Heaven Is Full of Arseholes

By C. Sean McGee

" The idea that the Divine exists in everyone and everything is described well, although whether it is fundamentally supporting a Cartesian, Levinasian, pantheist or panentheist viewpoint is unclear (this ambiguity is arguably a strength)." Evie Kendal - Dark Matter Fanzine

After his family is killed in a car accident, a father learns, in all its violent splendour, the true natuire of love, family, and of God.

Heaven Is Full Of Arseholes, an unconventional take on unconditional love, is a gritty, psychological piece by author C. Sean McGee. The tale is about a highly dysfunctional family that has suffered the loss of a daughter. A fight between the son, an otherwise juvenile delinquent of sorts, and his parents occurs while the family is driving, which causes a car accident that kills the entire family. But, what happens next is where things get interesting.

McGee examines how these otherwise lost souls gain admittance into heaven. An encounter with an unlikely and infamous figure leads to a conversation about God and his unconditional love. Ultimately, McGee is presenting a philosophical argument about love and faith, but it’s packaged in a jarring sort of story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. Sean McGee
• Release date: Jan 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301402960

C. Sean McGee

"I write weird books."

Book preview

HEAVEN IS FULL OF ARSEHOLES

by

C. Sean McGee

Heaven is Full of Arseholes

An unconventional take on unconditional love

Copyright© C. Sean McGee

Rotting Flower

Published at Smashwords

First Edition - Santo André, São Paulo, 2013

Second Edition – Araraquara, São Paulo, 2024

All rights reserved. No sneaky business. No unauthorized anything.

Cover Design, Diagramming, Everything: C. Sean McGee

this short story was written under the influence of:

California by Mr. Bungle

Table of Contents

THE INCIDENT

THE CAR

THE ASCENT

THE AWAKENING

THE ENCOUNTER

THE END

THE INCIDENT

I’ve never felt so… said The Headmaster, unable to finish her words.

We’re really sorry. He’s not usually like this, I promise. I‘m sure it’s just a phase he’s going through. He’s never done this kind of thing before, I swear., said the Mother, lying ingenuously and twisting a small, coloured, cloth butterfly nervously between her fingers.

That is so true. Yes, a phase, that’s how we should look at this. Something he is transcending. Something we are all going through I think, wouldn’t you say? said The Therapist.

Her highly inflected nasal tone slapped at the decency of The Mother and The Father who sat scolded by the spark of their son’s inner villain, clinging to the subtle defence of the sweet child they remembered him once being.

The very boy, who, through an Arctic stare, looked vacant and desponding at a small insect with a broken wing; one that was hobbling on what could have been a crushed limb, up the length of the wall that divided the tense air between The Headmaster and The Therapist.

The latter, dancing on tentative toes around the obvious truth that no amount of doing could ever undo the do that had already been done; this boy was seriously fucked up.

And what do you have to say? asked The Headmaster in a tone that was less of a question, and more of a prodding into an expected expression of guilt, remorse, or a simple apology.

The Son said nothing.

He continued watching the insect in its slowed ascent towards escape, hobbling up the limestone wall and sputtering about, to and fro, like an old drunk staggering about in canting solace with no change in his pockets, humming a tune to a song that he could not sing, and straying into the path of an oncoming truck. Watch, he did, in his drunken stupor, oblivious to what was being said around him until suddenly, a ruler smacked against the wall, crushing the small escaping insect, and returning the boy to his state of attention and discipline.

Well, speak. Don’t make me look stupid. Answer the question. What do you have to say for yourself? What were you thinking? You thought you’d get away with it? What did you think was going to happen? said The Father.

Well? asked The Headmaster.

The Son started to drift away once again, his heart rate slowing with every long and drawn breath, filling and heavying his lungs like bags of sand, pulling his consciousness overboard into an ocean of imagination. And before the currents could completely sweep his care away, he looked to The Therapist bemused.

I dunno, I was bored I guess, he said.

You guess? It’s not a test, said The Father. Tell her what she wants to hear.

What?

Say you’re sorry, said The Mother.

"Yes that