Short Story for Charity- Week Nine

My friend Dazrah hosts a weekly Short Story Competition for Charity. This is my entry for this week.

HEAVEN IS IN MY MIND

(Fiction for Charity by Marcail as sponsored by Dazrah, October 2006)


“Heaven is in my mind. I put it together; construct it like the hells in which I’ve lived out of wishes, prayers, ideas, out of voice, motion, tears…” shed silently and then forever banished. Where the mind flows, so I go. I choose the Light.

It required a paradigm shift. Failure no longer an option.

Now, I summon my angel minions to fight the invader. They scour my body in search of errant cells—sleeper cells—turncoat cells. With lightning speed and deft aim, they hit their target. I see my enemy vaporize.

Sometimes collateral damage ensues and I temporarily succumb to exhaustion and my own body, confused, betrays me and fights the valiant efforts of my angels. This is when my secret heaven is most needed. I retreat and regroup. I lie down in its green pastures after walking defiantly through the Valley of the Shadow.

Here I sing, dance and laugh. I thumb my nose at Death. I party with my loved ones and my friends. We are positivism embodied. Sunbeams and moonbeams of the Great Source.
The Great I Am. I’m through the Looking Glass in the land of endless possibilities and contradictions.

The Stooges visit with trade secrets of irony, sarcasm and satire. The Marx Brothers tell amusing anecdotes while Harpo plucks at my heart strings. Lucy ‘splains my situation to Desi and though the story sounds wacky coming from her lips, it makes sense here and love wins in the end. Jerry, Elaine, Kramer and George break all the rules to steal a bowl of healing broth from The Soup Nazi’s kitchen. The story of the quest for the bowl levitates me. I giggle and float on clouds of mirth like Mary’s poppins. Just a spoonful of sugar… la la la la la.

Mozart plays so I may waltz with my man. Tchaikovsky tickles the ivories as the Swan Queen pirouettes. Louis Armstrong trumpets as the Saints march in. All the while, Irish dancers stomp on the pesky straggling invader cells as they try to creep in like spiders seeking my life’s juice. We play, sing and dance to crescendo in praise of life’s sanctity and beauty.

All my champions-- like chessmen-- move, countermove, check and checkmate. I am winning. We are legion.