Heaven is not what I had imagined. I had imagined Heaven to be like the Three Bears welcoming Goldilocks into their home, happily sitting together around the table, and the porridge always being ‘just right’. Not too hot and not too cold.
But Heaven’s not like that at all. It’s like waiting for a train. St Peter checks your ticket and then directs you to another queue seemingly at random. I’ve been waiting in a furzey lodge with a handful of other people for two rainy days. The staff are surly and show no interest in me. There is porridge though. But it is certainly not ‘just right’.
For 100 consecutive days I will write and post a short story (about 100 words) incorporating a randomly selected word from Afterliff: A new dictionary of things there should be words for.
furzey lodge n.
A cafe that looks like someone’s front room.
A dog that walks its owner.