I died six months ago. I expected death to be nice, easy, and smooth. Instead, I was ripped form my body, sucked through a portal, and slammed into the pearly gates.
âThink a little farther north, darling.â A man stood over me, his beard so white it was nearly blinding.
Heaven didnât improve much after that. Those who had been sainted walked around with giant sticks up their asses, ordering those of us who hadnât been martyred or gone on a hunger strike around. I didnât take long to tell them where they could put their harps. The other angels ignored me, of course, but I heard them whispering to each other when I walked past. Â A few were convinced the man upstairs (yes, heaven has an upstairs) would change his mind and kick me out. When it became clear that wouldnât happen, I gave up all pretense of being an angel. I dressed in black, wore leather in any way I could â corsets, gauntlets, pants â and even tried to remove my halo.
When St. Thomasâs journals went missing, I was the first to be blamed. This was a ridiculous accusation, of course. Iâd ruined things, sure. But thievery? The only things worth stealing were back on Earth and I wasnât allowed to visit until everyone I knew was dead. Before the other angels could gang up on me, I went searching for the journals on my own.
The unfortunate part of trying to be a badass angel was that leather is heaving and our wings werenât designed to hold more than our own body weight. Turns out that when I wasnât dressed in black, people didnât recognize me. They assumed I was new to Heaven and were happy to answer all of my questions. St. Thomas Aquinas had been a pretty big deal when he lived, so when he died, the Man Upstairs promoted him to be his personal secretary (allegedly). Legend had it that the Man Upstairs had St. Thomas record all of the ways the world would be destroyed for the next hundred billion years.
Whoever stole those journals could change the course of Earthen history.
I searched every house, every building, then all of my hiding places. No way was I letting someone set me up for this. After hours of searching, by myself and by every other angel in Heaven, it became clear that whoever had stolen St. Thomasâs journals hadnât kept them in Heaven. If I had stolen them, I wouldnât have either. I would have used them to make another wormhole and get the hell out of there. But no angels were missing.
I canât say I was sad when I approached St. Peter at the pearly gates.
âHand them over, Pete. I know you took them.â
St. Peter smiled the same smile he had given me when I arrived in Heaven. It was kind and sympathetic, ready to ease someone into death, but there was something else underneath it that made my skin craw.
âI no longer have them, Cal, but Iâm impressed at your detective skills. I knew you would be a feisty candidate when I selected you.â
If he wasnât on the other side of the gates, I would have broken his nose. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âIt means I selected you before the devil could collect you. I needed someone the others would blame when the journals went missing. I was one of the original disciples and that asshole got to sit at Godâs right hand instead of me? Preposterous.â
I rattled the gates, trying to get through to the other side. âYouâll pay for this!â
âThatâs the beauty of it all. No one will believe a word you say and the journals have already been returned. Everyone has already forgotten about it.â He smiled again and a chill crept up my spine.
âYouâll have a front row seat to see a new world begin. Thank you, Cal. I couldnât have done it without you.â
St. Peter flicked his hand and a portal opened below me. I was sucked into the darkness.
Authorâs note: This was the story I wrote during ConQuesTâs Story In A Bag competition. I was given five prompts - character, plot, object, setting, and first line - and given one hour to write a story. I won my category.
