The Right Fluff
Whoever thinks hell is at the bottom of the Mariana Trench is misinformed. Hell is neither Venus nor at the poles of Pluto.
Because way above Earth’s highest sailing clouds where we think heaven should begin, there exists a special place. Let me tell you about it.
Just before our boosters thrust us into open space and into the hands of God, the air thickens, darkens, and clots our veins. The winds die down and our eyes shrink to the backs of our skulls. As we hang farsighted in purgatory like musty prom suits on hangers, a swarm of moths appears, eclipsing the pale sun. They are fanged beasts with ferocious appetites for more than old prom suits.
In the past, we tried shooting them down with mothballs but they grew DNA-smart. We had to wait for them to dissolve in their own saliva after an orgy of feasting and copulation, which was something else…
The crew wearing the shabbiest suits were targeted first. They were spared having to listen to each crewmate plead with fuzzy-face for their life.
But during one assault, the moths attacked thrifty Flash first. He frisked his thigh-kit searching for a flare to stun the fluttering fiends but all he found was a pouch of lavender balls that his grandmother had slipped in to keep his suit fresh.
Grandmothers have a habit of secretly slipping useful items into pockets.
They smelled like the bottom drawer of her teak dresser. He flung a handful out recalling how he sucked at carnival games. The moths shrilled and ducked, then took out their knitting patterns and began knitting placidly. A frustrated few chewed a hole in the purpling sky and vanished into the blinding sun.
Behind every man's ingenuity are plenty of f-words and thoughtful grandma’s.
