First, let me apologize for my inactivity here lately. I have really let the blog go down in content production, and that is without excuse. I'm in a bit of a stage of what I call "writers blech" not to be confused with writer's block. "Writers blech" is when you have plenty to write but you really don't feel like writing it. While I am without excuse for not producing content, seeing as I have plenty of ideas, I simply have not felt like it. Maybe it will go away, maybe not.
This is a new short story I wrote about the subject of indifference, as the title explains. I would like to issue a word of warning this does contain mature thematic elements and some violence.
Indifferent
By Mike Wright
AS JEFFERY looked out the front window he found that what he was looking at wasn’t all that surprising. It was the usual kid out playing in the yard and the dog running up and down the sidewalk deal that he always saw.
The coffee in his hand was hot and burned him somewhat when he sipped it, but it was a pleasant burn so he kept drinking it. Something about the way coffee tasted when that hot made him enjoy the burn.
He watched the dog running on the sidewalk, probably with nothing better to do in his miniscule canine brain, chasing a small lizard that kept escaping his mouth. The bright eyes of the dog were clearly narrowed, and it began to move to the underside of a car. Jeffery wondered if it would get stuck under there.
The girl playing outside was Lola, the six year old that lived across the street from him. She had an assortment of chalk laid out before her, and had sat with her legs making a giant V, drawing a large—quite pink—picture in the frame of her legs. The simple flip-flops she wore dangled from her toes as she swayed her feet from side to side, and her face was set, partially covered by thick brown streams of hair.
She and her parents had moved into the house about a month and a half ago, Jeffery and his wife had sent them a bag of some goods, welcoming them to the neighborhood, even though he really could care less.
He watched her drawing a moment. He had to admit the kid was cute, but she could certainly be loud as well. How many times did he try to sleep in on a Saturday morning only to be disrupted? Her parents weren’t the best at teaching their kid to be mindful of other people. Didn’t they care about people who labored all week and wanted at least one morning of deep sleep?
He looked off to the side and saw a large, black SUV coasting down the street; it’s mighty tires rolling slowly along. He hadn’t seen it before, and wondered which one of the neighbors had gotten a new vehicle. It was probably the Jennings across the street; they got a new vehicle almost every year. It was decidedly different than their usual choice, but people were entitled to a bit of variety.
The SUV moved slowly along, it’s hulking form sliding easily across the winding street, going around the car parked on the street.
He watched as a man climbed out, the man was tall, dressed pretty nicely in a button-down and slacks. The sunglasses on the man’s head were larger than what was normal, but some people liked them big, when the man pulled out a skullcap and slipped it on, Jeffery was slightly confused.
The man went straight to Lola and offered her something; she seemed very hesitant until he took off the skullcap. What was he doing?
Jeffery became very interested in this man.
When Lola stood up and took it, the man’s arm shot out and grabbed her wrist, spinning her around and pulling her close to him and clamping his hand over her mouth. He grabbed her around the middle and lifted her up off of the ground. Her legs began to kick.
Jeffery began to realize what was going on.
She managed to get one arm free and started to swing it along with her legs, the thin limbs flailed hard, fighting against the man’s strong grip. The car door was open, and all he had to do was get her in there.
The door to the house burst open, and the mother stood there in horror, her mouth dropped open and Jeffery heard her piercing scream break the air, even through his closed windows and doors.
He thought about grabbing his gun that was in the cabinet by the door, but he didn’t want to get involved. Just don’t get involved.
The mother bolted down the yard, her cup of orange juice flew from her hand, and her face was wild and angry. The man managed to pull Lola into the car, and shut the door tightly. The car peeled off as soon as he shut the door and the mother chased after it beating on the back window with her fists until it finally outran her and she fell down headfirst into the street—still screaming.
Jeffery watched it all in stunned silence. He wasn’t sure what he had just seen even though he knew that he had seen it. It was like his brain was processing the data, trying to put it all together, even though he knew what it all meant. Odds are they would never see Lola again. A brief thought about Saturday mornings popped in his mind but he shoved it away in disgust.
He watched the mother remain on the street, her hands bloodied from the contact with the windshield and asphalt, her eyes were streaming, and her face was wet, the blood was smeared where she had covered her face, and the cuts bled profusely. Neighbors began to come out and take interest, curious as to what had just happened.
Jeffery only watched. He took another sip of his hot coffee.
There was a small, purple flip-flop lying in the middle of the road.
One month later…
JEFFERY WALKED up to his car, his keys dangling from his hands, the wind tearing at his coat, and his mind on the afternoon ahead of him.
He looked on the other side of the street and saw the sign that had been there for several weeks, advertising the missing child Lola, which had only appeared as a blip on the local news. The family had been looking for her ever since, organizing search parties, putting up flyers, a website—the works. They still hadn’t found her though.
Jeffery and the wife had sent over a casserole. She had told him it’s the least they could do. He supposed she might be right.
There hadn’t been much success in the case, they had found her other flip-flop, dress and underwear in a dumpster miles away, which meant that they were probably done with her and her body was hid somewhere in the woods, but the family kept up hope she was alive.
Jeffery didn’t.
The things people did these days. It was hard to fathom, impossible to fathom, what made people want to do that kind of thing, but Jeffery supposed that it was just how it was going to be. Wasn’t much that could be done about it, there would always be scum, and they would always do what they want.
He searched his key ring for the key to his car; the different metal surfaces cool on his warm fingertips.
There was a sound behind him, but he never got the chance to turn around. A cold piece of dangerous metal was jabbed on his neck and a harsh whisper snapped at him. “Don’t make one move.”
He put his hands up. “I don’t have much on me. My wallet is in my left back pocket…”
“Shut up, man. I’ll figure it out, don’t you make one noise.” The man’s voice was laced with the harsh smell of cigarette smoke. Jeffery didn’t turn around, he didn’t do anything—the man’s gun was trained on him. He felt a hand pat his back pockets and the man withdrew his wallet and started to rifle around in it. The man swore, “This all you got?”
“I said I didn’t have much.” Jeffery wondered why nobody else saw what was going on. Did nobody care?
“All right, whatever. How about that watch?”
Jeffery glanced at his watch, and slowly slid it off of his wrist, and held it behind him for the man to grab. It was snatched almost painfully out of his hands.
“Now them sunglasses…they look expensive.” The man demanded.
Jeffery was surprised, the man was right; he knew just what they were worth. He forgot how much he had paid for them but it was a good amount.
When he handed them to him, he glanced over his shoulder just a little, trying to get a look at his face so he could pass the information along to the cops. Apparently the man saw what he was doing.
“You lookin’ at me?”
Jeffery wanted to swear.
“Lookin’ at me? You keep your eyes where they belong, hear?” The man jammed the gun harder against his skull. The man cursed again, very loudly.
Did nobody see this? Did anybody call the police or something? Didn’t anybody care? For crying out loud did anybody see what was going on?
“You think it’s a good idea to take a peek? Get down.” The man demanded. Jeffery didn’t move fast enough for him, however. The butt of the gun slammed into his head, and Jeffery fell to his knees.
The man gave a firm kick, and Jeffery felt the wind go out of him, as he was still trying to see pas the white stars that were in his vision and the searing nuclear explosion of pain in the back of his skull.
“You got a problem with orders?” The man slammed his face into the car, the impact took him to new levels of pain, he felt his nose crush under the impact and felt the wet agony of his nose breaking.
Blood streamed down his face into his mouth, distorting his words and punctuating them with gore. “Just take the money, man, just take the money…”
“You got a problem listening to me?” The man slammed him against the car again and whipped the pistol across the back of his head, sending Jeffery on the verge of unconsciousness.
Was nobody seeing this? Jeffery wondered. Did nobody see what was going on?
“You won’t have a problem now.” The man put the gun against his head and Jeffery felt the hammer being pulled back.
“Oh, please no!” Gore leaked out of his mouth and nose, the beating had busted his gums as well. The blood poured forth like a dragon’s fire, spilling onto the clean concrete.
“Goodnight.” The man said with a chuckle.
There was a loud thunder blast and the world went black.
EVENTUALLY THE police came, they found a dead body lying by his car, blood seeping out of an explosion in the face where the bullet had exited, and the crimson river rolling into the storm drain. His personal belongings were gone, stolen, no doubt. And his face—what was left of it—was frozen in horror. They found by his fingers a note written in his own blood, something before he had died. Three letters: WHY
Jeffery was guilty of and victim to his own crime. Lola was just a victim— but they were both victims of one of the most common of crimes in the human race. No, the crime is not robbery, rape, or murder. The crime is far more insidious than even these and we might be guilty of it.
The crime is indifference. It is committed every time when we can do something and instead, do not care and do nothing, we pass it by and move on without getting involved and doing something. The result is our world today, filled with robbery, rape, and murder.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
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?
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?
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Excerpt From Work In Progress In His Hands
This is another excerpt from my work in progress "In His Hands" which will hopefully soon reach the rewriting process. This scene is takes place on a Lord's Day evening after the services. Maia has been being taught by the Greens who have adopted her, the basic things about the Scriptures and the Sunday School class has been doing a basic study on the attributes of God. All of that is in earlier scenes, and here is the scene for today.
DAVE SWALLOWED the last of his coffee for the night. They had arrived home from the church service an hour before and had gone to conversation almost immediately about the sermon. It had been a treatment on the supposed accidents in life and how they were all part of the plan of God. Like the morning message, it set Dave thinking. Were there really any accidents?
Maia hadn’t commented much on the sermons aside from that she would have to think about them for a little while, which was to be expected, it being her first exposure to any real Christianity and certainly to that level of theology. That was one thing that Dave could give Pastor Vic, you pretty much never got a sermon that didn’t tie into a deeper theological thread. At first he had been concerned that it would drive Maia away from the idea of preaching, but she seemed anxious for the next service, surprised it was only a few days away. He had seen some scribbled notes here and there on the paper she had in her Bible, and the load of papers that she had brought from the class from the previous lessons. She seemed to dwell more on the one from that morning though, and less on the others, except the one from the week before on the Sovereignty of God—his personal favorite subject—that had some underlining on it. She seemed to be looking for something and he supposed she had made the markings in the afternoon after Sunday dinner. He had only seen them by accident, when they spilled out of her Bible halfway through the sermon—quietly, thankfully—and he had leaned over to pick them up. She had given a sheepish half-smile and thanked him silently.
She hadn’t said much that even though, she had just sat on the couch by Mom and listened. She twiddled her fingers together while listening, but he didn’t really know what wheels were turning behind her skull, it was really hard to tell. They hadn’t bothered change; he and his father had only removed their suit jackets and ties, those detestable things, and set them aside.
He placed the mug on the side table and returned his father’s gaze. “It kind of makes me think of Ruth,” he said, “and how she ‘just happened’ to enter into the same field that Boaz who ‘just happened’ to be her near kinsman, was in charge of, and he ‘just happened’ to favor Ruth who turned out be his wife in the end and ended up in the lineage of David and in eventuality the lineage of Christ.”
John Green grinned as he sipped his own cup of coffee, “Interesting isn’t it? You ever think about the fact that Ruth was a Moabite, a Gentile, and Christ would become the Light of the Gentiles?”
“Goes to show you there are no accidents,” His mother added, “We see how the awful thing that happened to Naomi and Ruth ended out being turned into something good.”
“All by the workings of Providence.” Father finished.
Maia asked, “What happened to them? I haven’t read that story yet.”
“Well,” John began, “Naomi and her husband had two sons, and a famine came in Israel, so they went to Moab, another country, and settled. The two boys married two Moabite women, and then they died along with their father. The two sisters-in-law had a choice to make—leave, or stay. One of them left, but Ruth stayed with Naomi. When Naomi moved back to Israel, she changed her name to Mara which means ‘bitter’ because she said that the ‘Almighty hath dealt bitterly with me’ she blamed God for the awful thing that happened to her.” He sipped his coffee.
“Why did she blame God?” Maia said.
“Because she understood that God controlled all things, and that maybe He could have kept them from dying. She didn’t know what God was doing at that time, He was preparing Ruth for Boaz who would have kids and then David, who was part of Christ’s bloodline.”
Janet Green leaned in, “You see, God brought something good out of something seemingly evil, He knew what was going on.”
“Okay.” She sat back and nodded. “I get it.”
Dave wasn’t sure if she got the whole thing—but she knew what she needed to know for the moment. Truth was, he had a question beginning to eat away at his mind about what they had called and accident for so long, and the fact that it was no accident.
“A lot of food for thought,” Father said, “something we had better sleep on. It’s late, so let’s all get ready for bed.”
“Okay,” Maia stood and Dave rose up, snatching his coffee mug from the side table and went over to where his Dad was draining his mug, and took it from him after he had finished.
“Thanks, son.”
Dave took them into the kitchen and placed them in the sink, running a little water into them so that the coffee did not dry up and stain the bottom. The whole time though he had a question growing in his mind about Maia.
Mother walked in the room and set her cup on the counter, still holding the coffee inside. “What’s on your mind?”
Dave shook his head, “Nothin’”
She tilted her head, “Yeah, right.” She picked up the coffee again and leaned against the counter. “Seriously, what’s on your mind?”
He cocked his head in the direction of the living room, “Maia.”
“What about her?”
“The Providence of God.” He said. He decided to go ahead and rinse the cups and the few other plates in the sink that had somehow migrated there without being rinsed beforehand.
“You mean what she went through?” She asked.
“Yeah.”
“I wish I knew. I was thinking the same thing actually when we were talking about Ruth. I think Maia was as well, but she didn’t say anything.”
Dave nodded, “You and me both.” He set the dishes on the counter and reached for a towel. “I know she was thinking something about that, who in their right mind wouldn’t? I mean, it’s such a terrible thing that happened to her, it just doesn’t…I don’t know.”
“Doesn’t seem fair?” She offered.
“I guess.” He folded the used towel neatly. “I know the guy was shot, yeah, good, done. But I’m not sure that was completely just humanly speaking, he died, she didn’t—now she’s got to live with the horrors of what he did. Granted, he’s in Hell, the wrath and vengeance of what he did is being enacted against him, but in the meantime, what about Maia?”
Mom shook her head, “I don’t know, Dave. I really don’t, we’ll have to pray about it some more I guess. It’s a good thing Pastor Vic it preaching those messages now, huh?”
“No coincidences.”
“That’s right. We had better take strong heed to them then.” She looked at the clock and dumped the few sips of coffee in her cup down the sink. “Good night, Dave.”
“Night, Mom.” Dave replied.
She headed upstairs. Leaving the downstairs empty. As he went through he shut off all of the lights, and started walking through the hallway when he looked at their family picture from four years ago, four people stared back at him from that picture and he sighed.
No accidents.
He shut the light off and went up the stairs.
DAVE SWALLOWED the last of his coffee for the night. They had arrived home from the church service an hour before and had gone to conversation almost immediately about the sermon. It had been a treatment on the supposed accidents in life and how they were all part of the plan of God. Like the morning message, it set Dave thinking. Were there really any accidents?
Maia hadn’t commented much on the sermons aside from that she would have to think about them for a little while, which was to be expected, it being her first exposure to any real Christianity and certainly to that level of theology. That was one thing that Dave could give Pastor Vic, you pretty much never got a sermon that didn’t tie into a deeper theological thread. At first he had been concerned that it would drive Maia away from the idea of preaching, but she seemed anxious for the next service, surprised it was only a few days away. He had seen some scribbled notes here and there on the paper she had in her Bible, and the load of papers that she had brought from the class from the previous lessons. She seemed to dwell more on the one from that morning though, and less on the others, except the one from the week before on the Sovereignty of God—his personal favorite subject—that had some underlining on it. She seemed to be looking for something and he supposed she had made the markings in the afternoon after Sunday dinner. He had only seen them by accident, when they spilled out of her Bible halfway through the sermon—quietly, thankfully—and he had leaned over to pick them up. She had given a sheepish half-smile and thanked him silently.
She hadn’t said much that even though, she had just sat on the couch by Mom and listened. She twiddled her fingers together while listening, but he didn’t really know what wheels were turning behind her skull, it was really hard to tell. They hadn’t bothered change; he and his father had only removed their suit jackets and ties, those detestable things, and set them aside.
He placed the mug on the side table and returned his father’s gaze. “It kind of makes me think of Ruth,” he said, “and how she ‘just happened’ to enter into the same field that Boaz who ‘just happened’ to be her near kinsman, was in charge of, and he ‘just happened’ to favor Ruth who turned out be his wife in the end and ended up in the lineage of David and in eventuality the lineage of Christ.”
John Green grinned as he sipped his own cup of coffee, “Interesting isn’t it? You ever think about the fact that Ruth was a Moabite, a Gentile, and Christ would become the Light of the Gentiles?”
“Goes to show you there are no accidents,” His mother added, “We see how the awful thing that happened to Naomi and Ruth ended out being turned into something good.”
“All by the workings of Providence.” Father finished.
Maia asked, “What happened to them? I haven’t read that story yet.”
“Well,” John began, “Naomi and her husband had two sons, and a famine came in Israel, so they went to Moab, another country, and settled. The two boys married two Moabite women, and then they died along with their father. The two sisters-in-law had a choice to make—leave, or stay. One of them left, but Ruth stayed with Naomi. When Naomi moved back to Israel, she changed her name to Mara which means ‘bitter’ because she said that the ‘Almighty hath dealt bitterly with me’ she blamed God for the awful thing that happened to her.” He sipped his coffee.
“Why did she blame God?” Maia said.
“Because she understood that God controlled all things, and that maybe He could have kept them from dying. She didn’t know what God was doing at that time, He was preparing Ruth for Boaz who would have kids and then David, who was part of Christ’s bloodline.”
Janet Green leaned in, “You see, God brought something good out of something seemingly evil, He knew what was going on.”
“Okay.” She sat back and nodded. “I get it.”
Dave wasn’t sure if she got the whole thing—but she knew what she needed to know for the moment. Truth was, he had a question beginning to eat away at his mind about what they had called and accident for so long, and the fact that it was no accident.
“A lot of food for thought,” Father said, “something we had better sleep on. It’s late, so let’s all get ready for bed.”
“Okay,” Maia stood and Dave rose up, snatching his coffee mug from the side table and went over to where his Dad was draining his mug, and took it from him after he had finished.
“Thanks, son.”
Dave took them into the kitchen and placed them in the sink, running a little water into them so that the coffee did not dry up and stain the bottom. The whole time though he had a question growing in his mind about Maia.
Mother walked in the room and set her cup on the counter, still holding the coffee inside. “What’s on your mind?”
Dave shook his head, “Nothin’”
She tilted her head, “Yeah, right.” She picked up the coffee again and leaned against the counter. “Seriously, what’s on your mind?”
He cocked his head in the direction of the living room, “Maia.”
“What about her?”
“The Providence of God.” He said. He decided to go ahead and rinse the cups and the few other plates in the sink that had somehow migrated there without being rinsed beforehand.
“You mean what she went through?” She asked.
“Yeah.”
“I wish I knew. I was thinking the same thing actually when we were talking about Ruth. I think Maia was as well, but she didn’t say anything.”
Dave nodded, “You and me both.” He set the dishes on the counter and reached for a towel. “I know she was thinking something about that, who in their right mind wouldn’t? I mean, it’s such a terrible thing that happened to her, it just doesn’t…I don’t know.”
“Doesn’t seem fair?” She offered.
“I guess.” He folded the used towel neatly. “I know the guy was shot, yeah, good, done. But I’m not sure that was completely just humanly speaking, he died, she didn’t—now she’s got to live with the horrors of what he did. Granted, he’s in Hell, the wrath and vengeance of what he did is being enacted against him, but in the meantime, what about Maia?”
Mom shook her head, “I don’t know, Dave. I really don’t, we’ll have to pray about it some more I guess. It’s a good thing Pastor Vic it preaching those messages now, huh?”
“No coincidences.”
“That’s right. We had better take strong heed to them then.” She looked at the clock and dumped the few sips of coffee in her cup down the sink. “Good night, Dave.”
“Night, Mom.” Dave replied.
She headed upstairs. Leaving the downstairs empty. As he went through he shut off all of the lights, and started walking through the hallway when he looked at their family picture from four years ago, four people stared back at him from that picture and he sighed.
No accidents.
He shut the light off and went up the stairs.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Pearls in the Sand.
I wrote this around the end of last year or so. It is, simply, about temptation. Excellent, no; thought-provoking, I hope so.
Pearls In The Sand
By Joel D. Garner
I sighed, looking at the window as I lay in bed. it had been a rather unpleasant day. The day before had been full of much hardship as well, but also victories. I was so tired of constant attack, oppression, yet it was what I had asked for. For how else does one become meet for the Master's use if he does not take His choicest gifts - His pain, His trials, His hurts, given to us by Him to draw us close.
Shifting my position somewhat, I closed my eyes once more, finally for the last time. Sleep, sleep, precious sleep, at last, after a hard, trying day.
I awoke quickly as I heard the wind howling loudly, sending sand all around me. "Sand?" I muttered. "What?"
I brushed myself off as I stood up, my eyes partially closed due to painful sand-blasts. I began walking aimlessly, knowing I should but not knowing exactly why I should. With my left arm in front of my face, I stumbled around for a few minutes, until, finally, a man in a white robe appeared.
"Greetings, Knight-Prince," he greeted, smiling. It was none other than the angel Gabriel.
"Gabriel!" I exclaimed. "How nice to see you. What exactly...am I doing here?"
"The Lord wants to show you something," he replied. "Come! I will take you to a field of pearls."
Puzzled, I nodded as we teleported to another part of the parched desert.
"Here we are," the angel announced, waving his arm out over the landscape.
"What are those men doing?" I inquired, nodding at the many men walking throughout the sandy field.
"They are going through life, as are you," he answered. "Oh, and whatever you do...Do not, I repeat, do not reach for the tempting pearls. Now, come - we will look around some."
I followed him slowly, looking around at the men, who were oblivious to our presence, and at the many pearls scattered all over the place.
"Gabriel - what do the pearls represent? They are very beautiful. Yet, there are others that resemble a ball of rock."
"They represent the deceptive pearls of sin and the precious pearls of righteousness," he responded solemnly. "Look! A man has just fallen for the schemes of the enemy."
A nearby man shouted jubilantly, and threw himself upon the sand, digging his hands into the grains. However, all of the beautiful pearls turned into sand themselves, and the man joy quickly turned to anguish.
"The devil is very cunning, as our his cohorts. Though...many times, your flesh is all it takes."
"Yes," I agreed. "I know all too well..."
He looked at me, and placed both hands on my shoulders. "Knight-Prince, time is short. You MUST yield to the Master, you MUST resist the world, flesh and the devil! Satan hates you with a passion, and he will do ANYTHING to do destroy you! Do not let him! Do not take the pearls of sin! Choose the pearls of righteousness! Choose the pearls of righteousness!"
And then I woke up.
And, there it is. I hope it made you think. Thanks for reading, and God bless.
In Christ,
Joel Garner ><>.
2 Chronicles 7:14; Romans 5:8.
Pearls In The Sand
By Joel D. Garner
I sighed, looking at the window as I lay in bed. it had been a rather unpleasant day. The day before had been full of much hardship as well, but also victories. I was so tired of constant attack, oppression, yet it was what I had asked for. For how else does one become meet for the Master's use if he does not take His choicest gifts - His pain, His trials, His hurts, given to us by Him to draw us close.
Shifting my position somewhat, I closed my eyes once more, finally for the last time. Sleep, sleep, precious sleep, at last, after a hard, trying day.
I awoke quickly as I heard the wind howling loudly, sending sand all around me. "Sand?" I muttered. "What?"
I brushed myself off as I stood up, my eyes partially closed due to painful sand-blasts. I began walking aimlessly, knowing I should but not knowing exactly why I should. With my left arm in front of my face, I stumbled around for a few minutes, until, finally, a man in a white robe appeared.
"Greetings, Knight-Prince," he greeted, smiling. It was none other than the angel Gabriel.
"Gabriel!" I exclaimed. "How nice to see you. What exactly...am I doing here?"
"The Lord wants to show you something," he replied. "Come! I will take you to a field of pearls."
Puzzled, I nodded as we teleported to another part of the parched desert.
"Here we are," the angel announced, waving his arm out over the landscape.
"What are those men doing?" I inquired, nodding at the many men walking throughout the sandy field.
"They are going through life, as are you," he answered. "Oh, and whatever you do...Do not, I repeat, do not reach for the tempting pearls. Now, come - we will look around some."
I followed him slowly, looking around at the men, who were oblivious to our presence, and at the many pearls scattered all over the place.
"Gabriel - what do the pearls represent? They are very beautiful. Yet, there are others that resemble a ball of rock."
"They represent the deceptive pearls of sin and the precious pearls of righteousness," he responded solemnly. "Look! A man has just fallen for the schemes of the enemy."
A nearby man shouted jubilantly, and threw himself upon the sand, digging his hands into the grains. However, all of the beautiful pearls turned into sand themselves, and the man joy quickly turned to anguish.
"The devil is very cunning, as our his cohorts. Though...many times, your flesh is all it takes."
"Yes," I agreed. "I know all too well..."
He looked at me, and placed both hands on my shoulders. "Knight-Prince, time is short. You MUST yield to the Master, you MUST resist the world, flesh and the devil! Satan hates you with a passion, and he will do ANYTHING to do destroy you! Do not let him! Do not take the pearls of sin! Choose the pearls of righteousness! Choose the pearls of righteousness!"
And then I woke up.
And, there it is. I hope it made you think. Thanks for reading, and God bless.
In Christ,
Joel Garner ><>.
2 Chronicles 7:14; Romans 5:8.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Scene from Work in Progress - In His Hands
Before I post something very theological, I want to put this out there. This is one of the primary main characters, named Dave Green. His family has adopted Maia one year after her ordeal, and they are a firm Christian family. The Greens have suffered their own family tragedy four years prior to when the book takes place, and this book is used to show the Providence of God in all tragedies, both Maia's and theirs.
WHEN DAVE woke up he wasn’t sure what was happening exactly. The room was completely dark—the only way he could sleep—and there was a deep penetrating silence over all. He was sweating, he knew that, but he wasn’t sure why, the air conditioning was on. He looked at his hands to see fingernail marks in the palms, where he had been gripping his hands tightly enough to do that.
“Dave!”
He jumped, thinking for a moment that someone had called his name, but realizing it was only an echo deep in his mind. One that he desperately wished he could forget.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes that were gradually adjusting to the darkness. He saw the glowing bars of his clock on his desk, beaming out to him, the only light in the darkness.
4:26
Only that? He thought. His heart was still pounding like a bass drum in his chest but he felt his pulse going down. Some dream.
He huffed, and rubbed his eyes again, climbing out of the bed and stretching, reaching out for the door as he did so, grabbing hold of the knob and twisting it silently. He started out into the dark hallway, and heard the faint hiss of the air conditioner on his way past. The moonlight shone in the hall windows and illuminated the rest of the hallway. He stepped onto the lighted carpet and heard the floorboards beneath creak with protest. As he passed Maia’s room he listened for a moment. Nothing.
He continued on to the stairs and proceeded down them quietly, avoiding the spots he knew squeaked. The smell from dinner was surprisingly still in the air, and he felt his stomach rumble with the scent.
He didn’t need to eat anything this late at night though. He moved for the kitchen and grabbed a cup on the counter that he had left there earlier, and moved for the waterspout on the fridge.
He thought he would like a cup of coffee, but decided against it when he remembered the time, even though he doubted he would get back to sleep. Usually he didn’t at those kinds of times.
He gulped down the water and decided to head back up the stairs before Danforth heard him and started making a racket. The dumb dog would wake up the whole house to get one person to let him out of his kennel.
Dave opened the fridge and grabbed a slice of the pizza that was left from the previous night before he left for the next room however.
As he walked through the living room, he wondered what he had dreamed about that had woken him up so suddenly? Normally he remembered his dreams, but this time he did not. He could see a vague image of a car in his mind still, he knew that someone was in great danger and heard that awful scream that he knew all too well—the same scream that had haunted him for so long.
“Dave!”
He hadn’t dreamed like that in a long time. He hardly ever had those kinds of nightmares anymore…not for a year and a half. Then again, that meant it was probably about time he started having those dreams again. In a grim way, the dreams were a good thing—they helped him remember.
He took a bite of the pizza and swallowed it; the cold ham and pineapple of the Hawaiian pizza were surprisingly dull in his mouth. Perhaps that was the effect of refrigeration
As he walked up the stairs he thought he heard mumbling, as if someone were trying to speak to him, and turned around—but nobody was behind him.
Strange.
He took another bite of the Hawaiian pizza and started to walk up the stairs slowly, again avoiding the squeaking stairs. The sweet pineapple tasted better on the second bite than it had on the first. He rounded to the second set of stairs.
He heard mumbling again, this time coming from upstairs. Someone was talking, he couldn’t discern who it was though. It was probably his mother talking to Dad about something. He may have made too much noise and woke them up. He took another bite of the pizza and held onto the end crust of the slice as he finished up the stairs. He looked up ahead and saw his father standing at Maia’s door.
His Dad looked at him, and he seemed concerned.
Dave walked over to where his father stood, and stopped by him, “What’s going on?” He whispered.
His dad pointed into Maia’s room and gestured with a finger to his nose for Dave to be silent.
Maia was muttering something, something in her sleep. He leaned in closer to listen better and try to make out what she was saying. The words were slurred so it was harder to make out, but whatever it was it sounded frightening. She was talking to somebody, somebody who obviously meant her hurt.
“No. Please don’t…I won’t…never tell…never tell…please just…” She stopped for a moment, and then he heard it start over again. “Please just stop…just stop.” A rock rolled around in his stomach and he knew what she must have been dreaming about.
He wanted to rush in and destroy whatever was tormenting her but he knew that he couldn’t destroy something that existed in her mind. As she spoke he felt the words tug at his heart, and tug deep down within him. Something roused with the words—anger, something that was birthed when he had first read of what had happened to her before they had adopted her. He remembered the blazing words on the page even then, the way they had set his heart ablaze and made him long to help her…long to do something. That same fire sprang up as he listened to her mumble those awful things in her sleep.
“Should we wake her up?” He whispered to Dad.
“I don’t know if we should…isn’t this getting it out of her system?”
“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.” Dave looked at Maia, who was now silent, with the sheets thrown away from her upper body in a fit of dreaming, her face shining with light sweat under the moonlight. She looked deceptively serene; he knew that a battle was going on inside of her skull. It was more like a war than anything, fought in the subconscious dream world. In that realm he was completely powerless, and he hated it.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t wake her up?”
“Only if it gets worse. We’ll just keep an eye for now.” John didn’t sound so sure himself of what to do.
“What are you doing?” They turned to Janet Green’s voice as she finished tying a robe belt around her waist. She drew up next to her husband and looked in on Maia. “What’s going on?”
“Maia was talking in her sleep, we were just trying to see if she was all right.” He explained.
She turned to Dave and Dave held up the pizza crust. “Woke up and couldn’t sleep.” He explained.
She nodded and looked back in. “Well she seems okay, so let’s just leave her alone.” She backed away a little.
“Okay.” John said. He reached out for the door and began to close it. Dave took a chunk out of the pizza crust and started to head around them to his room. He could work on some of his music with the headphones on.
Maybe that song I’m working on.
He heard Maia mumble something else before she spoke loudly enough to be heard just before the door was closed.
“…please…” The last word was more of a pained plea than anything, and he felt a splinter of empathy shoot through his chest.
His mother moved past his father and opened the door, his father followed in with her. The mumbling had stopped and he heard them talking to her softly, trying to rouse her peacefully.
Dave moved for the doorway and saw his mother seated on the bed by Maia lifting her into a sitting position. Maia was awake and breathing heavily, the sheen of perspiration still shining in the moonlight.
“You’re fine. You’re fine. It’s okay, Maia.” Janet whispered calmly. As he watched, a creeping sickness sunk in, and he didn’t know quite why.
If you would like to read further, please contact me for a full copy of the rough draft (please specify that is what you would like) at michaelrwright92[at]gmail[dot]com
WHEN DAVE woke up he wasn’t sure what was happening exactly. The room was completely dark—the only way he could sleep—and there was a deep penetrating silence over all. He was sweating, he knew that, but he wasn’t sure why, the air conditioning was on. He looked at his hands to see fingernail marks in the palms, where he had been gripping his hands tightly enough to do that.
“Dave!”
He jumped, thinking for a moment that someone had called his name, but realizing it was only an echo deep in his mind. One that he desperately wished he could forget.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes that were gradually adjusting to the darkness. He saw the glowing bars of his clock on his desk, beaming out to him, the only light in the darkness.
4:26
Only that? He thought. His heart was still pounding like a bass drum in his chest but he felt his pulse going down. Some dream.
He huffed, and rubbed his eyes again, climbing out of the bed and stretching, reaching out for the door as he did so, grabbing hold of the knob and twisting it silently. He started out into the dark hallway, and heard the faint hiss of the air conditioner on his way past. The moonlight shone in the hall windows and illuminated the rest of the hallway. He stepped onto the lighted carpet and heard the floorboards beneath creak with protest. As he passed Maia’s room he listened for a moment. Nothing.
He continued on to the stairs and proceeded down them quietly, avoiding the spots he knew squeaked. The smell from dinner was surprisingly still in the air, and he felt his stomach rumble with the scent.
He didn’t need to eat anything this late at night though. He moved for the kitchen and grabbed a cup on the counter that he had left there earlier, and moved for the waterspout on the fridge.
He thought he would like a cup of coffee, but decided against it when he remembered the time, even though he doubted he would get back to sleep. Usually he didn’t at those kinds of times.
He gulped down the water and decided to head back up the stairs before Danforth heard him and started making a racket. The dumb dog would wake up the whole house to get one person to let him out of his kennel.
Dave opened the fridge and grabbed a slice of the pizza that was left from the previous night before he left for the next room however.
As he walked through the living room, he wondered what he had dreamed about that had woken him up so suddenly? Normally he remembered his dreams, but this time he did not. He could see a vague image of a car in his mind still, he knew that someone was in great danger and heard that awful scream that he knew all too well—the same scream that had haunted him for so long.
“Dave!”
He hadn’t dreamed like that in a long time. He hardly ever had those kinds of nightmares anymore…not for a year and a half. Then again, that meant it was probably about time he started having those dreams again. In a grim way, the dreams were a good thing—they helped him remember.
He took a bite of the pizza and swallowed it; the cold ham and pineapple of the Hawaiian pizza were surprisingly dull in his mouth. Perhaps that was the effect of refrigeration
As he walked up the stairs he thought he heard mumbling, as if someone were trying to speak to him, and turned around—but nobody was behind him.
Strange.
He took another bite of the Hawaiian pizza and started to walk up the stairs slowly, again avoiding the squeaking stairs. The sweet pineapple tasted better on the second bite than it had on the first. He rounded to the second set of stairs.
He heard mumbling again, this time coming from upstairs. Someone was talking, he couldn’t discern who it was though. It was probably his mother talking to Dad about something. He may have made too much noise and woke them up. He took another bite of the pizza and held onto the end crust of the slice as he finished up the stairs. He looked up ahead and saw his father standing at Maia’s door.
His Dad looked at him, and he seemed concerned.
Dave walked over to where his father stood, and stopped by him, “What’s going on?” He whispered.
His dad pointed into Maia’s room and gestured with a finger to his nose for Dave to be silent.
Maia was muttering something, something in her sleep. He leaned in closer to listen better and try to make out what she was saying. The words were slurred so it was harder to make out, but whatever it was it sounded frightening. She was talking to somebody, somebody who obviously meant her hurt.
“No. Please don’t…I won’t…never tell…never tell…please just…” She stopped for a moment, and then he heard it start over again. “Please just stop…just stop.” A rock rolled around in his stomach and he knew what she must have been dreaming about.
He wanted to rush in and destroy whatever was tormenting her but he knew that he couldn’t destroy something that existed in her mind. As she spoke he felt the words tug at his heart, and tug deep down within him. Something roused with the words—anger, something that was birthed when he had first read of what had happened to her before they had adopted her. He remembered the blazing words on the page even then, the way they had set his heart ablaze and made him long to help her…long to do something. That same fire sprang up as he listened to her mumble those awful things in her sleep.
“Should we wake her up?” He whispered to Dad.
“I don’t know if we should…isn’t this getting it out of her system?”
“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.” Dave looked at Maia, who was now silent, with the sheets thrown away from her upper body in a fit of dreaming, her face shining with light sweat under the moonlight. She looked deceptively serene; he knew that a battle was going on inside of her skull. It was more like a war than anything, fought in the subconscious dream world. In that realm he was completely powerless, and he hated it.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t wake her up?”
“Only if it gets worse. We’ll just keep an eye for now.” John didn’t sound so sure himself of what to do.
“What are you doing?” They turned to Janet Green’s voice as she finished tying a robe belt around her waist. She drew up next to her husband and looked in on Maia. “What’s going on?”
“Maia was talking in her sleep, we were just trying to see if she was all right.” He explained.
She turned to Dave and Dave held up the pizza crust. “Woke up and couldn’t sleep.” He explained.
She nodded and looked back in. “Well she seems okay, so let’s just leave her alone.” She backed away a little.
“Okay.” John said. He reached out for the door and began to close it. Dave took a chunk out of the pizza crust and started to head around them to his room. He could work on some of his music with the headphones on.
Maybe that song I’m working on.
He heard Maia mumble something else before she spoke loudly enough to be heard just before the door was closed.
“…please…” The last word was more of a pained plea than anything, and he felt a splinter of empathy shoot through his chest.
His mother moved past his father and opened the door, his father followed in with her. The mumbling had stopped and he heard them talking to her softly, trying to rouse her peacefully.
Dave moved for the doorway and saw his mother seated on the bed by Maia lifting her into a sitting position. Maia was awake and breathing heavily, the sheen of perspiration still shining in the moonlight.
“You’re fine. You’re fine. It’s okay, Maia.” Janet whispered calmly. As he watched, a creeping sickness sunk in, and he didn’t know quite why.
If you would like to read further, please contact me for a full copy of the rough draft (please specify that is what you would like) at michaelrwright92[at]gmail[dot]com
Friday, June 3, 2011
Prologue from Work in Progress - In His Hands
Alright here is that promised excerpt. This is kinda long but it is the entire prologue to the book I just finished the rough draft on last week. This is the rough draft writing so please excuse it. This wasn't written for children so please exercise discretion with who reads it, there is nothing graphic here, but I am dealing with mature subject matter and there is a bit of violence toward the end of the excerpt. The novel was primarily a drama, but this scene is required for the rest of the novel to work.
PROLOGUE
MAIA SHUDDERED as she turned over in the bed, pulling the blanket closer over her in the darkness. She didn’t need to for the temperature, it was the middle of summer after all, but still she pulled it close—while she knew it did little good, she felt that she needed to.
Her eyes moved around in the near total darkness, spotting small reflections given by the dim bar of light coming under the door. The same light that had been turned off hours ago, and stayed that way, until just a few moments ago when someone had turned it back on. It hadn’t always been turned off at night, she used to sleep with the door cracked, but that was a long time ago. The sound of movement in the living room made her wish she could curl tighter into the blanket and never come out…she knew it could only mean something awful. Sweat began to break on her brow, warm and sticky like a bath in sweet tea. The smell of laundry detergent on the freshly washed sheets was at once pleasant and sickening—in most cases it would be pleasant, but she found it at the moment sickening.
She felt a twist in her stomach as more movement sounded in the kitchen, that familiar sound of a wineglass being pulled from the cabinet above the fridge, slowly withdrawn and placed on the counter next to the liquor cabinet.
She turned over again, meeting once again that smell of laundry soap, like fake flowers, and the soft pillow that was beneath her head.
Maia could see in her mind a bottle being pulled out of the cabinet, and a small glass being poured, not enough to make him drunk, just enough to give him a shot of energy—just one.
The knot in her stomach twisted tighter.
Maybe not tonight…maybe he won’t.
She knew that was too much to ask, but hope was all that she had to hold on to. She felt painful tears sting her eyes and pushed them back. She couldn’t get upset yet, she might be clear, maybe he wouldn’t…maybe he wouldn’t.
The ticking clock on the nightstand sounded louder than ever before, and the stupid black face drawn on it to contrast the pink background stared at her menacingly. Those little eyes had seen a lot since she had gotten it for her seventh birthday—soon after her three-year torture began.
12:27 it said. Every second felt like an hour.
She wished she could close them, or turn them away or something—anything. The thought of someone watching was unbearable. It was bad enough without something else watching and taking part in the torment.
Her head pressed harder into the pillow, and her eyes locked shut for a moment, just a moment, but when they opened again, the clock was still staring. Watching. Waiting. It would continue watching the whole time, and it wouldn’t say a word because it couldn’t help her. Nothing could help her.
Maia was glad that it was dark, and she couldn’t see the expression on the face of the clock. She used to be afraid of the dark—but that was a long time ago too, before she found other things to be afraid of. That was before she knew that the real monsters didn’t hide under the bed or in the closet, but that they walked around in broad daylight.
Her hand slipped out of the blankets and she tapped around silently for the locket hanging on the headboard. The metal chain met her fingertips after only a few seconds and she found her way down to the main pendant, stroking the soft golden surface—the one that she’d stroked so many times. She wished she had her light on so that she could open it up and have a look inside. She wanted to look at her parents’ faces again. Grandma had kept the locket for a while and gave it to her just before she died. She’d looked in the locket a million times in the last six months, and had a feeling that she would continue to. She’d almost told Grandma that last time, but she had looked so happy Maia didn’t want to ruin it—that’s all that it would have done, ruin it. She couldn’t tell Grandma then and she certainly couldn’t tell her now. She couldn’t tell anyone, if she did she would die. She knew it.
The sink turned on in the kitchen, and a new slice of fear tore into Maia and she withdrew her hand. Her hand was shaking, so she shoved it under the pillow as she turned over yet again, wrapping herself tighter in the blanket, and building a cocoon around her though it would not help. Her heart was thundering within, like a hammer against her chest, rumbling even in her throat. She tried to control her breathing, but she couldn’t. She knew that she had to fake it. Try, at least try.
The water turned off, and the cabinet door closed.
Sweat ran more freely on her brow, she didn’t bother to try and wipe it away. Her hands tightened into fists and she tried to calm down enough to fake it—
Maybe it’ll work, maybe it’ll work.
—But she knew she couldn’t fake it well enough. It wouldn’t matter either way. Nothing could change it. Nothing.
Footsteps trailed down the hallway, and each one echoed her heart thumping. Her hands gripped and loosened, matching almost exactly her erratic pulse. She held back tears as best she could, and tucked her legs closer to her. The smaller she made herself the better chance that she had.
The footsteps stopped outside of the door, not slowed, stopped, the silence, broken only by the ticking, staring clock. She opened her eyes and saw two towers of shadow under the door—looming pillars that heralded his awful arrival. The awful towers of darkness that, to her, meant only pain.
The doorknob slowly turned, metallic grinding that sounded like a tin can rolling on hot sidewalk sand.
Her uncle entered the room slowly.
She shut her eyes quickly.
Yellow light flooded the room as the door slowly opened, and the irregular breathing that she knew all too well broke the near-silence of the bedroom. Excited breathing, breathing that meant nothing good for her.
She tried to stay calm.
Fake it. Fake it. Fake it.
The figure closed the door slowly and made his way to the bedside opposite of her face. She was glad she was facing away from him. Maybe he would buy it if he couldn’t see her face. Perhaps he would go on, even though he had already had his drink, even though he had followed the same schedule almost every week—even though she knew that it was too much to ask.
He sat there for a minute, just breathing, slow and heavy. Every breath was a new stab of fear into her. Every inhale made her want to jump, and each exhale begged her to scream.
A cold, slimy hand stroked her blonde hair, pulling it away from her face, still sticky with sweat. She forced herself not to flinch.
Please, please, please, please, please…
The hand stroked again, his finger ran the corner of her ear, cold and wet, rubbing fear in with every motion. The jellyfish fingers raked her hair again, and then slid beneath the covers, tracing her thin arm, and running the length of it to her hand and back up again. Slowly and torturously rubbing.
Please, please, please…
The bedsprings creaked as he leaned forward, and a fire of anxiety burned in her chest when he inhaled slowly, like a savage beast sniffing his prey. She had seen that on TV once, a lion sniffing the corpse of an animal that it was about to eat. Shining teeth, glittering in the light, reflective because of the rich drool that ran down the feline’s awful jaws.
Oh, please…
Lips parted, loud and moist. “Maia…” The scent of alcohol stung her nostrils like smoke. Her stomach turned over. “It’s time to wake up.” His voice was soft and strong, but she knew that the man behind it was cold and hideous.
His hand gripped her thigh, the other her shoulder and turned her over to face him.
He grinned in the dim light, like the lion.
She began to cry.
The pink clock watched.
WHEN JEFFERY Dalton left the room Maia was crying harder, and he really didn’t care. He rolled his sleeves back down, and stretched as he turned around, “You go to sleep now.” He said softly.
She didn’t stop crying. He ought to shut her up.
He pulled the door closed and rubbed his face with his hand and stepped out into the hallway, slowing his breathing from the excited pace it had been at for the past half-hour. He looked at his watch.
1:00.
Good grief, he had to go to work in five hours. Where did the time go?
He glanced up and saw Jessica, his wife, standing there, wrapped in a bathrobe and the cute pink slippers that she loved so much. He smiled at her, “Hey, babe.” Convincing. “Couldn’t sleep and needed a drink. Maia made a little noise so I went to see what was…”
She held up a hand. “Don’t.”
He rubbed his arm and grinned, she didn’t. “C’mon, what’s the matter? Let’s go ahead back to bed, she’ll calm down in a minute, just a bad dream that’s all.” He walked closer and she stepped back.
“Don’t come any closer.” She sounded scared.
He felt a twinge of worry for a split moment, but blew it off. She didn’t know anything. “Oh, come…”
“Stop!” A knife flashed out in her hand. Sharp, chef’s knife that was supposed to be in the kitchen.
“Seriously? Jess, what’s goin’ on?”
Her eyes beheld him as they had never before, with a hate that he didn’t think that Jessica could ever feel. He began to worry for real.
“How—how could you, Jeff? She’s your niece! What are you?”
Better move fast. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Maia was having a bad dream and I went to see what the matter was, that’s all. Now let’s go to bed…”
She backed up again. “I’ve been here a little longer than you think, Jeff. Plenty long.”
He stopped.
“How long has this been going on? What have you done to her?”
“This is nothing, Jess. Just put the knife down.”
“No!” She shouted. “This is not nothing…”
“Put the knife down—”
“She’s a ten-year-old girl for crying out loud!”
“Just put the knife down.”
“No.” Her voice fell from a shrill shout to a growl.
“I can explain everything—”
“Shut up, Jeff, I don’t want to hear it!” Shouting again.
“Put the knife—”
Jess yelled louder, topping his voice: “I will not put the knife down!”
He said, “You stupid—”
“You’re right I was stupid, so stupid I trusted you!”
He stepped closer. Jessica backed into a wall. Cornered.
“Put it down…”
“How long has this been going on? How many others have you done this to?” Her eyes brimmed with tears, and the knife was tilted a little to the right. “How many other things don’t I know about?”
“We don’t have to do this.” He whispered. He stared her straight in the eyes, and saw that she didn’t seem to recognize him, like he was a foreigner. In reality he was, she had never known who he was…and because of that she had never been able to fill that gap in his life.
Sirens pierced the air in the distance.
She swallowed and looked at him. “It’s already done.” A phone emerged from her pocket—someone was still on the line. Three free guesses.
He went for the knife and slammed her brittle wrist against the wall as hard as he could, shoving her into the wall behind her with his shoulder, wielding his brute strength to it’s fullest.
He felt the plastic handle switch to his hand as he snatched it from her.
Jessica screamed—and then was forever silenced.
MAIA HAD moved off of the bed when the shouting began. She didn’t want to move because of the pain, the bruising that was already happening on her back, the agony on the inside. It felt like very part of her hurt. However, somehow she eventually made it to the door.
From the open door she watched the knife be knocked from her aunt’s hand and soon, wielded by the hand of a lion, and it stabbed into her chest. Aunt Jessica fell to the floor in a pool of blood. It hissed as it left her body, as the air in her lungs was released through the new hole.
Her uncle kicked the body a few times and screamed like a madman. Screams she wouldn’t forget.
Then she heard the sirens. Lights shone in the front windows and rubber squealed.
She knelt down on her knees, and looked into Aunt Jessica’s eyes, wishing she could cry but found that she couldn’t.
The pain.
She watched as Uncle Jeff turned around and looked at her, his own face contorted by anger. He cut her down with a dagger stare, and pointed a bloody finger at her.
“You! This is your fault, dirtbag!” He screamed, and took the knife out of Aunt Jessica’s chest, and began to move for her. “If you just woulda stayed quiet!”
A door burst open and he turned, holding up the knife.
“Drop it!” One voice yelled.
A shot rang out, and a twitching body fell to the ground.
Maia realized that she was screaming.
“Mrs. Dalton!” A man shouted into the house. “Mrs. Dalton! Police!”
Maia watched the body of her uncle—her monster—twitch for a few more times, before everything went black.
Thank you for reading this far, if you would like to obtain the full rough draft I would be more than happy to email it to you. Any feedback from that would be much appreciated for when I rewrite the draft. Contact me here: michaelrwright92[at]gmail[dot]com and I'll reply with the rough draft attached. All I ask is if you want to share it with anyone else then please let me know. I would really like to keep track of where this document goes.
Following Him,
Michael Wright
Rom 1:16; Phil 1:21
PROLOGUE
MAIA SHUDDERED as she turned over in the bed, pulling the blanket closer over her in the darkness. She didn’t need to for the temperature, it was the middle of summer after all, but still she pulled it close—while she knew it did little good, she felt that she needed to.
Her eyes moved around in the near total darkness, spotting small reflections given by the dim bar of light coming under the door. The same light that had been turned off hours ago, and stayed that way, until just a few moments ago when someone had turned it back on. It hadn’t always been turned off at night, she used to sleep with the door cracked, but that was a long time ago. The sound of movement in the living room made her wish she could curl tighter into the blanket and never come out…she knew it could only mean something awful. Sweat began to break on her brow, warm and sticky like a bath in sweet tea. The smell of laundry detergent on the freshly washed sheets was at once pleasant and sickening—in most cases it would be pleasant, but she found it at the moment sickening.
She felt a twist in her stomach as more movement sounded in the kitchen, that familiar sound of a wineglass being pulled from the cabinet above the fridge, slowly withdrawn and placed on the counter next to the liquor cabinet.
She turned over again, meeting once again that smell of laundry soap, like fake flowers, and the soft pillow that was beneath her head.
Maia could see in her mind a bottle being pulled out of the cabinet, and a small glass being poured, not enough to make him drunk, just enough to give him a shot of energy—just one.
The knot in her stomach twisted tighter.
Maybe not tonight…maybe he won’t.
She knew that was too much to ask, but hope was all that she had to hold on to. She felt painful tears sting her eyes and pushed them back. She couldn’t get upset yet, she might be clear, maybe he wouldn’t…maybe he wouldn’t.
The ticking clock on the nightstand sounded louder than ever before, and the stupid black face drawn on it to contrast the pink background stared at her menacingly. Those little eyes had seen a lot since she had gotten it for her seventh birthday—soon after her three-year torture began.
12:27 it said. Every second felt like an hour.
She wished she could close them, or turn them away or something—anything. The thought of someone watching was unbearable. It was bad enough without something else watching and taking part in the torment.
Her head pressed harder into the pillow, and her eyes locked shut for a moment, just a moment, but when they opened again, the clock was still staring. Watching. Waiting. It would continue watching the whole time, and it wouldn’t say a word because it couldn’t help her. Nothing could help her.
Maia was glad that it was dark, and she couldn’t see the expression on the face of the clock. She used to be afraid of the dark—but that was a long time ago too, before she found other things to be afraid of. That was before she knew that the real monsters didn’t hide under the bed or in the closet, but that they walked around in broad daylight.
Her hand slipped out of the blankets and she tapped around silently for the locket hanging on the headboard. The metal chain met her fingertips after only a few seconds and she found her way down to the main pendant, stroking the soft golden surface—the one that she’d stroked so many times. She wished she had her light on so that she could open it up and have a look inside. She wanted to look at her parents’ faces again. Grandma had kept the locket for a while and gave it to her just before she died. She’d looked in the locket a million times in the last six months, and had a feeling that she would continue to. She’d almost told Grandma that last time, but she had looked so happy Maia didn’t want to ruin it—that’s all that it would have done, ruin it. She couldn’t tell Grandma then and she certainly couldn’t tell her now. She couldn’t tell anyone, if she did she would die. She knew it.
The sink turned on in the kitchen, and a new slice of fear tore into Maia and she withdrew her hand. Her hand was shaking, so she shoved it under the pillow as she turned over yet again, wrapping herself tighter in the blanket, and building a cocoon around her though it would not help. Her heart was thundering within, like a hammer against her chest, rumbling even in her throat. She tried to control her breathing, but she couldn’t. She knew that she had to fake it. Try, at least try.
The water turned off, and the cabinet door closed.
Sweat ran more freely on her brow, she didn’t bother to try and wipe it away. Her hands tightened into fists and she tried to calm down enough to fake it—
Maybe it’ll work, maybe it’ll work.
—But she knew she couldn’t fake it well enough. It wouldn’t matter either way. Nothing could change it. Nothing.
Footsteps trailed down the hallway, and each one echoed her heart thumping. Her hands gripped and loosened, matching almost exactly her erratic pulse. She held back tears as best she could, and tucked her legs closer to her. The smaller she made herself the better chance that she had.
The footsteps stopped outside of the door, not slowed, stopped, the silence, broken only by the ticking, staring clock. She opened her eyes and saw two towers of shadow under the door—looming pillars that heralded his awful arrival. The awful towers of darkness that, to her, meant only pain.
The doorknob slowly turned, metallic grinding that sounded like a tin can rolling on hot sidewalk sand.
Her uncle entered the room slowly.
She shut her eyes quickly.
Yellow light flooded the room as the door slowly opened, and the irregular breathing that she knew all too well broke the near-silence of the bedroom. Excited breathing, breathing that meant nothing good for her.
She tried to stay calm.
Fake it. Fake it. Fake it.
The figure closed the door slowly and made his way to the bedside opposite of her face. She was glad she was facing away from him. Maybe he would buy it if he couldn’t see her face. Perhaps he would go on, even though he had already had his drink, even though he had followed the same schedule almost every week—even though she knew that it was too much to ask.
He sat there for a minute, just breathing, slow and heavy. Every breath was a new stab of fear into her. Every inhale made her want to jump, and each exhale begged her to scream.
A cold, slimy hand stroked her blonde hair, pulling it away from her face, still sticky with sweat. She forced herself not to flinch.
Please, please, please, please, please…
The hand stroked again, his finger ran the corner of her ear, cold and wet, rubbing fear in with every motion. The jellyfish fingers raked her hair again, and then slid beneath the covers, tracing her thin arm, and running the length of it to her hand and back up again. Slowly and torturously rubbing.
Please, please, please…
The bedsprings creaked as he leaned forward, and a fire of anxiety burned in her chest when he inhaled slowly, like a savage beast sniffing his prey. She had seen that on TV once, a lion sniffing the corpse of an animal that it was about to eat. Shining teeth, glittering in the light, reflective because of the rich drool that ran down the feline’s awful jaws.
Oh, please…
Lips parted, loud and moist. “Maia…” The scent of alcohol stung her nostrils like smoke. Her stomach turned over. “It’s time to wake up.” His voice was soft and strong, but she knew that the man behind it was cold and hideous.
His hand gripped her thigh, the other her shoulder and turned her over to face him.
He grinned in the dim light, like the lion.
She began to cry.
The pink clock watched.
(-) (-) (-)
WHEN JEFFERY Dalton left the room Maia was crying harder, and he really didn’t care. He rolled his sleeves back down, and stretched as he turned around, “You go to sleep now.” He said softly.
She didn’t stop crying. He ought to shut her up.
He pulled the door closed and rubbed his face with his hand and stepped out into the hallway, slowing his breathing from the excited pace it had been at for the past half-hour. He looked at his watch.
1:00.
Good grief, he had to go to work in five hours. Where did the time go?
He glanced up and saw Jessica, his wife, standing there, wrapped in a bathrobe and the cute pink slippers that she loved so much. He smiled at her, “Hey, babe.” Convincing. “Couldn’t sleep and needed a drink. Maia made a little noise so I went to see what was…”
She held up a hand. “Don’t.”
He rubbed his arm and grinned, she didn’t. “C’mon, what’s the matter? Let’s go ahead back to bed, she’ll calm down in a minute, just a bad dream that’s all.” He walked closer and she stepped back.
“Don’t come any closer.” She sounded scared.
He felt a twinge of worry for a split moment, but blew it off. She didn’t know anything. “Oh, come…”
“Stop!” A knife flashed out in her hand. Sharp, chef’s knife that was supposed to be in the kitchen.
“Seriously? Jess, what’s goin’ on?”
Her eyes beheld him as they had never before, with a hate that he didn’t think that Jessica could ever feel. He began to worry for real.
“How—how could you, Jeff? She’s your niece! What are you?”
Better move fast. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Maia was having a bad dream and I went to see what the matter was, that’s all. Now let’s go to bed…”
She backed up again. “I’ve been here a little longer than you think, Jeff. Plenty long.”
He stopped.
“How long has this been going on? What have you done to her?”
“This is nothing, Jess. Just put the knife down.”
“No!” She shouted. “This is not nothing…”
“Put the knife down—”
“She’s a ten-year-old girl for crying out loud!”
“Just put the knife down.”
“No.” Her voice fell from a shrill shout to a growl.
“I can explain everything—”
“Shut up, Jeff, I don’t want to hear it!” Shouting again.
“Put the knife—”
Jess yelled louder, topping his voice: “I will not put the knife down!”
He said, “You stupid—”
“You’re right I was stupid, so stupid I trusted you!”
He stepped closer. Jessica backed into a wall. Cornered.
“Put it down…”
“How long has this been going on? How many others have you done this to?” Her eyes brimmed with tears, and the knife was tilted a little to the right. “How many other things don’t I know about?”
“We don’t have to do this.” He whispered. He stared her straight in the eyes, and saw that she didn’t seem to recognize him, like he was a foreigner. In reality he was, she had never known who he was…and because of that she had never been able to fill that gap in his life.
Sirens pierced the air in the distance.
She swallowed and looked at him. “It’s already done.” A phone emerged from her pocket—someone was still on the line. Three free guesses.
He went for the knife and slammed her brittle wrist against the wall as hard as he could, shoving her into the wall behind her with his shoulder, wielding his brute strength to it’s fullest.
He felt the plastic handle switch to his hand as he snatched it from her.
Jessica screamed—and then was forever silenced.
(-) (-) (-)
MAIA HAD moved off of the bed when the shouting began. She didn’t want to move because of the pain, the bruising that was already happening on her back, the agony on the inside. It felt like very part of her hurt. However, somehow she eventually made it to the door.
From the open door she watched the knife be knocked from her aunt’s hand and soon, wielded by the hand of a lion, and it stabbed into her chest. Aunt Jessica fell to the floor in a pool of blood. It hissed as it left her body, as the air in her lungs was released through the new hole.
Her uncle kicked the body a few times and screamed like a madman. Screams she wouldn’t forget.
Then she heard the sirens. Lights shone in the front windows and rubber squealed.
She knelt down on her knees, and looked into Aunt Jessica’s eyes, wishing she could cry but found that she couldn’t.
The pain.
She watched as Uncle Jeff turned around and looked at her, his own face contorted by anger. He cut her down with a dagger stare, and pointed a bloody finger at her.
“You! This is your fault, dirtbag!” He screamed, and took the knife out of Aunt Jessica’s chest, and began to move for her. “If you just woulda stayed quiet!”
A door burst open and he turned, holding up the knife.
“Drop it!” One voice yelled.
A shot rang out, and a twitching body fell to the ground.
Maia realized that she was screaming.
“Mrs. Dalton!” A man shouted into the house. “Mrs. Dalton! Police!”
Maia watched the body of her uncle—her monster—twitch for a few more times, before everything went black.
Thank you for reading this far, if you would like to obtain the full rough draft I would be more than happy to email it to you. Any feedback from that would be much appreciated for when I rewrite the draft. Contact me here: michaelrwright92[at]gmail[dot]com and I'll reply with the rough draft attached. All I ask is if you want to share it with anyone else then please let me know. I would really like to keep track of where this document goes.
Following Him,
Michael Wright
Rom 1:16; Phil 1:21
Monday, May 30, 2011
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.
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.
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