Clouds afford a soft landing. I climbed that stairway to Heaven, found you, and snatched you back. I didn’t want you to leave; couldn’t let you go; wasn’t ready to say goodbye. We eluded St Peter, leapt from the pearly gates. Down, down. I wake with tears on my pillow.
Sandra James leads a writing group in Heathcote, Australia.
My Dad lost his Bible, a photo of his late wife lovingly tucked inside. It was like losing her again. Eventually his mind eased, but never his heart.
Then a surprising call came. His Bible was found!
Heaven claimed Dad before I could tell him. Somehow, I think he knows.
Lisa Chambers is a Texas girl who cherishes the returned Bible as much as her Dad would have.
I am weightless. Untethered. The world and my memory of it fades away, and though time no longer exists, I know that I am waiting for someone.
Fractals of brilliant color burst, and she is there, running towards me.
I bury my face in her fur. Good girl, I whisper.
K. L. Mill is a voice actor, another profession that revolves around words. Most recently her work has been published by Black Hare Press, Hungry Shadow Press, and Atomic Carnival.
I sit, tapping my foot and avoiding eye contact with the man opposite.
Finally the receptionist looks up: “Welcome to the Afterlife. Please take your name badge and enter the assessment room.”
I leap up and grab a random name badge, hoping ‘Jacob Coleman’ was a better man than I.
Laura Cookson lives in Liverpool, England with her fiancé and cat. Her short fiction has also appeared in Short Fiction Break, and she blogs about books and writing at www.daydreamingdragons.com.
He was never one for long letters, just the occasional postcard from exotic locations to let her know he was alive and well and thinking of her.
She read the news of his death on Friday with sadness. On Monday, his postcard arrived.
So like him:
“Wish you were here.”
Susan Gale Wickes wrote this story.
Dusty bounded into my life, like a golden bone lay hidden inside me. Our ritualistic greeting never failed to cheer my weary spirit.
Dusty is gone now but sometimes I picture God laughing, tossing that tennis ball over the Pearly Gates. Dusty pounces and returns with eyes full of adoration.
Eileen McIntyre is a writer from Northern California, who sometimes listens when voices speak.
The eggheads cracked it, opened a door to the afterlife. Come and go as you please. They chose me, figuring I had plenty of questions for the Big Guy. They didn’t know I’d need an appointment. Didn’t know I would have blown Him off if I had one.
“Hey, kiddo.”
Andrew Walo is a freelance writer and a hunter of wild paragraphs and domesticated monsters. He resides in Norfolk, Virginia, but he lives for jacket-weather. More work can be found at AndrewWalo.com.
Life can be excruciating. Death can be a welcome release.
A light of comforting and joyous brilliance pulled him on, yet when he heard her call his name he stopped, and decided he must return to try again.
He didn’t know there was a reception committee (and they had cookies).
From a darkened room in Madison, Wisconsin, Bill writes about reanimated mummies, intelligent golems, and all things that frighten him in the hopes that someday they might not.
Grandpa’s pain stops with his heart. Amid brilliant white light and the fury of a whirlwind, he is lifted and flies rejoicing to God.
He wakes joyously. “Lord, I’m saved!”
His angel smiles. “Only just. It’s a miracle you got to hospital in time. We had to send a helicopter.”
Viv Burgess says her inspiration has been absent without leave, and she is not a-mused.
“You must be God… And this is…”
“Judgment Day.”
“Where you review my entire life and see if I’m worthy?”
“Just the last day. Your whole life takes too long and there’s a line behind you.”
“It represents my entire life?”
“Yes.”
“When did this start?”
“Always been this way.”
Sean Daly lives in Ojai California. His work has appeared in few magazines here and there. His memoir, What We Talk About When We talk About Cancer, was published in 2016.