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[Mr.Burger]

It's a tiny, flat, square island.

 

You look one direction. Sparkly watery horizon. Huge clouds.

You look another direction. Sparkly horizon, huge clouds.

And it's the same completely around you.

 

 

But you don't care.

 

 

The island is covered in pleasantly short green grass from edge to edge; it is perpetually fresh cut.

 

In the northeast corner of the island is a tiny house with pleasant light yellow siding. It is about 8 feet tall at the peak of the roof and 6 feet wide and deep. There is a pleasant white front door facing south and a pleasant window on the east wall.

 

A sidewalk leads out from the front door and goes straight to the south edge of the island. At this southeast corner of the island there dutifully stands a mailbox. Just in case.

 

On the southwest corner resides a post, and tied to this post, floating imperviously on the top of the water is a rowboat. There are no oars, however.

 

 

But you don't care.

 

 

In the last corner, the north and west corner, is a pleasant circular table, like one out of a pretty british tea party with the most comfortable chairs on the planet, of which there are two. It has an umbrella providing shade over it and there are always cool refreshments on this table. What kind of refreshments? That is always up to you.

 

You step inside the pleasant door of the small house and find yourself in an unfathomably huge lobby. The ceiling is so far away and beautifully decorous, as though Michalengelo himself painted it. In fact Raphael, Leonardo, and Donatello helped. A hallway is off to one side.

 

This hallway is lined with doors, much like a hotel hallway. But this is far more extravagant than any hotel. The hallway stretches as far as the eye can see, the floor, ceiling and walls meeting at a point far far far far away.

 

Behind each door lies a Heaven.

 

There is a pillow heaven - where every single surface is a pillow and everything is pure, untainted bliss.

 

There is a night heaven - where it is always a beautiful starry night, or perhaps you want it to be a beautiful cloudy night, or a beautiful winter night, or a beautiful rainy night.

 

There is a killing spree heaven - where you get every weapon of choice and you hunt down any person you want and slaughter them. If you want, they can reappear and you can do it again. Eventually though if you feel the need you can make them reappear and make amends. Or not.

 

There is a flying heaven - where you step in and you fly. Do you want wings? They're yours. Do you want to fly like Peter Pan? Then do.

 

There is old bedroom heaven - where you step in and its you old bedroom or maybe just your regular bedroom. All your old stuffed animals are where you used to keep them, all the old tv shows are on tv, all your friends are back if they moved away and they're back to their youth. This is also known as memory heaven, only you can expand on it and step outside of the confinements of memory and create new memories. Maybe you messed up with a girl so long ago, you can go back and say the right thing. Do the right thing. Train in a sport in the Playground heaven and then go back in time (you get your old body, complete with youth, back if you want) and go back and win that race you barely lost.

 

 

Be inspired. Make your own heavens.

[Alia]

It looked like an ordinary building under the red city sky, right in the middle of a bustling metropolis...ordinary, mind you, with all the faults of this world gnawing on its gaunt frames and tired faces. Senseless struggles, lives and watches stolen, laws passed and broken, faded curtains and cheap bloodstained carpets, children kidnapped and violated....and a few people still clinging to the belief in right and wrong, and absolute truth.

 

What is Paradise without something to compare it to?

 

The building? Oh, you just walked in the revolving door. The ground seems soft beneath your feet (suddenly lacking shoes) and you whirl back around....to see the door spin into oblivion, a few drops of blood scattering with it.

 

You're standing on the grass in front of a dusky beach. Dusky is a good word for it, you can't really tell whether it's day or night.

 

A sharp wind blows your hair around. It's not cold, but not really warm either. After you weigh this around in your mind a little more, you realize that it's perfect. The same cool water lapping at your feet is crashing against black, jagged rocks farther on. A few lights gather in a vale nearby, and you unconciously resolve to join them.

 

The grey sky seems far away, and the whiteness you assume is the sun gazes indifferently on the whole scene: you, in your clam diggers and bare feet; the cloudy waves on the beach; the damp grass and dark tree tops swaying in the wind; the gulls, unnaturally silent and soaring above you.

 

One of the gulls descends to you, and you recognize it as the spirit of someone you loved and lost. Well, that's odd, but you continue to walk towards the lights.

 

On your way, you see a man standing at an easel, painting. He steps back from his work and smiles warmly, clapping you on the back and greeting you like a old friend. He then invites you to look at the canvas. It's your life story in pictures....every defining moment of your life in soft swirling color, and sharp, vivid sketches, ending with a bullet in your forehead. But it only covers a tiny, tiny, tiny bit of the canvas....the rest is blank.

 

"Why doesn't it fill up the whole space?" you ask. The Artist chuckles and motions the Lights mysteriously.

 

"Go and see."

[Shivermetimbers]

Pillows.....