This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN#/ISBN# issue/book “Death Waits Outside” cc&d, v300 (the August 2020 issue) Order the 6"x9" paperback book:

Order this writing in the book One with the Mountain the cc&d May-Aug. 2020 magazine issues collection book		get the 426 page May-Aug. 2020 cc&d magazine 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book the 2021 flash fiction date book (the 2020 flash fiction and art weekly paperback book)		get the 146-page poetry & art weekly planner as a 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Well Heck

Brent Johnson

    On October 21, 2024, Ricky Chuff found himself ejected violently through the windshield of his late-model Subaru Outback where his doughy white body flopped wetly against the deteriorating tarmac along Cumberland and Mesa. For several minutes he just lay there, watching his blood pool around his head, til a battery of terrible white lights tore through him from all sides, and once again he found himself violently returned to the air, quickly rising above his mediocre corpse. “Holy shit,” he thought as he watched it shrink and disappear, “the Catholics were right all along. Life really does continue on after death. In Heaven that is. And it’s really high above the earth. And there are clouds and meteors along the way. And sparrows and pelicans.” And as he passed them by, the sparrows and pelicans seemed just as surprised to see him up there as he was to see them.
    And so on Ricky floated, his hair and eyes wild with unbounded terror, til at some point the clouds began to mantle more and more thickly about him, and then, poof, all at once, he found himself on elusive ground, queued up along a high golden fence. He was always finding himself queued up along different kinds of fences. And along the same fences too. “Well fuck,” he thought as his line inched along. Then he told himself he probably shouldn’t swear—not even inside his own head. “Well heck,” he amended, glancing around uneasily. Though he figured the word heck was probably all right. “I mean Kid Rock’s a Christian and I’m a Christian and he says some pretty rough stuff and he’s probably gonna go to Heaven—otherwise why would so many Christians love the guy?” And so on Ricky goes and on goes Ricky. And everything seemed to check out pretty good in the all-and-alls.
    When his time finally came, he was ushered into a tiny one-room guardhouse just outside the main gate where he found Saint Peter clicking away at a totemic TRS-80 computer. By the sharp angle of his eyebrows, Ricky could tell he was concentrating on something important. “Probably my file,” Ricky thought. Then he craned his neck to have a better look at the screen but Saint Peter reached up and shifted the entire computer away from him. “I mean there’s gotta be mostly good stuff in there,” Ricky told himself. Then he sat back in his chair again. “I mean there’s some shitty stuff in there too: a couple of OWIs, some sketchy posts on /b/, some minor insurance fraud.” Also, he swore a lot but he was doing his best to stop. Oh and his son was a queer. “Stop being a queer,” Ricky once told him. Something, something the Bible. Something, something their neighbors. But his son never stopped fucking guys and Ricky pretty much disowned him.
    Saint Peter clicked around some more. Then he punched several keys on his keyboard, and from below his desk, an ancient printer started to spit out the results. Saint Peter still preferred to mostly use the old dot matrix printers because they were loud and slow, and this loudness and slowness provoked such a hilarious look of dread from his hopefuls that he couldn’t really help himself. It was just too funny. Also he liked to split his infinitives so that grammar Nazis would question their former priorities back on Earth. Finally he grabbed a big rubber stamp from its ink pad and violently stamped PASS onto the printout, which he then handed over to Ricky. “Congratulations, Mr. Chuff, you’ve—” Saint Peter made magical-finger motions. “—ascended.” From the opposite side of the desk, Ricky stood up, and after some hesitation, he bowed to the great angel. He’d never bowed to anyone before, but it just seemed like the right thing to do.
    An hour later, Ricky Chuff, along with 38,643,797,783 other angels, found himself in a long white gown and white vestigial sandals, orbiting elliptically around his heavenly Father. And just like Sister Violeta had told him years and years ago, He looked pretty much like everybody else did on Earth. Well, for the most part that is. Only here He was about a hundred times taller than the tallest building Ricky had ever seen. With arms and legs and hands and feet. And elbows and knees and eyes and hair. And everything else that normal folks had. Oh and He had huge round pores on His face just like Ricky, only He didn’t have acne or blackheads or anything like that. And although He was generally indifferent to his 38,643,797,784^th angel, Ricky didn’t take it to heart, there being 38,643,797,783 other angels around there too—take or give a few. “That’s a lot of angels when you think about it,” Ricky thought. And the number kept growing every second.
    And that was it. The Catholics were right all along. Sign of the cross. And by allegiance and faith and a great deal of luck, he’d earned his spot in Heaven, slowly floating around God for the rest of eternity. Several times Ricky tried to strike up a conversation with some of the other angels in the area, but most of them had been there for so long—thousands upon thousands of years—that they were stupefied with insanity and boredom. “Well shit,” Ricky thought, “I mean...well heck.”

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...