Gary writes “Grit Fiction,” because life isn’t always smooth. His stories are characterized by wit, wordplay, and plot twists that will leave the reader guessing.

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Departure

It was a rigorous day at the job. I strip it all off, though, and draw a warm bath.
The tub is small; i have to bend my knees and put my feet on the tile above the faucet in order to partially submerge my aching head. It’s worth the effort.
I feel buoyant. The pains and cares of the day float away, and I think, This is heaven.
It is similar to heaven. I know, I’ve been there.
Long ago.
Here is what I remember of that beautiful place, before I was rudely and noisily evicted.
Heaven is warm. Warmth you can feel deep within you. You want for nothing; everything is pleasant and good.
Pain, worries, stress, none of them exist. There is only love. Love that intensifies the wonderful, nurturing warmth.
The colours are extraordinary. So brilliant you can see them with your eyes closed. Like a billion sunrises and sunsets combined. You feel the colors like you feel the warmth.
This all may seem familar to you.
After all, you were there, too. Perhaps at the same time as I, perhaps not.
It matters not. None of can recall seeing the others. We remember only our own personal bliss. And that warmth.
We celebrate the day that we might well regret the most. Our day of departure, when we were expelled involuntarily into this hell we now abide in.
It was a lifetime ago for me. I left five weeks shy of the average nine-month stay. And the first conscious action I took was to wail in pain and anger.
I ought to have stayed, but I had no choice.
We were all better off there.
Still, we inexplicably mourn those lost souls who never joined us. Who never left that wonderful place.
When we meet them one day, they will tell us they never mourned us.
Because there is no sorrow in heaven.