Short Stories

strolled, down the light streets under the bright sunlight he passed. Stacey hid under cover of a tree, shady and voluptuous. “Have you got it?” he asked. “I’ve got it,” she responded.

-I don’t believe you.
-Then don’t.
-Believe, don’t believe, I believe.

She showed him. He died. He died and went to heaven.

Bright lights and blue sky, white clouds, golden rays streaming through, straining through, solid beams of heaven. Solid beams of beautific truth.