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The Sea a Deeper Black Tim Pratt "Hey, mister, want to buy a god?" Charles looked up from the pebbly beach, squinting at the last blush of sunlight over the water. A skinny man in a pale blue jogging suit, wearing a huge black backpack, sat on a rock near the waterline, grinning at him. He was in his late twenties, perhaps, two decades younger than Charles. Uncertain what to say, Charles stood still for a moment. This wasn't like the city, where you could push past odd people on the sidewalk, ignore them and disappear in the crowd on the next block. There was no one else here on this strip of sand, with water on one side and sea cliffs on the other, so how could Charles pretend he hadn't heard? He decided to play it straight. "You're selling gods?" "A god. And it's not really selling. And you don't get the god exactly, I mean, not to keep. Just an experience with the god, an encounter, like a revelation." Like an hour with a prostitute, Charles thought, and liked it so much he said it aloud: "Like an hour with a prostitute." The man frowned. "I've been with prostitutes, and I've never yet mistaken one for a god." Charles shook his head. "No thanks. I'll pass." He started to walk on. "Wait up!" the man said. "Really, this'll do you good. Once in a lifetime opportunity, I'm serious." Charles crossed his arms, pleased to find himself annoyed; it was the first discernible emotion he'd experienced in days. He'd come to the beach to lose himself for a while, to look at the place where the water met the sky and be soothed, to count the stones in the sand and see how they outnumbered his troubles. He didn't need this. "What the hell kind of god is for sale , anyway?" "An old, corroded one," the man said. "Mostly forgotten, greatly diminished. But still a god." Charles snorted. "Look, you're depressed, right?" the man said. "Life has no meaning, everything's falling apart, and what's worse, it doesn't seem like it's worth the trouble to
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