Song of Solomon

Tesseracts 7, Tesseract Books, 1999
Cory Doctorow

This is the culmination of what I call my "Jesus period," in which a nice Jewish boy like me wrote story after story about Jesus. Most of 'em frankly stank. This one didn't. It's not just the experimental style (which I first encountered when we workshopped Jeff Vandermeer's "At the Crossroads, Burying the Dog," at Clarion 92), it's the feeling. I think that this is the creepiest story I've ever written -- the closest I've ever come to horror.

The Christ did me in Chicago, Calgary, Frankfurt, Istanbul and Tokyo, all the while beaming beatitude and beneficence on me.

I can't complain. He's my Lord. Still.

Still, all things considered, I'd rather not die.

You're awfully pretty, you know that? Your breasts are very different from Lisa's, the nipples bigger and the araeolae bigger and darker. They look like they should taste like chocolate. They don't. I don't mind.

You know what Heaven is like? I was there, you know, after the Trump, caught up in the Rapture, one of those souls the Lord took on high. Only there for about five minutes but still.

Still, you don't forget the Kingdom of God.

Infinite. That word gets used a whole lot describing heaven. It's big all right. Just a field of white, under the bluest sky you can imagine, stretching over the horizon. The buildings? White. White like His robes. The streets are full but never crowded, quiet and energetic at the same moment, and here and there, niches where lions lay down with lambs, wolves with sheep. You know everybody's name there, and everyone greets you personally. And all you feel is white, white and peace.

I don't feel peace when we kiss. I feel frenetic bloody rushes all over my body, and spiders dance on my nerves. I feel war when your tongue touches mine and my hand slides between your legs, over your cotton panties, as humid as a jungle.