Stories Cloud Nine Run - Prologue (Fiction Story)

I’ve never felt peace like this in my entire life. Aside from the harmonies of harp strings that linger in the air, I can smell the scent of roses and baby shampoo. I sit in this colossal chair made of gold and Parisian decor facing a bearded man, more Roman or Greek or whatever, holding a staff in his right hand. I look right and see the man playing that soothing music with his harp. My God, he sure has wings. I’m hallucinating, I think. Maybe I overdosed taking buclizine hydrochloride and the amount of iron reached my brain and messed up the parietal lobe. I give up on the idea when a lady wearing a white gown approaches me and offers a cup of tea. I prefer wine but I am in dire need of anything liquid to calm my nerves after witnessing a man spreading out his wings like it is normal. I take the cup, give my thanks (first words after eons), and the next thing I know, it is already empty. It’s made of gold, the cup, by the way. But this lady, she has no wings or anything that cannot be seen on any normal homo sapiens that ever lived. I am in a fuss, so I ask her.

“How come you don’t have wings, if I may ask?”

“That wouldn’t be your first concern being here, would it be, young lady?” she replies.

“Oh, I’m trying to calm my nerves, I guess. The baby shampoo scents, and gold, and men with wings, it’s freaking the hell—“, I pause as everyone, literally everyone, looked at me.

“Hush now, young lady. Don’t ever say that word again”, she looks at me like I sneaked out a chocolate bar from a convenience store.

I recall the words I just spat. Baby shampoo scents, it is not shocking in any way; gold, maybe; men with wings, I don’t think so.

I scan the crowd and see that they are all bright—fabulously shining, every one of them. Each face seems perfectly shaped. I’ve never seen such fine human species, given if they are in fact, humans. They are all in a clamor now—whispering and muttering and eyes fixing at me. Maybe “men with wings” is a political insult. I don’t have any goddamn idea, so I ask her again.

“What word?” and with that, the muttering turns into an uproar. Everyone looks terrified and insulted. God, this is turning into a major racket now and I don’t even know what is going on.

“The H-word, young lady, it is forbidden for anyone to speak of the H-word in here, except the men like him,” and she points to the bearded guy in front of me. So it’s the word hell, I realize. These are a bunch of sensitive people.

“Men like him? What do you mean?” I add.

Before the lady could answer me, the bearded guy coughs intently.

“Welcome to heaven, Ellie. I am The Rock”, he says.

“Oh, I haven’t thought of that”, I reply, “Wait, what? The Rock?”

“I am Peter, the rock, the foundation of the church to which God started to spread the Good News of salvation to the ends of the earth!” he answers triumphantly. He’s so lively, the bearded guy.

“Nice. Now, what am I doing here?” I try to get straight to the point.

“I see you’re in a hurry. Listen, you are now in heaven, and you are here to stay.”

“To stay? Until when? And how did I get in here, by the way? I’m qualified to be one of the angels because I did a great job on earth?”

“Whoa, take it slow. Firstly, you are here so stay for eternity! Isn’t that good?”

“Go on.”

“Yes, you did a great job on earth. In fact, everyone in here admires you!”

“Okay, okay. You’re telling me that I’m about to spend a gazillion of a lifetime in here? Am I supposed to be happy, or celebrate or something? Because—I don’t know what’s wrong—I don’t feel like it.”

“Now that’s a problem, I see.”