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.
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…”
“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?”
“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.
She promised to save me a seat.
“I’ll drape my sweater over the chair next to mine.”
I’ve looked every where and can’t find her. The only sweater I see is on a chair beside a little blonde girl.
Estelle has white hair
Maybe she didn’t make it into heaven.
Candace hopes someone will save her a seat.
All great jazz players stop here first in after-life: the Swansong Island Lounge. McCoy’s coming soon; the Steinway might not survive his hammer-handed tenure.
After it goes, no more instruments. Silence.
God installed these mechanisms,
walked away, and let be be.
West of the Moon, notes carrying over shoreline surf
Todd Mercer won the Woodstock Writers Festival’s Flash Fiction contest and took 2nd and 3rd place of the Kent County Dyer-Ives Prizes. His chapbook Box of Echoes won the Michigan Writers Cooperative Press contest. Mercer’s poetry and fiction appears in The Lake, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Thema, Blue Collar Review, Right Hand Pointing, Apocrypha & Abstractions, Cease, Cows, Dunes Review and Eunoia Review.f
We’re here. Town. The solution to our problems.
Ma and Pa described it as a place where everything is painted bright colours, everybody smiles all the time, and the streets are all paved. It sounded like heaven.
But the jolting of the wagon wheels over the cobblestones feels decidedly unheavenlike.
This story is based on a title suggested by Cody Bernal.
“Hallo. Leuk om hier te zijn! Ik ben klaar voor de hemel!” said the recently deceased Priest.
St. Peter was taken aback by the confidence and knowledge of the Priest.
“How did you know we spoke Dutch in Heaven?” he exclaimed.
“Because there was certainly no Earthly need for it!”
Gavin is a full time student who writes fiction in his free time. One day he hopes to write full time as he fears real work.