Yes, I exist, said God to the dead atheist.
The man stared at His aura for a long time. “So you died in debt, I hear,” God said, scratching his beard. Yes, replied the dead man. “They threw my ashes over my field.”
“I’m sorry,” said God. “I couldn’t do much about the locusts that ate your crops.” The man waved away the apology. “I didn’t believe you could do anything at all.”
Sighing deeply, God opened his mouth to say something, but the man interrupted him. “I don’t believe in heaven or hell. So don’t send me there.”
“You didn’t believe in me, but I am here!” God thundered, rising up. The man nodded, his face as grim as a grave. “It’s my death I believe in more. I know now that you exist — only because I believe I am dead.”
God slumped back into his throne and closed his eyes. “Neither heaven nor hell — what do you believe in then, Mr Skeptic?” He asked. “Myself!” cried the dead man, his eyes following God’s fading light.
The next morning, as the sun peaked over the horizon, hundreds of little buds sprouted across the farm where the dead man’s ashes lay. In no time, yellow flowers — tall and beautiful — stood proudly, braving the wind and rain. But there was something about these yellow flowers. They were a big mystery.
Indeed, people watched in disbelief as the flowers turned towards the east at dawn, and at dusk — the west. They chased the light tirelessly, their heads rotating on their stems, screaming “He exists! He exists! He exists!”