Neighbors - Part 2

THE DARKNESS AROUND me is suffocating. I lie on my back, the soft blankets beneath me, the room around me almost dead silent. I can heard the light “whoosh” of the ceiling fan above me, and the telltale ticking of a clock that hangs in the hallway outside of my bedroom.

I do not hear my dog, and I do not hear any cars rolling down the street, but I just heard something that woke me.

The silence around me is crushing, save for the fan I hear nothing but the dull rumble of my own heard shooting blood through my veins. My eyes still cast dim reflections, spots from the back of my mind, from the nightmare that I just woke from.

I was there again. I could smell the terrible odor of burnt rubber, stale in my nostrils, the moist, sweet scent from the rain that had fallen only an hour ago, puddle around my feet, my hands, the figure in front of me. Red pooled, mingled into pink in the puddle to my left.

The window of my bedroom still glowed with the Christmas lights from across the street. I see spots of blue and white most distinctly, they stand out among the others, staring in on my blinds, sliding slyly through the slits and raking across my ceiling, just beyond the reaches of the swishing ceiling fan blades. For a long moment I sit there and stare, wondering why they were so distinct, and what I had just heard.

I listen for a long time, if nothing else, then just to get that picture out of my mind. I have to get it out.
My shoulder is shaken, I can feel a hand there, I can hear someone talking to me, but it seems like it’s from a long tunnel, so far away. There’s a mutter of conversation behind it, but farther away, quieter, spoken by a crowd that sees what I’m seeing, but doesn’t feel the same way I do. They can’t. They won’t.

I unclench my fist; I did not realize I was clutching it so tightly. My hand is on the verge of cramping I was clutching it so tightly. My fingers feel like they had just been rolled over by something quite heavy. There’s a scent in my nostrils, it’s salty—I think it’s sweat, but I’m not sure…I can only hope.

The blinking outside my window, leaking in slowly, flickering back and forth, these not like the sunset but like the cold light from my dreams. From the ones I try to hide from, the one I just left, the one that I hate.
My eyes are adjusting to the darkness, they are gradually becoming more accustomed to it, I can make out in utter vagueness the features of my bookshelf off in the corner, lined with close to two hundred books, somewhere around that. I had about as many on my Kindle, maybe more, I can’t remember.

I see the dull reflection off of my Maglite—the big one—on my nightstand. It sits like a silent guardian where it usually does, waiting for the moment it’s needed. As an LED flashlight, it certainly puts out more than enough light, though I’ve hardly ever used it.

A picture sits on my nightstand, right next to the Maglite—one I’ve looked at every night for two years, one I can’t stop looking at—one I can’t stop loving. I could probably put the picture back together from memory if I had to, but I stare at if for I don’t know how long every day anyway. I guess I’m afraid that if I don’t I might somehow forget.

I can’t forget.

I turn my gaze back at the lights, lost in the intricate dance they are performing, the popcorn ceiling curves and bends in the shifting illumination, as if it were alive, and carefully following the rhythm of the decorations.
I feel like my heart is following that same rhythm. Fast and irregular, weighted down…tired.

I see it again, but I don’t want to. I push it away. I hope it will fade into the blackness like all of the rest, I hope it will just go away. I don’t want to look. I don’t want to see.

The picture. I think of the picture.

Still that burning on the back of my eyeballs, still that stunned vision of shock, of anger, of sorrow and of pain. I see it. I feel it. I live it all again.

White line, thick and proud, stained by red, dotted by pink, splashed by a clear white, contrasted by gray, colorless to me. Everything, except for that blue and white, swimming in pink, dull and hot, a former red, but thriving death—I know what it means, but I don’t want to believe, I don’t want to see, I don’t want to understand.

Why do I still dream? Hasn’t it been long enough yet? Haven’t I dreamt enough dreams? To tell you the truth I don’t know. I just don’t know.

I try to think of somethin else. The service at church from the previous day comes to mind. They were talking about how they had seen a lot of Blake and Mikayla, a brother and sister who had been coming to the services a lot lately. They had quite a past apparently, but they seemed to have been doing very well in the Bible study groups and in regular attendance.

Blake seems like a really cool guy, he works as a mechanic, and he’s got the handshake that would make a wrestler wince. Mikayla seems to be quieter than Blake, softer spoken, I guess. She is almost always right beside him, and he seems to watch out for her a lot, I kind of wonder how long they’ve been like that. In truth I admire that, and I wonder what made them turn out that way? Was it their raising? Something they just naturally picked up? I wish I knew.

 I’m happy that they’re coming, I really am, but I don’t know them. I kind of wish I did know them better, especially since I’m up in the middle of the night thinking about them.

Blood. The white line reflects, the puddles soak my knees, my feet—the smell of the moist concrete is more than I can bear. The sight in front of me more than I wish to think about.

Make it stop.

But I can’t. I stare at the lights, the blue and the white, that glow that seems to illuminate my dreamscape, covering everything—infecting everything.

I don’t think I’m going to get to sleep for a while. It’s three in the morning, I’ve only been asleep for a few hours, and I don’t think I will see more sleep this night.

I wish the dreams would stop.

End of Part 2

Premonition - A Short Story

Harry entered the waking world with a start, head swimming, muscles tense. For a second, he didn't know where he was. Then, as his eyes took in the familiar surroundings, he relaxed. He was in his living room. He must've fallen asleep on the couch again.

The book he'd been reading lay on the cushion next to him - a crime thriller he'd picked up at the bookstore the other day. The title stared up at him with eyes of fancy, gothic lettering: Death Comes As A Friend. He regarded it coldly, unimpressed. A story which put the reader to sleep could hardly be deemed a "thriller".

He sat up from his reclined position and massaged away the cric in his neck with one hand. He got to his feet. He was already dressed, but one look at his exceptionally wrinkled shirt convinced him he needed to change.

In the bathroom, he turned the faucet all the way on and let the water run. He cradled some in his palm and splashed it over his face. The chilly wetness was refreshing, chasing any vestiges of sleep from his cobwebbed brain. He closed his eyes contentedly for a minute and relished the feeling. Then he turned the faucet off and dried his face with a towel.

He changed into a fresh pair of clothes, then proceeded to the kitchen. He turned the dial on the coffee maker to “On”, and grabbed a skillet from the cupboard and began warming it on the stovetop. Two eggs were fried and on a plate and on the table within minutes, accompanied by a cup of coffee. Harry sat down and took a sip. The dark liquid scalded his tongue and throat, but he didn't mind. He liked it that way.

One, two, three raps sounded sharply on the front door. Harry looked up, surprised. “Hey,” called a voice, “you in there, Harry? It's Aaron. Let me in, will you? It's soaking wet out here.”

Harry set his cup down hastily and went to the door and opened it. He motioned his friend inside. “Sorry 'bout that,” he muttered apologetically, closing the door. “Didn't even notice the rain.”

“Well, I noticed it,” said Aaron, grinning. “Doesn't look like it's gonna stop anytime soon, either.” He looked up. “You just get up?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I was just eating breakfast. Care for some coffee?”

Aaron shrugged. “Sure.” He stripped off his sopping rain coat and deposited it on the coat rack behind the door, then sat down at the table. “Thanks.”

Harry turned and reached into the cupboard and took down another cup. "So," he said, conversationally, "what's up? Need to borrow somethin'?" He began filling Aaron's cup. The coffee swirled and steamed. "By the way," he added, turning around, "d'you want cream?"

He stopped and his jaw fell and his face turned a pasty white. "Aaron?"

Aaron was standing again. A revolver was in his right hand, his finger curling round the trigger, the bluish barrel pointing straight at Harry's chest.

"Aaron?"

"Bye, Harry."

There was a small thunderclap. Harry dropped and lay shivering in the floor, a blossom of red spreading slowly across the front of his shirt. His glazing eyes focused one last time on Aaron, who knelt beside him, gun in hand.

"Aaron." Harry's lips moved in a low, reproachful whisper.

Aaron watched, listened.

"Wh-why?"

Aaron bent his head down to the dying man's ear and whispered back: "Because, Harry. Because I can."

***

Harry woke with a start. His head was swimming and sticky rivulets of sweat ran down his face and his heart was beating in a fast, panicky tempo. He rose from the couch and stumbled hastily into the kitchen. He snatched a glass from the cupboard and filled it from the tap and drank. Calm yourself, Harry. It was just a dream. Just a bad, bad dream and nothing more.

One, two, three raps sounded sharply on the front door. Harry dropped the glass, shattering it into a million winking shards. “Hey,” called a voice, “you in there, Harry? It's Aaron. Let me in, will you? It's soaking wet out here.”


ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Corey Poff is first and foremost a sinner saved by grace alone. He's sixteen, an avid writer, and a lover of books, movies, music, logic, Reformed theology, history, guns, and the great outdoors. And Italian food.

Missing - A Short Story

GERALD WAS not an early-riser. He was, generally speaking, the last one out of bed in the morning. And even when he did finally rouse himself and stagger downstairs for breakfast, the extent to which he was really “with it” was a subject hotly debated among his family members. Not without reason. During his first waking hour, Gerald typically resembled a lethargic, sleep-deprived zombie.

This morning things were different. Gerald was awake and out of bed and in complete possession of his faculties. He was looking for something - something that was supposed to be safe and sound in the cardboard box under his bed, but wasn't.

The pajama-clad boy made his way cautiously down the upstairs hallway, flashlight in hand, treading the carpet with a light foot, anxious not to make any noise. The house was quiet. Its occupants – with the exception of Gerald – were still fast asleep. Outside, the pre-dawn world was just turning pink.

Gerald paused when he reached his brother's bedroom door. He opened it, softly. The room was dark, save for a faint glimmer that penetrated the cracks in the window blinds. He got down on his hands and knees and flicked on the flashlight and crawled around, inspecting the room for signs of his lost possession. Under the bed – nothing. Under the dresser – nothing. In the closet – double nothing. He sighed and exited the room in disappointment, closing the door behind him.

He continued down the hallway. He checked his sister's room: it wasn't there. He checked the baby's room: it wasn't there, either. When he came to his parents room he hesitated. Better check there last, he reasoned, and moved on.

Downstairs was a disappointment. He scoured the kitchen, the living room, the pantry, the laundry room – all to no avail. The thing was nowhere to be found. He trudged back up the stairs - silence be dashed.

Outside his parent's bedroom, he stopped. His eyes stared into the wooden framework of the door, as if he could see through it and beyond. He frowned. It's gotta be in there, he thought. Where else? I've looked everywhere. It's not like it could just disappear from the face of earth.

At least, he didn't think it could.

He opened the door and slipped into the room. He dropped to the floor again and resumed his search, sweeping the darker recessess with the yellowy beam of his flashlight. It's gotta be here. It's just gotta.

“Gerald? Is that you?”

He froze, then turned slowly around. He could see his Dad sitting up in bed, hair mussed, eyes blinking. “Er, yeah, Dad... it's me.” Gerald grinned, sheepishly.

“What are you doing... Ach! Stop shining that thing in my eyes!”

Gerald pointed the light at the floor. “Sorry.”

“What are you doing?” came the question again, this time more sharply.

“I was just looking for something, is all,” Gerald stammered. “Didn't mean to wake you.”

“Looking for what?” his Dad asked, reaching onto the nightstand and fumbling with his glasses.

“Um, about that...”

“Answer the question, Gerald.”

The boy swallowed hard. “I was looking for my science experiment,” he blurted. “I think it wandered in here by mistake.”


ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Corey Poff is first and foremost a sinner saved by grace alone. He's sixteen, an avid writer, and a lover of books, movies, music, logic, Reformed theology, history, guns, and the great outdoors. And Italian food.

My Journey in Writing.

I started writing about five years ago - October of 2006. The writing was terrible, there was absolutely no plot (I was also much younger at the time), and it was absolutely despicable. However, I kept at it, writing in the mystery-ish genre.

Then I went into the realm of fantasy writing. This is where my writing started "going places." The first attempt was laughable, it was in all caps, no paragraphs. But it was practice, some good things were in it, and some of the lines were downright hilarious (though they seemed dead serious at the time). This could be said (at least, the first two things) of virtually all my writing, and I'm sure all of yours, too - little things we can salvage here and there.

I wrote, and wrote, and wrote in fantasy. The second attempt was also pretty bad (with more cheesy lines, all caps, no paragraphs, virtually no plot), but my skills slowly improved, and the writing turned out better as I went along to other attempts in this genre (and, with the same places, characters, world). I even made it to 70,000 words one time (my longest attempt on anything, followed by 55,000 or so).

Thus, despite upwards of a hundred thousand words being pumped into these ideas, nothing came to fruition (of which I am not saddened, really). I wrote here and there on stuff throughout this first leg of my journey in the vast field of fiction writing, and nothing ever worked. Even to this day, nothing has "worked", and I have, unfortunately, never finished a novel.

However, one thing has changed. In May of 2008, my life began to change. God got a hold of me. As a result, my writing naturally changed. Before, it had been a pathetic, basically secular attempt, maybe with a tiny bit of Christianity sprinkled in somewhere in the book or series. But as my whole life changed, my writing changed with it. Looking back, I noticed that the content seemed a bit different around that time period. Things just seemed...different. And, praise God, they were different in a good way.

Writing is a powerful, powerful tool. Much good and ill has been wrought through the pen (as the saying goes, the pen is mightier than the sword), or, in our case, the keyboard. Scripture tells us to do everything "to the glory of God" (1 Corinthians 10:31), and that, whatever we do, we should do all "in the Name of the Lord Jesus" (Colossians 3:17).

We can spread the Gospel through writing. We can teach doctrine, we can exhort practical theology. We can do so much with our keyboards (fiction and non-fiction), and we should do all of it to the glory of God. So, writers...

...Let's do it.

Thank you for reading. May God bless you and yours, and may He help those children of His who have the gift of writing use it all for Him.
In Christ,
Joel Garner ><>.
2 Chronicles 7:14; Romans 5:8.

So, what about you? What's your writing journey been like?

Theology in Fiction

Have you ever wondered why all of the Christian fiction on the market seems so worldly? Have you ever wanted it to make an impact, but don't know why it fails to do so? Have you ever wanted to read a Christian novel that was actually Christian?

I have wondered this many times, and I have found that it is primarily because of it being more marketable when it contains less Christianity. Publishers seem to be more focused on producing fiction that will sell Christian fiction to the world instead of publishing Christian fiction for Christians.

I believe that as Christians, to do such a thing is immoral. Yea, sinful.

The Christian fiction market is hardly readable anymore. I have read books by the best selling Christian authors that contained obcene language. That is unacceptable. We need to go back to write all things for the Glory of God. We must turn things around, and instead as writers keep the Supremacy of Christ a reality in our fiction.

John Bunyan did this, he wrote Pilgrim's Progress and Holy War as fictional stories with a deep, theological meaning. It has been done and it can be done, why don't we try today?

I started this blog with the tagline "theology in fiction" which I hope will summarize what I try to do with writing. I study theological books and reference material in preparation for ministry, and I notice that most people don't read these because they find them to be hard to understand. I wondered if there was a way to fix this. In February, I began a rough draft of my first prototype of a theological novel to demonstrate the Sovereignty and Providence of God in human suffering and I finished the rough draft last week. This is my first novel that has tried to tackle theological issues practically. I found that the novel grew and grew, dealing with the Gospel, child evangelism and the careful measures that must be used, the Sovereignty of God, the Providence of God, suicide, abortion, guilt, forgiveness, and sacrifice. It dealt with child abuse, PTSD, grief of a lost loved one and more. It struck me how much larger it became than it's original vision, and I was struck with the fact that it can be used for more than just a hobby, it can be a ministry. I finished out at 102, 000 + words, and I tried my best to make theology applicable and easy to grasp for readers everywhere, I hope I accomplished that. I will rewrite it soon and hope it comes out better.

I have a friend who shares this vision with me, to write for the Glory of God and demonstrate theology in fiction. I grieve over the lack of truly Christian fiction and desire to change it. We have a gift, to communicate ideas through words, and when wielded properly it can bring glory to God. Why would we use it for anything else?

This post is entitled "Theology in fiction" and that is my ultimate goal and vision. If, by Providence, you run by this blog and read this post, I hope you will share this vision with me to reclaim the Supremacy of God in fiction and will pray that other writers will catch this, and we may see a new day dawn.

All that's left I can say is, Soli Deo Gloria.


Following Him,
Michael Wright
Rom 1:16; Phil 1:21

P. S. I hope to publish an excerpt of my writing soon. God bless.