Deck The Halls With Brand New Stories: Ho Ho Holiday Anthology

Almost Real

This story was contributed by Carolyn_Hill


This may come as a bit of a shock, but Heaven is a business.

Yes, that Heaven.

The pearly gates? That's our reception desk. The angels? They're our customer service reps. And Saint Peter? Well, he isn't a damn saint—I can tell ya that. But more about him later.

Then there's God. Capital G, right on. You know your grammar. But do you know what it stands for?

Goddard Jenkins, the worst boss in the history of the multiverse.

If you think he loves you, you're right. You make him more money than some entire galaxies, man. But if you think he listens to you or knows you by name, well...ha! You've got another thing coming.

Only angels listen to humans. To be honest, we don't do our jobs very well either. Most of us are rushed off our feet with all the daily prayers. Some of us are downright lazy. Others just plain suck.

And me? Well, I've ripped a hole in their entire system. A terrorist act, according to Heaven. One that would make investors think twice before betting on a tiny globe.

A crisis from which I hope Heaven will never recover.

The date was November 29, 2019. Black Friday.

Truth be told, working in Heaven was no more fun than working at a call center on Earth. Every time a human said even the shortest prayer, I had to listen to them without responding and write up a file note that would get archived, never to be seen again.

Time and time again, I heard the same old crap.

"Please let it be in stock on Amazon!"
"Help me make my word count for NaNoWriMo!"
"Please, God, let him call me!"
"Can you make my kids shut up?"

Trust me, if I had precognition or a magic spell for silencing children, d'ya really think I'd be manning the prayer lines in Heaven? The company made me want to hurl. Soulless and heartless, row after row of weary angels listened to human pleas in a silent tomb of glaring white: white walls, white equipment, white uniforms, white hair, white shoes, white floors. A veneer of purity hiding all of Heaven's dirty little secrets. Like a fresh coat of paint on a rickety old fence.

Day after day, I waited for a brave soul to bring Heaven to its knees. But it never happened. And I was just one angel who never had the opportunity to change the Master Plan of Goddard Jenkins.

Unless I chose to be brave. Unless I took a stand. Unless I decided to stick it to the man.

What if prayer wasn't a one-way street?
What if we answered them?
What if they knew the truth?

After the ten thousandth call on that momentous Black Friday, I was done. I thought, Screw it! What's the worst that can happen? A reprimand. Some docked pay. Who gives a crap?

Big. Freaking. Mistake.

Trill. Trill. Trill.

"Heaven Hotline, how can I help?" I asked in a sweet whisper, my voice echoing in the silent hall.

My fellow angels turned to me with stunned expressions. Speaking was forbidden. No one had never heard my voice. Not in Heaven nor on Earth.

I gave them a wry smile and a nonchalant shrug.

"Holy shit!" came a gruff voice from the other end. "You mean... you can hear me up there?"

"Yes, loud and clear," I murmured with the broadest grin. "How can I help?"