One of my micro-stories

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New Arrivals - Fantasy “Please move along. New arrivals step up to any of the white tables. If you are returning check through customs;” informed some unseen P.A. system in that universal monotone, unemotional voice. I blinked, twice, at the girl dressed like a 1960’s airline stewardess who was skillfully directing the foot traffic as we shuffled through the immaculate pearly gates. One moment I remember my best friend holding a gun on me after I caught him with my wife, then a long white tunnel of light, and then this large gate and all these damn clouds. I stumble up to one of the too white tables where a large, bald man in a toga sits with a stack of paperwork, easily three foot tall – the paper work; he stands at least six and would be called an Adonis. “Name,” he bellows without looking up. The voice vibrates through my bones. “Andrew,” I squeak out. He looks up at me with pure black eyes; my blood, if I still had blood, turned to ice. “Full name.” "Ah, sorry; right, Andrew Timothy Roberts.” He reaches somewhere near the middle of the stack of paperwork, without looking over to it, and pulls out a manila folder with my name and birth date, along with today’s date, printed in fancy church script. He opens it and starts flipping through the pages. I see no words on the pages but he umms and hmms as he takes a moment to scan each page. When he reaches the end he looks up with uncaring, black eyes. It reminds me of the look my best friend had in his eyes as he tightened his finger on the trigger of that gun. I wanted to strangle that look off of his face. He silently thumbs toward a grey, soot colored, steel door. It stood alone just outside of the hustle and bustle of the reception area. The look of the door caused a lump to form in my stomach. From where I stood I could see the words etched into the metal: “Unfinished Business”. I looked at the man behind the table quizzically; he just stared back. I looked around at all the other people who were gaining access past the tables; that direction felt right in my heart. But now that the lonely door was pointed out to me I feel a strange magnetic pull toward it. I stammer; “but, why can’t I go with them?” “Not yet, maybe in time.” Again he thumbed toward the door. I felt fearful. My heart knew there was nothing worth going through that door, but my body knew that was the only path open to me. I stumbled away from the table and took two steps toward the door. I turned, meaning to beg but the man, with a huge welcoming smile, was assisting a young girl who stood unafraid in a burnt night gown. She was allowed to pass. The man looked up at me, again his eyes were pure black. I stumbled back before turning back toward the door. No other soul was making their way toward it. As expected, the door had a small brass plate with my name on it. The door pushed open easily. Beyond the threshold was nothing but space, complete with thousands of pin points of stars. I stepped through into my living room. I saw my body; it was being lifted onto a gurney by two paramedics. My best friend was comforting my wife while she gave a list of stolen items to the young, uninterested police officer standing near them. Crocodile tears streaked her face. So that’s how it was; my best friend and my wife killed me. I stood a mere inch from them and screamed; “I’m still here!” She shivered and pulled her housecoat tighter around herself and he hugged her a little to friendly, closer. So they can feel me a little; good. I may have some unfinished business to work out, but I can surely make them suffer while I do. (c) 2012 John Woolard