Visual Concept: Elisa Hess, 2026 · Generative Digital Illustration

God's Raffle

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The large, transparent, glittering sphere spun at the speed of light. Tens of thousands of divine eyes watched it. Hundreds of thousands of slips of paper, each bearing a name, spun and whirled, propelled by an invisible centrifuge that drove them in ceaseless revolutions. A deep, drum-like sound echoed through the hall filled with angels. The Lord raised His hand, and the sphere suddenly stopped spinning.

“It is time to draw the next lucky winner!” His powerful voice echoed through the room, and the gathered crowd fell silent. Hundreds of eyes gazed reverently at the Almighty.

Every year on Lazarus Saturday, in memory of the saint, the Lord held a raffle for wishes. The names of the hundreds of thousands of righteous souls who had earned their place over the course of the year were written on slips of paper by Saint Peter and placed into the large crystal sphere in the throne room to be drawn in the following year’s raffle.

The crowd watched the Almighty’s every move with bated breath. Who would be this year’s lucky winner?

God opened a small flap in the crystal, reached elbow-deep into the pile of slips of paper, closed his eyes, and felt around at random. His fingers clamped down on one in particular, and he yanked it out sharply. He unfolded it and announced:

“Trifon Pishmanov—the Jester!”

The angels and the souls burst into applause. God handed the slip of paper to Saint Peter to check the name in the Book of the Righteous. The saint opened the thick book, moistened his finger with saliva, and began to search. When he reached the name in question, he froze for a second, not daring to look up. A cold sweat broke out on him. He quickly glanced at the Lord and whispered under his breath:

“Lord, is there a mistake?”

The Lord turned his back on the crowd and leaned in sympathetically. “What mistake are you talking about, you fool? You saw with your own eyes that I pulled out the sheet myself!”

“But he’s… well… neither righteous nor a sinner, but… an atheist!” Saint Peter said under his breath, now completely pale, and tried to put on a brave face so the crowd in front of them wouldn’t suspect that something was wrong.

God scratched his neck and said half-heartedly:

"Great! So what goes on the list of the deserving then? We can’t return the slip! I guess I’ll have to personally check what kind of person this Trifon is and see if I can turn him around! And correct the mistake, if necessary… Otherwise, we’ll be holding another raffle!"

The Lord rolled up the sleeves of His radiant robe and descended to the human world. But not in His radiant form—for that would have caused a worldwide sensation—but in disguise. And He decided that before granting the lucky one any wish, He would first try to learn more about this unusual man whose name He had personally chosen.

He opened the little notebook in which he had written down the names and addresses of all the people close to Trifon, and set out to visit them in numerical order. First, he stopped in town at his neighbour’s place, Yordan’s, and rang the apartment doorbell. When he saw the tall man standing before him, well-dressed in a suit, the man cautiously opened the door but remained half-hidden behind it.

“Are you Yordan, who works with Trifon Pishmanov at ‘Honey World’?” God asked him.

The neighbour turned pale and gasped. It wasn’t every day that gentlemen like that paid him a visit. Something extraordinary must have happened. He was in for trouble. Yordan swallowed hard, pale as a sheet, and managed to reply:

“It’s me. And you are…?”

“His boss.” God narrowed his eyes and was about to ask his next question, but the neighbour’s enormous eyes widened, and he immediately stammered:

“A-a-a, I knew this would happen! I want to tell you that the idea to mix in molasses to cover up the theft was his! Not-mine! I swear! I didn’t want anything to do with it! He’s the one to blame!”

God was taken aback by the unsolicited confession. What kind of shenanigans were going on here in Trifon’s life? It seemed that Trifon wasn’t righteous at all! Ah, He would have corrected the mistake if only He could have filled in the missing piece of the puzzle with the necessary information! He made a move to calm his neighbour, who, in the meantime, was already trembling uncontrollably

"Don’t worry, Yordan! God sees and manages everything!"

Yordan waved his hand and grumbled under his breath. "There’s no such thing! Trifon has a deal with God!” and he quickly shut the door in the face of his so-called boss before he could say another word.

God was astonished. What on earth could this deal be that even He Himself wasn’t aware of? He didn’t recall ever making a deal with some earthly man named Trifon. But then again, anything can happen—sometimes even God might forget an important detail. He was going to consult with Saint Peter about what on earth he’d gotten himself into, as soon as he got back to Heaven! But first, he had to get to the bottom of this whole thing. He opened the notebook to the next entry: Zlatina Kozhuharova. His finger traced the line with the additional information about the woman: living with Trifon out of wedlock.

“Aha, in sin!” the Lord noted to himself.

Another minus for Trifon. What kind of mistake had he made to draw such a name? And how, for heaven’s sake, had it ended up in the sphere? The situation was getting more and more complicated. He snapped his fingers and found himself on the street where Zlatina lived. He found her in the village, knitting slippers in the shade in front of her house.

“He’s out in the field at the edge of the village, plowing the land!” she called out to him in response to his question about where he could find Trifon, without even bothering to stand up. She glanced at him from under her eyebrows; the newcomer’s nice suit and low-crowned hat didn’t escape her notice. “And who are you? Aren't you a debt collector?” the stocky woman eyed him suspiciously and added, without waiting for an answer, “Just so you know, Trifon doesn’t owe anything!” He paid off everything on his late brother’s account—may God punish you, you bloodsuckers! You’ve hounded him long enough, trying to squeeze every last penny out of his pocket!”

“Ah, I see,” said the Lord, without correcting Zlatina’s mistake, and since he was thirsty from his journey through space-time, he asked for some water. “But excuse me, ma’am, I’m very thirsty. May I come in and get a glass?”

“Do you think I’m crazy enough to let strangers into my yard? What if you decide to rob me? I’m a woman on my own—I’m not easily fooled! Trifon’s not here; if I let you in, who knows what else you’d try to do to me! You’d better be on your way, because… do you see the wood?” and as she grabbed the long stick that was leaning against the wall next to her, she swung it menacingly at the intruder.

God raised his eyebrows; he realised it was better to stay away from this harpy. He’d find somewhere else to get a drink of water. He stepped back.

“God sees and manages everything!” God called out to her and walked away quickly.

“No way!” Zlatina shouted after him. “Your curses won’t work! Trifon has a deal with God!”

God was completely baffled—what on earth was this business with Trifon?! What kind of deal had he struck? Had he caught a fever, or was he just stirring up divine trouble? Curiosity gnawed at him like a hungry worm, and he hurried to the indicated spot. He found the culprit in the field, just as Zlatina had told him. Trifon had tied the donkey to the plow and was plowing the black earth, leaving deep furrows in his wake.

“Hey, good afternoon!” God waved at him from a distance so that the plowman would notice him.

“Good afternoon to you, too!” Trifon saw him and stopped plowing. “Has something happened?” he asked, walking toward him.

“My car broke down over there, just past the hill,” God lied. “Where can I spend the night?”

“Well, sir, there aren’t any hotels around here!” Trifon chuckled. “But if you’d be willing to wait while I plow two more furrows, once I’m done, I’ll take you to stay at our place tonight! I won’t leave you out on the street. We’re all human, after all.”

The Lord nodded with a smile, imagining the look on Zlatina’s face when she saw him again at their gate. He waited for Trifon to finish. As he swayed back and forth next to the stranded stranger in the cart, Trifon struck up a conversation.

“Who are you?” he asked, eyeing him carefully as he handed him his canteen of water, which God immediately accepted and raised thirstily. “We don’t often see well-dressed gentlemen like you around here. Are you with the police? If so, my conscience is clear!”—and he continued, without anyone prompting him. “That honey that Jordan and I hid—I gave it to the orphanage to sweeten the little ones’ lives! And the boss adds all sorts of additives there in the workshop anyway! He won’t notice it’s missing!”

“I’m not a policeman, I’m not,” God reassured him, wiping his mouth and handing the canteen back to him. “I’m a journalist on assignment.”

“Write the truth, now!” Trifon wagged his finger at him. “People need to know it! Otherwise, God sees and manages everything!”

“We’ll write it, we’ll write it,” God smiled, since Trifon, without realising it, had used his favourite expression. “God keeps a record of everyone.”

“Exactly,” Trifon agreed. “Everything is written down and known! God owes me one!”

God gasped in surprise, but didn’t let on. Oh, come on! He admitted it—me—in debt to a person?! What have I done?!

“How is he in debt to you?” the Almighty seized upon the opportunity.

“That’s right,” Trifon smiled slyly. “That’s the deal I made with him. Whatever I have to spare—whether I’ve produced it, saved it up, or received it as a gift—I give to those in need, and in return, Saint Peter doesn’t record my transgressions in the book of sinners.

The Almighty couldn’t believe his ears. So it was Saint Peter himself who was making deals with people! Well, well! He was going to check this out with his subordinates as soon as he got back up there! If the situation hadn’t been so comical, he certainly would have pulled more than a few ears.

“So it turns out you’re neither a righteous person nor a sinner, but… a total trickster!” concluded God, barely managing to keep from shaking with laughter. What a joker this Trifon was!

“Well, the end justifies the means. After all, we’re only human…” smiled the would-be lucky man.

God wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes.

“What is your name, sir?”

“Trifon Pishmanov. They call me ‘the Jester,’” said the lucky man, extending his hand and shaking the Lord’s right hand heartily.

“Mr. Trifon,” the Lord began, patting his knee with his palm, “tell me honestly: if you could have one wish granted, what would you ask for?”

Trifon tugged at the donkey’s reins and thought for a moment. Then he said:

"Well, I’m not a demanding person. Just a little more rain for the crops, for my donkey Spaska to stay healthy, and… if possible, for the store to restock “Zagorka” beer more often, since they rarely do that in our village. We’re not a priority for deliveries. There’s nothing for a man to drink when his soul is parched.

God laughed. He hadn’t expected that answer.

“Is that what you want? Some beer?!”

“Well, what’s wrong with beer?” Trifon smiled. “A person has to be grateful for the little things.”

“You’re right, you’re right! Who would God ever deny a beer?” agreed the Almighty, nodding contentedly. “Especially to such a simple man as you, with a big heart and a big mouth!” he said, pointing his finger. "Ha, there’s a bus stop right over there. Please, just drop me off there, would you? I’ll catch the bus and come back later with help for the car!"

"But the bus to town has already left today!" Trifon protested.

“Is that so? Well, I know that the route runs twice a day!” God objected, and, grabbing the edge of the seat of the stopped wagon, he hopped with ease onto the dusty ground. “Listen!” he said, pricking up his ears. “Just in time!” he said, turning his head in the opposite direction.

The roof of an approaching bus appeared from behind the hills; the engine roared in the distance—at first muffled, then growing clearer and clearer. A new, modern bus pulled up in front of the bus stop with a pretentious puff of exhaust. The doors swung open; the driver tore off a ticket and prepared to hand it to the journalist.

God reached out his hand to Trifon and took his calloused palm in his own.

"It was a pleasure, Mr. Pishmanov! Until we meet again!"

"Until we meet again, sir!" Trifon nodded, and the stranger stepped through the bus doors. Suddenly, the Jester came to his senses and raised his hand after him. "Hey, Mr. Journalist! You didn’t introduce yourself!"

But the doors were already closing behind the stranger; the bus pulled away with a quiet rumble and passed the cart stopped on the road.

Trifon stared after the receding vehicle and scratched his head.

“Twice a day, wow! We can finally go to town and catch a movie with Zlatina!”

He jumped off the cart and headed toward the bus stop to check the schedule posted there. He looked closely. But the sign still displayed the same faded information as it had a year ago: Monday through Friday, at 2:00 p.m.

***

The next day, when Trifon woke up, a light, refreshing rain was falling over the village. When he opened the door to go to the outhouse, a whole crate of ice-cold “Zagorka” beer was waiting for him on the doorstep.

The man pulled it inside, but not before looking around carefully to make sure no one had played a trick on him. But apart from a stray dog seeking shelter from the rain, he didn’t see a single soul running down the street.

“God truly watches over and arranges everything!” Trifon thought to himself, and with a satisfied smile, he bent down, picked up one of the bottles, and popped it open with a pop.

© Elissa Hess, 2024

Is God indebted to Trifon The Jester, and for what? The Heavenly Father Himself comes down from heaven to investigate this matter that the man is boasting about all over the world...

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