Summer by Ryan Werner «» A Collector by Bess Winter «» Interviews: Simon Barker «» Patrick Allen Carberry «» Sarah Carson «» Simon Jacobs «» Will Kaufman «» Harry Leeds «» Lindsey Gates Markel «» Adam Padgett «» Young Rader «» Matt Rowan «» Joseph Spece «» Jon Steinhagen «» Aaron Teel «» Dan Townsend «» Eugenio Volpe «» Ryan Werner «» Bess Winter «» Cover Art by Jennifer B. Hudson «» Letter From the Editor Interested in subscribing to SmokeLong's weekly newsletter? Click here. An email should be created. Send it as is, and you'll be subscribed. If the link does not work for you, send an email to imailsrv@smokelong.com with Subscribe slq-info in the body of the email (no subject is necessary). You'll receive updates detailing the release of new issues, new reading periods, contests, etc. We do not make our mail list available to anyone else.