The Story Pyxis

Why? It's Just . . .

2011-01-21T09:34:00.001-08:00

*Note: This is a story I wrote in 2007, but I wanted to have it on here. So it isn't new at all.

They had gone to a buffet-style restaurant for lunch and, having had their fill of food, found themselves browsing the dessert isle for a sweet finale to their meal. Heather spooned some steaming apple cobbler into a plate, debating whether to use ice cream or frozen yogurt on top. Gregory, having caught sight of Heather's choice, rubbed his stomach exaggeratedly. "Wow, Heather, that looks f***ing delicious! I think I'll have some, too." Heather repressed a look of annoyance and smiled, instead. "It really is. You should try it." While Greg ambled off to get a bowl, Heather took a deep breath. Good ole' Greg. She had been trying to get him to become a Christian, but he hadn't shown any interest. He really was a decent kind of guy . . . he just liked to swear a little too much . . . and smoke . . . and drink . . . and he had something of a bad temper . . . but he was a nice kind of guy. In fact, Greg often came to hang out with Heather and her friends, just as they were today. They would talk, laugh, tell jokes, and he would swear away, completely comfortable with his vocabulary. Funny thing was, no one ever asked him to stop.

Heather finished laying the soft-serve ice cream on her dessert, turning just in time to see Greg walking back. He had a bowl in his hand and had his head turned sideways to look at the plates of Oreo cake. A worker holding an armful of fruits hurried in front of him, causing him to stumble and nearly spill the contents of his bowl. He turned an enraged face on the embarrassed girl and yelled, "Jesus f***ing Christ! What is wrong with you?!" As she shrank away, Heather stepped in quickly. "You're ok, honey," she said, "He's just a cranky man. Don't mind him." She smiled soothingly and the employee rushed away.

As Heather and Greg walked back to the table, she looked at him earnestly. "Greg, can I ask you a favor?"

"Yeah, what?"

"Could you not say the f-word along with Jesus? I can take other swearing, but that, what I just asked you . . . well, it really bothers me." The arrived at their table where three other people were so engaged in a conversation that they didn't even look up.

Greg looked highly amused as he replied, "I can do that."

"Thank-you."

"Why does it bother you?"

Heather gazed at her dessert meditatively. "It's just that when you say something like that, you're associating God with some kind of foul-mouthed orgy." She moved her gaze to Greg's face. "And that isn't what God is at all."

"But why does it bother you? It's just a word."

Heather sighed as she returned her gaze to her dessert. Abruptly, she reached out and knocked Greg's ice cream off the table. His mouth fell open and he threw his hands out to his sides. "What was that about?!" Heather picked the bowl up off the ground and scooped the contents back into it. She handed it back to Greg.

"There you go."

Greg stared at her. "It fell on the ground. I'm not going to eat it."

"Why does it bother you? It's just dirt." And Heather walked away to get a mop.

El Asunto

2010-08-24T14:02:00.000-07:00

Este es el asunto:
Tengo el corazón envuelto en capas.
Y me pregunto:
¿Qué irá a pasar si lo destapas?

Cuando, al mirar, encuentras fallas
¿Te asombrará el mal que hallas?
O, ¿parecerá un vil espejo,
Dándote, sombrío, tu reflejo?

Not Enough

2010-08-21T17:41:00.000-07:00

Not enough to make the perfect beast,

Held, compelled, by puppet strings above.

For not until his will could be released

Could ever there, in truth, exist . . . a love.

Thus, unshackled, free to choose, he rose.

“Not enough,” said he.

And so it goes . . .

Not enough to leave mankind below—

Tragic, willing marionettes of Death,

For, He loved these foolish creatures so,

Fragile things, a brief and dying breath.

And so: to leave or rescue them? He chose.

“Not enough,” said they.

And so it goes . . .

On and on the petty mantra stands.

“Not enough!” we cry, and stamp our feet.

“We never will give in to your demands!”

And, tantrum-led, His gentle face we beat.

We will not rest, ‘till trampled in the sod,

We find the mutilated face . . . of god.

Spring, Eternal

2010-05-23T20:33:00.000-07:00

It was a cold, damp day, and the two women sat hunched over to keep themselves warm. Outside, winter was in the beginnings of its transition into spring. Dreary rain and frigid cold had been forecasted for the next week. The church currently met in an old gym, too big to heat. Scattered around the cleared church area sat several buckets, strategically placed to catch any rain that might fall through the holes in the zinc roof above. Annie shivered uncomfortably, looking around at the six unoccupied chairs of the circle.

She had just signed up to be a teacher's aid for the children's Sunday School class. She had not expected her first day as a helper to be devoid of children. She caught a flash of her reflection in one of the gym's full-length wall mirrors: a woman in her mid-fifties, with a pleasant face and smile. Her once-brown hair was beginning to streak with an early gray. Not that she minded. She rather liked the effect, and wore it proudly. She sighed, nevertheless. Maybe she was too old to be here, anyway. Lucia, the official teacher, was barely into her twenties. "Do you think anyone will come?" Annie asked.

Lucia looked up from her notebook full of hasty scribbles to the clock on the wall. "We still have five minutes." She scrunched her nose thoughtfully, then turned her attention back to her notes.

"What are you writing?"

"Questions."

"For what?"

"For the class. I thought of it just this morning." She pointed at a pile of paper circles and origami birds. "The children will find a piece of manna and a quail. Then they have to tell me the number on each of the objects. Each number has a question. If they answer the question right, they get a fruit." Here she pointed at a tray full of colorfully appetizing apples, bananas, and pears.

Despite her attempts to prevent it, Annie's jaw dropped open. "You thought of that this morning?" Lucia nodded, still concentrating on the questions. Annie shook her head in amazement. It would have taken her weeks to think of, plan out, and execute a creative class like that. Lucia could put it together in a matter of minutes. Chagrined, Annie looked again at the empty seats. Too bad no one is here to enjoy it. She noticed that Luci had stopped writing. "You done?"

"No, I need one more question."

"How about . . ." Annie glanced upward, trying to think of a clever question. "How many days could the Israelites keep the manna they collected?"

"Good one!" Lucia wrote it down quickly. "There." Setting the notebook down, she reached over to pick up the paper manna and quail. She walked to an open space and tossed the pieces around. "That ought to do it." She sat back down. "Now we wait."

Ten minutes into the class time, one girl walked to the children's area. Lucia and Annie greeted her enthusiastically. "Sienna! Welcome to class!"

A little embarrassed at having arrived so late, she apologized and sat down. "No one else is here?" she asked. The teachers shook their heads. "Oh."

Lucia pulled out Sienna's class book and handed it to her. "We'll go ahead and start. Would you mind turning to class four and reading today's story?"

Sienna opened her book and began the story. She read better than most of her classmates, in well-modulated tones, not stumbling once over any of the complicated words. Annie closed her eyes and listened to the 11-year-old's voice rise and fall in a pleasant story-time pattern. She ignored the cold and tried to picture, instead, a hot desert, a vast encampment of people, and a frustrated leader.

The people, hungry and disgruntled, murmured angrily against Moses. Had he brought them out of Egypt into the desert because the desolate dirt made better graves? They would die with nothing left by which to be remembered. Genocide. That's what it was. Moses was too friendly with those Egyptians. Raised by the princess herself, he was. He had probably planned this all along. A few (too few) voices reasoned with the murmuring. Don't you remember the Red Sea? The whole Egyptian army was drowned! They wouldn't listen.

But God is faithful, and kind. He had said He would take His people to the Promised Land, and He would do it. Despite their murmuring and their ingratitude, He would care for them. He sent to them bread from heaven in the morning. Light, honey-flavored, and delicious. When it fell, the Israelites asked, "Manna?" So it was called, "Manna," meaning "What is it?" In the evening, he sent them quail.

Annie's concentration was broken by a twisting in her stomach and a loud growl. Sienna glanced in her direction. Annie grinned sheepishly. "Quail are delicious. I'm getting hungry." A stirring of a memory came to her, something from her younger days. She had almost entirely forgotten about it, until today . . .

"God is faithful," said Lucia with conviction. "He provides us with what we need. He may not always give us what we want, but He takes care of our needs. Just like He took care of the Israelites in the desert, God will take care of us every day." She paused, looking at her one student. "Does that make sense?" The girl nodded. Lucia smiled. "Good, here's our activity for the day," and she explained the game. Sienna dutifully picked up her paper manna and quail, answered the questions, and picked up a shiny red apple. When she had reseated herself, Lucia instructed her to do the activity in the class book.

"Can I tell a story?" Annie interrupted gently.

Ever flexible, Lucia nodded. "Sure! Do tell."

"Once upon a time," Annie began, "there was a Tim and an Annie." Sienna tilted her head, curious. She knew Annie, but who was this Tim? Lost in memories, Annie stared up at the stained ceiling. "They were raising support to become missionaries to Germany. They would travel to different churches, telling them about their future plans, and asking the church to pray. They lived off of the money that churches gave to them. It was very little money, but always enough to attend to their needs and to keep food in the refrigerator. One month, their money ran out. And that same month, their food ran out, too."

Sienna stopped her fidgeting and sat still to look at her, eyes wide.

"The Sunday after their food ran out, they went to visit a church, like they always did. Just as they had always done before, they told the church about their future plans, and asked the church to pray for them. They didn't mention that they had no food. After the service, the people from the church pulled Tim and Annie aside and told them that they provided boxes of food for the poor. People who couldn't afford to buy groceries regularly would buy these boxes of food for a cheap price. 'You see,' they told Tim and Annie, 'we have a box left over. We want you to have it.' And they gave it to the young couple. They had food in their refrigerator when they thought they would have none."

"Wow!" breathed Sienna. "God really does provide."

"I have a story, too," said Lucia.

"Tell it!" Sienna and Annie encouraged.

"Once upon a time, there was a family that was very poor. The father worked hard every day to provide for his family, but it never seemed enough. One day, they ran out of food. They had no milk, no meat, no rice or beans, no noodles . . . not even coffee or tea. With all the bills paid, there was no money left over for food. The father, not wanting to worry his two daughters, told them nothing. He and his wife prayed together, laying the matter before God."

Sienna smiled delightedly. "I've heard this story," she whispered, but listened with renewed interest to it. It had a new, more enlightening, meaning to her today.

"That evening," finished Lucia, "the father's mother arrived with bags full of coffee, tea, sugar, flour, noodles, rice, beans, meat, and milk. Something had prompted her to buy these things for them, even if they weren't very much . . ." Lucia's eyes sparkled with tears. "It wasn't until years later that the daughters found out about that story. One of them still wonders how often that happened."

Sienna clapped her hands. "Thank-you for those stories, teachers. They were awesome." She picked up her pencil to finish the puzzle in the book.

Lucia looked at the girl, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Do you have a story, Sienna?"

The girl's hand paused, poised over the last question in the puzzle. A look of uncertainty crept over her features. After a long silence, she raised her face. "I do have a story." Carefully, she set the pencil down, laid her hands on her lap, and began her story.

"Once upon a time, there was a little girl whose mother sold used items at a market. Every day, the girl would return from school and her mother would give her a big, shiny apple. It was the girl's favorite after-school treat. One day, the girl came home, but her mother didn't have an apple for her. There wasn't enough money to buy apples. Actually, there wasn't enough money to buy much of anything. They would have to eat only salads for a while. Very sad, the girl went up to her room to do her homework. The little girl's mother began to cry. She cried softly because she didn't want the little girl to hear, but it didn't work. The girl hated to hear her mother cry, so she cried, too."

Watching Sienna speak with the gravity of an adult made Annie's heart ache. Her childhood years had certainly had their troubles, but she had never gone hungry. Sienna started at a spot on the dirty carpet in front of her and continued.

"That evening, the mother went outside to throw away the trash. Just beside her door, she saw a box full of shoes. They looked almost new. She looked around to see if someone had dropped it, but no one was around. The money that she made from selling those shoes was enough to buy them food for the rest of the week." Sienna gripped her dress, fighting back tears. "Also that week, the girl's father came to visit (her parents were separated). He brought apples."

The silence after Sienna's story pressed down on them heavily. Lucia broke it first. "That was a beautiful story. I bet the girl was grateful."

Sienna nodded.

Into this silence wandered one of the elders of the church. "Sorry to interrupt," he said, "but the Sunday School hour is over."

In the busy scuttle of cleaning up and heading toward the main service, Annie's thoughts got pushed back for later scrutiny. The service seemed long and incongruent with her driving message of the day. It was with great relief that she returned home and sought the comfortable safety of her couch. The screen saver on her computer showed the generic sample pictures, available on most PCs on the market. It switched from blooming flowers, to verdant fields, to springs tinted a celestial blue. Pictures of springtime.

Jehovah-jireh. God my provider. Like a plant trying oh-so-hard to break through the hard outer shell of the seed, one thought pushed past all the rest to the front of her mind. Consider how the lilies grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today, and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, how much more will he clothe you, oh you of little faith! Annie frowned. Luke, I think.

She stretched out to get her Bible, saw that it was not in its proper place and gave up. Where is my Bible, anyway? I'm pretty sure the passage is Luke. She laid her head back and closed her eyes to pursue this thought that so insistently begged for attention. Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks of the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water that I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life. Where was this thought going? Annie felt like she was snatching up fragments of a complete thought, but none of those fragments went together. Bothered, she opened her eyes again.

The screen saver had cycled back to the picture of the spring of water. She felt unexpectedly thirsty upon seeing it. Her spirit had run dry lately. It had been almost fifteen years now since she had returned to church and rededicated her life to Christ. Back then, she had attacked every challenge with revivified vigor and joy. After a three-year depression, the sense of joy had been almost intoxicating. She had felt undefeatable. Somehow, though, that wellspring slowly- almost imperceptibly at first- had run dry. She was walking through an unwelcoming desert, thirsty and dying. Worried about her waning desire to serve, she had joined a prayer group, a hospitality group, a service group, and the cleaning crew for the church. The problem was, she had nothing left to give.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted the edge of a book, pushed under the bookshelf. It looked suspiciously like her personal devotional Bible. Some years back, she had bought a King James Version Bible with wide margins. In it, she could write all the notes she wanted to. She couldn't remember the last time she had used it. Willing her tired body to get out of the deep couch, she retrieved the Bible out from under the bookshelf. When did it get under there? She brushed the clumps of hair, stray dust bunnies, and thick layer of dust. I'm guessing a while ago, she noted to herself with chagrin. She sat back down and leafed through the pages. Comments in all kinds of colors of pen ran across many of the pages. Her perusal stopped in the book of John, with Jesus at the well. A flabbergasted Samaritan woman queried the Messiah about this water that would allow her to never thirst again.

Annie had never tried to do any research on the subject of what, exactly, was this living water that Jesus had offered. The whole context seemed to be about water, in some form or another. John 3 talked about baptism, being born of water and the spirit. John 5 talked about healings at the pool of Bethesda. John 4 talked about this living water. Was it salvation? God's love? A smile stole across her face as her incomplete thoughts began to connect around a single idea: God's Word as the Living Water.

When she read the Bible's words, when she worked to memorize its verses, when she drank deeply of God's message- then she felt refreshed and joyful. The words that she committed to memory would always be there to comfort and revive her. She had been wandering her dusty desert with a canteen in hand! All she had to do was draw from it. God had provided her with a spring of water, and she had refused to visit it.

In her mind's eye, she saw the first few drops of rain begin to fall in her parched desert. It'll get muddy and messy, she thought glumly. Then she brightened. But I bet the oasis will turn out beautiful.

Outside, the weather did what it so very often does, and it shifted in the opposite direction as had been predicted. The rain clouds, squeezed of the last of their water, dissipated. The sun, unveiled at last, revealed to delighted eyes that flowers had begun to bloom. Spring, at last, had arrived.

Press: Thoughts on a Word

2009-08-28T11:36:00.000-07:00

depressed by daily trials

pressed, but not crushed

pressing on in the race

oppressed by the Lord of Darkness

impressed by the Lord of Light

suppressed only by myself

expressed in one word: saved

Move On

2009-07-12T21:19:00.000-07:00

The evening light is fading,

A darker canvas shading,

My vast horizon shrinks and vanishes . . .

The deepness all-pervading,

Hopelessness starts invading,

And though my grounding sinks and falls away,

I hear Him say . . .

CHORUS

Move on, do not fear the dark before you.

Move on, I will provide for every need.

Move on, move on! I understand.

And if you are frightened, reach, and I will hold your hand.

“My Lord, I will not make it,”

I cry, “My hand, God, take it!”

A desperate lunge toward empty shadows and . . .

Though I cannot forsake it,

This darkness, You can break it,

The dawn will bring the clarity of day.

I hear You say . . .

BRIDGE

Move on, move on, I cannot stop,

Or else these fears will freeze me

Move on, move on, I cannot stop

Or else these fears will freeze my faith

For audio, please check: http://mk-culture-shock.xanga.com/707079993/move-on/

Not Alone

2009-07-02T07:22:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, Mike and I celebrated three years of marriage. I love him.

I travel, I travel, this pathway called life,

The only quest I have known.

And though I must walk on the edge of a knife,

I do not travel alone.

I travel, I travel this path as a wife;

I do not travel alone.

The banshees, the worries, may wail and moan,

The specters may visit at night,

The sirens’ temptations hypnotically drone--

You’re always holding me tight.

Into your arms I have trustingly flown,

I’m always holding you tight.

I travel, I travel here, day after day

How difficult travel has grown!

Even if giants are blocking my way

I do not face them alone.

Come what troubles and trials that may;

I do not face them alone.

Curse Those Sour Grapes

2009-04-23T18:12:00.000-07:00

Poor souls, they reach for gilded grapes,

Their noses twitch at promised scents.

Mocked and scorned by foolish apes,

Their flagging courage quick escapes.

Alas, their outer shell prevents,

Their hands from touching grand events.

Curse those sour grapes.

We scoff their less-than-splendid shapes,

Such slow, and fat, and useless lumps.

Whilst our attractiveness we traipse,

Our heartless banter tears and rapes

Their little heart that barely pumps.

And all we do is mock those “frumps.”

Curse those sour grapes.

And when to our naïve surprise,

One useless frump unfolds her wings,

We stare. Her colors mesmerize.

She shames us, throws off her disguise,

Rejects belated offerings.

“One day you’ll learn to see,” she sings.

Curse

those sour

grapes.

Gifts, Abandoned

2009-04-20T13:35:00.000-07:00

Dusty, lonely, forgotten, I wait,

Here in the corner

For you.

Wanting to feel you touch me, I wait,

Here in the corner

For you.

Lost in my memories to pass time away,

Here in the corner

I wait.

Silently wishing you might glance my way,

Here in the corner . . .

There was a time when you loved me, I think,

Far from the corner

I fill.

Where are your thoughts and your loving? I think,

Far from the corner

I fill.

I am the art and work of your hands,

Here in the corner

I am.

I am the brushes, the pencils. Please look

Here in the corner . . .

Piled and stuffed, disorganized mess,

Here in the corner

I wait.

Where have you gone, my creator? I guess,

Far from the corner

I have.

Dusty, lonely, forgotten, I wait,

Here in the corner

For you.

I am your talent, abandoned to time,

Here in the corner . . .

Commune

2009-04-11T08:29:00.000-07:00

Remind me, Lord; I’m listening.

Not often does my buzzing brain,
So rushed and full of life mundane,
From all the spinning thoughts abstain . . .
I’m listening.

While I am still and You are not,
Remind me, Lord, of who you brought,
Through many trials, for I forgot . . .
I’m listening.

Remind me, Christ, of broken chains,
Healing rivers from Your veins,
Crimson washing crimson stains . . .
I’m listening.

Spirit, while I am subdued,
Take my soul; it needs renewed,
Change my selfish attitude . . .
I’m listening.

Washed in precious memory,
Sweet Communion, You and me,
Tell me of eternity . . .
I’m listening.

Remind me, Lord; I’m listening.

Day 14

2009-03-14T20:28:00.000-07:00

Day 14

March 14th, 2009

30-Day Challenge

Picture submitted by Cerena Humphreys

Basic idea blurted out by a very tired Mike after I told him my idea, and then I laughed at it, and then expanded it, because I’m tired (I am, by the way, feeling a little . . . wordy . . . today)

We Traverse Afar

The smell of camel, of horse, of sweat, and of spices mingle in the heavy air. They move forward, leaving an invisible trail of odors behind them, as well as a visible trail of many prints. They are a small company, only a few wise men and their faithful servants. They carry with them enough money for a long trip, as well as supplies of food and water for several months. Unsure of how long they must travel, or even where, they carry with them weapons and maps, as well. After all, their most precious cargo must arrive untouched to their final destination. They check, every so often, to make reassure their weary minds that the gifts still lay in peace—gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

They travel for nearly two months, through cities, towns, and villages. Sometimes, people watch them go by, suspicion in their eyes. They don’t trust foreigners, and especially the kind with skin so dark and costume so exotic. Some of the foreigners even have beards, combed with scented oils. Mostly, people watch them go by in awe. Men of the Orient rarely come this far. Whispers travel among the people, and many come out to watch the caravan wander through the streets at night. Why do they travel at night? More whispers sweep across the city. Men of the Orient sleep during the day, and travel at night. Smiling secretly, the wise men keep their thoughts to themselves. Oddly enough, traveling through the cities is the nice part of their journey. Here, at least, they may send their servants during the day to buy and barter for supplies.

When they travel the wilderness their tempers are tested. Many days of shorter rations make shorter tempers. Some nights, they yell at each other for fear that some misinterpretation has occurred, and they have been follow the wrong star. The nights are bitter cold, and sleeping in the heat of the day makes them sweaty and disgruntled. They must fight off, every so often, wild animals like wolves and lions. They must also fight off thieves, for their wealth has not gone unnoticed. Fight they do, and their cargo survives, if their health does not. One servant falls ill, and they must carry his useless weight, as well as stop at the nearest town for medicines. They eagerly look forward to arriving in Jerusalem, where they will once again find the comforts of society.

When they do arrive in Jerusalem, they begin asking the people, for they know they are nearing their goal. “Where is the one who has been born King of the Jews? We saw his star in the east and have come to worship him,” they ask, and they say. No one knows, and everyone fears to answer. Word reaches the ears of King Herod who, unbeknownst to the wise men, is a most jealous monarch. He calls them in secret, and interrogates them feverishly. “When did this star appear?” he questions. They tell him, and he changes his demeanor, as if thinking. “Go and make a careful search for the child,” he tells them, “As soon as you have found him, report to me, so that I too may go and worship him.” But these are wise men, and they are not fooled. They assure the petty ruler that they will return, and leave to renew their search.

The star appears more brightly than ever, and they follow it to a house. The angle tells them that they have arrived to the exact place where the King lays. Although they have not oiled their beards, or changed into their best clothes, they enter the house. Within they find a father and his wife, and in her arms, a baby. The many months of hardship have paid off at last, for here is the King of Kings . . .

Tamara snapped out her reverie, perched atop her stubborn camel. She kicked her legs against its flanks, only managing to elicit an annoyed flick of its ears. She glanced at her friend, who seemed to be having the same kinds of problems. The lines of an old Christmas song came to her. “Bearing gifts, we traverse afar.” She sighed and muttered, “They went through so much, and here I can’t get to yonder pyramid.” She huffed, and her camel spit.

2009-03-13T19:48:00.000-07:00

Day 13

March 13th, 2009

30-Day Writing Challenge

Picture submitted by: Mark Adamson

Bees

Siren, I, with flawless stealth,

Watch me gather all my wealth.

From bud to bud I move and dance,

Kissing each, a swift romance.

Yet each affair will help me mold

My liquid reservoir of gold.

Comes the Master, ope’s the door,

And takes away my golden store.

Now that he read the poem he had written, it didn’t seem fair. Not fair at all. Poor bees; they probably didn’t have a clue as to why every so often, their honey was harvested and they had to build up a new reservoir of honey. David looked out the window at the beehives. They were swarming. He shrugged. Most likely, they didn’t even care. Bees would live from moment to moment, driven by instinct to harvest pollen and make honey. He flopped down on his bed and stared up at the ceiling, pondering life and its bitterness.

Being a poet tended to make him a little melodramatic about things. He loved thinking of tragedies-- they held incredible emotional force. There was just something inescapable about a character who has lost a loved one, and especially one that was very close for many years. The irreversible nature of death made the poignancy sustainable through an entire story. Characters who fell into depression and sought the irreversible escape of death, themselves, were a favorite to him.

And yet, he knew that he would never wish that upon anyone, not even himself. His best friend, Kara, had lost her father, and he had marveled to see her attitude of self-adjustment. Although she had loved her father very much, she pushed on, because she needed to. She had told him, once, that she had considered suicide, perched at the top of a high building. Vertigo had made her pull back, and she had realized that her death would only add to the death of her father. If she died, too, how much more pain would she cause? Would she cause more deaths? She had decided that her only true escape lay in life. He had asked her if it didn’t hurt anymore. She had gazed at him somberly. “It always hurts,” she said simply, “But you learn to live with it.”

David rolled over on his side. Life didn’t seem fair to him, most of the time. Perhaps that was why he loved tragedy so very much. It seemed easier to him to embrace it, like Kara had. He thought about the honeybees that his father kept. They lived from day to day, not caring about the fairness of life, never dredged down by philosophy or memory. He so very badly wanted to be a bee. When something was taken from him, he wanted to move on as if nothing had happened. He wanted instinct to kick in and make him work, rest, and exist in a state free of complications. Yet here he was, a young man of fifteen, full of too many thoughts and feelings and experiences. He stared ahead dully. “Stupid boy,” he told himself, “You’re too melodramatic.”

A soft knock at the door failed to make him move. The knob turned and the door creaked open. “David?” asked a familiar voice. “Are you in there?” Kara stepped inside and walked over to him. Gently, she kneeled beside his bed, near to where he had his head. She laid one of her hands on his hair and brushed it aside so that she could look at his eyes. “David?” He closed his eyes so that he didn’t have to see her. She had that look of empathy in her eyes, and he didn’t want it. But he couldn’t shut out her voice. “David, it’s almost time for the funeral. I . . .” She paused for a long time. “I know it’s hard.” And then she waited. He realized that she would wait as long as it took.

He breathed in very deeply, sucking in as much air as he could, and then he released it slowly. When he had finished, he opened his eyes and looked at her. She hadn’t moved. He nodded. “I’m ready.”

They went out to meet his older brother and, together, they all went to watch David’s mother and father be buried beside each other.

Day 11

2009-03-11T20:45:00.000-07:00

Day 11

March 11th, 2009

30-Day Challenge

Picture submitted by: Dianne Beale

A Toast for Two Ladies

I am not a feminist who quibbles over petty issues. I do not believe in the woman’s right to choose; I believe in humanity’s right to life. I do not believe in tearing down men, I believe in building up women. I will not settle for anything less than living up to my potential. The only human to stop me will be myself. This is the kind of feminist I am.

I love my men. I want them strong, able, and wise. He needs to be strong, if he wants me to follow. I am a strong woman willingly following a strong man. There is no weaker partner. This is the kind of feminist I am.

I am proud to be a woman.

I strive to be a woman worth remembering. Who do I admire? I do not look up to Susan B. Anthony, or Margaret Sanger, or Mary Wollstonecraft. They may have broken down many walls, but I do not look up to them. I look up to older—and greater—women. Two sisters, whose names we hear every time we hear the American pledge of allegiance. Think a moment, and you will remember them. “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands: one Nation under God, indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all.” Did you see them? I admire Lady Liberty and Lady Justice. What women could I admire more?

Whose gracious figure do you see on every judicial wall, scales upheld, blind to status, gender, race, or religion? No longer worshipped, we still respect Lady Justice. Worldwide, her sword and scales are the symbol of Law and Order. She is tall, stately, and wise. Unfeeling, unbending, unwavering—her image presides over the court. I strive to be a woman full of justice. Though I cannot be blind or unfeeling, I can be strong.

And who can forget her sister, Lady Liberty? For years, people have sung songs, written poetry. She holds aloft her torch, thrusting it heavenward, champion of enlightenment. She strides forward, never still, never stagnant. Crowned with seven rays, she gazes out at the world. Her face, features stern, displays beauty at its highest. She is Lady Liberty, the Enlightener, the Chain-breaker, the Mother of Exiles.

Side by side, these sisters walk the world over, symbols of freedom and of justice. Nations love them, states respect them, people praise them. Who cannot love these symbols, these metaphors of greatness? Yet some do not. I wonder, sometimes, how they will fall. And if they fall, when? Will they fall prey to the hands of terrorists, torn down and raped by those who hate them? Or will they slowly deteriorate, falling away, forgotten by the wayside? But I digress.

These ladies, I admire. If I will be a feminist, I will exhibit the qualities admired in these women. If I will stand for something, it will be justice. If I will stride forward, ready to fight, it will be for freedom and enlightenment. See, feminism should never be about petty jealousy toward men. It should not be about jealousy at all. It should be about justice and liberty, about basic rights and human dignity. It should be about life, and work, and dignity. It should be, in short, about justice and liberty.

Here’s to Liberty and Justice . . . for all.

Day 10

2009-03-10T16:36:00.001-07:00

Day 10
March 10th, 2009
30-Day Challenge
Picture submitted by: Mike Boyce

Jell-O Cake

“helo, my name is Hilda. I like Martha Stewart and I want to gro up to be liek her. she is the best. I am makeing a cook book, just like Martha Stewart. my frist resipe is one that I mad up all by myself. it is jelo cake, and I liek it very much. I hope you do to.

first to make my jelo cake, you get teh ingridients. they are jelo flowr shuger milk water buter vanila and salt. My mother alwas uses salt and I dont no why, but I wil use it to. o, and egs. she alwas uses thos to.”

Hilda finished writing the beginning of her first best-seller in her best penmanship. She lay her pen down carefully, thinking. It wouldn’t do to leave her first recipe untested. Truth be told, she had just made it up today and thought the combination sounded wonderful. She picked up her piece of paper and headed to the kitchen, ready to ask her mother for help. Her mother loved to cook, so Hilda knew that she could most often find her in the kitchen. Sure enough, there was her mother, standing in front of the open refrigerator, seeing what she had inside. Hilda trotted up to her.

“Mami, can you help me make a cake?”

Cristina looked away from the well-stocked refrigerator to face her daughter. “Sure, honey. What kind of cake do you want to bake?”

Hilda said the words slowly, proudly. “Jell-O cake!”

Cristina blinked a couple of times, then noticed the piece of paper Hilda held. She gently took it from her daughter’s hands and looked at it. “Is this your recipe?” Hilda nodded, and Cristina smiled. Hilda had probably thought of her two favorite desserts and combined them into an idea for the greatest concoction of which she could think. Cristina marveled at the fact that Hilda had a good grasp on what ingredients belonged in a cake. She let her hand fall as she gazed at the window, thinking.

“Mami? Can we make it?” Hilda looked at her mother anxiously. She shifted her weight from one foot to another, in a kind of impatient dance.

Cristina grinned. “Of course, my heaven. If we start it now, we’ll have it done in time for the women’s Bible study this evening. Then you can tell them you made it yourself.” Her grin widened as Hilda let out a whoop of joy and ran to the drawer that contained her very own chef’s apron.

When she had tied the straps into a neat little bow, Hilda looked at her mother expectantly. “What do I do first?”

Cristina put her hands on her hips in mock anger. “What do you mean, ‘What do I do?’ You are the head chef today!”

Hilda giggled. “Ok, sous-chef! First we wash our hands.” As they rinsed their hands in the sink, Hilda leaned toward Cristina and whispered, “What’s next? I forget.”

“We gather the ingredients and lay them out,” whispered Cristina.

“Oh, yeah.” Hilda rose her voice and said, in the most important voice she could muster, “Sous-chef, first we gather the ingredients.”

They laid on the table the flour, sugar, salt, a stick of butter, three large eggs, vanilla, a jug of milk, and two boxes of Jell-O. Cristina slipped in a container of baking powder. While Hilda mixed the flour, salt, and baking powder with a whisk, Cristina set the oven for 350 degrees. Next, Cristina pulled out the electric mixer and beat the butter and sugar until it looked so fluffy that Hilda compared it to a cloud. Hilda poured in the vanilla and watched it combine, then added the flour and milk, alternately, until they had a smooth cake batter.

“Can I add the Jell-O now, sous-chef?”

“How about if we bake the cake, first, and then add the Jell-O?”

Hilda made a face.

“Trust me?” asked Cristina.

“Ok.”

So they poured the batter into two greased and floured pans. These went into the oven to bake. They sat down to rest and laugh at each other’s flour-flecked faces. Hilda smudged some more flour on her mother’s face with her finger.

“How long will it cook?”

“Oh, I’d say about twenty-three minutes. Not too much longer than that.”

“Ok.” Hilda set her hands on her lap and looked at them for a few seconds. She looked back up to her mother. “Mami, can I go play while it cooks?”

“Of course. But be back before it’s done, or I’ll let it burn.” Cristina warned.

She would, too, Hilda knew. She nodded, pulled her apron off and laid it carefully on her chair. She washed her hands, and then went out to play. Twenty minutes later, she had returned, with another piece of paper. She placed it on one of the kitchen chairs, out of the way, and went to put her apron on. She washed her hands, and picked up some oven mitts. “Is it ready?”

Cristina stifled her curiosity and turned her attention to the oven. “I don’t know. Let’s check.” She grabbed a toothpick, opened the oven, and poked the cake. It came out nearly clean. Cristina looked at it critically. “What do you think, head chef?”

Hilda examined the toothpick, too. “Five more minutes,” she decided.

Cristina nodded. “I agree.”

Five minutes later, the toothpick came out clean, and they pulled the cakes out of the oven to let them cool. While they cooled, Hilda heated water in the microwave. When it had heated, she prepared two batches of Jell-O in separate bowls. Cristina and Hilda each took a cake and poked holes in them with forks. Next, they poured the bowls of Jell-O on the cakes. Cristina allowed Hilda to clear space in the refrigerator, and then put each of the cakes in. While Hilda did this, Cristina strolled to one of the kitchen chairs and picked up the piece of paper on it.

“helo, my name is Hilda. I like my mother and I want to gro up to be liek her. she is the best. I am makeing a cook book, just like my mother. my frist resipe is one that I mad up all by myself. it is jelo cake, and I liek it very much. I hope you do to.”

Hilda turned just time to see her mother smear flour all over her face, trying to wipe away a tear.

Day 9

2009-03-09T19:04:00.000-07:00

Day 9

March 9th, 2009

30-Day Challenge

Picture submitted by: Jo Beth Broyles

Note: This was a true experiment. I took the “If Your Life Was A Movie, What Would Your Soundtrack Be?” and turned it into story. I went some 400 words over my limit, but I’m hoping the story isn’t too boring. So, just so you don’t forget the rules: 1) open your iTunes (MP3 Player) library, 2) put it on shuffle, 3) for the first question, type the song that’s playing, and 4) when you go to a new question, press the next button TWICE. There you go. And now for the story:

Beautiful Feet

*Opening Credits:

Rose Colored Stained Glass Windows: by Petra [The shot begins in a quaint town in Chile and winds around the streets until it reaches a beautiful catholic chapel. A date on the bottom says “1986.” The camera zooms in on the stained-glass window, then rushes through it to show a small congregation mid-service. The camera angles in on one person, sitting on the middle pew, not too close to the back, but not to close to the front. Prim and proper, she looks ahead at the preacher, a pious expression on her child-like face.]

*Waking Up:

El Corralero: Los Huasos Quincheros [A date appears on the bottom, saying “1979.” This is the part of the movie where it is revealed that the main character, Carla, grew up on a wealthy ranch in Chile. Her parents own many well-bred horses, and host quite a few parties. Often, they enjoy playing Polo on them. Carla’s parents also want her to be a famous horse rider. We learn that she has only recently begun to ride them. Many shots of Carla riding the horses, with a panicked expression on her face. The trainer yells at her.]

*First day at school:

Sincero Positivo: Illapu [A date on the bottom says: “1973.” Here we see a flashback to Carla, age 6. We see many hungry faces, and the teacher looks listless. We find that her parents were not always so wealthy. The children are assured that everything will go just fine. Scene flashes forward to September 11th, when an announcement is made about a coup, led by General Pinchet, himself.]

*Falling in Love:

Sea of Souls: Fernando Ortega [The date on the bottom says “1986.” Carla finds a small Baptist church and goes there one Sunday. Here she finds a Jesus she never knew. The preacher of the church, an English missionary, speaks to her about missions. She feels a need to share this Christ to the many lost people in the world, and decides to travel to Peru for her first mission trip.]

*Fight Song:

The Invisibility Cloak and the Library Scene (Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone): John Williams [Carla goes to Peru and shares the gospel fervently, speaking to anyone who will listen to her about the love of Christ. Camera focuses on one young man who listens intently and takes one of Carla’s pamphlets. He promises her he will think about what she has said. It is in Peru, however, that she comes face-to-face with a demonized man. Despite her prayers and rebukes, the demon taunts her. She finally leaves the demonized man, defeated and frightened. He follows her and beats at her. Just before things get truly ugly, the young man from earlier in the movie breaks in and rescues Carla. We find that his name is Hugo.]

*Breaking Up:

Circus Renz: Andre Rieu [Frightened and bitterly disappointed, Carla begins to question everything she learned at the Baptist church, and even everything she learned from the Catholic church. God must not love her. If He truly loved her, He would have rescued her from the demonized man. He would have cast out the demon. Did He not say that He is more powerful than any other power? Carla decides that if God does not want her, she does not want God. Christians are all actors and clowns in a circus tent, with a Ring Master to care for them, nothing but a sideshow entertainment for the world. She just doesn’t have enough talent to belong.]

*Prom:

Feliz Navidad: (I don’t know the artist, because I lost the CD) [Carla decides to return home. Hugo tries to convince her to stay, that one set-back should not reverse years of faith. Despite his pleas, Carla returns home, but not before Hugo gives her his number. At home, her parents welcome her back and hold a lavish Christmas party in her honor. They never liked the idea that she went to a Baptist church, and even less that she went to Peru because of it. The tell her that they’re glad she returned to her Catholic roots. Carla does not tell them that she has abandoned even those. We see Carla mingling numbly amid a crowd of rich people on the warm summer night. Wine glasses clink, people laugh, and Carla pulls away to gaze at the stars.]

*Life:

Valley of the Echoes: Randy Stonehill [Carla occupies herself with a job and with life in general. She even takes up riding her horses again. Her character has changed subtly, however, and though she still tries to act friendly and polite, there is a bitter edge to her that wasn’t there before. She prefers to spend time alone, and her bitter outlook on life brings about uncomfortable silences in conversations. When her parents try to encourage her to volunteer for some charity events, she scoffs at them. Little by little, Carla’s bitterness drives people away.]

*Breakdown:

Jabba’s Baroque Recital (Return of the Jedi): John Williams [We find that Carla has been having strange dreams that quickly sour and turn to nightmares. One night, she awakens from a particularly vivid dream, scratching and gasping. Terrified and alone, Carla begins to pray. During this time, she feels darkness pressing in around her, choking her. She falls on her bed, shaking and trying to scream. Her mother rushes in and sees her. Not knowing what else to do, she reaches for Carla’s old rosary and begins to pray. The darkness breaks from around Carla, and she can breathe. She and her mother look at each other, realizing that they have just encountered a realm they never really believed existed.]

*Driving:

Hard Candy Christmas: Dolly Parton [We see a night scene, and a car driving down the highway. Carla and her mother are heading down to the Baptist church, to meet with the pastor. As they drive, Carla tells her mother about what happened in Peru, and how she turned away from Christianity, and tried to move on with her life without it. They cry.]

*Flashback:

We Live a Long, Long Time: Jimmy Murphy [Carla remembers a conversation with her grandmother, who was a very pious woman. She remembers her saying, “A rose that is cut away from its roots will wither.”]

*Getting Back Together:

Just a Closer Walk: Exalt (How appropriate) [Carla and her mother meet with the minister and his wife at the church. They pray together, and Carla rededicates her life to Christ. When she tells the minister about her experience in Peru, he prays with her for more strength and reliance on God the next time that happens. Carla’s mother looks thoughtful.

*Wedding:

Queen Amidala/The Naboo Palace (Star Wars: The Phantom Menace): John Williams [That Sunday, Carla gets baptized. She wants to show the world that she belongs to Christ. The shot of the baptism is beautiful, with water sparkling as it splashes off of her when she rises up. In one beautiful ceremony, she has been crowned a daughter of the King. She has joined herself forever to Christ.]

*Birth of a Child:

Shine Hallelujah Shine: The Bluegrass Cardinals [Carla returns to Peru to meet with Hugo. There, she finds out that he has dedicated himself to Christ. Together, they work to set up a church. They name it, Iglesia Bautista Ciudad Brillante (Shining City Baptist Church).]

*Final Battle:

Al Mundo Paz: G. Handel/W. Watts [We see the church grow, and many people come. Hugo, after leaving this church in the hands of a good leader, moves on to plant other churches, with Carla supporting him. Why wouldn’t she? They have married.]

*Death Scene-

He Reigns: Various Artists [On her deathbed, Carla tells her granddaughter never to forget her roots. Carla’s granddaughter holds Carla’s hand and says, “Grandmother, look at the roses that have bloomed from those roots.” She hands Carla a book called Dios, el Rey de Peru (God, the King of Peru). Inside, Carla finds many signatures from members of all the churches that she and Hugo planted. Someone has written a book about the victories of Christ in Peru, many of them springing from these very churches. Carla weeps.]

*Funeral Song:

Road to Zion: Petra [A large crowd of people gather around the coffin. The young minister giving the service reminds them that Carla has finally ended her long journey. “Beautiful are the feet that bring good news,” he quotes. “Her beautiful feet have at last taken her to Heaven. She has finally reached the loving arms of God.”]

*End Credits:

Cri Cri Closing Theme: Cri Cri [The End]

Day 7

2009-03-09T17:00:00.000-07:00

Day 7

March 7th, 2009

30-Day Challege

Picture submitted by: Cerena Humphreys

Loud and Laughter

She was feeling exuberant. Hanging out with Rick always made her feel that way. He had the kind of energy that’s so contagious that entire groups of people around him erupted into boisterous activity. Today there were no groups of people, just Laura, and she had caught onto his energy.

They had already dashed through a supermarket, Rick pushing the cart and Laura riding inside. They had also danced on a fountain, acted like statues, and walked an old lady across the street. Just now, they had asked some person walking by if they would take a picture of them acting out a signboard behind Rick and Laura.

“Is the coffee house open yet?” asked Laura, glancing at her watch. “It’s almost 6:00 now.”

Rick glanced down the street. “Don’t think so. Maybe they open at 7:00.”

Laura sighed. “This is almost too much trouble for a cup of coffee.”

Rick laughed. “No. This is one really good cup of coffee. It’s completely worth it.”

“It better be.” Laura paused, looking confused. “If it’s so good, why don’t you know when the restaurant opens?”

“I always come around 9:00 at night. How am I supposed to know when it opens?”

Laura strode down the street until they reached the store. She pointed at a tiny sign in the window, hand-written in marker.

HOURS:

MONDAY - SATURDAY

7:00 P.M. – 1:00 P.M.

Rick stared at it, then burst out laughing. “And did you notice that the first time we were here?”

Laura grinned sheepishly. “No.”

“Well, we have an hour left. What do you want to do?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. How about if we explore some alleys?”

“Sounds fun!”

So they ran down an alley. Then down another. At the third, they stopped short. Shocked, their expressions froze into a look of panic. They weren’t the only ones frozen in position.

Not far down the alley, a man in a black jacket stared back at them. Surprisingly, his clothing looked very nice, and his hair was neatly combed. In his hand, he held a gun pointed at the other occupant of the alley. The other man wore a tan jacket, well-worn jeans, and a red t-shirt. Like the robber, his hair looked well trimmed. The terrified victim alternated his gaze from the gun to the two youths who had interrupted the robbery. For a few horrible seconds, no one moved.

And then everything happened at once.

Suddenly, the man being robbed reached out and knocked the gun out of his assailant’s hand, Rick lunged forward to tackle the assailant, and Laura grabbed the gun up from the ground.

“Don’t move!” shouted Laura. She held the gun as steadily as she could, hoping that the panic pumping through her didn’t show up in her voice and hand. The assailant, currently lying prostrate under Rick, stayed very still.

The oddest thought came to Laura then, with the adrenaline pumping through her. That better be one heck of a good cup of coffee.

Day 6

2009-03-06T18:35:00.001-08:00

Day 6
March 6th, 2009
30-Day Writing Challenge
Picture submitted by: Dr. Carl Bridges

The Axe-Wielding Fairy Princess

Princess Amihan was the pride and joy of the forest. Tiny-- hardly bigger than three inches tall-- she nevertheless had an energy unmatched by any other fairy. Both her hair and her eyes were as black as the night time, and just as the stars sparkled in the night sky, mischief sparkled in Amihan’s eyes. She most enjoyed wearing a little dress made of ivy leaves, and a crown of watermeal flowers. She would dip her hands in the pond and bring up a handful of the soaking watermeal flowers, and then lay them delicately on her head. She wore this outfit most often because they matched her emerald-green wings, which weren’t big enough to carry her weight, yet.

One afternoon, Princess Amihan surveyed her kingdom from her very own throne. Queen Divina had a bigger one, and much more magnificent, that Amihan would one day inherit. She didn’t really look forward to it, because Queen Divina’s throne sat down on the forest floor, deep in the center of the woods, a hollowed-out stump that nature had carved most beautifully. Flowers sprouted up around it, and the elves had laid all kinds of sparkling crystals around it. Although the Queen’s throne ranked most magnificent, Amihan preferred the Princess throne, because it was softer.

Princess Amihan’s throne sat high on a splendid pine tree, not far from the Queen’s throne. Polypores climbed up the tree, providing a cushy staircase all the way up the trunk until they reached the branch that shaded the Queen’s throne. At the point where the branch met the tree, a little hollow had formed, and here Princess Amihan had established her throne. Several leaves provided a base, and on top of these, birds had donated feathers, and forest animals had provided some of the fur they had shed. The throne provided such warm comfort, that Princess Amihan had been known to fall asleep in it.

This particular afternoon, Amihan was not asleep . . . yet. Groggily, she directed her gaze toward the far end of the forest. The east wind whispered little lullabies to her, crooning her to sleep. Subtly, the music changed. The east wind became agitated, and carried a new scent that Princess Amihal had never smelled before. Suddenly, she felt quite awake. She flicked her wings, craning to hear what other bits of information the east wind would carry to her. It carried the sound of footsteps, much like fairy footsteps, but much, much bigger. Curious, she hurried down her staircase to the bottom of her tree. Quietly, she sneaked through the foliage until she reached the mysterious stranger. She gasped.

He was a giant. He towered what she calculated must be a full five feet above her. He had a beard. His shoulders were broad, as was his face. Over his shoulder, he balanced a massive axe. He stomped through the forest, examining the trees. With growing alarm, Princess Amihal watched him come closer and closer to the center of the forest, and closer to her beloved pine tree.

He stopped in front of her pine tree, and Amihal held her breath. What would he do? He rand his hands up and down the trunk, grunting now and then. He nodded, and Amihal watched in horror as he swung his axe around and aimed it at the bottom of the tree.

“NOOOOO!” she shouted. A breeze rose up and pushed the giant’s hair aside. He stopped, savoring the breeze, then readjusted his grip on the axe. Panicked, Amihal yelled again. This time, the breeze pushed harder against the giant. Amihal felt something stir within her, and she took hold of it. “Don’t touch my tree!” she screamed savagely. This time, the east wind picked her up and blew her at a terrifying speed toward the giant. She spread her wings and found that the wind held her up with them. She charged at the giant, screaming.

She smacked against his hand. He looked down at her curiously. Only momentarily dazed, Amihal pulled from that power within her. She wasn’t entirely sure how, but she managed to pull the axe out of his hand. It felt strangely lightweight. She pulled away from him and waved the axe at him. “Don’t touch my pine tree,” she commanded.

Curiosity had quickly turned to fright for the giant, and he held his hands up. “All right, all right. I meant no harm. I just wanted a tree for the Festival of Trees this evening in town. Your tree looked so beautiful that I wanted it, but I’ll find another.”

Princess Amihal looked at him cautiously, still hovering with the axe. “You celebrate trees by cutting them down?”

“Only one.”

Amihal lowered the axe, then held it with one hand. With the other hand, she pointed a ways into the forest. “You may have that one, as long as you use his wood for something that will last many years, when you have finished the Festival.”

The giant nodded. “I will.”

Amihal nodded regally, and returned the axe to its owner. “Take only what you need, and you’ll find that the earth is generous.”

He smiled. “Thank-you, my Lady. What’s your name, Lady, if I may ask?”

“I am Princess Amihal.”

***

Divina looked askance at her two-year-old daughter, who was delicately pummeling a sofa with a plastic axe. “There’s gotta be something wrong with that,” she remarked. “Amihal, give you brother his axe back!”

“She’s fine,” laughed Mona, Divina’s mother-in-law. “She’s not even old enough to know that it’s a weapon. I think it’s funny, especially since you dressed her up in that green fairy costume.”

“She reminds me a story my grandfather told me once,” mused Ted.

Day 5

2009-03-05T17:44:00.001-08:00

Day 5
March 5th, 2009
30-Day Writing Challenge
Picture submitted by: Mark Adamson

Life At Its Best

This is life at its best, I think.

The morning light still glimmers silver when my mind begins to stretch and awaken from beneath the blankets of sleep. When I open my eyes, the first sight to meet my sleepy gaze is that of my wife, curled up beside me. I love no one else more than I love her, and the sight of her brings joy to me every morning. Sometimes when I see her, all kinds of memories rush though my head, but this morning, my mind dwells in the present-- here, with my wife. I ought to be getting up now.

I get up out of bed, wiping the sleep out of my eyes. I inhale deeply, exhale loudly. As I breathe, a prayer forms in my mind. It’s simple, but I like simplicity, with no ornaments to distract me from the heart of my thoughts. “God, be my Lord today. Let my attitude glorify you, my words bless you, and my work please you. Amen.” And I rise, ready for my day. A hot shower should finish waking me up.

While I shower, I hear sounds in the kitchen. My wife has gotten up to fix me breakfast. I step out, and realize that the steam in the bathroom has heightened the smell of breakfast: bacon, eggs, beans, and coffee. It’s the beginning of the day, and I already have my favorite breakfast.

After breakfast, I decide to clear my field, but before I do that, I need to grease up my bobcat skid steer. It’s not very big, or fancy, but it’s mine. It took a lot of saving up to buy it. I wouldn’t normally have time to work on it, but today I have the day off. I walk to the back window to look outside.

Through the window, I see the field behind my house. Like my skid steer, it is neither big nor fancy, but it is mine. I find great joy in working it, especially in the mornings, when the crisp air soothes my heating body. Standing there, I survey the scenery. The field, not yet tilled, stretches out until it touches my neighbor’s field. A barbed-wire fence delineates his land from mine. I smile. How kind of God to let us scribble on his earth. I sigh and walk outside through the back door.

The back door has creaky steps. I make a mental note to work on them on the next day off I have. I stop, perplexed. Didn’t I make I mental note of that last time I had a day off? I shrug. The field (and therefore the skid steer) is more important right now. I need to clear the field so that I can begin to till it soon. I planted corn last year; this year I plan to grow soybeans. I look up. There before me sits my bobcat skid steer.

It doesn’t take too long to grease the skid steer. I get in and drive it to the end of my field, where there’s a big pile of dirt that needs flattening. I plow into it, pushing forward and pulling back, scooping up the dirt and placing it somewhere else, slowly, surely, flattening the area. It gives me sense of power, of energy to drive this machine. Without it, I would find myself shoveling dirt for two, maybe three, days. This machine, clanking, growling, and humming, helps me work. It is a beast that I can tame, a power that I can leash, a strength that I can direct. I stop once for a quick lunch, but hurry back to my work. Eventually, the field will be flat again, and I will plow it, disk it. I will sow the seeds, fertilize them, and irrigate them. And although I will do all this work, I know that it would all be in vain were it not for God. It is God who gives me strength, who gives me life. It is God who gives the plants life, too. Tired after a hard day’s work, I head back to my house.

At home, my wife awaits me with a glass of lemonade and a delicious dinner. She talks, then, of her day. She tells me about cleaning the house, and going to the supermarket, and cooking dinner, and simply enjoying her day off from any activities. I sit and listen, feeling the air conditioner cool off my hot muscles. My wife points out that I have smudges all over my face. Grease. I must take a shower before I go to bed. She wrinkles her nose delicately. “You’re stinky, too,” she says. Then she smiles. “My strong man.” I smile back. I will take my shower and go to bed, and tomorrow will be another day. I will probably rise early and go to work. I love my life.

This is life at its best, I think.

Day 3

2009-03-03T17:23:00.000-08:00

The Princess and the Crap
(Part 2)

When did angels get their wings? I have often wondered that. No, I’m not thinking of the saying, “Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings,” popularized by Mr. Humphrey Bogart. No, I want to know when people started painting them that way. And why did they use dove wings? There must be some symbolism there, some kind of reference to doves as messengers of peace and hope . . . and courage.

One beautiful afternoon when we were young, Evelyn and I sat outside after one of our adventures, enjoying the warm kisses of the sun. At least, that’s the way I remember it. I seem to remember most of those days in brighter colors than I remember my later years. In a fluttering rush, a dove landed just before us. The purest white we could imagine, she seemed to have her own aura in the bright light of the sun. We sat as quiet as we could, holding our breath. The dove strutted around for a while, pecking here and there, and we watched, entranced. Eventually, she grew bored and flew up into the air. To our sheer delight, she landed on a branch that jutted out just above us. We gaped upward at the beautiful bird.

For a minute, I felt very jealous of Evelyn, for the bird had decided to perch directly above her in a gesture of some kind of blessing. The next minute, I felt very lucky, for the bird bestowed a blessing upon her before flying away. Eyes and mouth squeezed shut and an expression of disgust washing over her face, Evelyn turned toward me. Gingerly, she pulled a delicate handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped away the bird droppings that had landed on her forehead. When she could look at me, I felt an unruly and entirely inappropriate reaction struggling to get out of me. I fought it, but it came out anyway. A laugh exploded out of me, and I fell backward onto the grass. I saw the same reaction struggling within Evelyn, too. It was too much for her and she fell beside me, laughing.

Remarkably, we had forgotten about that day entirely, until we found ourselves walking through a park not too long ago. The day had turned cold and cloudy, and gusts of wind whipped around trees, shaking their branches like Mexican maracas. Hats pulled down over our ears, shoulders hunched, and hands buried deep in our coat pockets, we walked through the lonely park. The topic of our conversation matched the day in grimness.

“She won’t be happy with your boyfriend,” I said, glumly.

“I know,” muttered Evelyn. “I don’t care.”

I shot a glance at her. “You do care. A lot.” Evelyn didn’t respond vocally, but she clenched her jaw and scowled. I continued, afraid of what I was going to say next. “That’s a good thing. You love her.”

“I hate her.”

I pulled my hand out of my pocket and grabbed her shoulder. “You love her, Evelyn, despite everything she did to tear you down. I admire that.” Eyes downcast, Evelyn tried to pull away from me. I wouldn’t let go. “No, don’t go. Just because you love her doesn’t mean that you have to put up with the burdens she lays on you.”

A tear slid out of Evelyn’s eye, and her lips trembled. “I put up with so much . . .” She swallowed, determined to say what was on her mind. “So much . . . crap.” I smiled. Dear Evelyn, so kind and sincerely polite that she couldn’t even bring herself to swear.

“I know you want to just run away and hope everything goes away, but you need to go break your chains yourself. They won’t go away.”

“I know. I know.” She gazed out at the park, and suddenly gasped. A gloved hand pointed to the white bird fluttering down to the ground. “A dove,” she whispered. “Do you remember that day?”

I snorted. “Yes, I do.”

Evelyn’s expression looked like some hideous blend of humor and pain. “I’m so messed up that I even took crap from a bird.”

I sobered quickly. “Evelyn . . .”

She laughed, but it sounded like sob. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.”

Suddenly, Evelyn dashed out at the bird, waving her arms wildly and shouting. Frightened, the bird flew away. She watched it fly away. “Hah!” she shouted hoarsely, ignoring the outraged looks of other pedestrians at the park. “I won’t take it! Not any more!” I stood there, trying to decide if I should pretend not to know her, or join her in the bizarre moment of self-discovery.

“No more crap!” I shouted.

“Yeah!” yelled Evelyn. She stood for a few moments, breathing hard. When she turned, she had completely composed herself. She walked back to me sedately and gave me a calm look. “Really. You’re an embarrassment to society, acting like that,” she told me. She flashed me a brilliant smile, and we finished our walk.

The news of the wealthy Aberdeen heiress having a fall-out with her family and moving to America only stayed on the news for a few days. The story was quickly overtaken by the nasty divorce of some famous diva or other. Would you believe it? We’re perfectly happy with that.

Oh, did they marry? Gracious, no. Russ just wasn’t her type. He came into her life for a time just brief enough to give her the courage to break away. Dare I say it? He was almost an angel to her — him and that confounded bird.

Day 2

2009-03-02T14:22:00.001-08:00

March 2, 2009
Day 2
30-Day Challenge
Picture recommended by Amanda Hodge
Source: http://danny.oz.au/travel/scotland/duncansby-dunrobin.html

The Princess and the Crap
(Part 1)

     She lived in a castle, and she was my friend. I always thought that was the most wonderful part about it. Not that she lived in a castle (although that was wonderful in itself), but that she was my friend.
     Evelyn lived in one of those fabulous old castles with the white walls, the tall turrets, and the countless windows. The hallways snaked through the building like a maze that no one but children and servants knew how to navigate. Often, we would pretend we had traveled to the old days when ladies wore heavy layers of clothing, and men wore codpieces. She was always the princess and I was always the faithful maidservant, willing to lay down my life for my mistress.
     We had all kinds of stories we would act out. Sometimes, enemies of the kingdom would lay siege to the castle, and we would plan out how to ration our supplies and rally an attack. Other times, we would leave our castle on some political mission that required utmost tact and care. One time, we went to war (our military exploit ended with a disaster in the kitchen, for which we received a severe scolding from the chef). We also tried ambushing Eleanor once, but that ended with a long “talk” with the lady of the house, an experience which I never wish to repeat.
     Evelyn was the younger of two sisters by seven years and, true to story form, was not the favorite. Lady Aberdeen much preferred Eleanor, who had learned early on in life how to stay in her mother’s graces. She also had all the makings of a true lady and politician-- she was proper, calm, social, and heavily manipulative. Eleanor cast a long social shadow, and Evelyn lived in it.
     Every day, Evelyn heard the same message from Lady Aberdeen, like a bad soap opera episode set to repeat. “Really, Evelyn, you’re an embarrassment to the family name. Look at Eleanor. She does everything right. You need to act more like her.” And Evelyn tried, but somehow, every encounter she had with anyone important ended with a faux-pas. Tea cups slipped out of her fingers, her long legs kicked someone under the table, or wine made her gag. At the end of the encounter, her hair would have fallen out of the expensive hairdo, and sweat beaded on her nervous face. Embarrassed, she would beg to be excused and hurry to her room where she could slip on some jeans and a tee-shirt, and drink soda pop in peace.
     The day came when Evelyn went to college, and we parted company. She had the grades and money to go to an upper crust school, and I had neither. She tried very hard to help me, but Lady Aberdeen would have none of it. As long as Evelyn was using Aberdeen money, no middle-class brat would benefit from her kindness.
     It was during these years that a fairy tale came to life.
     Perhaps it was because she chose to study Language and Literature, or perhaps she was destined for it. Whatever the reason, something which had long been dormant awoke within her, and Evelyn Aberdeen wrote her own story on the paper of her own life.
     During one of our many phone conversations, Evelyn told me that she liked a guy. When I asked her what his name was, she answered in a dreamy voice, “Russ.” After more excited, girly conversation, I found out more. Russ was American. He had studied journalism, but found his passion in directing a small television show called, “Y’all are Jes’ Jealous.” He had gathered enough money to film an episode in Scotland, a venture that doubled as his vacation. Evelyn had spotted him filming, begged him to let her have a small part in the show, and they had gone out for coffee afterward. She hadn’t gathered up the courage to tell him who she was. She hoped she’d be able to date him for a while.
     “Your mother will kill you if she finds out,” I warned, “or worse: she’ll give you one of her speeches.”
     The silence on the other end of the phone made me wonder if she had hung up on me. After a long pause, however, she replied. “She won’t.”
     Eerily, our conversation ended there.
     It was almost seven months later that I heard any more about the mysterious Russ. I was half-way through class when my cell phone went off loudly. Bright red, I turned it off and apologized profusely. After class, I called Evelyn back.
     “Evelyn? You called me in the middle of class.”
     “Sorry, but it was urgent. Still is.”
     “What’s urgent?”
     “I told him.”
     “Told who? Told who what?”
     Impatiently, Evelyn answered, “Russ. I told him about my family and everything.”
     “Ohh . . .” I said, understanding. “How did it go?”
     “Badly. He thinks I’m too good for him now.” And I heard sobs break out on the other end.
     “Oh, Evelyn!”
     I drove all the way over to Old Aberdeen, and arrived late at night. Evelyn looked terrible. Her brown eyes were bloodshot from so much crying. We stayed up all night eating brownies and talking. By the next morning, Evelyn was feeling better. I was fixing some nice, strong coffee when the phone rang. We both stood very still, listening to each ring until the answering machine kicked in. Evelyn’s face underwent the most glorious transformation when the message played.
     Evie, it’s Russ. I’m . . . [throat clearing] . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry. Call me back.

To be continued . . .

Sleep . . .

2009-02-17T21:20:00.001-08:00

She had been whimpering.

She must have been thrashing, too, because she found herself being held in a gentle embrace, staring up through the darkness at questioning eyes. She loved those eyes, light brown, like honey. Although right now they looked black. “I’m fine. Sorry I woke you up,” she signed to the glance. Her husband looked at her with concern. “It was just a nightmare,” she added as a reassurance. He nodded and laid back down beside her. Heather turned her head until it once again faced upward and closed her eyes.

The muscles on her face prickled as a delightful sensation rushed across her body. The muscles on the rest of her body instantly relaxed. She loved it when Brendan did this for her. He would ever-so-softly run his finger along her face, along her forehead, her cheeks, her nose. It felt like a piece of heaven kissing her face, like an angel had come to help her sleep.

Sleep . . . Brendan’s eloquent fingers seemed to say. Do not be afraid.

With a contented sigh, she began to fall back asleep. She stiffened. She was in the same house again, with same window . . . again. Against her better judgment, she looked through the glass. Faintly at first, but with a sudden flash of luminescence, the eyes stared back. Those eyes. She hated these eyes as much as she loved her husband’s. Where Brendan’s eyes were honey-colored, these were a pale green, toxic as . . . as . . . metaphors failed her. She backed away from the window, staying focused on the horrifying eyes. She had seen these eyes in many dreams before, and they always belonged to some creature of darkness, man or beast. Sometimes they came as a panther, as a demon-cat, as a man, as a wolf. The shapes changed around the ever-constant eyes.

Today they eyes had chosen a panther. It climbed in through the window, writhing sinuously, putting one dangerously silent paw in front of the other. It wouldn’t leap. It never did. It just followed her. It always followed, watching. But who was watching? Somebody with toxic green eyes.

She went downstairs, where a masquerade party seemed to have been occurring. The eyes stopped at the top of the stairs, silent and menacing. She mingled, using her hands as her mask. Perhaps in this crowd she could escape the eyes.

A man tugged at her arm; he wanted to dance. She signed to him, “I can’t dance.” He pulled insistently, she turned to look at his eyes and pulled back. Green. The man’s grip tightened and she saw too late his black mask and inky clothes. He began to drag her toward the stairs . . . again, toward the panther. She jerked away, but he pulled her into his dark embrace and carried her. The darkness covered her eyes. She tried to scream, tried struggle, but her body would not respond. She couldn’t move, and she couldn’t speak, she couldn’t even squeak. She strained against the frozen muscles of her body, willed them to move.

And suddenly, an angel kissed her--softly, on her forehead, on her cheeks, on her nose. Do not be afraid, he said. She opened her eyes and saw, in the dim morning light, those golden eyes looking down at her.

She had been whimpering.

She smiled. You kissed me, she mouthed. He nodded. You saved me.

The Post is Free

2009-02-15T14:10:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time . . .

There was a post that wanted to exist, so the Writer wrote it into existence. The post wanted to be free to roam the wide world of the web, and it asked the Writer if she would let it go. The Writer agreed.

Before she set it free, she gave it a picture to carry with it, so:

And when she was done, she released so that it would see the world and the world would see it.

The End

The Story Pyxis

2009-02-15T13:53:00.000-08:00

Two things happened today-- both small, both insignificant.

One was that I realized that I didn't like my blogspot name. When I originally made it, the title fit the purpose of the blog. Today it stared at me, wagging its misnomer face at me, begging me to end its existence. I did so and began a new a blog.

The other thing that occured today was that I learned a new word-- pyxis. I found in that word the very idea that I wanted for my blog. A pyxis is a cylidrically-shaped container, usually pottery, that Greek women used to store cosmetics, trinkets, or jewellery. It usually had a lid with a knob in the center. I imagined a little box for little trinkets.

From this idea springs my blog, The Story Pyxis. Here I'll store the little trinkets of my mind, and perhaps the odd, real jewel. And you'll be able to see them, sift through them, and enjoy them.