Title Challenge #2

One of our readers requested another title challenge. Since I am not currently writing anything that I can post on here I decided I would go ahead and grant her request.

So here's the game. You see the below picture? If that was the cover of a book, what would the title be? Give us your answers below!

Title Challenge

I wanted to do something that would stimulate a little interaction on here again but knowing how busy we are I decided I had better make it not require much time.

So here is the challenge. Imagine this picture is on the cover of a book. What would you title it?

I'll comment with my own suggestion...when I come up with one!

A.P.W.300 Grace's Challenge--Keplie

Here's my story for Grace and The Hermit Crab! Hope you like it!

“If you were a pirate, where would you want to be buried?” Alexis held up a Lego man with a hooked arm who looked like he had seen better days.

“In a fish tank.” Kaden tapped lightly on the glass of a small aquarium he was cleaning,

Alexis rolled her eyes.

“I mean it!” Kaden took a second swipe over an exceptionally dirty spot. “If I was a Lego pirate I would want to be buried in a fish tank.”

His younger sister put down the one-handed man and ambled over to the kitchen sink where he was working.

Picking up a rock with the letters B.A.C. carved in the broad side she shoved it under his nose “And you would want this to be your tomb stone?”

“Yes, and then, hundreds of seconds later,” Kaden pushed her hand out of his way glanced across the room to where many plastic little people were scattered over the work table. “A pretty explorer could find my skeleton.”

“After battling a fierce red-eyed fish?”  Alexis motioned to the bucket where several fish swam in confused circles while their tank was being cleaned.

“Mmmhmmm.”

“And how would this amazing explorer find this ancient body? By a crumbling map she found?”

“No.” Kaden dumped the brightly colored pebbles back in to the aquarium and began replacing the fake ferns. “With a high-tech, water-proof, red, sonar walkie-talkie!”

Alexis shoved her hands in her jeans pockets and frowned. “Okay, enough silliness. I said a pirate. If you were a pirate, where would you want to be buried? Not if you were a Lego pirate.”

Her brother finished replacing the fish and then placed the lid carefully back on before turning around. “I don’t know, because I am not a pirate.”

A Picture is Worth 300 Words Challenge Cont.

Here's a picture for you Kelpie :) The Hermit Crab (my brother) wanted to design a picture so I told him I'd use his since he didn't get to writing a scene for yours.

(Click to enlarge)

Amy held her breath. They'd finally found it. The boundless treasure of Bruce Adam Cunningham, the legendary pirate who haunted the magical waters of Iddenpura. Amy and Christopher exchanged goofy grins.They'd been through so much together, and now to have finally reached their dreams, it was like they were giddy preschoolers again. Now that she thought of it, breathing in this water was making her feel sort of giddy. She shrugged off the thought with a giggle. Oh, well she was probably imagining it.

"Alright, let's get this over with." Christopher reached for his pack and pulled out a bundle of dynamite. "Would you like to have the honor?"

Amy giggled again. "I'd love to." She took the bundle and lodged it between the rocks. "Do you think that will do?"

No answer.

Amy spun around. "Chris?"

Her husband had a funny look on his. His eyes darted to and fro, scanning the shadows.

Then Amy felt it too. A presence, a monster, lurking in the darkness. The hair on her arms stood on end.

Christopher reached for his rifle, and Amy snatched up the dynamite. "M-maybe we should go."

"No," Christopher snapped. "We've made it this far. We can't leave now."

"B-but..." Amy's words were drowned out by a low rumble. The gravel beneath her husband's feet began to shift. She watched in horror as the lagoon floor swallowed up his legs and gulped down his torso. Amy grabbed a shovel and jabbed it at the ground, but it was too late. Her husband's thrashing body had disappeared.

A wail caught in her throat. Now what? A silvery shadow slipped through the waters above her head, and a crackling noise filled her ears. Amy glanced down at her hands. Her mouth went dry. Who had lit the dynamite?

A Picture is Worth 300 Words Challenge - Grace

I'm not sure this completely makes sense, but here it is...

Relief. Water. My tongue screamed for water. With feet of lead I shuffled across the cracking expanse of dirt and dust. I pulled at my dress coat sleeves, tempted to remove the stifling burden, but no, I couldn't. This was all a part of the job.

I saw everything in black and white. You're either in or you're out. You're either right or your wrong. If you want to reach the top you have to sweat for it. No pain, no gain. Yes, that was me. I was going to win the world. Nothing but the top would quench my thirst. So I trudged on. Miserable, confident, me.

And then I reached it. The spot. I don't know exactly how to describe it except that it looked like a garden of sorts. Clocks on iron poles sprouted out of the desert ground, like needles puncturing time-wrinkled skin. My mind was baffled. Where was the water? I sulked among the clocks, my thoughts spinning, my heart drumming. What were these useless minutes towering over me, mocking me?

Like the sudden gong of my grandmother's clock, thunder clapped and a voice broke through the churning clouds above me. “The time has come when time will be no more.” And I looked up at the clock to my left, and the ticking hands dissolved before my eyes. And I realized, all I'd worked for, all I'd done to race to the top, was wasted time. For what did it matter anymore?

A Picture is Worth 300 Words Challenge

Okay, here is my story for the clock picture!

Theo, his stomach clenching from hunger, wearily threw his hoe into the soil once again, uprooting one out of innumerable noxious weeds from among the crop rows.  He glanced longingly at the sky, wiping the gleaming sweat from his brow.  Surely it would only be a few more hours.  His musing was distracted by a clod of dirt landing in front of him, splattering with stray bits flying from it.  He glared at his fellow worker in the row next to him and continued working.  Finally, the bell gonged and the workers stumbled over themselves in a rush to get to the clock ground.  They all scrambled to their appointed clocks and stood in anxious anticipation.  As a clock struck noon, a trapdoor of sorts would open directly above the clock and drop down a ration of food for the hungry worker standing below.  Theo watched impatiently as worker after worker was fed his dinner.  The hot sun dulled him into a restless doze, his head lolling upon his chest. 
Theo startled awake, a cool breeze ruffling his sweat-stained locks of golden brown hair.  He glanced around him in surprise; he was alone in the clock ground.  "What?"  He gasped.  His food had never arrived, and he was suddenly more hungry than ever.  He peered at all the other clocks, at various stages all long past noon.  Then, with a strange sense of foreboding, he cast his eyes upon his own clock.  Stricken with horror, he struggled to comprehend what his eyes were seeing.  No hands!  His clock was bare but for the stark, ugly numbers.  Thunder rumbled in the sky above and shadows fell across the ground as dark clouds rolled in angrily.  Theo slumped over, his head hanging dejectedly in defeat.  He waited for the certain doom coming.

A Picture is Worth 300 Words Challenge

I am sure most of you have heard the saying. "A picture is worth a thousand words". Maybe you have even participated in a challenge based on this quote. I decided that I wanted to do something similar but due to most of us being short on time I chose to make our word limit rather less. 300 in fact. Hopefully, small enough to fit in the comment box! So here's the challenge, write up to 300 words inspired by the above picture and leave it for me in the comments. If you can fit a whole story in that small space, go for it! If not simply come up with one scene. The story does not have to be fantasy like mine (below) but do make it relevant. The next part of the challenge involves you finding a picture and writing a scenario as a challenge to me! Either post it on your own blog and leave a link, or, if you are a LARK writer post it on this blog! I hope you find some inspiration and enjoy the challenge of making something this small, interesting! I'll admit, I found it tricky! :) See if you can do a better job than I.

Ready? Here is the picture: Go!

Ian stepped down the train car’s steps and out into the field of clocks. Little puffs of dust followed his footsteps as he shuffled to the nearest time keeper. Behind him, the train gave a shrill whistle and fled into the surrounding darkness leaving him utterly alone. Alone, to watch the time.The hands on the white face closest showed nearly midnight.  He fingered the warm black metal and rubbing his hand along the smooth surface his sensitive tips felt a strange set of patterned indents. A word! Straining his eyes in the dusty twilight the characters came into focus. Maude. He glanced up at the clock face again and it starred back down at him, strikingly white. The hands were getting very close to the twelve. Seconds away in fact. He could hear the tick, tick, tick. Then hands were covered the twelve.There was a click, a grind, and the clock began to shake and ring as if it was in pain.  He turned toward the faces surrounding him but none showed the same time. Then he felt something brush his cheek and something else struck him in the head. Ducking, Ian hugged the clock stem however nothing more fell. Squaring his shoulders he faced around. The black hands lay at his feet, the clock silent and stopped. The metal that he still clung to was fast growing cold. Then he understood. These clocks were people’s lives and time was running out--on all of them.

Sinister Soup

Okay, here is my belated story for the verse challenge!   Sorry for the odd title; I just came up with it just so I didn't post it without a title! =P

Thaddeus hung his lab coat on the hook and did a quick sweep of the room, making sure everything was in place before leaving.  Satisfied, he swung the door shut behind him and loped down the hallway to the first stairwell.  With a spring in his step, he thudded down the stairs and emerged at the bottom, angling towards 1022 to wait for his sister to get out of class.  At 10:20 on the dot, the bell rang and a rush of students crowded the hallway, eager to escape into the bright sunshine awaiting them outdoors.  Thaddeus intercepted a tall brunette as she brushed by, and she swiveled around in surprise.
    “Thaddie!”
    “You ready?”
    “Ja, my bag’s waiting at the door.  Let’s go!” 
    The two siblings hurried out the door together, waving goodbye to friends as they hit the double doors and their feet touched the sidewalk. 
    In no time, they were cruising down the highway towards home.
    In a few hours, they turned onto a bumpy dirt road and bounced the rest of the way home.

    Once inside, Thaddeus dropped his keys on the kitchen counter and perused the dining room.  A few books lay open on the table, pencils haphazardly thrown aside, erasers in lonely exile on the glistening wood.  Tirzah swung the door open with her foot and dropped her load of luggage in the mudroom. 
    “Where is everybody?”  She asked, sensing the silence.
    “I don’ know; it looks like they were in the middle of school and left all of a sudden,” Thaddeus observed.
    Suddenly, Thaddeus saw something move behind the couch in the living room.  A small sock clad foot wiggled methodically back and forth.  Thaddeus grinned and pointed the foot out to Tirzah.  He motioned for her to stay quiet and then tiptoed over to the couch.  He reached down and gave the little foot a tug, yelling out “Rawr!” At the same time.  He was rewarded with a shrieking yelp and a little boy bounced up.
    “Hey, you weren’t supposed to be able to find me!”  The little boy protested.
    “Haha!  You give yourself away when you can’t stop wiggling, Timothy!”  Thaddeus laughed.  Tirzah joined them and swept Timothy up in a hug. 
    “Now where are all the others?”  She inquired.
    “You’ll have to find them!”  Timothy grinned mischievously.
    “Oh, we’re playin’ that game, eh?”
    “Yup!” Timothy giggled and squirmed to get down.  Tirzah complied and the three siblings set off to find the rest of the clan. 
    Once all five of the rest of the children had been found, the eight children unpacked the car and then dispersed to carry out their respective duties in preparation for supper.

    That night, the children were settling in for bed, which took a considerable amount of time for eight rambunctious children.
    “Thaddie, tell us a story!”  Theophilus begged, bouncing up and down on the bed. 
    “Well...”  Thaddeus paused, grinning mischievously. 
    “Oh come on, Thad, just one.” Titus pleaded.
    “Well, all right.”  Thaddeus consented.
    “Now stop jumping on that bed, Theophilus Epaphroditus!”  Taralah reprimanded, tugging on his arm.  Theophilus sent a scathing glare her way before plopping down on the middle of the bed.
    “Okay, settle down, y’all.”  Tirzah commanded, settling herself in the corner chair with four year old Timothy on her lap.  Titus and Theophilus sprawled across each other on the bed, Tychicus spread out on the floor, and Taralah and Tabitha perched at Tirzah’s feet.
    “All right.  Once upon a time, there lived a great king.  He named his kingdom Benevolence, which was an extravagant misnomer, because his kingdom was anything but benevolent.”
    “What does benevolent mean?”  Timothy interrupted.
    “It means you’re being nice to someone.”  Taralah offered.
    “Oh, like if Tychicus would let me have the last icecream sandwich?”  Timothy asked, looking pointedly at Tychicus.
    “Yeah; if that would ever happen!” Tychicus laughed, rolling away from Timothy’s kicking legs.
    “You tick!” Timothy growled.
    “Hey now, that’s enough.  Thaddeus, you better finish your story so these hooligans will go to sleep.”  Tirzah intervened.
    “Right.  Well, this king had a furious temper.  It was well known that you did not want to cross this king, but no one knew what would happen if you did, for no one had ever been brave enough to try.  One day, the gardener was out weeding the tomatoes when the king’s son marched over.
    ‘Gardener, my father says you must prepare him a meal.  The chef has fallen ill and someone must take his place for tonight.  You are to prepare his favorite dish, at once.’  The king’s son departed, having delivered his message.
    ‘B-but; I’m a gardener, not a chef!’  The gardener cried out in protest.  The king’s son ignored him.  The gardener put down his hoe and looked at his dirt-caked hands. 
    ‘Me?  In the kitchen?  I wouldn’t know the first place to start!’  He wailed to himself.  Resigned, however, to his duty, he scurried inside to fetch a basket.  Within minutes he had filled it to the brim with tomatoes, cherries from the orchard, radishes, and green beans.  He made his way to the kitchen, stopping to pluck stray weeds from the ground as he went.  Once inside, he surveyed his utensils.  Grabbing a large pot, he hung it on the hook over the fireplace.  He filled it a fourth full with water from the spring, and then sat with his head in his hands, trying to think what to fix.
    ‘The king’s favorite dish, eh?  And how am I supposed to know what that is?’  The gardener was by no means on a friendly basis with the king, and was not fond of the chef, either, so he had never heard what the king’s favorite dish was.  After several intense minutes of agonizing thought, the gardener finally sat up straight.
    ‘I’ve had enough of this tyranny!  I’m going to fix whatever I please, and just see if the king dares to punish me!’  The gardener smiled in satisfaction, and set to chopping up tomatoes in a fury.  He threw several cupfuls into the kettle, followed in quick sucession by the radishes, cherries and green beans.  He looked in delight at the concoction swirling about in the kettle.  He knew it would probably taste disgusting.
    ‘The more disgusting, the better!’ He decided, adding various spices from the pantry.  Soon, the mixture in the kettle was heated to a rolling boil, and the gardener breathed in the aroma. 
    ‘Mmmm... Perfect.’  He smiled wickedly and brought a spoonfull to his lips.  He inhaled it and then spat it out quickly.
    ‘Disgusting!’  He breathed, pleased. 
    Soon thereafter, the a bowl of the soup (if you can call it that) sat in front of the king.  He looked at it in distaste.
    ‘What, may I ask, is this?”  The king growled.
    ‘Soup, your highness.’  The gardener said, hiding a smirk.
    ‘Soup!’  The king roared, enraged.  ‘Did I not ask for my favorite dish?  Send him to the gallows, immediately!’  Was the king’s edict.
    That night, the gardener died.”
    “Oh, Thaddeus, how awful!”  Taralah cried.  “How could you tell such a story?”
    “Oh, it just came to me when I read Proverbs 20:2 this morning; ‘The terror of a king is like the growling of a lion; He who provokes him to anger forfeits his own life.’”
    “Ugh; I don’t know how you can stand to tell such a story.  You better tell something else, or the boys will have nightmares.”  Tirzah instructed.
    “Well, when I came up with the story, I thought of how Jesus died for us, so that we don’t have to encounter God’s wrath for our sins, but instead, we get to live in heaven forever with him and enjoy His holiness and love.  That’s where the happy ending comes in.”  Thaddeus smiled.
    “Ah, yes.  Well, I’m glad you had a good reason behind your story, Thad.”  Tirzah smiled back.  “Well, boys, to bed then?” 
    She was answered by a soft snore from Timothy. 

THE END!

God's Abundant Grace - (Grace's Testimony)

I've never felt like I had much of a story. Like Hope, I was a BUICK (brought up in Church kid), and on top of that, I was also a PK (preacher's kid). Never do I remember doubting or questioning how I had been brought up. I was content. It was my life, I knew nothing else. Around the age of 9 I began to recognize the burden of guilt. Miserable, sticky, sickening guilt that sits in the stomach like a dead weight. I knew what I needed to do with it, but I was afraid. Anything new, any sort of change, scared me half to death with worry. It wasn't that I didn't believe in Jesus. I already knew I wanted to live my whole life for Him. That wasn't what scared me at the time. No, it was the idea of baptism.

It sounds silly now, but you have to understand that all baptisms I had seen were done in front of a fairly large crowd of church family, and I hated, absolutely feared being "up front." Hope can probably tell you a story or two to prove my point. This fear, silly though it was, I dragged around for quite a while. It never faded, not in the least. Instead it grew, becoming heavier along with my guilt. My knowledge of what I needed to do also grew, until it practically drove me crazy every time there was an invitation at Church.

Finally, in early December one year, we had a guest speaker at Church. Of course, as guest speakers love to do, he gave an invitation at the end of his service each night. No, I did not move from my spot in the pew. I was frozen with fear, but that night at home in the kitchen, I remember breaking down into tears. My parents talked with me for a while, as they have done with all my siblings to make sure that we truly understood and were ready. I don't remember exactly what was said, but the next morning I was baptized. A few friends/Church family did come, but it was a small crowd. I can still vividly remember the purple shirt and blue pants I wore, Daddy asking me if I believed that Jesus was the Christ, the Son of the Living God, and the warm water lapping at my legs, but most clearly of all, I remember skipping down the isle afterwards. There aren't words that can describe the joy I felt, the feeling that my dirty insides had been scraped clean. My burden was gone. I was free!

But like Hope, it wasn't all uphill from there. I was only ten when I made my decision and had a lot of growing to do. As I grew out of my childlike faith and hit my teen years, I began to realize that God was calling me to do things I'd never done before. In other words, I recognized that if I was going to serve Jesus the rest of my life, I was going to have to step out of my comfort zone and do things I was afraid of. A mini war raged within my stubborn soul, leaving me longing for the peace. Thank God for His grace because time and time again I've fallen into this little war. Still there are days when I fight, but I'm learning. He's teaching me that He will always be there with me and give me the strength to do what must be done. And all those things I was afraid of? Well, I'm discovering they are not so scary after all.

The devil works hard. Fear is one of his sharpest tools, and doubt can slice just as deep. Perhaps it has something to do with my perfectionist nature, but there was also a time when I especially struggled with doubting my salvation. Did I miss a step? Was there something else I needed to do to give myself completely? I was confused. Extremely confused, and I didn't tell anyone for the longest time. This is still hard for me to write. Of course, I knew deep down that you can never earn your way to heaven, and that salvation is a pure gift of God's abundant grace, but it didn't stop my doubts. I wanted to base my faith on feelings.

Reflecting on this I'm reminded of Jeremiah 17:9: "The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?" (ESV) Sometimes I feel so hopeless. If the heart is deceitful, what other lies will I lead myself to believe? How many times will I fall down and have to be picked up only to fall down again? I have many favorite verses, but recently I have found great comfort in Psalm 73:26: "My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever." (ESV) I'm going to mess up, time and time again, but God, He is perfect. Through faith in His Son, I am healed. My sins are washed away and I have the hope of eternal life in heaven. This hope in God is the strength that will keep me going. "but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint." Isaiah 40:31 (NIV)

What Greater Calling? (Hope's testimony)

Alright since this whole idea of sharing our testimonies was my idea, I suppose I will start: (sorry it turned out rather long.)

Here is my testimony, as well as I can remember it. Some of it was long enough ago that I am sad to say my memory of it is a little hazy.

As my fellow authors know, I grew up in a Christian family.  The Bible was considered our standard for living and I do not remember a time that I did not believe every word it said. I had not, however, given my soul to it’s Author.

When I was ten my family and I moved to another state. Those first two or three years were the hardest I had ever known. I was lonely, I was confused why God would take me away from everything I loved but through it all there was one big plus. We got involved with the local college students and began a family tradition of sharing testimonies around the dinner table. I would hear these students stories, and be terrified someone would ask me if I was saved. (I had myself convinced I was but I never dared try to convince my parents). Then, once I got over the terror I began listening to their stories.  They were all so sure, while I, on the other hand, often wondered how I knew I was saved.

Eventually I got so worried I began to pray, “God, if I don’t know you, if I am not saved, please show me how to be!”

Then, one night, my Mom made me madder than I had ever been. She prayed, in my hearing, that if I wasn’t saved, that I would trust Jesus. I was unreasoningly furious. How could she doubt? But of course, why wouldn’t she? I had never claimed to know Jesus!

When my 11^th birthday came I was in a scared state of limbo. It passed, and life kept going on. Then one night, about a month later, I walked out of the bathroom and into the room I shared with my older sister. Now, my older sister has an unnerving way of staring into outer space…often at someone! Tonight I was that someone and it upset me.

“Stop staring at me like that!! I feel like you can see right through me.” I flopped down on our bed in disgust.

“Oh, I can!” She raised a teasing eye brow. “I can see right through you. I can see the wall on the other side!”

“No.” I sternly stopped her. “I meant my heart.”

Then I nearly fell off the bed. What had I just said? I just opened up a conversation,  of my own accord, about something that I view as my most private and secret possession—my heart!

My sister seemed surprise to but she kept a cool head. “What’s in there? Jesus?”

“Yes.” I choked and began to hurriedly fall into my pajamas.

I have a blurred memory of her asking me question, something about how someone could be saved. And she told me later I answered reasonably.

After a silent and uncomfortable moment I whispered, “Joy, I don’t think I am saved.”

She was by me in a moment and held me tight as I started crying. “Do you want to be?”

“Yes.” I  answered miserably.

“Do you want to pray and tell him that?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Then I will.”

And she prayed, asking God to open my heart and teach me to trust him. I too prayed, but silently. And I knew, then, I had finally had the courage to give everything over to him, a God I couldn’t see, and trust that he would work things out for my good.

I was baptized the next night in our hot tub because that was the only warm water we could find. (It was early March and there was several inches of snow on the ground.)

Life did not get easy for me and I was still not learning my lesson in trust. When I was about thirteen I hit the rocks.

Faith asked me once, what caused my depression. I was never really sure what started it but I think it was mostly my loneliness. My brother had just moved out, I still had no friends to speak of, and life did not feel worth living. I didn’t know the nasty road depression would take me down so I didn’t fight it. I sat back and simply nursed my wounds.

I began to doubt God’s goodness and one question in particular looped through my brain.

Why did God put us on earth? We simply live, have hard sad lives and then die. What is the point? What does anything really matter?

I tucked up in side myself, pulled away from the cruel world and awaited my turn to die. Though I never considered suicide I remember crying and begging God to take me home.

Then my Grandma got cancer. I thought, so what? She’ll go through treatment, lose her hair and come out fine, just like she always has. Life moved on, and I sank further.

I turned fourteen that year. There was nothing about my birthday to remember. It went by in a black, unhappy blur.

During this time, I began to sleep a lot. Pretty much anytime I didn’t have to do something else. It was my way of removing the pain for a while. My family thought I was anemic (which is still possible though for other reasons). I was so closed, and always had been that they had no idea my ailments were simply mental/spiritual.  (It wasn’t actually until a few months ago that I finally told some of them). 

Then May came and I heard my Grandma had been life lighted to a big hospital because she had (I think) perforated bowels.

At that news I came partly back to life in a sort of panic. What if she died? What would life be like then? How would I feel? No one I new very closely had ever died before but this Grandma, was one of only two grandparents still living. What if she died?

My family made a scurried trip some eight hours to her bedside where my older brother and his family already were. She surprised us by being nearly as chipper as normal. After several days she seemed to be on the mend and we were going to go home. Then, about midnight while we were all sleeping at a hotel we received a call.

I’ll not go into details about what caused the call; I simply will say that she was dying.

The next morning was spent by her bedside or in whispered conferences in the waiting room. The ICU nurses were wonderful. They actually allowed my brother to bring in his not quite two year old son to say good bye. And they said nothing when we way exceeded the room limit of number of people they allowed.

During this time I kept myself well together and stayed by her as much as possible. She could not speak because she had a tube down her throat to keep her from suffocating but sometimes she would tap on the bed side and when I brought an empty notebook she would take a pen and write notes.

I lost it then (and just now) when she wrote what she wanted done at her funeral. Her hand writing was bad because I was shaking the notepad.

Finally, when all the family was there her throat tube was removed.

All my life my family has sung together. Not as a performance but just for fun. There were many scripture songs that we all had memorized and I don’t know why but then, as we were all standing around and waiting for her to die we started singing. She asked for the notebook and when someone held it up she wrote, “On Christ the Solid Rock I Stand”. So we sang that.  Then “It is Well”. And another which I no longer remember. When we paused she took the notebook and wrote again, “I want the S--- family (mine) to sing these songs at my funeral.”

Then she wrote one more thing, “I’ll see you all in heaven.”

We sang “It is Well” as she passed into heaven. I cried more then, than I have in all my other cries put together.

I saw, in her death, that she gave glory to God for everything. Everything! And I cried out all my bitterness, all my doubts and that afternoon I learned why God had put us here, on earth.

To bring Him glory.

What greater calling could I ask for?

Of course there have been other bumps and humps since then but my Savior is good. He has never let me down though I have broken His heart more times than I can count.

The Tear Master

Faith, this is the story I wrote for your challenge. I apologize, it did get extremely long.

“Record my lament;

list my tears on your scroll -

are they not in your record?”

<Psalm 56:8>

I leaned over the well, my tears tumbling down my cheeks and dripping into the darkness below. When I was younger, I used to imagine that my tears were a bitter potion that would poison my family. One sip from my polluted well, and our miseries would be over.

Mom's scratchy voice interrupted my thoughts. “Beth, where's that water? Get your backside moving before I tan your hide!”

Yes, my family was miserable.

“And Sammy, bring me those eggs I told you to get ten hours ago or I'll kill you, too!”

I choked back another flood of tears and wiped my steamy face on my sleeve. Heaving the bucket from the ground I ran as fast as I could without spilling it, but as I neared the house, Sammy collided into me, the front of his shirt loaded. I sputtered, jumping to my feet, my torso soaked. Sammy wasn't in any better shape, his belly yellow and gooey with egg.

“Idiot!” he yelled. “Now what am I going to do?”

I winced at his tone. Big sister or no, this was how my ten year-old brother treated me. Too often he reminded me of Dad, something I didn't like to think about. Honestly, I just wanted to cry again, but I couldn't let Sammy see me in such a state.

“You were the one who ran into me,” I managed, my voice shaky.

Sammy didn't hear me. He was frantically counting egg shells, cursing under his breath. “There's one missing,” he finally growled. I took a step backwards, scanning the ground. I heard a crunch and felt something slimy under my heel. Sammy heard it, too, and kicked the bucket into my shins. “Mom's going to kill us!”

Let her, I thought, clenching my teeth at the pain. I was ready to die. Maybe Dad would just come back and kill me in my sleep. That might feel better.

Before I could pick up the bucket and refill it, Mom stalked into the clearing, hands on her hips and fire in her eyes. “You stupid children!” she barked at the mess. “Now what are we to eat? Do you think I can magically produce breakfast?” Her hand struck my cheek. I cowered, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. Mom swung at Sammy too, but he ducked away, only arousing more anger. “Neither of you will eat today,” she screamed. “Unless you can find somethin' in the woods!” She thrust the bucket into my arms and reached for Sammy.

“Don't touch me!” he yelled back. “I hate you, and I hate this farm!” He ran towards the trees and then spun back around. “If you had let Dad stay, things would be better!” Then he was gone.

“Samuel Thomas! Don't yell at your mother!”

I stumbled back into the woods, collapsed to my knees, and covered my ears. Mom's voice still carried through my hands, so I cried louder to drown her out. The tears stung my eyes, and I sobbed 'till my head pounded. I didn't blame Mom entirely, not like Sammy. No, it was Dad's fault. He'd left us when I was eight. Never seen him since. Sammy blamed Mom for his disappearance, but I knew better. I was glad he was gone – I still remembered the bruises he left on my arms and on Mom's face, and the foul smell of whiskey on his breath. Sammy was only three. He didn't remember those things. All he could remember was that there was more food. Which, there was, but it was stolen. Dad never worked. Mom hadn't yelled quite so much then. It was Dad's fault – he left her, taking everything: the china, the silver, the drapes, the coin jar, and our last shred of joy.

Yes, life was miserable. Why did it have to be my family? Did anyone care? My memory fixed upon the image of the Howard's three-story farm house towering above the trees. I used to play with Macy when Mom worked for them, but they fired her when Dad tried to steal a horse. Macy didn't care about me after that. It was like I was just another one of her broken toys in the garbage pile. She went on with her merry life, making new friends the following day. It didn't make sense or seem fair to me that brats like her could be so happy, have big homes, and plenty of food, and I, a girl who only wanted a single ray of peace and joy, was left with nothing. Nothing but broken people in a broken home. If life were a game of fate, I didn't think it was worth living. Perhaps I could throw myself in the well, but Mama, she'd go crazy.

“Dry up those tears, Missy. You're drowning the dandelions.”

I uncovered my ears and stood, scanning the wood for the friendly voice.

“What you crying for, anyways?”

My eyes finally found him. An old man with a white beard and matching garb, perched on the edge of the well. He looked at me, eyebrows raised.

“Nothing,” I stammered.

The man snorted. “Sure, like I'm twenty-two.” His grin was missing a few teeth. “No, really. What's the matter?”

I hesitated. He looked nice, but maybe it was just all the wrinkles. “I want to die!” I finally sputtered.

The man leaned back, like my words had blown him away, his eyebrows raised again. He whistled. “Those are harsh words, Miss.”

“But they're true!” I dared to step closer. “All my life, all I've ever wished for, is a happy, normal family. Instead, I have a broken family who fights and struggles to live from one day to the next. Neither gods nor men show even an ounce of compassion. What have we ever done to them? Are we simply subject to fate or did some cruel god invent my life for entertainment?” The man stared at me, unblinkingly. “Tell me!” I sobbed.

“I don't know, Child,” he murmured. “I don't know.”

My heart sank farther into my chest. Anger shook my body.

The man stood and paced the ground, his brow furrowed. I would have screamed but his face suddenly brightened and he lifted his shaggy head. “Well, wait a minute. I guess there is someone...”

“Who?”

“He's said to only be legend, but...”

“Just tell me, please!” Legend or no, I was desperate. If he could give me one ray of hope, I would consider living even a decade more.

The old man raised his hand to stop me. “I was getting there.” He resumed his pacing. “Some say he's legend. Others say he's a fact, but all people, near and far, call him the Tear Master.”

“The Tear Master.” I let the name fall off my lips, savoring the comfort it somehow gave. “Who exactly is he?”

“It is said that the tears of mankind he records on a scroll, keeping account of all the suffering that occurs in our world. Never does a sparrow fall to the ground that he does not see, nor a tear fall from the eye that is not recorded.”

“But what will he do about it?” I asked. It was nice to know someone might care, but what was the use if he never did anything to help?

My companion lifted my chin so that I had to stare directly into his eyes. They were a solemn blue, but warm. “Perhaps you should ask him, Child.” He released my face and turned back to the well.

I looked at my grubby toes, confused. “But how do I find him?”

Silence.

I jerked my head up and spun around. The old man was gone. I massaged my forehead, willing my headache to fade away. My tangled thoughts only worsened the matter. Surely the old man had been a figment of my imagination, an image I had created to relieve my pain, yet, how in all Narrozzania had I come up with such a fantasy? It had to be real. I wanted it to be real. Wiping the last bit of tears from my face, I made up my mind to find out, and I knew exactly how to do it.

My thoughts swirling and hope swelling in my chest, I hastily drew more water from the well. As I neared our tumble-down shack of a home, sobbing reached my ears. Guilt churned in my empty stomach. I wasn't the only one suffering here. With caution, I peeked through the doorway. Mom sat at the table, her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook. I padded across the dirt floor to my sleeping mat, leaving the bucket by the door. Taking a deep breath, I lifted up the corner of my ratty quilt. Three copper coins smiled up at me. I fingered the twinkling metals and held them close to my chest. My time, my labor had earned these coins, but I knew what I needed to do.

“Mommy?” I tapped her shoulder.

She sniffled and jerked her head up. “Leave me alone,” she spat, but I held out the coins. Her eyes widened and snatched them from my fingers. “Where did you get these?”

“The Tyndale's paid me to scrub their flooring and beat their rugs.” I wiggled my toes in the dirt, remembering the feel of the smooth, finished wood on my bare feet.

“Why didn't you tell me earlier?” Her words were harsh, accusing.

I tried to look her in the eye. “I had hoped to buy a dress.” Squeezing my eyes shut, I awaited an explosion. Nothing happened. I peeked at Mom. Her eyes had actually softened, but she tightened her grip on my money, not willing to let the treasure go.

She finally dropped the coins into her dress pocket. “Go fetch Sammy.”

I released a sigh and drug my feet towards the door. Then I remembered. I spun around. “Mom?”

“Yes?” She hadn't looked up from her pocket.

“Have you heard of the Tear Master?”

Mom's expression turned sour again. She stood, her back to my face. “He's just a fable, Elizabeth. Pay no heed to stories of him.”

My heart leaped in my chest. I hadn't been hallucinating.

“Beth? Ignore, those stories, you hear?”

“Yes, Ma'am,” I mumbled as I fled the house, but I knew I had to know more.

◘◘◘◘◘

I shuffled my bare feet down the dusty road leading into town. My foot hit a stone, and I stumbled over it only to trip into a deep track a wagon had left days ago. Slight pain in my ankle made me wince, but I kept going. My mind was on a mission, and the rocks and ruts in the road weren't going to stop me. Besides, I'd been going barefoot for years. A horse galloped by, kicking dirt in my face. I spat. Looked like my weekly bath had been useless. I watched the rider disappear into the distance. He didn't look back once. I planted my hands on my hips. Well, I was going to find someone who did care.

Upon entering the bustling little town, my hopes plummeted. People bumped into me like they hadn't seen me or would avoid my side of the street. I knew they saw my patched and thinning garment and guessed I was a beggar, or worse, a thief, like my Dad. How would I find out more about the Tear Master if no one stayed near enough for me to speak to them? I scanned the crowds for friendly faces. There had to be someone. I couldn't give up yet.

“Excuse me, Sir,” I tapped a man's shoulder. “Could you -”

The man jumped and spun around. He was well-dressed and clean-shaven, but seemed nice enough. It only took a second before he judged my motives.

“I'm sorry, Miss, but I already gave my spare coin to another beggar.”

Liar, I thought, as I watched him scurry to his wagon, his shiny black boots mocking my bare toes. If the high and mighty's wouldn't listen to me, perhaps I should have been looking for someone closer to my own station. Yes, the wealthy probably didn't think they needed a Tear Master anyways. Another “beggar,” on the other hand, might tell me something.

I wandered into an empty street. My surroundings changed, from bustle and buying to filth and litter, and I knew I had found the proper place. A baby cried, somewhere on my right. I heard the mother shhh the child.

“Hello?” I peered into the shadows. Only darkness.

I jumped when a hand grasped my arm. “Looking for someone?” A rattly voice questioned.

“Yes...I mean, no. I just have a few questions for someone. Anyone, actually.” I stared into the bloodshot eyes before me. They squinted at me, distrust in their dull shine. The woman finally stepped from the shadows. I guessed her to be in her fifties, slight wrinkles framing her eyes and creasing her forehead. Her wispy hair was graying, her garment worn, and her feet bare. I had found my match.

“I'm open to questions,” she squinted at me again. “Dependin' on what they are.”

Her rotten breath blasted my face. I stepped back. “I just want to know about the Tear Master.”

She laughed, a smile stretching across her face. “Well, if that's all you need, Sweetie, then ask on.”

My heart pounded faster, and I smiled too. “Is he real?”

The woman chuckled again. “Of course.”

“Have you seen him?”

“No, but I know he's real 'cause my daughter is alive, and I know it's no doctor's doing.”

“Was she sick?”

“Deathly sick. Had no money for a doctor, so I thought she'd be gone by morning, but she wasn't. I'm telling you, it was the Tear Master's doing.”

“Where can I find him?”

The woman sighed. “I wish I knew, Dear. I'd like to thank 'im someday.”

Frustrated, I kicked a pebble. It skidded through the dirt and landed with a puff. I turned to leave. “Thanks anyway,” I mumbled, but a low rumble drowned my voice.

“My Mama used to tell me,” the woman yelled after me, pointing at the sky. “that the rain is sent by the Tear Master himself. It's his way of sayin' he cries with us. That always helped me when I was feeling depressed.”

“Thank you,” I nodded, sincere this time. Her words warmed my heart. Another peal of thunder rolled in the distance. I fled the alley, knowing I had better run home, and fast. Those black clouds were some of the worst I had ever seen.

The town flew by me as I sped for the main road. Thunder rolled again, this time louder. I stopped dead in my tracks. If the Tear Master sent the rain, then did he live in the mountains? I glanced at the wall of clouds covering their peaks. It had to be. I spun back around, and ran straight for them.

◘◘◘◘◘

My hands grasped at the jagged rock, and my feet slid on the wet stone. Monstrous rock formations loomed on all sides of me, casting gloomy shadows over my path, but I pressed on. My mind had been made up, my decision written in blood and stone, and I would not turn back. Whatever it took to find this Tear Master, I would do it, for without him, I knew my life was meaningless. It had felt like days since I had begun my journey. Perhaps it had been days or maybe weeks. A trip through the mountains would take no small amount of time. In fact, I hadn't heard of a single soul who had done it. I had had neither water nor food nor rest, yet I felt like I had the strength of a mountain goat. Yes, I was going crazy, I decided as I reached another summit. I let my gaze wander my surroundings. The heavy fog hanging all about me inhibited most my sight, but here and there more mountain peaks protruded like spears through the cloudy blanket. There was no sign of the plain, no sign of town. For all I knew, I had been wandering in circles, yet, there it was again: a flash of lightening, a roll of thunder, a rattling of pebbles at my feet. I adjusted my course to where I was certain it had come from and stumbled onward.

◘◘◘◘◘

Finally, I was there. I had made it, at last. My legs were now shaky with fatigue and my hands red with blood, but my heart was light and my mind determined. I pulled myself onto the ledge and stood, my jaw agape, my heart pounding. This was it, the final summit, but – I collapsed to the ground – there was nothing. Nothing but fog and rain and thunder. I lay panting and shaking, angry at myself for believing, angry at the Tear Master if he did yet live somewhere, and angry that the only hope left in my life was death. Black death, in dark mountains, in the midst of a stormy night. “Tear Master,” I whispered. “Where are you?” Closing my eyes, I let the tears roll down my cheeks one last time.

◘◘◘◘◘

A warm light beckoned my eyelids to open, but I squeezed them shut, afraid that death had not yet taken my life. A gentle hand stroked my cheeks, and a calm voice soothed my shivering body. “Awake, Child.”

My eyelids fluttered open, searching for the voice. A warm, strong face smiled down at me. He offered me his hand, and I took it. Pulling me to my feet, he led me towards the hearth. I glanced back to where I had been lying, and trembled. Somehow, here in the middle of this glowing, warm room, a dark mist hugged the floor. Within the darkness I could see the fog, the jagged peaks, my blood and tears smeared across the rocks. My confusion, my fears, my suffering, all before me. As I stared into the mist, I felt it growing, expanding, sliding across the floor boards towards my feet. “Master!” I shrieked as it nipped at my toes.

“Take heart,” the Tear Master smiled. “It is no more.” He scooped up a fistful of flaming ash and coal from the hearth and sprinkled the light into the darkness. The mist dissipated and sizzled, baring the glowing floor once more. “Now come,” he touched my shoulder. “You must wash.”

He led me to a table across the room and poured a glistening pitcher of water into a large basin. I glanced at my hands, and shuddered. Yes, I did need to wash. I was just about to plunge my bloody hands into the water, but he took the basin from the table and set it at my feet. With tender hands he bathed my sore feet, the warm water washing away filth and wounds alike. Speechless, I watched as he also wet a towel and wiped my face and hands clean. I wanted to speak, to say thank you, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, parched and dry.

As if reading my thoughts, he set the basin to the side and once again reached for the pitcher, but this time pouring into a small cup. I gulped down the sparkling water in a couple swallows and handed the cup back to the Master to ask for more, but realized, I wasn't thirsty anymore. “Here,” he said, pushing a small loaf of bread into my hands. “You must also eat. The journey will be long.”

The journey? What journey? “Are you sending me back through the mountains?” I asked, fear tingeing my voice.

The man smiled again, but this time, a bit of sorrow in his eyes. “Come, you must see.” He led me to a desk covered in a million scrolls of paper. A shelf spanned the wall behind, also storing a countless number of scrolls. I peered at the open scroll on his desk. Tiny blotches covered the paper, as if someone had sprinkled water on the desk, but I knew better. These were tears. Hundreds of them.

“Whose are these?” I dared to ask, touching one of the drops.

“Your Mother's” he replied, reaching for a couple scrolls off the shelf.

“Where is mine?” I asked. He unrolled one of the ones he had just retrieved and handed it to me. Compared to my Mother's it was small. Barely a third of the amount of tears on hers was on mine. Guilt rose in my chest. I had lashed out at her so many times, unmindful of the fact that she, too, was suffering.

“This, the Tear Master pointed to another on the shelf, “Is your brother's, and over here is your father's, and this one,” he paused and held up the other in his hand. “Is Macy's.”

Macy? My wealthy, stuck-up neighbor? And my father? I shook my head, baffled. I hadn't realized, hadn't even considered the fact they had pain and suffering, too. I was so heartless, so cruel, so selfish.

“Do you see why you must go back?” The Tear Master lifted my chin. “They must know about me, Child. Tell them I know their pain, and I can heal.”

As he led me back to the hearth, a part of me was saddened that I must leave him. We had just met, but, yes, I did understand. I had found whom I was looking for, or rather, he had found me, and there were others who needed to know what this man, or Master, whoever he was, had done to my soul. “You will not be alone,” the Tear Master read my thoughts. “A part of me I send with you.” Once more he reached into the hearth, but this time, pulling out a single, large coal. “Take it,” he said. “I will be your light.”

I hesitated, staring at the orange flame, licking at the coal. “Will it hurt?” I asked.

“Fear not,” he assured me. “I will give you joy in suffering.”

I took the coal, the flames crawling up my arms and down my body, but I did not burn. Instead, I was tickled in warmth. Yes, perhaps the journey wouldn't be so impossible.

“It is time.” The Tear Master led me too the door. He swung it open, the mountains and fog seeping into the room, but they did not seem so hopeless now. Holding my flaming coal in front of me, I stepped in. As the light radiated through the atmosphere, the fog lifted, revealing a narrow path through the mountains, leading towards a tiny town in the distance. “Someday,” the Tear Master continued. “I will take you to my Father's home, where there will be no more suffering, no more tears; but in the meantime, be strong.”

I smiled, and turned back toward the Tear Master. “Thank you,” I whispered.

He nodded, smiled, and shut the door.

◘◘◘◘◘

“Mama, she's waking.” Sammy stood over me, his face curious yet concerned. Mama rushed over and grasped my hand. Her face was gaunt, but I saw a flicker of love in her eyes.

“How are you feeling, Elizabeth? My, you are warm.” She felt my forehead.

I smiled, imagining the coal still in my hands. “Mommy,” I took her hand back. “The Tear Master, He is real!”

Challenge

    Hello everyone!  I was thinking that a challenge might be a good way to get our creative juices flowing at the beginning of 2014.  Alright, here it is:  I'm challenging y'all (and myself) to write a story off of a Bible verse.  What do I mean by that?  Simply, pick a verse and write a story that gets that verse across to the reader.  You can pick any verse you want.  If you can, try to have the story done by the end of January.  I realize that some of y'all are very busy (such as I am) and may have trouble getting it done by then.  If you can't, don't worry.  Just post it whenever you are finished.  Have fun!

Our Sentences!

Here are our first sentences to our "future famous novels."  See if you can guess to whom each belongs!


1. A gentle breeze, a soft blue sky, and the cold, rigid blade of a knife pressed against my neck was how it began.


2. I lay in the meadow, my arms spread wide, embracing the sorrow I had suppressed for over a hundred years.


3. The sun rose brilliantly above the tangled vines and branches of the southern Venezuela jungle, illuminating the rugged beauty of the vibrantly living ecosystem.  The rays of sunshine not only brought light to the waking jungle, but they also revealed the diligent pursuit of a ravenous tiger who was about to pounce on his target, 
a lone fourteen year old boy...


4. I had always thought I was simply a normal kid but the older I get the more I grow to realize just how blessed I was to not be normal.

Challenge!

I've been thinking for quite awhile that we need to do another challenge; but everyone seems to be so busy and out of energy, that I've been hesitant to post one. Finally I thought today, "Who says we have to write whole stories for a challenge? Why not just a paragraph? Or maybe even a sentence?"

So here's the challenge: Pretend like you're writing the first sentence to a future famous novel. Choose your words carefully! You want it to hook your readers right away. Remember: Just one sentence! Try to send them to me by September 7th. I'll post our sentences together.

Where Fire Blazes - Part 5

We are finally nearing the climax. Click on the links below to read previous parts.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

I awoke to a pounding headache and a terrible nausea. Something covered my head, blocking out light and fresh air. I tried to move my arms and legs, but rough rope bound me to a splintered pole. Panic surged through my body. Someone tugged slightly on the ropes, tightening their hold. I heard a groan behind me, and the ropes relaxed a bit. It dawned on me that someone else was tied behind me. I could barely hear their panicked breathing. Perhaps it was Hajile. For some reason that momentarily eased my panic, but the steady beat of drums broke the last bit of calm I had.

“Hajile!” I tried to scream through the bag on my head. My cry was drowned out as the drum beats increased their pace. Just as suddenly as they had begun, they stopped. Silence smothered the atmosphere.

“People of Airamas,” a loud nasally voice finally spoke. “Laab has spoken to me in a dream, and insisted that his gifts from you have not been enough. Thus he has commanded that your crops will fail unless you surely sacrifice two children to pay for your lack of appreciation.” A murmur rippled through the crowd. The speaker paused for a moment, allowing his words to sink in. “But you have no need to worry. The priests have searched and acquired two orphans for the sacrifice. All you must do is watch as Laab's wrath is lifted from your shoulders.”

Joyous shouts rang through the air. “Laab be praised!” a man shouted.

“Long live King Adar,” another shouted.

“Silence!” the King yelled. “Let the sacrifice begin.”

The bag was jerked from my head. I blinked a few times, allowing my eyes to adjust to the afternoon sun. A huge crowd of townspeople surrounded me, whispering to each other and pointing. King Adar stood proudly on a temporary platform erected behind them. Queen Isabella and her head priests stood beside him. I heard someone rip a bag from my companion's head also. “Hajile?” I asked, twisting my head to the side.

“Hidi? Is that you?” A young man's voice replied.

“Viho! You're alive!”

“Not for long.”

My joy faded. “What are they going to do to us?” I whispered.

“I don't know.”

I longed to reach for his hand, just to touch him once more before we died; but the ropes wouldn't budge. At least we would die together. There had been times when we were so hungry and cold that I had wished I was dead; but now with death glaring in my face along with a bunch of sick-minded people, life sounded so much sweeter. Was death the end of all things? Or would Viho and I be together in a different place? And would this place be good or bad?

The drums again began their mournful beat, my heart pounding in time with them. Another beating joined the rhythm, this one filling the sky. I jerked my head up. Black, winged beasts dove for the ground. The people backed away nervously. Each dragon landed beside another, forming a complete circle around Viho and I. Some of the beasts clawed at the ground. Others released tiny puffs of smoke into the air. The apparent leader of the dragons was larger than the rest. His beady eyes stared directly into mine, sending shivers down my back. An eager flame seemed to dance in his eyes. I gulped. My search for the Ring of Fire was over. I had found it at last; and I was standing right in the middle of it.