Orange Heaven

This short story evolved from a writing exercise.

            He doesn’t say much, but lately My Orange has been talking about going to a place called Heaven to be with someone named Jesus. Heaven is very beautiful with incredibly bright light, streets paved with gold, white-winged creatures called angels that fly like birds, and there is no pain—only joy. It is where the Good Ones go. He must mean Oranges. I want him to take me with him. Hell is a fiery ugly place where the Bad Ones are sent—I think of The Blues–the ones that come and disturb our nest trying to find me. I want to know more about Heaven and Hell and when these things will happen. I hope it is soon. My Orange sits and stares at pictures of his family that line the three walls of our nest. They wear many different coverings and can even change their colors. It hurts me to know that he feels bad. He holds me close and strokes my back. His fingers glide along my tail—it tickles. I’m grateful that I can bring him some small comfort.

My Orange lives a very ordered life. He eats breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the same time every day. He is very clever and does not need to scrounge—somehow he makes The Blues bring him his meals. Every other day My Orange puts his forelegs through the grate at the front of our nest where its fourth wall should be and The Blues put the shiny metal things on just above his forefeet. Then he goes somewhere for a short time and comes back smelling good all over. My Orange reads a lot, mostly a Black Book that he handles as gently as he does me. Sometimes he watches a strange Black Box. I like the box because it makes him laugh. It has pictures that move and talk, but none match the ones on the walls of our nest. Before I found him life was hard; just trying to get a decent meal was so frightening that I frequently threw it right back up. I never had the tough nerves of my siblings—even with a pack of The Blues bearing down on them they would try for a few bonus bites which is why some of them are now lost to me.

My family, though, is smarter than most; they don’t take so much as a nibble of the bad stuff that is set out by The Blues, neither are my kin taken in by their devices—they work only on the most dull-witted. My Orange walks with a limp from a beating The Blues gave him. It was horrible. The Blues apparently are responsible for keeping Oranges from their families. I don’t much see my family now, either. My parents don’t understand why I can’t live the way they do. “Have lots of children,” they say.” Some of my siblings have also found an Orange to take them in. Visiting each other is risky; unless we are with Oranges we don’t often attempt it.

My Orange keeps me supplied with chewables and scrounges whenever he can for stuff he can use to make playthings for me. I have an exercise wheel, a ladder, and a maze that he reconfigures so that I am constantly challenged; he brags to other Oranges about my prowess, but he must hide my playthings from The Blues. I fear they will harm My Orange or find me before we go to Heaven. At night I snuggle under his shirt. I can feel his heart’s slow thump under me. My only complaint is the white sticks he lights with his little Orange Flames. They smell bad and make it hard for me to breathe. A Black came to see us today. The only Black I have ever seen. He was not loud like Oranges or The Blues. They talked real serious in hushed tones. About My Orange’s family and his life. About Jesus. I wonder what his color is. They read from the Black Book. From what I gathered My Orange is planning to go to Heaven soon and Jesus is going to care for him. Kind of like the way My Orange cares for me. I’m certain he will want to take me with him.

                     ***

My Orange has taken down all of his pictures and put them in a big envelope. This must be the day. I scamper up his arm and tickle his neck with my nose and whiskers. He lifts me from his shoulder and kisses the top of my head. Outside in the tunnel there is a racket. The Blues are coming—Oranges always shout to let their kind know this. My Orange sets me behind our pillow. I leap to the floor and scurry up the inside of his hind leg covering and burrow toward his foot. He shakes his hind leg, but I dig my nails in and cling with all my strength. I know I must be hurting him, but why doesn’t he want me to go with him? Why doesn’t he want me to go with him? The Blues stop at our door. My Orange stops shaking.

                      ***

We are not yet in Heaven. There are no gold streets and My Orange still limps. It is much quieter here in our new nest. Oranges don’t talk to each other; even The Blues go about their business in a subdued sort of way. They bring our dinner. I have never seen such a repast. On the tray is a California cheeseburger and fries that I know is My Orange’s preferred meal, but there is also something called pizza with so many kinds of scraps on it—I haven’t seen so much variety since I foraged in the kitchen where my siblings and I used to dine. And five flavors of ice cream, including my favorite, Rocky Road. I wonder if Heaven has stages and this is only the first.

                     ***

The Black comes to our new nest. He stays a long time and they read from the Black Book. He makes some strange gestures touching My Orange’s forehead. My Orange and I take a nap. He seems to be resting better than usual. When we wake up he takes off the Orange and puts on Lime Green. This new covering seems to have been made for someone larger than him. Is this the color for one new to heaven? I have never worn a covering, but I find myself wanting Lime Green. I don’t want to look out of place when we get there. The Blues come with a couple of others—a Gray, a Brown, and the Black. This time My Orange tucks me inside his shirt. I know from the echo of footsteps we are going through another tunnel, but I hear no Oranges. Only The Black speaks. I like his soothing voice. After a while we stop and lie down. I want to peek out, but I don’t know if we have yet reached Heaven and I would certainly be spotted.

                 ***

My Orange Now Lime Green is saying some of the stuff that he said with The Black, repeating the same things over and over. He mentions the one called Jesus. I wonder if we are in Heaven yet. My Orange Now Lime Green sighs deeply. He is very still. I try to be still as possible myself. I decide to risk a peek. I see a White pulling a long thing out of My Orange Now Lime Green’s foreleg. I duck back in just as he draws a white covering over us. Is he an angel? Are we now to be angels?

                 ***

We’re moving. Surely, the angel is taking us to Heaven where we will see this Jesus. My Orange Now Lime Green is still asleep. It gets dark. A tunnel? I think it strangely ironic that we must travel through a dark tunnel to get to bright white Heaven. I sneak out from under his shirt and move about cautiously. The darkness is absolute. My nails grip wood—other than small chewables it is a texture I haven’t felt in some time. I find a corner and mark it, then feel my way along until I am back at my mark; there are four corners. I climb until I hit more wood. We appear to be in a box. At the second corner I begin to gnaw. It is pine, a one of the softest woods. This should be easy.

                   ***

We finally seem to have stopped moving. Have we arrived at Heaven? Why don’t the angels let us out? The hole I’ve been working on is large enough to stick my nose through, so I should be able to see something, but it is still dark. Where is the bright light? I try to wake My Orange Now Lime Green, but he doesn’t stir. I should think he’d want to be awake when we enter Heaven. I go back to my gnawing. I see a flicker of light. Are we just outside the gate and the angels are opening it to receive us? The light is getting brighter and it is pleasantly warm and kind of orange-a reflection from the Oranges in Heaven? They must have changed back from lime green. Oh, I can’t wait. I turn to My Orange Now Lime Green and locate his face—I tickle him furiously with my whiskers. He refuses to wake and I return to peer through my hole; the light of Heaven will rouse him soon enough. It is really brightening and somewhat warmer—uncomfortably so. It must be summer in Heaven, but I should expect the angels to adjust the climate to suit even newcomers. My hole is now big enough to get my head through which means I should be able to squeeze out. It is getting hot in here. I wiggle through. My feet touch metal. It hurts like the time I ran across a hot stove. I scale the box and see-flames! Like the ones My Orange Now Lime Green uses to light the smelly white sticks, only bigger. This can’t be right. We’re supposed to be in Heaven, but Heaven doesn’t have fire--Hell does. The wood under my feet is starting to smoke.  I hold my breath. Where are the angels? Why doesn’t Jesus help us?

                                           © 2008 Donald Ray Heistand