Fun with Fiction by Steph Beth Nickel

 

I am in the process of writing a YA speculative fiction book, Rule and Reign. One of the characters my critique partner particularly likes in a young boy who is always running wherever he goes.

Below is the scene in which he's introduced. I hope you enjoy it!

After traveling almost as far as my old room, I’m still so focused on convincing myself that I have every right to explore the castle that I nearly fail to sidestep a young boy, no more than seven sun-cycles old, who comes dashing around the corner and almost collides with me. He pulls up short and his jaw drops. 

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness. I… I… Please don’t tell my ma. She’s always scolding me fer running in the halls. But then, she scolds me fer being late.” He exhales loudly and looks away. “I don’t understand.” He’s rocking back and forth. I doubt he’s used to standing still for any more than a few measures.

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Todd, Your Highness.”

I smile widely. “It sounds a lot like my father’s name. His name was Trad.”

“Oh, I know.” He bounces up and down. “He was my hero. He was strong and brave and kind.” More quietly he adds, “And he never told Ma when he found me running through the halls.”

I laugh. Todd’s head snaps up. “You laughed. Ma says royals don’t do that—no one ’cept Prince Trad.” 

“It will be our secret. Okay?”

Todd nods his head vigorously. 

“So, Todd, where were you off to just now?”

“Ma said I could go t’ the stables. My best friend works there. He just cleans up after the horses, but sometimes, he gets to watch the soldiers train if he does an extra good job.”

“The stables, huh? Would you mind if I came along?”

The boy puts his still-chubby hands on his hips. “Princess, this is yer castle. The stable and horses are yers too. You can go anywhere ya want.”

“Well, Todd, I guess you’re right. Then, it’s off to the stables we go.”

“And you won’t tell my ma I was running?”

“If you won’t tell my grandmother I was laughing.”

“That’s easy. The Council Lead doesn’t know I ’xist.”

I sigh. That’s probably true. “Now, let’s go see some horses.”

“I don’t s’pose you want to run. Do you?” he adds, eyes wide.

I shake my head. “It’s probably best if the Princess of Betria isn’t seen running in the halls.”

He shrugs and sighs. “I guess.”

Stories Make My Heart Sing by Tracy Krauss

My heart sings when I'm writing fiction. There. I've answered this month's question, so I guess I can go back to my latest story now.

Just kidding, of course. I won't leave it at that without further explanation. As a person who writes in a variety of genres, I generally enjoy the writing process, no matter the project. I blog, I write articles, I dabble in devotionals... If I didn't enjoy these pursuits, I doubt I would do them. There have been times when one of the aforementioned pieces felt burdensome, though, but I persevered through the project because I believed it had value, not necessarily because it made me "happy". 

However, I can say without hesitation that my favorite thing--the thing that makes my heart sing--is getting lost in a story. 

I've been known to laugh out loud (literally) at my own jokes or smile at a particularly clever piece of dialogue that comes out of a character's mouth. Cliche aside, I actually do lose track of time as I clack away. Sometimes I feel annoyed by the realities of life that keep me from my made-up world which often feels just as real. I've been known to stay up half the night working on a stage play or get up in the wee hours to write down the perfect line. It's why I LOVE November and Nanwrimo. It's the perfect excuse to let my imagination fly! 

I started writing consistently when my eldest daughter was just a baby. She's turning 37 this summer, so that gives you some idea how long I've been clacking at the keys. However, I got lost in my own head long before that, composing make-believe worlds in scrapbook form through pictures and snippets of dialogue ever since I could hold a pencil. As a youngster, I mostly drew. Rarely did I ever NOT draw, even on vacation. I realized later that these were all actually stories or characters from stories that I was reenacting in my head. In school, I did write my first play when I was in Grade Four, and later in high school, my English teacher encouraged me to attend a writing camp. But it wasn't until I was a young mom that I started to write in earnest. I haven't stopped.

Sometimes I wonder if there is a point to all this writing; all these stories. Fiction is just fluff, right? Well, I believe fiction can have a real impact on those who read it--maybe as much or more as a factual book. 

If I had to, I could give up writing non-fiction pieces like blog posts, articles, and the like. But fiction? I know I will never quit as long as I have the strength and there are stories bursting to emerge from my mind. Writing fiction makes my heart sing!

Tracy Krauss writes from her home in Tumbler Ridge, BC. Visit her website for more on her many novels, short stories, stage plays -- and non-fiction, too! https://tracykrauss.com

Who Is My Neighbor? Tracy Krauss

With this question, I am sure you are expecting some kind of reference to the story of the 'Good Samaritan'. While it is one of my favorite Bible stories, I'm actually going to tell you about a current writing project called NEIGHBORS - a series of short novella length stories that I'm writing published by Helping Hands Press.

This series is dedicated to anyone who has ever had to pull up stakes and move, or to anyone who feels like they don’t fit. As a person who has moved multiple times, I know how hard it can be. The good news is, if God is with you, you are always at home.

The story itself takes place in Calgary and was inspired by my love of 'people watching'. Airports, waiting rooms, shopping malls –these are ripe fields for the student of human nature. It was during one of these ‘research’ sessions that I started a list of possible characters that might make an appearance in one of my novels. As I began to flesh some of these people out, it dawned on me that I had an entire community. What if they lived in the same neighbourhood where they could interact? I soon realized that several characters had their own unique story to tell, perhaps not long enough for a full-length novel, but perfect for a series. Thus NEIGHBORS took shape.

To date, the first three volumes have been released and there are six more to come. Volume 1- New In the Neighborhood is about displaced rancher Lester Tibbett, who has moved to the city with his teenaged sister to get a job on a construction crew. Life is far more complicated than what he is used to, especially when he finds himself attracted to a mysterious woman who is out of his reach.

Volume 2 Stuck In the Neighborhood is told from Professor Sherri Chan's point of view. As the youngest member on the faculty of a small college, she has always taken pride in her ability to rise to any challenge, until her boyfriend proposes and her life goes into a tailspin.

In Volume 3 Sneaking Around the Neighborhood, Lester's younger sister Patsi gets into trouble when she starts hanging around with a rich friend from school and her handsome older brother.

Volume 4 Working the Neighborhood should be releasing this month and Volume 5 Back In the Neighborhood is in the production queue. Four more installments round out the series with the possibility of another entire book if all goes well.

I hope you enjoy meeting this varied, sometimes quirky, cast. Welcome to the neighborhood!

Tracy Krauss is a multi-published author, playwright, artist and teacher, with several best selling and award winning novels to her credit. Tracy received her Bachelor’s Degree from the University of Saskatchewan with majors in Art, and minors in History and English. Apart from her many creative pursuits, she directs an amateur theater group and leads worship at her local church. She and her husband, an ordained minister, have lived in many remote and unique places in Canada's north, and currently live in northern British Columbia. For more visit her website: http://tracykrauss.com

 

 

Confirming Purpose - Tracy Krauss

Many of this month's posts have focused on 'purpose' - what we want our readers to take away after reading something we have written. I found Shirley S. Tye's post 'Writing In the Nude' especially thought provoking. Putting your writing out there for all to see is a lot like exposing yourself. It's scary, uncomfortable, and even embarrassing at times. A sense of inadequacy accompanies the excitement, and inevitably, no matter how polished you thought that manuscript was, you wish you could 'make it better' once it's been put out there for all to see.

Several novels and plays later, I still feel inadequate. Then why put myself through all the hard work and stress? Simple. God has given me a desire to write.

I have learned that one of the worst things I can do is compare myself to others. I'm not talking about learning from others. This is a good thing and we all have room to grow. I mean the comparison game that leaves one feeling envious. Connie Inglis addressed this well in her post 'Sehnsucht'. Even Christian writers are not immune to the green-eyed monster. It takes purposeful prayer to eliminate these feelings of envy so that we can truly rejoice with our brothers' and sisters' successes. It also takes reliance on the Holy Spirit to rest in the fact that God also has a plan for me and my writing, separate, and different from what He may have in mind for someone else.

I write fiction. I'm not that interested in writing devotionals or other non-fiction, and I usually don't feel apologetic for that. (I did self publish a devotional recently called 'Life is a Highway' based on a series of speeches I gave at a women's retreat.) I was pleasantly surprised when a reader contacted me and told me she could identify with some of the things I said. I also got a personal card in the mail thanking me for my children's book 'The Sleepytown Express', saying how it touched her heart and reminded her of her own childhood memories. Cool. Truthfully, however, I don't plan on illustrating any more kids books or writing any more devotionals.

Like I said, my passion is to write fiction. I believe fiction can be a powerful tool and can profoundly affect people, just the way non-fiction can. Sometimes I feel like what I write is drivel, however, compared to what others are writing. My books lean heavily on the romantic side of things, (even though I insist that I am not a romantic!) This is why positive responses from readers of my fictional work is so encouraging. Even seemingly simple comments on facebook or elsewhere can be hugely validating.

One of my favorite examples happened several months ago, before Christmas. My daughter had lent my book MY MOTHER THE MAN-EATER to one of her colleagues. (Just as a side note, the book is quite long and in retrospect, I see lots of things I would like to change...) In any case, her co-worker was touched by Joleen's story because she also had a less than perfect past. She wanted her own copy and also bought one for her sister-in-law who was not a Christian, but whom she thought might also be able to relate to the 'realism' of the characters.

These are the kinds of responses that give me confidence; that confirm I am writing in God's will. I don't need to become a New York Times best seller (although this would be nice) and I don't need every reader's approval. I just need to continue to write what I feel God is calling me to write and let Him do the rest.

Tracy Krauss is a multi-published author and playwright living in Tumbler Ridge, BC. Visit her website for more details. tracykrauss.com

Why I Wrote Cecile's Christmas Miracle - Ruth L. Snyder

People write fiction for many different reasons, several of which have been discussed already by other bloggers this month. As a Christian writer, I take my writing seriously. I believe that God has gifted me with an ability He expects me to hone and use to accurately reflect His image. This doesn't mean that what I write has to be heavy theology. In fact, I believe that God is just as delighted with me expressing His image through a creative, fun story (fiction) as He is with a thought-provoking devotional (non-fiction).

On December 5th, my novella, Cecile's Christmas Miracle, will be released in e-book format on Amazon, Kobo, and Barnes & Noble. (This is the 7th story in the Kathi Macias' 12 Days of Christmas series with Helping Hands Press.) There are several reasons I wrote this story:

• To introduce people to the beautiful country and people of Botswana, where I spent several of my growing up years. Botswana is a land-locked country in southern Africa, most of which is part of the Kalahari Desert.
• To force myself out of my comfort zone. I'm very comfortable writing short pieces and haven't written a novella or novel before. I like a challenge and this was an opportunity to write a longer piece.
• To give people an enjoyable story that would make them think.
• To show people in North America what it's like to spend Christmas overseas, where it is celebrated in the middle of summer with no snow, no turkey, and perhaps no family nearby
• To remind people of the true essence of Christmas. In North America we often define Christmas by traditions (turkey and mistletoe), weather (snow), and shopping (gifts). People celebrating Christmas overseas are often stripped of these facades and forced to truly focus on the birth of Jesus Christ.

I found it enjoyable and challenging to write this story. It was fun because I was able to relive some childhood memories and share a treasured part of my life many of my friends know little about. It was also gratifying to rise to a challenge and conquer it. The challenge came in crafting a plot that was believable and entertaining, but also true to life and educational. When I did my research for the story, I was horrified to read about the resettlement of the San Bushmen. It was challenging to present that part of the plot in a way that didn't put anyone down, but at the same time showed the struggles that expatriates face in foreign countries.

What about you? Do you write fiction for any of the same reasons I do?

Ruth L. Snyder

Ruth L. Snyder was privileged to spend the first ten years of her life in southern Africa where her parents served as missionaries. Ruth now lives in north-eastern Alberta with her husband and five young children. She enjoys writing about her journey of faith, special needs, and adoption.

http://ruthlsnyder.wordress.com

POINT THE WAY, NOT THE FINGER - Bruce Atchison

I'm sure we've all come across those poorly-plotted books which tell rather than show. They contain unrealistic characters who never have problems and always have something to say about others' sins. Though I can't remember any titles that I've read, I certainly remember one dreadful record a friend bought for me.

This woman figured that I should listen to uplifting songs, not that "satanic" rock music on the local radio station. After church one Sunday, she handed me a plastic bag with an LP inside it. "I bought you this album for young people," she announced. "This music is so much nicer than that horrid rock music you listen to."

My suspicions were confirmed regarding this "music for young people" album. It contained preachy skits which sounded mawkish and tacky. The songs also sounded contrived as if the composer had no idea of what a young adult would appreciate. To be fair to my church friend, I managed to listen to the entire record but it was quite an ordeal.

When the woman asked how I liked that album after the next Sunday Service, I told her as politely as I could that I didn't enjoy it. She gave the LP to her nephew when I returned it to her.

On the other hand, a good example of a well-written book is In Search of Truth by T. L. Wiens. It's a fictional account of an abused girl who ends up on the street. Bad church experiences turned her away from Christianity but the example of caring believers eventually lured her to the point where she made Christ her Lord. Then things really got interesting.

The story is a perfect example of showing rather than telling. Even better, this is the sort of book one could give to unsaved friends since it doesn't wag the finger in the reader's face. Though it does show some believers involved in sin, it also contrasts the Pharisee-like behaviour of legalists with the loving example of committed evangelicals.

I also strove to show rather than to tell what happened to me when I joined a toxic house church. Rather than bash that cult leader and his sheep dog-like elders in my memoir, I let them "incriminate" themselves through their speech and actions. How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Virtual bookworm Publishers.

Bruce Atchison is a legally-blind freelance writer as well as the author of How I Was Razed, Deliverance from Jericho, and When a Man Loves a Rabbit. He lives in a small Alberta hamlet with his house rabbit, Deborah.

Christian Fiction's Not For Everyone - Lynn Dove

When I published my first book someone asked me why I would want to write Christian fiction?  In fact his exact words were: "You are such a good writer, why do you want to limit yourself writing Christian fiction when you could probably have a great career writing other kinds of books?"

I know what he was trying to say was that if I just wrote what the "world" wanted I would probably have a larger audience of readers.  You know, he does have a point...

Writing from a Christian worldview, will limit my reading audience somewhat.  Christian readers will naturally embrace the message but many others will not even pick up the book if it says "Christian" anywhere on the cover or in the storyline.

Several years ago, I participated in a book giveaway so that I could get a few book reviews on Amazon.  It was a good marketing strategy and I had numerous people post reviews.  Unfortunately, although I was completely up front with telling potential reviewers that my books were written from a Christian world-view a young lady whom I later discovered was an atheist, requested my books and she proceeded to write a scathing review slamming every aspect of the book just because it was Christian!  Although I was at first unhappy and distressed by the negative review, I have since learned to accept it and rejoice in the fact that she read my book cover to cover and the Gospel message was shared with that person.  Who knows?  Maybe a seed was planted!

As much as my reading audience may be limited according to some, Christian Fiction is becoming more and more popular with a world-wide reading audience (especially in the young adult genre that I write in).  Tired of the occult and paranormal fare that has dominated the market for years parents and teens alike are now looking for wholesome messages and family-friendly books.  They are looking for well-written literature that is not filled with expletives and graphic sexual content.  They are looking for books that give them hope.

"Sales of religious paperback books represent a significant market share in today’s publishing arena. The new gospel on book sales has spiritual and religious titles crossing over into mainstream bookstores and taking upwards of 7 percent of all book sales. The Purpose Driven Life, for instance, has sold over 22 million copies." http://www.christiancommunitynetworking.com/apps/blog/show/8056956-books-news-and-publishing-industry-statistics 

Do I sometimes feel like a little fish swimming in a great big sea if I compare my books with the blockbuster secular books of today?  Absolutely.  As a Christian I know that the "world" has a dominating influence right now and people will wallow freely in their own sin.  Books written that glorify sin will be popular...for now...

I still need to stay true to what I believe in and the message I want my readers to grasp hold of...the Hope that is only found in Jesus Christ.

Lynn Dove calls herself a Christ-follower, a wife, a mom, a grandmother, a teacher and a writer (in that order). She is the author of award winning books: The Wounded Trilogy.  Her blog, Journey Thoughts won a Canadian Christian Writing Award - 2011.  She has also had essays published in LifeWay magazines: "HomeLife" and "Parenting Teens", "Mother of Pearl: Luminous Lessons and Iridescent Faith" and "Chicken Soup for the Soul - Parenthood" (March 2013).  Readers may connect with Lynn on Facebook, Twitter and on her blog: Journey Thoughts 

Transforming Fiction – Ramona Heikel

Spiritual transformation is a subtle work that takes place in the hidden interior of a person’s heart, and it often happens over time. Seeds are sown by many, are watered and sprout, or they lie dormant for a while before showing any life. My hope is to help sprinkle seeds of encouragement that assure that we are all being pursued by God, and he longs to walk with us throughout our lives. Yes, the Bible shows us that the Lord feels and expresses anger, he becomes jealous of his beloved sons and daughters, and he judges, punishes and destroys. But his motive—his very character—is love, just as a parent lashes out in fury when someone or something harms or lures away his child. I want people to understand that clearly.

I cringe—and grieve—at any misunderstanding of God’s true nature, or what genuine Christianity is all about. Through my writing, I want to extend a gentle invitation to any who have been turned off of religion, church, God or Christianity, to really know God.

Although I read about as much fiction as I do non-fiction, I think one of the clearest ways to convey spiritual concepts like these is in stories about typical people living the kind of lives we can all relate to. In a fiction book, readers can watch characters live, hear their thoughts and reactions and feel their emotions as the characters struggle to understand the spiritual realm, their own spiritual condition and their own beliefs. Then readers can compare their own experiences to that of the characters, which may be the beginning of their spiritual life, or a change of heart.

I usually write about lives and relationships that occur outside the walls of a church, and about characters who are not in mid-flow of the church community. The Christian characters I am drawn to don’t speak Christianese but they are capable of conveying Biblical concepts. They have messy lives, so they have no trouble relating to others with messy lives. They may even prefer to skip the Sunday service in order to spend the day with a friend who is avoiding church.

I have a way to go before I develop the talent needed to produce stories like this, but hopefully one day I’ll realize my dream. In the meantime, I’d like to recommend a few books worth checking out, which have powerfully conveyed spiritual concepts to me:

Gilead, Marilynne Robinson (this book won the Pulitzer Prize)
Circle of Grace, Penelope Stokes
Some Wildflower in My Heart, Jamie Langston Turner
The Death of Ivan Ilyich, Leo Tolstoy
The Sunset Coast, Susan Devore Williams

Posted by Ramona

www.happilywriting.com

When writing feels like walking on water - Violet Nesdoly

"To me the story lacks drama. I think it needs more conflict, more suspense, more changes in pace and more growth in Bezalel himself."

These were the words I read about a quarter of the way through a one-page document titled "Critique of Destiny's Hands" on January 3, 2012. They were the considered opinion of a wise and astute writer friend whom I had contacted, just before Christmas, to give me feedback on my book-length story.

My first reaction on reading her whole critique was panic. What have I done? I asked myself, as I thought of my signature, newly dry on the publishing contract I had already signed, and the people at the publishing house, eager to get on with the job. My friend's words conjured up a hefty rewrite that could take weeks, maybe months to complete. Could I even make this story work?

There was another problem. Hubby and I were one week away from a much anticipated vacation to Hawaii. So I wouldn't be able to tackle this for at least three weeks as I wasn't about to wreck our dream holiday with writing work.

You know the command, "Pray without ceasing"? Right about then, that's what I began to do.

Also about then, I kept bumping into advertisements of James Scott Bell's Elements of Fiction Writing - Conflict and Suspense. Ping! Wasn't that the very thing my critiquer said my story lacked? And so the night before leaving on our trip, I downloaded it onto my Kindle, along with his Revision and Self-Editing. I might not be able to work on my story, but at least I could read about how to salvage it.

In hindsight the timing couldn't have been better. The break gave me distance and an objectivity that I needed. I started playing with the ideas my friend had thrown out and getting new ones—all executed, in my imagination, with the techniques and finesse that JSB explained and demonstrated so well. By the time I returned from our warm January break, I was eager to get on with the job.

Of course, working out those things in real time was another matter entirely.  It took six gruelling weeks of concentrated effort with many ups and downs and  sleepless nights before I emailed my publisher the revised document, hoping that I had hit the mark. The words of my editor at Word Alive Press: "...let me tell you how much I enjoyed your manuscript. I found this to be utterly captivating and well-written. Well done!" brought a huge sigh of relief. 

Looking back on this whole experience, I'm quite sure of one thing: the way this happened was no accident. For if I had known the amount of work still needed on the book, I would not have contracted to publish it, and it would not be around today.

All that to say, when you find yourself walking on water, push aside the panic with prayer. Get help. Work really hard. Keep looking at Jesus' face instead of the waves. And one of these days you'll be scrambling back into the boat with a stronger faith, and maybe you'll be a better writer too. 

- Violet Nesdoly
******************

Need a break from the 21st century rat-race? Travel to a different time and place via Destiny's Hands, a new novel recently released by Word Alive Press.

Experience Egyptian slavery, the exodus, crossing the Red Sea. Meet Moses, Aaron, Miriam, Hur, and Bezalel.  Eat quail and manna. Drink water from rocks. Live the temptations and questions of wilderness wandering.

Find out what readers are saying and where to purchase HERE.

Website: www.violetnesdoly.com

The tale of a tale - Violet Nesdoly

2012 will see me doing one of the most challenging and exciting things I've done since setting out on my writing journey. You see, in November of 2011 I signed a contract with Word Alive Press to publish a novel. And so this year I'll be entering the self-published writer's strategizing-networking-publicizing-marketing fray—a place I promised myself I'd never be in.


That my first book (not counting poetry) would be fiction is another surprise. I have never thought of myself as a fiction writer. I don't daydream in stories. I never invented imaginary friends. I didn't entertain my school buddies with stories of Jim and Ann, like my best friend did, or invent imaginary animal tales to tell my kids.


And yet over the years certain characters have come to life for me. It seems to happen most often with historical figures. When I researched the life of John Bunyan, for example, I was charmed by his shy but plucky wife Elizabeth. Similarly I have written short stories about biblical characters like the little girl who was Naaman's maid, Rahab, Achan, and the shepherds that visited baby Jesus.


Another Bible character who has fascinated me for years is Bezalel, that craftsman of whom Moses said, "See, the Lord has called by name Bezalel ... and He has filled him with the Spirit of God in wisdom and understanding in knowledge and all manner of workmanship, to design artistic works, to work in gold and silver and bronze..." (Exodus 35:30-34).  Bezalel ended up being in charge of constructing the tabernacle and its furniture.


Who was this young man whom God filled with His Spirit for the arts, I wondered? What was his youth like? Did he train under Pharaoh's craftsmen? Did he have any sense that he was special? I'd like to write about him and find out, I often thought, as his back-story began to form in my imagination. Only, I knew that his tale would be more than a few thousand words.


Over the years when I would come to the end of a project and pray, God, what next? I would often think about that story. I knew I wanted to write it, should write it. Yet the project seemed too big, the research too overwhelming. And so I kept shoving it aside. Until November of 2009.


That year, I decided to take the plunge and make the writing of Bezalel's story my NaNoWriMo project. With the help of  Randy Ingermanson's Snowflake Method, I did some pre-planning. Once the month began the writing flowed and I reached the end of my narrative (and passed my 50,000-word goal) several days before the end of November.


Then—nothing. The manuscript mouldered in my files for the next year or so, even though my prayers for other writing assignments repeatedly brought me face to face with this one, still unfinished. Early last year I finally realized I would have no peace until I completed it.


The Word Alive Publishing Contest deadline of June 30, 2011 gave me a concrete date to work toward. And so most weekdays of March to May last year I set my timer for 99 minutes, 59 seconds (the max it would register) and worked at the sucker.


I declared it finished two weeks before the contest deadline and on June 15th gleefully drove my stack of papers to the neighborhood UPS depot (we were in the middle of a mail strike right then), and sent my baby into the world.


No one was more surprised than I to find, in late September, that Destiny's Hands had made the list of contest finalists. Thanks to the support and encouragement of the people at Word Alive Press I am now in the process of tweaking it one more time before sending it off to them for more editing and all the other things they will do to make it into a book.


If there is anything about this lengthy process that gives me courage for the daunting job ahead, it is the sense that God has been with me this whole time, helping me put this story together, keeping me interested, bugging me to finish it. I just hope my efforts won't have let Him down.


© 2011 by Violet Nesdoly

Website: www.violetnesdoly.com

• Personal blog promptings  
• Writerly blog Line upon line 
  
• Daily devotions for children Bible Drive-Thru
• Daily devotions for adults: Other Food: daily devos
• A poem portfolio

Cleaning House (part 1) - Nesdoly

It all began the afternoon Arlene decided to file a few bills during the commercials in “American Justice.” When she couldn’t squeeze the water bill into the “Utilities” folder, she pulled the folder out. But with the bill inside, it wouldn’t fit back into the drawer.

She’d have to do something about this – maybe take out the Ts to Zs and transfer them to the second drawer, or pack the overflow files into a cardboard file box.

           

When she opened the other drawers, they too were full to bursting. And where was there room for a box? The floor and desk were already littered with stacks of papers, flyers, catalogues, phone books and slovenly mounds of Reader’s Digests and Guideposts. Jars of pens, paper clips, and other office supplies filled up the bookshelves, and a row of flashlights guarded the set of encyclopedias. Things were double-parked everywhere. The time had come for serious action. Besides, tackling this glut of paper would fill up the lonely hours. So that afternoon she turned off the TV,  cleared a spot on the desk, and began weeding papers from the top drawer.

    

She had never done anything like this before.  Record-keeping had always been Dave’s department. Now, she found, it was a tricky business. Did one need all these car receipts from the 60s, the statement showing one had paid one’s life insurance in 1982, and documents detailing Dave’s projected pension income year by year – especially now he was six months gone?

To complicate her decisions, she kept hearing his voice: “The minute it’s gone, you’ll need it,” and “The taxman cometh.”  Cometh for what?  To do an audit? She was sure many of these folders hadn’t been consulted in years. And wasn’t there some law the taxman could only go back in your records five years, or seven?

There was another thing. Jesus’ command to the rich young ruler had always fascinated her: “Go thy way, sell whatsoever thou hast and come ... follow me.”  Having the freedom to follow God with nothing to tie you down sounded impractical, yet exciting. She’d often felt the weight of the things they’d collected – especially when those things filled every available space. Here was her chance to escape just a little from the grip of “whatsoever thou hast” and experience a taste of the risk she heard in Jesus’ command. She decided to be ruthless in her culling.

           

She missed the six o’clock news and “Wheel of Fortune” to finish the drawer. When she was done all that remained in it were nearly empty folders, sagging like flab on a once-obese person. The sight of the plump yellow recycle bag made her feel good.

           

So good, in fact, the next day found her at the desk again missing “Judge Judy” to work on the second drawer, and the third, and the fourth. By then a recklessness had come over her. She decided to carry on through the rest of this room, the kitchen, indeed the whole house!

           

The job took a month. It became such an obsession she forgot all about turning on “Oprah” and lost track of what was happening on “Coronation Street.” When she closed her eyes at night she saw jars, plastic tubs, old clothes, shoes, books, magazines and bags and bags and bags.

But finally the day came when she had tidied the last closet. She resolved to finish the job by giving the house a final and thorough cleaning.

           

When she opened her cleaning supplies cabinet, though, she hardly recognized her meager supply caddy – but that’s right, she’d thrown out most of her solutions and powders in favor of the magic micro-cloth that was all the rage.

She went to put on her cleaning music – an old CD her kids had discarded a generation ago – but couldn’t find it anywhere either. Different music would have to suffice today. On channel twenty four she found Diane Bish playing a Bach concert and soon pipe organ Preludes, Fugues, and Toccatas were echoing through the house as she dusted, scrubbed, and polished.

When at last she stood to admire her efforts (favoring her aching knees as she’d had to wash the floor by hand because the mop too had disappeared), she had to admit, though the immaculate house did look as stark as the day after taking down Christmas decorations, it was wonderful – swept clean and put in order.

           

The next day she was turning on her computer to pay her overdue bills when the phone rang. It was a man from the trust company. He had an urgent question about Dave’s will.

           

“Just a minute,” she answered. She went to the file cabinet, opened the drawer, pulled out the folder marked “Wills” – but it was empty.

           

“Give me your number please, and I’ll get back to you,” she said to the trust company man and hung up, shaken. Had she perhaps been a tad too thorough? Oh well, there was bound to be a copy in their safety deposit box in the bank.

           

To get into that, though, she needed the combination. Good thing she knew where it was.

           

Or where it used to be. For she couldn’t find the combination or her internet log-in number for the bank, as it appeared she’d also trashed the book containing both of them. Dave’s old warnings began replaying in her head and her sense of satisfaction was replaced with misgiving. What had she done?

To be concluded ...

Web: http://violetnesdoly.com
Blog: promptings
Poetry portfolio: Violet Nesdoly / poems
Daily devotions for kids: Bible Drive-Thru
Twitter: @vnesdoly

Morning News - Pamela Mytroen

Morning sun warmed Rachab’s toes as if nothing had ever changed. She sat up quickly and pushed herself away from the reed mat. She never enjoyed the pleasure. Instead, she brushed away the stain from her arms, her face. No matter how she hid behind her veil, though, she still felt the tatoo of lust and shame burning on her skin. On that reed mat, behind the patched red curtain, she gave and gave and gave beyond empty every day, always waiting for love to return.

She kicked the greed-worn mat and walked to the shuttered windows. It was the one place she felt hope in this prison. The window where she had escaped last year to find love. He would be back. Tumaini had promised her that night when the guards had ripped her away from him and forced her by sword-point back to the city.

She hung on to the window like she clung to hope. He lives. He'll return. It’s what she lived for, it was the opium that blurred her guilt and pain and that awakened her each moring to hope again.

“Rachab! You have a guest!” hollered Abigail her servant girl.

Rachab pounded the stone wall with her first. So early in the morning? Usually they come after their supper beer.

"Rachab?" repeated Abigail in her sing-song voice.

“Abigail,” called Rachab, “Instruct Sophia to handle the drunken jackal."

A pause. The flip-flop of Abigail’s sandals echoed up the stone stairway. She folded her thick round arms to her ample chest and bowed. “My lady, he insists on your pleasure. He won’t even darken the lintel unless I promise him the company of Rachab, the King's favourite."

Rachab exhaled. She had been hoping for a walk in the orchards today. The olives would be harvested soon and she liked the sound of the children jumping in the oil press. Their giggles, though they stabbed her heart with longing, always cheered her spirit. And most of them only stared. Some even smiled at her wave. Only occasionally they ran to their mothers when they saw her. It was the one place she could walk and enjoy the fresh air without chick peas being hurled at the back of her legs, or insults flung at her tender heart.

“I’ll bring you pomegranate tea,” said Abigail, as if reading her thoughts. Not all people of Yerach were unkind. Why Abigail wanted to leave her adoring parents and serve Rachab, she would never know, but she thanked the heavens every day.

Rachab opened her cedar chest, a present from a wealthy ship owner. He had delivered it just as he promised, after Rachab had delivered herself to him. The cedar fragrance soothed her. This was one gift for her alone, not the King. There were a few hidden gifts already, a set of gold anklets from the Black Land, which she never wore because the engraving on it reminded her too much of her love, Tumaini. “Gem of the Kinahu,” it read. And she had been given perfume in a blue alabaster from Cyprus, and a purple robe from Shinar. But they did not fill the longing in her heart to be held.

Oh, she was held often enough, but not merely held. Ravaged, licked, consumed. She wondered if she would have anything left for Tumaini when he returned. If he returned.

The armed soldier had escorted him to the desert. She hadn't seen the sword on its return. Was it blood stained? She shivered, though the early morning sun already warmed her room. She must remember that some soldiers knew mercy. Her brother Yacob was one of them. A smile lifted her spirit. Perhaps it was her brother Yacob who had escorted Tumaini away. Maybe someday he would bring secret news of Tumaini's escape.

Today she would close her eyes and while her guest enjoyed her, she would remember Tumaini's words: "Wait for me, Rachab.”

Until then she would serve the King with secrets. Hunger never left her alone for long. She must entertain this guest today to keep the King’s tray of fruit and grain on her doorstep. Perhaps this mysterious morning customer would have an exotic morsel to pass on to the King. Of course, she would have to lure it from him. So, she pulled a clean red robe from the chest and sat facing the window, facing hope, as Abigail fastened the robe at her neck and brushed her long black hair. The pomegranate tea soothed her restless thoughts.

The red curtain parted and Abigail ushered in her next guest. Rachab gripped the rough limestone around her window and focused on the hills to the west. That is where her love left and where he would certainly return. She heard the man behind her kick off his sandals, and toss his outer robe on her reed chair. Large hands squeezed her waist and slid up her back. When his calloused fingers stroked the back of her neck, she tensed. It was time to get to work.

She turned to face him and didn’t know if she should sing praises to the gods or throw her tea at him. Her brother, her own dear brother Yacob, raised his eyebrows and wove his teasing laughter into hers.

Pam Mytroen
a scene from the middle of a someday-I'll-finish-it-novel

Powerful Defender - Elizabeth Bunyan (Part 1) - Nesdoly

Introduction:

A few years ago, I accepted an assignment to write the story of John Bunyan for a kids’ take-home paper. Weeks of research ensued and then the writing (and rewriting) of the piece. Finally I submitted the story and it was published in Guide in 2003.

However, as often happens, the research I did alerted me to many interesting side stories. One of the most fascinating was a series of incidents which involved John Bunyan’s second wife, Elizabeth. John Bunyan tells the story himself here .

More as a writing exercise than anything, I decided to try to recreate that story as a piece of fiction. "Powerful Defender" is that effort. I have tried to keep the story as close as possible to the facts Mr. Bunyan reports, although I did invent a few characters (Jack and Martha Bludgett, for example). The story is in four parts with Part 1 below, reprinted from my blog where it was published in 2005.

********************

"Christian's family try to comfort him"
Illustration from Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan

POWERFUL DEFENDER - a story of Elizabeth Bunyan (Part 1)

Elizabeth dropped another lump of peat into the stove and pulled her chair close to its warmth. The winter cold was quickly consuming their fuel. But this should be the last time she’d need to feed the fire tonight. For soon John would be safe at home and she cozy in bed next to him.

She sat down, took up again the tiny garment she was knitting and examined it. To think that in a few months, her own baby would wear it. She put one hand gently over her swollen stomach and savored the joy of the last months. Who would have dreamed, not two years ago, that the popular, outgoing, fiery but gentle preacher, John Bunyan, would choose her, shy, quiet Elizabeth, to be his wife and the step-mother to his four children? And now she was carrying his child!

Elizabeth took up her knitting again. Only the sound of clicking needles and an occasional muffled crackle from the five broke the stillness.

It was November 1660. England had been through decades of upheaval – civil war, a king, Charles I, beheaded, his heir, Charles II, exiled to France, then a ten-year trial-and-error parliament under Oliver Cromwell.

Growing up in the town of Bedford, Elizabeth had paid little attention to national politics, though they had affected her through her church. For as long as she could remember, things had been up-and-down for their dissenting congregation, the Baptist Church at Elstow. There had been disagreements between parish authorities and their pastor about things like using the Book of Common Prayer, adult baptism, even whether he should be allowed to preach. Thankfully under Cromwell’s parliament, the rules had relaxed.

As Elizabeth’s needles flashed back and forth, her mind went to her first memories of John. She had first seen him about eight years earlier when he, his wife and their four children began coming to her church. She’d admired him right from the beginning – for his tender care of his family, especially little blind Mary, for his wisdom as a deacon and, in the past few years, his passionate, piercing sermons. When he preached, you felt he could look right into your very heart.

Then came 1658. She recalled the news of Cromwell dying, rumors that a group of loyalists in London was trying to bring back the king, discussions of what would become of dissenters now. But what was vivid to Elizabeth from that year was the memory of the death of John’s wife.

How sad he had looked. Her heart had ached for him and the children and she’d wished she could do something for them. But she’d kept her feelings to herself. Over the months that followed, however, she became aware that John was noticing her.

The courtship was short but when John asked Elizabeth to marry him, there was no hesitation on her part. She knew that being his wife and mothering his children was a big job but she wanted no other. They had married in 1659 and in the months that followed, her esteem for him had only grown.

She especially admired his zeal as a Christian. He was so inspired by his love for God and compassion for unsaved countrymen that many a night, after working all day as a tinker, he’d walk miles to neighboring towns or to homes in the countryside to share his faith with many or few. It was just such an invitation that had taken him to Samsell this night.

He should be home by now, though, Elizabeth realized as she put down her work and strained to hear his footsteps. But the only sounds were the sighing of the wind and the bark of a dog. What was taking him so long?

His recent words came to her: Since the king has been returned, they are clamping down on our meetings. One of these days I’ll be arrested.

In her imagination she saw a constable grab him by the collar, cuff his hands, drive him to prison with a club. She gave herself a shake. This would never do. After all, it was a long walk from Samsell back home to Bedford.

"Please God, bring him home safely," she prayed.

She got up and checked the stove. There were only glowing embers. She’d best go to bed.

When she finally got to sleep, she slept fitfully. She had a dream about John and awoke feeling terrified. Sleepily she reached for him but when he wasn’t there she was instantly wide awake. Something had happened to him!

Mid-morning the next day, the three youngest children crowded around Elizabeth as she answered a knock on the door. Jack Bludgett from their church stood outside.

"Bad news, I’m afraid," he said to Elizabeth. "Thy John’s been arrested."

"Why? By whom?" Elizabeth felt the room spin around her. She put little Joseph down and grasped the door frame.

"It’s Justice Wingate," he explained. "It seems he’s had his eye on John’s meetings for a while now. They sent a constable with a warrant after John last night. He was taken just as the meeting got underway."

Elizabeth felt like she would be sick. She hung onto the doorframe as a cramp gripped her stomach.

"Art thou alright?" Jack asked.

"Ma, what’s wrong?" Five-year-old Beth who was clutching her skirt, stared up at Elizabeth’s ashen face.

Jack caught her just as she was about to crumple onto the floor and carried her to a bed. Far away she heard him explain to Mary, "Thy Ma has fainted. Can thee take care of the little ones till my Martha comes?’

Continued...

Copyright 2005 by Violet Nesdoly

Dare the Devil

Alan Taylor’s black ‘76 Chevy smashed into the bridge guardrail Friday night at precisely 11:42 p.m. A split second later, it catapulted into the power lines, flipped over on its back and dropped like a dead raven on the Amtrak rails below.

At 11:57 p.m., Alan slumped upside down inside his car. At least the seat belt works. He moaned, lifting his left arm. He tried to move his legs. What am I doing here? He wiggled to free himself. Twisted metal came between him and the buckle. He felt blood flowing into his head. He laughed. Good thing I’m drunk. Yeah, good thing I‘ve been hanging upside down every night at the gym. The alcohol continued to do its job. Look at me — not a tense muscle in my body. I’m in great shape for the shape I’m in. I can sleep anywhere. Craziest trip I’ve taken. Might as well relax; the police will be along soon.

The state highway patrol officer was certain no one was alive in the car. He glanced at his watch. It must have happened after 11:40 or the eastbound Broadway Limited would have further remodeled the Chevy — along with everything inside it. He wondered what getting hit by a train would feel like. I bet it wouldn’t have made any difference to whoever was in this car. Dead is dead.

Alan’s mother worked all day in the retail outlet her husband owned before he died. Before retiring, she soaked her feet and took two pain killers. I don’t want to wake up during the night. I am so tired. I really need to sleep. She shut her eyes at 10:14. It seemed only moments when she opened them again at 11:05. She glanced at the clock. I don’t want to be awake. This is absolutely crazy.

For a few minutes, she stared at the little sparkles in the ceiling and tried to find Orion or Ursas Minor. Then she rolled several times, first to the right but her shoulder ached; then to the left but her right arm went numb. Why, God? Why can’t I sleep tonight? It has been a long day — and a long week. This isn’t fair.

She stumbled to the kitchen and put a mug of milk in the microwave. When it was warm, she walked sipping into the living room. Outside, the well-lit street was quiet. She was glad they were finally able to move away from the tracks. That Broadway Limited used to wake her up every night at 11:40. When Dave died, she used the insurance money to upgrade. This was a good move. This milk is good too. She felt sleepy again and returned to the bedroom. Just as she turned back the covers to crawl in, she heard a train whistle — it was the Broadway Limited. How can that be? We live twenty miles from the track?

Something is wrong. She slid out of bed and dropped to her knees. Lord, watch over that train tonight. You alone control what is happening. You are able to protect it and anyone concerning it. She prayed for its passengers, then for people who might be on the crossings. Alan. He’s okay. He’s at work, at Leek’s Cafe. He called and said he would be working until midnight. She prayed: Lord, keep Alan out of the path of that train. Keep him safe tonight. Help him to understand that You love him. May Your goodness lead him to repentance. She crawled under the sheets, closed her eyes and was instantly asleep. It was 11:41.

Alan looked again at his watch. It was 12:06. He was no longer laughing. My mother will never trust me again. I told her I already had my license back and now she will find out. What will I tell her this time? I keep lying to her. I really don’t want to but she keeps asking personal questions. I have to say something.

He wished he had been a little kinder to her at supper. She talked about his future. She said I have so much potential. Yeah, I think so too — so why can’t I get a decent job? And why does everything I touch turn into a bill at the end of the month? Why can’t I get my act together? Why did dad have to die anyway? I am so bloody unlucky. Look at this mess. My car is totaled. Why does everything happen to me?

He could see the broken power lines above him. He could smell the oil and gasoline bleeding out of his car. By turning his head, he could see the Amtrak bridge and the broken rail. He knew what time the trains came by; he used to live less than 500 yards from this spot. I just missed the 11:40 express. God — what a coincidence. His mind stopped, suddenly sobered on that thought. Only God could do that — only God. Why would He bother with a bum like me? I don’t deserve any favors. I... He... why me? For a few minutes, he tried to shake thoughts of God but could not. Tears began rolling out the corners of his eyes and up into his hairline.

The state highway patrol officer slammed his car door and slid down the embankment beside the bridge. He pointed his flashlight directly in front, fearful he might stumble onto a hot wire from the power lines or broken glass and sheared metal from the Chevy. He stopped. What is that noise? It sounds like someone singing... in the car. He reached the battered mass and peered inside.

Police Log: Arrested and booked Alan Taylor, twenty, on charges of reckless and drunk driving, driving without a license and speeding. Unable to give a breathalyser but car contained several bottles of beer and the suspect behaved in a manner consistent with someone who was not in control of their faculties.

“Can you believe this,” the officer laughed? “This black Chevy hit the Amtrak bridge rails and somehow flipped upside down off the bridge, hit the power lines, broke a bunch of wires, landed top down on the tracks below, minutes after the train goes by — and inside the car, the drunk driving the thing was hanging upside down. It took us nearly an hour to get him out of there. The lucky idiot didn’t have a scratch on him. Want to hear the really strange part? When I got there and even the whole time he was in my custody on the way to the station, he had the face of a child. He looked like someone who just got a medal or something. He kept singing some song over and over — not in tune mind you, but it sounded a lot like Amazing Grace.”

© Elsie Montgomery