Little Piece of Heaven

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is about an old man and his heaven

Submitted: October 31, 2016

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Submitted: October 31, 2016



On a bank sat two men, cooking the fish they had fish with the campfire. One man was around fifty. Another one was young. The river was shining with sunshine. And it was wide and calm with the background that was huge mountains. Also alongside the river was a long line of fresh lively trees. The birds sang sometimes while the men talked.

"So you've stayed here for months?" the young man asked.

"Yes," the old man replied.



The young man took off his hat for he was in a shade of trees. "I like this place," he said, "It's like a little piece of paradise."

"Yeah, it is like it sometimes."

"It has many big fish, too," the young man said with satisfaction. "I want to build a house around here, like yours."

"Mine is called a shack."

"Yeah, a shack."

"You got some beers, Chico?"

"Yeah, sure I got some." The young man opened the plastic box that contained ices and some cans of beer. Wind breezed, and all the young plants around waved, as well as the flame of the campfire. "Nice cold beers." He grabbed two cans of beer and handed one of them to the old man.

The campfire was growing too high and too hot. The old man took out some burning sticks. Then he said to the young man, "You see that deer, Chico?" as pointing across the river to the deer.

"Yeah, big one."

"I see it every day. It comes to drink there every day."

The young man was preparing another fish to the campfire. "How do you know it is the same deer?" he asked.

"It is always the same deer when it comes to drink there alone."

"I don't understand."

"Stay here for a month and you will, Chico. That deer is the same deer." The old man flipped the fish over and had a gulp of beer.

The young man put another fish to the campfire. And when he looked at it again it was gone.

"It'll come again tomorrow," the old man said as taking the fish off and putting it on the piles of rocks he had set up. "To this heaven."

"This heaven," the young man repeated his words. "You believe in heaven, Rico?"

"I'd rather believe in beer. In beer there is heaven. In heaven there is no beer."

"You drink every day?"

"Every day."




The sun was getting down. The river was shining gold. The young man went away as he waved goodbye to the old man.

The old man got into his shack as it was dark, leaving the campfire there alone. And it soon died away.








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