This is very unlike anything I've written before, but I like it all the same. I wrote it on an airplaneas I watched thecompletion of the sunset - I was so struck by the beauty that I had to write something.

He believed that Heaven was up in the sky, just above the clouds. That was where the angels walked and gazed down upon the world. He more than believed it; he knew it. And he knew that if only he could fly up above the clouds, he would find Heaven.

He spent all his money on an airplane and learned how to fly it. His friends all thought he was mad, but he remained convinced, even when he had to sell his belongings one by one to get by.

Summer was upon his hometown; each day was cloudless and glorious. His friends asked what he was waiting for. There couldn’t be better weather for paying a visit to Heaven, they joked. He explained his reasoning to them: if Heaven was just above the clouds, then it obviously could not be seen on a perfectly clear day.

Finally an ideal day arrived, a misty grey dawn. He called his closest friends and told them that this was it, he was going, and he would tell them all about Heaven when he returned. They said that they hoped he found what he was looking for. And so he climbed into his plane, elated.

Mist turned to drizzle, which turned to rain even as he ascended. He looked down upon the shrinking, shivering world and wondered if anyone would believe the wondrous account he would brink back. They had to, he thought, for it all would be true. He knew it.

He entered the cloudy coverlet, lost temporarily in a realm of flat greyness. But soon the surroundings brightened; he eagerly eased the craft higher.

He broke free. The sun was rising over a boundless horizon; the sky was stained glass; the clouds became a soft carpet below. Yet he saw no angels, heard no choirs. Clearly Heaven was not in this part of the sky, or perhaps this part was just deserted for the present. Perhaps it was set aside for the souls of the future, he thought. He would just have to keep looking.

He continued as the sky turned to watercolor. Still there was no sign of Heaven. He reasoned that only a small part of it could be full. After all, there were millions upon millions of incoming souls which would have to be accommodated. He would find it, though. He would.

He flew on as the sky took on a hue of the purest blue he had ever seen. Still there was nothing. It didn’t matter, he thought. He had only covered a small distance. There was a whole sky to search. He would not stop.

When the pressure inside the plane dropped without warning, he slipped into unconsciousness. When the craft gave up and dove, he was not awake to be afraid. When he and it crashed into the hard ground of the world below, he was still in blissful unawareness, perhaps dreaming of Heaven, perhaps not dreaming at all.

When he returned to himself, it was as if he had never left the sky at all. Yet the world above the clouds was brighter, sharper, purer. He realized after a few moments that there was no cockpit, no airplane to hold him – he was flying on his own and he heard music, beautiful music he had never imagined could be.

And he had found it. He knew it.

Fin.