Hellfire, Holy Fire

By Phyllis Ann Karr

Killed in a car-motorcycle collision, young Deborah Kennicut finds Heaven very different from what her ultra-Fundamentalist Bible creed had prepared her for. But it must be Heaven, because even while dying herself, she watch the motorcyclist plummet down in the other direction. Still, she finds Heaven filled with agnostics like her Aunt Myrtle, Catholics like new employers Corwin and Angela, pets and other animals who can all but talk, even pagan goddesses like Demeter! People can enjoy so many things her preacher back on Earth strictly forbade – coffee, movies, Harry Potter books. And every so often, somebody “glows up” and just disappears. Adjusting to her “saved” immortality, and long unable to remember either the name or the face of the young man she was to have married, Deborah strikes up a dating friendship with her not-quite-boyfriend Jamie who also died young. She finds herself most drawn, however, to her married employer Corwin, and learns that under certain circumstances polygamy is permitted in Heaven. And she has recurrent nightmares of that motorcyclist suffering in Hell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phyllis Ann Karr
• Release date: Mar 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005820954

Phyllis Ann Karr

Born 1944, death date not yet established. Lifelong fictioneer, primary publisher for the last few decades Wildside Press. Savoyard (fan only, non-singing), Droodophile, etc.Pictured with my beloved husband Clifton Alfred Hoyt, who among other things invented a means of measuring gas in tenths of a gallon when pumped into your car. He moved out of his body in 2005. (Note: that's ALFRED, not "Albert," as some places seem to have it erroneously.I once had a poor little website. It got eaten by some Japanese(?) concern peddling -- as nearly as I could make out -- cosmetics. As nearly as I could see, it had never profited me; and as of today, it seems as nearly as I can see to have vanished. Now I leave it all to Wikipedia (which may not always be reliable), Amazon, and Smashwords.Throughout my life (77 years and counting), every time I have tried to blow my own trumpet, somebody has thrown heavy lumps of discouragement into its bell. Now I am like someone shipwrecked on a desert island with several cases of pop, reams of paper, and sharpened pencils, who, after drinking up each bottle, puts in a message and tosses it into the ocean. A few of these messages may eventually be picked up; and, since it will probably be too late for the writer, at least let the message itself give a little enjoyment to the finder.in February 2022 I was appalled to find that somehow -- who was responsible for the goof may never be known -- the dollar ninety-nine cents I thought I had listed for my "Polifonix Poems" message-in-bottle had got transmogrified to a hundred and ninety-nine dollars!! I don't think there is any newly published and/or currently available volume of verse anywhere in the world worth that kind of asking price, unless perhaps it were privately printed on thin sheets of beaten gold and bound in unicorn hide. Apologies to anyone who may have glimpsed that absurd $199.00 and pictured me as endowed with an ego bigger than Mount Everest. Although leaving the price to the purchaser amounts to "free," that's much better than risking such a ridiculously out-of-line price tag by mistake; and I am, after all, pretty well just tossing out messages in bottles.

Book preview

HELLFIRE, HOLY FIRE

By

Phyllis Ann Karr

A Romantic Parable of the Afterlife

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2022 by Phyllis Ann Karr

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

About the author

Some other books by this author

Chapter 1

When Abigail Yokum Kennicut saw the scraggled, unhelmeted motorcyclist with the Satanhead tattoo on his bare arm -- who had caused the crash that killed them both -- being sucked down into the Fiery Pit, while she -- praise the Lord! -- felt herself pulled up through the long gray tunnel on her way to the dazzling bright light and Glory, her first reaction was, Serve him right, too, the Godless pagan!

Under the circumstances, seeing that she was twenty-two and engaged to be married, her anger was natural. And she had the grace to feel ashamed of it almost at once. Another poor soul lost to burn in Hell forever and ever! And -- what must make it even worse -- seeing somebody else on her way to Heaven at the same time, thanks to him. Because he couldn't have planned to kill her, surely ... unless he crashed into her car to commit suicide ...

And then she worried about regretting her initial anger, because, after all, it was Jehovah God's divine justice working itself out, righteously saving the good and damning the wicked in His great mercy, and who was Abigail Yokum Kennicut to question His wondrous love by feeling even so much as one little twinge of regret for any sinner who got himself damned to hellfire through his own damfool fault?

And then -- praise the Lord again, oh! Hallelujah! And praise the Lord! There she stood safe and sound before the Pearly Gates.

It seemed a little odd, though. She was standing right in front of the Pearly Gates, and they looked to be set smack dab in the great crystal wall of the Heavenly Jerusalem, just like the Good Book said, and yet somehow, for all that, there was still the River Jordan and a wide, lovely stretch of meadow between her and that city wall.

Must be that spaces and perspectives didn't work quite the same way, on this side of the Great Divide.

But where were the friends and family members who ought to be waiting for her with open arms just beyond that shining River Jordan?

Oh, of course! Dying -- getting killed -- so young, she had beaten them all up here, even all four grandparents. The only ones she hadn't beaten, people like her old high school classmate Jamie Farmer and Great-Aunt Myrtle -- had died unrepentant sinners if not downright atheist agnostics or even Catholics.

Saint Peter was here, all right, sitting at his stand behind the huge Book of Life, with the golden keys in one hand and a big, plumed pen in the other. Abigail? he asked her quietly.

That's right, sir. Miss Abigail Yokum Kennicut, soon to have been Mrs. ... That's funny! How … Her voice trailed away as she found she couldn't remember her fiance's name.

I wouldn't worry about him, Abigail, Saint Peter said, like he could look right into her head. A month after your engagement, he already had someone else on the side. You, however ... He glanced at his book, smiled, and nodded. (Oh, what a blessed, blessed relief, that nod and that smile!) Yes, you can go right in. But first, is 'Abigail' the name you really prefer?

It's the name my parents gave me, she answered loyally.

But is it the name you would have given yourself?

Do you mean ... oh, you can't mean ... do you really mean it's all right to choose our own names, up here?

Yes, said Saint Peter, it's always perfectly all right, 'up here.' Some do, and some don't.

In that case ... You're sure they'll still be able to find me, when they get up here, the rest of my family and friends -- that is, I mean, the rest of them who make it up here? Most of her family probably would, except Great-Aunt Myrtle and her scapegrace son Uncle Horace, but Abigail wasn't any too sure about some of her friends.

Oh, yes, no problem there, Saint Peter assured her.

Well ... in that case ... I always kind of ... fancied ... the name 'Deborah.' Deborah Kennicut -- it has such a fine sound.

Deborah Kennicut it is, Saint Peter said, writing it down, and a fine, ringing name, too. Then he got up, put his great golden key in the shining lock, turned it, and the Pearly Gates seemed to swing open all by themselves.

Deborah walked right in and -- oh, my! There seemed to be more outside within the walls of that shining city than there was outside! It just stretched on and on forever, with fields and forests and tidy little suburbs of houses, and here and there what looked like an actual shopping mall ... and, just inside the gates, a lovely mother-of-pearl Welcome Desk where who should be sitting but --

Great-Aunt Myrtle!

Abby, child, welcome! Great-Aunt Myrtle stood up and stretched out across the desk to hug her grandniece.

I'm -- It's 'Deborah' now, Aunt Myrtle.

Deborah. Good for you! Somehow, I always knew you'd choose that name, in your own good time.

How wonderful to find Aunt Myrtle again, after all! Abigail -- Deborah -- always used to like her pepperminty great-aunt, who had died when she -- Abby -- was still too little to know about some people being saved and others not. So now she truly meant it when she leaned over and returned the older woman's hug with all her might. Oh, Great-Aunt Myrtle, I'm so very glad you made it after all! I mean -- that is ...

Oh, think nothing of it, child! I always knew your parents' opinion of me. Quite a surprise they're in for, wouldn't you say? Well, now, to business. What would you like to do for a living?

"Do? For a living? You mean ... earn money? We need money here?"

No, of course not! Not in every sector. In the sectors where people use it, they know how to treat it as a pleasant and fun convenience for handling the logistics of distribution, rather than as some misbegotten scorekeeping system. The City of Light is true utopia, dear. Or, rather, a collection of utopias, probably none of which would work very well or for very long on Earth, where people are so much farther from perfection. We have any number of excellent, money-free communes of different types and styles, if you'd rather try them. But wherever you go, you'll still have to do something for a living.

I thought ... I always thought that when we made it up here we all just sort of ... sat around on clouds playing harps and singing hymns.

Aunt Myrtle laughed. As my dear friend Mark Twain is already shrewd enough to point out during his Earthly life, most people would find that existence very boring almost at once. As an eternal prospect, I mean. Cloud-riding, with or without wings, halo, and harp, is always available, and can prove extremely relaxing, but most people prefer to take no more than an hour or two of it at a time.

Oh. Deborah considered things. Well, could I at least try it out while I think all this over?

Of course you may! Great-Aunt Myrtle reached under her desk and brought out a gilt wire basket in which a golden harp lay on top of a folded bundle of shimmering gauzy fabric. You might like to start with the full regalia. The halo is folded into the robe. It'd float away otherwise, but it always stays in place above the head of anyone who unfolds the robe. The wings pop out by themselves once you have the robe on. One size fits all. You'll also find a self-instruction music book at the bottom of the basket, should you want it. And if I remember little Abby, you'll probably want a handmap.

Deborah blinked, remembering her old Roadmap to Heaven board game. "How else would I know where I was going? It's all so ... so big! So -- so humongous!"

You see, dear, some people prefer just 'exploring' and maybe asking a direction here and there as they wander. Either way is fine. Most of us do a little of both, and this home is humongous enough to go on doing a little of both for eons and eons, if that's what you choose. But here's your map.

It was a little screen, about the size of a Gideon Bible, charting the area right around the Welcome Desk, with a golden X that Deborah guessed marked the very spot where she herself was standing.

Just tell it where you want to go, Aunt Myrtle continued. This is the 'Petersgate Welcome Desk,' and the name of the cloud you want is engraved right here on the basket ... let's see ... 'Cloud Eleven.' Yes, tell your map 'Cloud Eleven' and it'll show a line of golden arrows to mark your best route.

Deborah spent an hour on the cloud, thinking. Than half an hour teaching herself to play Amazing Grace on the golden harp. Then another hour thinking some more. Not once could she remember her former fiance's name, but it seemed to matter less and less.

When she went back at last, running two lists over in her mind -- what she would like to do with her Eternity and what she felt she was qualified to do -- Great-Aunt Myrtle was no longer at the Petersgate Welcome Desk. Instead, a plump blonde woman sat there, a smiling stranger ... except, of course, there were no more strangers here in Heaven, just friends you hadn't happened to meet yet.

Where's Aunt Myrtle? Deborah asked in a friendly way. Miss Myrtle Kennicut Fairchild?

She goes by 'Myrtle Morning Dove' just now, the new woman answered pleasantly. That's 'Morning' without the 'u' -- as in the early part of the day. And her shift was over, so she left this note for you.

It was on something like a postcard, only twice as long, folded over and sealed with a goldtone sticker, which Deborah easily split with one fingernail. It read:

"Deborah, Honey --

My current address is Peacechild Cottage in Summerland Commune between Shoshone Village and Romany Haven. You may not be quite ready for our neighborhood yet, so I hope you'll meet me for lunch tomorrow at Green Pastures Cafe, right across from Divine Word Lecture Hall. Say, twelve-thirtyish?"

Meanwhile, Angela Garvey -- who has desk duty right after me, and who just handed you this note (unless you didn't get back from Cloud 11 till Jackie O's shift) and her husband are very genial people in need of a good housekeeper-cook, either live-in or day job. So, if you don't have any other ideas for your immediate future, you might think about it. I hope eventually to see you set up in that little tailoring shop you always dreamed of owning, and later -- or earlier, or simultaneously -- learning the clarinet the way you used to talk about, and playing with one of the many musical groups here. Time is no longer an important factor, and study is never a bore nor an anxiety here, but always a pleasure.

Love,

Aunt Myrtle."

Guessing that Aunt Myrtle's remark about her niece not being quite ready for the neighborhood really meant that Aunt Myrtle's own housekeeping was as sloppy in Heaven as it had been on Earth, Deborah returned the new woman's smile and asked, M. Garvey?

Just 'Angie,' please! 'Angela' if you prefer, though I keep the longer version mainly for formal wear.

Well ... Angie, then. And I'm ... please call me 'Deborah.' I don't know how that nicknames. My Aunt Myrtle says you need a housekeeper-cook?

We'd love one! And how nice of her to let you know! And it's usually 'Debbie.' Or would you prefer 'Deb'?

Er ... 'Deb' is fine. ... Deborah hesitated, frowning in thought. I sort of guessed she must already have talked it over with you.

Why, there's never any great secret about things like this, and we try to keep on the lookout for one another's needs, but, no, she'd hadn't mentioned to me personally that you might like to try taking care of us, Cory and me.

If you'd like to see her note ... Deborah offered, holding it out.

Oh, no, no, Deborah, that's perfectly all right! Angie laughed. She told you, and that's more than enough reference. We live at Rookwood Seven in Elysian Estates. You could go there right now, if you choose, have a look around to see whether you'd like to try it with us. My husband likes being called 'Corwin' -- he's just a little bit more formal than I am. If he's still asleep, just make yourself at home, and don't worry about waking him. It's afternoon, so he ought to be up by now anyway. Or if you'd rather, you can spend the rest of the day exploring and stop by to see us this evening.

You mean you ... go to bed here? Go to bed and sleep?

Why, of course we do! Oh -- that's right, you just got here. Maybe with some of those standard notions about no more need to eat or sleep or all those other bodily things, and no more night --

You can't mean there are night and day up here?

Whatever would Paradise be without sunrises? Angie replied. Or sunsets, or long twilights, or constellations and comets and all the other wonders of the velvet black sky? Yes, of course, we still have them all here, but -- Goodness! Look at that crowd he's letting in! They must be from a major disaster on Earth. Deborah, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to postpone the rest of our conversation until I get home this evening.

Deborah thanked her and set off. Feeling a little shy at the thought of being alone for any length of time with a strange man -- even here in Blessed Eternity! -- she gave herself the excuse of wanting to check just where to meet Aunt Myrtle tomorrow, and asked her handmap to show her the way to Divine Word Lecture Hall.

A little measuring gauge on the screen frame told her the walk was two kilometers, but it felt like only a few short blocks, except for being filled with so many wonderful scenes, neighborhoods, and landmarks that she didn't understand how even two kilometers could have held them all. Divine Word Lecture Hall turned out to be a grand building with tall columns of pure white marble and a great double doorway that looked like an open Bible. Deborah walked around it until she found Green Pastures Cafe for herself, a fresh and lovely little restaurant half indoors and half outdoors, with a view of a lovely sunburst-pattern stained glass window on one side of the Lecture Hall.

She sat down at a little marble-topped table on the edge of the outdoor dining area, in the shade of some kind of pretty tree she couldn't identify, with leaves shaped like an oak's, only about half the size and growing in paired groups on long stems like the leaves of a willow. A waitress in clean white uniform, with a golden name badge reading Sally, very red lipstick, and big dangling earrings shaped like koala bears with gemstone eyes, came up to her almost at once, smiling and holding out a menu.

Good afternoon! said the waitress. Commune, or currency area?

Oh ... neither one, I'm afraid. My aunt suggests I should stay in a currency area for a while, but I only got here today.

Why, welcome, honey! No, no, just sit yourself right back down and stay awhile! Everything's free till you get your first paycheck or commune button. Some floaters stay jobless indefinitely and live high on the hog, but they'll ... well ... Anyway, honey, you look more like the type that gets residual guilt pangs out of taking anything free, so just accept a little tip from an old hand and don't cheat yourself out of any fringe benefits while you can still get 'em honestly.

Deborah had really sat down just to rest a few minutes and absorb the atmosphere, but to her surprise she discovered she felt hungry. But then, if dying and all the things that had happened to her since then could make her a little bit tired, why shouldn't they make her a little bit hungry, too? And, besides, where would be the pleasure in resting or eating, if you didn't feel tired or hungry? So she looked the menu over, mentally checked off any number of things she might try sooner or later ... and then for today ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a vanilla malt.

She also discovered, even more to her surprise, that she needed a comfort station. You know, she began, just as Sally was turning to go, I can't quite believe it, but do you happen to have --

Yeah, ain't it a hoot? said the waitress. Everybody has trouble believing that one -- or should I say, 'that two'? -- right at first. But what goes in has gotta come out, honey, just like a little 'Feed Her and Change Her' dolly I had when I was a kid. And,somehow or other, the ghost of your last meal on Earth finishes digesting in your new spirit body. Thing is, these spirit bodies work just like our old Earth birthday suits, only better -- no diseases here, not even cold bugs. Just go inside and look to your right.

The comfort station was like a little green and white and gold throne room, sparkling clean, with a cushioned seat on the necessary and a choice both of wipes and of soaps. When Deborah got back to her table, her meal was already there, and everything stayed hot -- or, in the case of the malt -- cold, right down to the very last bite or sip. While she ate, she wondered about both Sally and the menu.

The waitress seemed like the type of whom Brother Ted always quipped, back home on Earth, Now, there's one you'll never see on the golden streets of Heaven! But here she was, after all. Must be like Mother said, You can't always tell a book by its jacket. And the meal had listed coffee, tea, even fancy cocktails! Up here in Heaven? What kind of sense did that make, after you'd spent a lifetime virtuously avoiding all those things back down on Earth? Except, of course ... Well, maybe later, after she'd thought some more about it. It might've been fun to try a chocolate malt, but suppose she hadn't liked it?

And yet, they always talked about the nice clothes and jewelry and furniture and televisions and so on you'd have in Heaven -- all things that counted as vanities or, at best, vain luxuries on Earth. Maybe caffeine and alcohol were in the same category. Sins on Earth but rewards in Heaven.

And even tobacco? Deborah was eating her last couple of fries when a man dressed like someone out of a Sherlock Holmes movie sat down at the next table and pulled out a fancy big pipe. Fascinated, she watched him fill it up, light it, and start puffing. After a few puffs, he noticed her, smiled, and nodded. Good afternoon, Miss.

Good ... afternoon, sir.

He smiled again and blew three huge smoke rings in her direction. They smelled pleasant and very, very faint. I deduce, Miss, from your expression and various other clues, that you're a newcomer, he said. Let me assure you that you have nothing to worry about. Here, secondhand smoke has absolutely no adverse effect on the health of its involuntary inhalers, and only as much odor as they themselves find enjoyable. As for us smokers, a few elementary precautions, unavailable Earthside, render us immune to any and all health hazards.

I didn't intend to stare, Deborah began.

No apology necessary.

But I think I'd better be going. I've got a job ... Deborah hesitated. She couldn't really say interview when she didn't know for sure if Angie's husband would be awake or even at home and when, as nearly as she could make out, Angie had already hired her. ... a job lined up, and I'd better be getting there.

Quite all right, Miss. I applaud your dedication. Until we meet by chance on some other day, then.

If that hadn't happened, Deborah might have sat on for another five or ten minutes admiring Divine Word Lecture Hall and watching the blessed souls as they passed by along the street. But now she felt committed to getting up and pressing on -- not quite hurrying, but not dilly-dallying, either -- to Rookwood 7, Elysian Estates.

Chapter 2

This time the gauge told her it was four and a half kilometers. That, plus the two she had already walked -- six and a half kilometers in a single afternoon! Back on Earth, nobody except joggers and hikers would think of going that distance on foot, but so far Deborah hadn't seen a single motor vehicle, car or bus, taxi or truck. It might as well have been a Soleri city, except for being all spread out over the green countryside.

Then she came to a race track. Of all things to find in Heaven, a race track! With sports cars chasing each other around it in a regular storm of dust clouds and roaring motors.

Her map told her this was Race to the Swift Park, and showed it not quite touching her path to Elysian Estates, with an area called Ford's Town on the other side of the track, running off the screen.

A woman in a long brown dress and paisley shawl, with her hair done up in costume-drama style, stood watching the race. Almost everybody Deborah had seen so far, except for the man with the pipe, wore the same kind of street clothing that had been popular as long as she could remember -- that her parents said hadn't changed all that much for generations, and no wonder. They called it the most practical and comfortable fashion that had ever been. Simple, easy to mend, and modest. Every new