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Prepare my spaghetti dinner immediately! - Short Story by Jim Meirose

Hello there Davis family! Prepare my spaghetti dinner immediately! Janie told me she would be at Frank’s. I can bet that by now you’re on tenterhooks knowing that in just about a single decade you will be called home to Bern and processed through the process and begin your well-earned lives, which by the way we will number Davis family lifetime 2.0. She agreed to be here at seven so we could watch the next prep video together. We are glad to tell you that our research and planning is well ahead of schedule and we will be ready and waiting in every one of the hundreds of multifaceted ways that we must be prepared to take you in live spit you out between lives in process status, that is—and then send you out fresh and alive and ready to hold hands together with all tests behind you, and to enter the Gallant Neoteric New Nature of human existence which is what we term the life beyond death that our process will vault you three into. Dinner will be out in about twelve minutes. But—there is a wave of feeling rippling through your ranks—maybe not with you Davises in particular, but across the body of club members at large. I’m bringing the pasta to a boil now. Get out the pots and the pans and all necessary utensils. This is the problem of being on the easy-coast downhill side of the hump that you are all on realizing now that your process is actually going to happen, and that it is really really true that those of you who were raised in a cult that made you believe in the fallacy called heaven, are feeling a hollow virtual sinkhole-like suction down and down to the depressive space whose gross product is regret, otherwise known as the human being-breed’s natural bent to crush to powder the slightest glimmer of feeling free fine and happy in your skins—because your skins are filthy stinky and gross and slimy-slippery and were not meant to contain happy consciousnesses so must be restored to their naturally-depressed unhappy naysaying face-to-the-dirt crawl through life’s deadly no-mans-land attitudes that over time, yup, up until the death-point, yup, have been conditioned to expect and deserve eternal bliss in an interstellar-but-maybe-really earthly Hawaii-climated virgin spotlessly sweet-spotted high-numbered and all that great stuff, place. Want to help me set the table? But for the club members, this would be true; you will never get to that place in this or any other iteration of your forward-rolling eternal lives. Come on—get out two hot plates we need two and—Wait! So; just what is this place called heaven, actually? Wait a minute. What is this place that it is calculated that one out of five of the members of the full gang of clubbies we have on the Club rolls, will quit because they will lose the spiritual battle for their souls between taking a chance on there really being an unlikely place called heaven or that their only hope of any reward for the decades and decades of suffering this first life has given them is to stick with the Club and see their processes through. You mean to tell me that she’s eating with that guy of hers again tonight? We have thus seen fit to devote a large quadrant of this enormous time consuming video message to helping those with these types of fears, some things to ask themselves meditate on muse about discuss both circularly and straight ahead wise, up and down and about and through, to come to their own well-mediated conclusion about the existence of a heaven and if arriving there is better or worse in the eternally long run than going into the process and never ever experiencing death. Fill the outsized tin pot with hot water turn on the big flame and cover it up. How many nights in a row has it been now? And note that to get to heaven, death must be passed through. Yesterday I told her to be sure to be here today. And the way that death comes to each varied from horribly painful agonizing and torturously slow, to totally pain free so pain free as a matter of fact that it may come during a typical sleep on what seemed to be a typical night unheralded and unannounced. Wendy, when are you going to put your foot down and demand she get in line—I think she’s come around pretty well, Jamed. You wake up dead without experiencing it and being dead, the next thing is to come before the golden throne of either Saint Peter or Jesus Christ or Adam or Munkar or Nakeer or of any of the entities that differ by religion to judge you and decide what’s next. She’s been a lot calmer the last few months. What’s next is such a trite phrase. To crack down, well—she is twenty-one now, after all. What’s next is asked all through life. She’s an adult—But she still is our daughter and lives under our roof—Jamed. What’s next comes over and over and over so smooth and unnoticed that the question in between stops being heard, until the last what’s next asked when standing out in the space past death will be the last and the answer will be heaven or hell. Calm down. All know hell. The way she was after the last trip to Bern, we’re lucky she’s still hanging in there with us to keep the club going at all; I still think we should call over there, and demand to know what they told her. The absence of the positive all things gone but the negative list out all negative things in the universe and the total equals hell. She’s not been the same since. No quality of life at all in hell; plus, hell is forever. I—I am a nervous wreck not knowing what’s in her head; Jamed, stop, think, and remember back about ten years. Reflect and see that the risk of deciding to give up the Club and opt for a shot at traditional heaven is the deepest risk any human can take. When she was turning to a teenager. Open the deep blue long thin spaghetti box and measure out the correct amount corresponding to the expected number of diners. The first most premiere eternal game show has been debuted with the advent of Le Club de Resurrection. You said the same things about the changes in her then—that was different; but how? Take the risk of shooting for the absolute pinnacle of happiness called heaven, which may end up with your being shunted off to the absolute deepest deep of despair called hell. Tell me how? And, in the process, possibly enduring an unimaginably torturous and agonizing prolonged death, only to fail in the judgement and have the suffering all have been for nothing when you find yourself flung aside through the gaping red-hot stone door to hell without possibility of parole. She was changing from a child to an adolescent. However; opt to stay in Le Club de Resurrection, and you will lock in the promise of eternal fleshly life which, though not ever reaching the pinnacles of pleasure heaven promises, will ensure that there will be no agonizing death and a total guarantee that you will never experience an eternity and possibly even longer time in hell. She didn’t want to be our baby any more. Which is rational to choose?


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