Friday Fiction: Such a Time

Fellow writers,

Do you have dozens (or more) fits and story-starts in your writing file? I have more than I can remember writing. I was scrolling through my files today looking for something to share for Fiction Friday, and didn't recognize "Such a Time". I vaguely remember writing it, but I have no idea where I was going. Reading this snippet for what seemed like the first time, I realized it might be able to stand alone as a very flashy flash fiction, along the lines of Jan's "100 Words" series (but more like 175 words.) Or I might expand it .... some day. :)

Such a Time

Abigail shaded her eyes and searched the sky for a hint of a cloud, any small sign that the Lord would bless them with rain today. The clear blue morning seemed to mock her prayers; the devil’s laughter came disguised as sunshine.

She carried the dented tin bucket to the creek, hoping that she’d be able to fill it at the wade-in without trekking another quarter mile to the murky pool in the hollows. Without rain, the creek had grown thinner and stingier each day, much like her meager garden… and her mood.

It did no good to lament clear, cool water easily obtained with a few pumps of a handle and food she could collect from the market instead of from the sweat of her brow. Those days were behind her, as were company calling daily, socials in the square, and worshipping behind solid walls and stained glass. As were her family and her friends.

Michael should be home by sunset. She prayed he would bring with him a letter from home.

~~~

Yeah, that's it. *smile*.

But there is more reading to be read at Sara's blog today! Come check it out at

Friday blessings,
Cat

Friday Fiction: The Year the Magic Died

I'm very late for Fiction Friday, and this isn't even fiction... except where my early childhood memories might be jumbled. This vignette of Christmases past was inspired by the Faithwriters.com challenge topic "Curiosity killed the cat", and had I started writing before bedtime the night before it was due, I might have turned it into something more.

Vonnie (Yvonne Blake) is our lovely and loving hostess for Fiction Friday this week. Drop by My Back Porch to read her story about a different kind of turkey, plus follow links to more original writing. And don't be shy - add your own link!

The Year the Magic Died

Memories...

A tiny me, sitting in my big sister’s lap. She’s saying, “Santa brings us presents on Christmas because that’s how he celebrates Jesus’ birthday.” I wonder at the logic of that, and decide it makes sense.

A slightly less tiny me, sitting in my big sister’s lap. She’s explaining, “Mom’s handwriting is on the tags because Santa doesn’t label them.  But Mom knows who the presents are for, and she puts tags on them.”  I don’t question that answer. It makes sense to me.

An excited little me, snuggled in bed with my big sister. She’s hushing me. “Santa has a lot of houses to visit, and a lot of presents to deliver. How can his sleigh hold them all? He came early and put some of ours in the storeroom. Now be very quiet so he won’t know you hear him. Pretend you’re asleep.” And pretty soon I was.

A little bit bigger me, in the den with my big brothers. One of them brags, “I bet we can guess what Santa is going to bring you for Christmas. We’ll write it down to prove we’re right.” On Christmas day, we all looked, and their predictions proved true for both my little sister and me. At first I was amazed, then I grew skeptical.

A slightly older and taller me, in the den with my big brothers. One of them confides, “Our Christmas presents are in the storeroom.”  I knew I shouldn’t, and I didn’t… for a while. But then I did. I snuck in and I snooped. And then I knew the truth. I mean, I kinda knew before, but now I really knew.  And on Christmas morning, when I saw those same presents under the tree, I felt like the magic of Christmas died.

An even bigger me, huddled behind closed doors with Mom. “Will you help me wrap some presents?” She knew that I knew, and the magic of Christmas was reborn as I gleefully and giddily wrapped presents from “Santa” for my little sister. Later that night, we read one of my favorite Christmas storybooks about animals at the Nativity. On Christmas morning, I smiled when I sat that “Santa” had added my name to a couple of the tags on my sister’s presents.

And the real magic of Christmas lived on.

Friday Fiction: Scurvy Sue and the Quest for Abundant Treasure

Ahoy, Mateys! 'Tis a most glorious day in Georgia! Perfect weather for International Talk Like a Pirate Day! Sweet Sara Harricharan is hosting Fiction Friday today - she's got the linky thing on her blog if you'd like to join the fun!

This family-friendly, pirate adventure bubbled out of my imagination while brainstorming and outlining possible creative directions and Biblical lessons for my church's own "The Pirates of the I-Don't-Carrribean VBS (Vacation Bible School) a couple of years ago. We stepped out of the box - the box of curriculum and the box of expectation, and created something new. Thanks, Mr. Blake, for the inspiration.

_______________

Scurvy Sue and the Quest for Abundant Treasure

Scurvy Sue scurried up the gangplank, clutching her leather satchel to her bosom. "Pete! Joe-Joe!" Her boot-falls echoed through the Merry Marauder as she ran pell-mell across the scarred wooden deck.

A burly man crashed through the door from the hold, sword drawn and eyes on fire. "What scallywags be on yer tail, me girl? I'll take their sorry heads off."

"Ye like t'take me own head off, ye oaf. Watch where ye be swingin' that saber. Ye surely be dubbed correctly, Perilous Pete."

A barking laugh nearly made Sue drop the satchel. She peered around Pete's massive bulk to see Joe-Joe hitching up his breeches.

"There ye be Jolly Joe. Not everythin's a laughin' matter."

"We all be carryin' monikers t'fit us, Scurvy Sue." Joe-Joe sniffed her and winced. "Now, what be causin' this ruckus if yer not bein' hounded by no-good landlubbers?"

"Treasure," Sue whispered, eyes darting left and right. She leaned closer, patting her worn bag. "I found a map."

"Shiver me timbers!" Pete roared. "Up anchor, hoist the sails. Let's be heavin' ho!"

"Quiet yer trap," Sue hissed. "We got some decodin' t'do first."

Safely behind closed doors, Sue laid her satchel on the wobbling table. "I might o'been misleadin' ye a wee bit. 'Tis not a picture map. More like a word map. But I snatched the decodin' book, too."

Pete's eyes flared, but Joe-Joe stopped him with a smirk.

Sue pulled a yellowed page from her bag. "This be the map. See that at the top? The Road to Abundant Treasure."

Pete scowled. "Don't be lookin' like no road t'me. It' be lookin' like a lot o'words. An' we don't travel by road, we sail the seas. What be the meanin' o'these letters an' numbers?"

"It's some secret code. But look here." Sue took a thick, leather-bound book out of her satchel.

Joe-Joe's eyes widened at the golden words on the cover. "Holy Bible. That missionary ship we looted had some o'em. Where'd ye pilfer this?"

"Big fancy church. I thought t'find some doubloons lyin' 'round."

"Looky here, twas written by the late King himself. Thar's his moniker." A giggle burbled from Joe-Joe's throat. "Kings surely know where treasure's hidden, arrr?"

"Arrr, Joe-Joe. Me thoughts ezactly. That be why I took it. The map was inside." Sue crossed her arms and stood her full 5'2". "So let's be crackin' the code."

The three sat and bumped their dirty heads together over the documents.

"Gadzooks, Sue. Can ye back off a bit? Yer stench be stingin' me nostrils." Pete rubbed his nose. "Here, ye take the book, an' Joe-Joe the map. I'll do the thinkin'."

Sue snorted, but chose not to mention that besides, he couldn't read. "Right then. Joe-Joe, what be the first clue?"

"Romans 3 23. Looks like lots of 'em be startin' with Romans."

Sue gasped. "Blimey! This frontish page holds a list o'names an' suches. One o'em be Romans. There be a number aside o'it too, but I think it be a page number." She flipped through the thick book and found the right place. "Arrrr, there be numbers all through this writin'. What be the rest o'that clue?"

"3 an' 23."

Sue bent closer, scanning the lines with her finger. "Aha!  I think I cracked the code! Listen t'this: 'For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.'"

Pete smacked the table. "Arrrr. We be pirates. 'Course we be sinnin'."

"But it said "ALL have sinned." Joe-Joe said. His puzzled face didn't erase his steady smile. "That'd include priests an' the good king hisself. Let's gander at the next one. Sue, find Romans 5 an' 8"

She flipped through a few pages, and scanned the text. "It says, "But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.' Well, that don't be makin' much sense."

Pete scowled. "I be thinkin' we ain't close t'no treasure yet."

On and on they deciphered clues. With each code, Sue's eyes grew softer, her face brighter, and her smile wider.

"Scurvy Sue, ye be grinnin' like Jolly Joe. If ye've figured where 'bouts t'set our compass, attest an' let's heave off. Thar be treasure awaitin'!"

"Me thinks I was mistaken."

Pete sprang up, sending his chair crashing over. "Arrrr! Ya mean t'say thar's no treasure?"

"Oh, thar be treasure alrighty. But it's not out thar. The treasure's in here." She thumped her fist against her chest.

Joe-Joe nodded. "I'm thinkin ye might be right, me curvy wench. Back t'the church?"

"Aye. Back t'the church. T'find someone t'explain this abundant treasure we've discovered."

(c) Catrina Bradley 2012

ba1969

_______________

Catrina Bradley

"God rewrote the text of my life when I opened the book of my heart to his eyes." 
Psalm 18:24 (The Message)

Friday Fiction: Play Me That Tiger Rag

Fiction Friday is at home with sweet Sara today -
be sure to visit her awesome blog, Fiction Fusion,
to find the Linky tool and join the fiction fun!!

I am not a fan of football, but I tolerate it for those I love. I've even been known to have fun watching a game. And being there in person is always a good time. This little ditty is in celebration of college football opening weekend, and in honor of my husband's alma mater. The setting and characters are real, but the rest is all fiction. Have fun!

Play Me That Tiger Rag

"The game you're attending
Depends on one hue;
Wear it; proclaim it,
At all costs to you.

"Do not don a t-shirt
Of red or of black!
You must wear the Orange
Or risk an attack.

"The Tigers of Clemson
Are king of this day;
The orange and purple -
They WILL have their way!"

I scoured my closet;
A tiger I sought;
The closest to orange --
A pale apricot.

(I did this because it's
My husband's one passion.
I rarely buy orange, see
It's not quite my fashion.)

I put on the t-shirt
And strode to the kitchen;
Where hubby awaited
Just itchin' to pitch in.

Although I'd been told,
and my brain is not lame,
I listened with poise
As he told me again:

"The snacks and the drinks,
Hon, they cannot be scorned;
Be clever; inventive!
Pumpkin pie! Candy corn!

"Is it orange? Then yes,
It will be most accepted.
Bring Cheetoes, Doritos.
Faux pas? Soon detected."

Do I need reminding
Of consequence grim,
If I make a fool of
Big tiger fan him?

On this, my first trip
To his old college haunts,
He'll not be subjected
To his buddy's taunts.

We can't take my car,
See, it's bright cherry-red,
So we pack up his pick-up;
It's full steam ahead.

Stuck to his truck with
Mechanical claws
Are flags of bright orange
Decked out with white paws.

We pull in the lot
To a welcome of cheers;
His friends are all jumping
And waving their beers

Hubby hops out and
Heads straight for our ice chest
While I contemplate
If I failed my first test.

I open my door and
Step out on the dirt,
Straighten my shoulders
And smooth out my shirt.

One look at his face
When he pulls from the ice
A bright can of soda
Says this won't be nice.

"Um, honey, is this
What you brought us to drink?
What were you thinking?
Did you even think?

"This is football, a tailgate!
Have you lost your mind?
I knew that I should have
Just left you behind."

I take a deep breath
And I say, "But my dear,
You gave me instructions;
You made them quite clear.

"I see that you're mad,
But I know you're no lush.
You said just one hue
So I brought Orange Crush."

***

Friday Fiction: Child-Sized Armor

Welcome back to Friday Fiction!

Today's hostess is Yvonne (Vonnie) Blake. I love her blog, My Back Door, and I think you will too. Please pop by

, say hello

, and read some awesomely creative fiction! You can join the Friday Fiction Fun by posting a link to a piece you've written. Read, enjoy, and please leave some feedback for the writers! 

I got distracted by life again this week, and let Friday Fiction sneak up on me. I can't wait to get back into the routine!  Anyway, I unearthed another golden oldie (from 2009) to share with you today at the last minute. I hope you enjoy it 

Love you all!
God bless,
Cat

---

Child-Sized Armor

The new workers were as nervous as fresh-born foals: eyes wide and darting; steps timid and halting. The factory foreman chewed the cigar stub jutting from the corner of his mouth and estimated their worth as they filed in

Jonas didn't completely dislike hiring kiddies. If they could do the job, they could make him money. And if not, they went back home to Mama.

Most of the tykes could be trained to do the simple tasks required, and those who couldn't either weren't grown up enough for their age (Jonas picked off those weaklings easily); or their learning abilities fell below the standard required (their parents were encouraged to seek special education).


**


Sylvia bowed over the small sacks. Each one held an egg-salad sandwich, an apple from the orchard, and a fresh-baked oatmeal-raisin cookie, and was marked "LUNCH" in either pink or blue crayon.

Lord, I'm glad I can do this simple thing. Please bless each boy and girl with nourishment to their bodies and their spirits. Amen

Into each sack she slipped a scrap of paper. The sacks with pink crayon got the following words: "For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works." The sacks marked with blue got: "And whatsoever ye do, do heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men."

Sylvia breathed one last prayer and rolled the tops down.


**


Jonas looked up from his paperwork to eye the huge round clock on the factory wall. Time to do a check. Gotta reinforce the rules while the brats are still green.

Especially those Nielson brats.

He couldn't decide if the girl would drag her brother down into her well of self pity, or if he would pull his sister up with his stubborn tenacity. The boy could be a good worker if he'd focus more on the line and less on the pathetic crybaby.


**


Sylvia settled each sack lunch into her shopping bag then toted her burden to the 13th Street trolley stop.


**

A scowl was Jonas' answer to Sylvia's timid knock on the frame of his open door.

Sylvia lifted the bag. "You know the new children might not have lunch."

"Bah. Spoiling the brats, you are."

"We can't fault them for not knowing on their first day, can we? It's just this once, Jonas. And they'll work better fed than hungry."

The noon whistle shrieked and the assembly line rumbled to a halt. Jonas lumbered to his office door and hollered out, "Lunch break. Twenty minutes."

The conglomeration of ragamuffins staggered to their feet and stretched their cramped muscles. The new ones looked to each other with fear and uncertainty. Only a few had brought a crust of bread and some cheese, or a scrap left over from last night's meager supper, wrapped up in a handkerchief.

Sylvia sought out the hungry and distributed her offering, along with a soft word and a stroke to matted hair or a gentle hug to a tiny unwashed body.

Jonas watched her until the last sack was handed out and she was on her way. He then retreated to his office to spy on the brats through the door and eat his roast beef and freshly baked bread.

He didn't exactly approve of his wife's charity, but he found malicious satisfaction watching the newbies open their gifts. Most tore into the food, leaving the silly scrap of paper with the rest of the rubbish. A few took their time, seemingly in wonderment of what they held.

The Nielson brats were different. First out of the sacks came the scraps of paper, and before they even looked at the sandwiches or sniffed the apples, they read the words Sylvia had printed, traded papers to read each other's, and then traded back read their own again.

"Bah. Blabber-jabber is all that is." Jonas redirected his attention to the food in front of him and his thoughts to putting his feet up tonight.

Out on the factory floor, the Nielson children joined hands in prayer.

Outside the factory door, Sylvia paused to pray.


**


Another shrill whistle signaled the end of the break, and Jonas scanned the floor to make sure the brats all hurried back to work.

Especially the Nielson brats.

His eyes widened, then narrowed as he watched the tiny girl square her shoulders and set to task with new determination and confidence, and the boy actually grin and work faster.

What in the world did that woman put in the egg salad today?


**


Scripture KJV
Eph 2:10
Col 3:23

Friday Fiction: Choose Wisely

Sara is our host for Friday Fiction today - you'll find links to some awesome (quick) reading on her Fiction Fusion blog.

Friday Fiction is BACK! I'm so excited! I don't have anything new to share, but I wanted to take part. This is an old (2009!) FaithWriters challenge entry I brushed off for today. A allegory, I guess you would call it. Thanks for reading! Comments of critique (or praise :) ) are welcome.

Love
Cat

Chose Wisely

The dark squeezed Katie like a vice. Behind her, somewhere, an orchestra of wails and screeches created a symphony of terror that chased her onward. She didn’t know what horror was concealed in the inky murk, what could be making those sounds, but she knew she had to escape. Tethers of fear constricted her lungs, but her feet propelled her. Her arms scrabbled into the black air as she careened forward over the cobbled surface.

Her outstretched hands met a wall, and her frantic fingers traced the outline of a door.

The icy doorknob burned Katie’s clammy palm, but she gripped it like a life preserver nonetheless. Her sweaty hand slipped on the metal knob as twisted it, and she yanked the door open. Blinding light flooded the passageway, and she threw her forearm across her eyes before lurching through the doorway. Her lungs were freed from their tethers, and she sucked in sweet, fresh air, then released it with a groan and a whimper. In and out. Again and again she filled, and emptied, her aching lungs. Behind her was blessed silence, her unseen tormenters banished by the light.

The door swung closed behind her.

When her eyes grew accustomed to the light and she was able to take in her surroundings, she sank to her knees and wailed.

This was where her nightmare flight through the dark had begun. She was back where she had started.

The room was circular and empty, save for the gleaming, throne-like structure in the center, and its occupant. The light permeated every corner leaving nary a shadow. She could see no source for the brilliance illuminating the burnished floor and opalescent walls; instead, it seemed to be emanating from the one seated on the throne. The one who had sent her on her trek through that hellish tunnel.

No, I sent you not. You chose your own way.

Katie gasped at the intrusion into her thoughts. She sprang to her feet and thrust a finger toward him. “You tricked me!”

How so? I simply gave you a choice. His kind eyes were clouded with sorrow.

“Some choice. Who wouldn’t have picked Door Number One?” she said, turning and gestured toward the shimmering door she had just stumbled through. Light prismed off its bejeweled surface like a beacon, beguiling her, seducing her again to seek out what treasures it might conceal.

Before Katie could take a step in answer to its siren call, His hand embraced her arm, filling her body with warmth and her mind with sudden clarity.

Do you truly want to return there? I say to you again, choose wisely. Take heed: things are not always as they outwardly appear.

Her chin fell to her chest and her eyes squinched closed.

Look at me, Katie, and listen closely. How many times have you chosen that way?

She jerked her head up to look at Him, finally. “How many times? What’re you…?”

This is not your first test.

“I don’t…” Her indignance was choked off by a surge of visions. Visions that didn’t make sense, but evoked familiar emotions...familiar fears. Evil chasing her through sunny, wide-open gateways and into darkness beyond, talons clawing into her, infecting her, with guilt, despair, melancholy. Hideous laughter echoing in her ears and her heart. And of herself, never stopping, never giving in, never giving up. And always returning for more.

“I don’t remember…”

No, you remember those trials differently. You did not have my eyes, but now you see what I remember.

Katie pressed her palms to her eyes and fell to the floor. “Make it stop!”

I am able to stop your visions for you, but only you can stop me from seeing them. Only you can.

Katie’s mind was next flooded with minutiae of her past: shunning the stuttering new girl in 7th grade in order to be popular; not stopping her 12th grade boyfriend when he said, “If you love me you will;” accepting the corporate position with a fancy-schmancy hotel because it came with a tidy salary and her own office, instead of following her dream to open a homeless shelter and soup kitchen.

Deep in her consciousness, Katie heard His words echo, like an unremembered memory tickling her mind.

I offer you a choice. Two doors. Choose wisely.

She turned and cast a longing gaze at the bejeweled door, then circled around to view its counterpart on the opposite side of the circle. This door’s frame was narrow, and peeling paint adorned its weathered boards. Its doorknob and hinges were rusted from disuse. Katie was sure she saw light flickering through the keyhole.

She turned to look again at her new friend. “You said you’ll go with me?”

I’ll never leave you.

Katie took a faltering step toward the creaky old door…then another. When she looked back, for the first time, the Man was not seated on His throne. He was standing at her side, smiling.


(c) 2012

_______________

Catrina Bradley
"God rewrote the text of my life when I opened the book of my heart to his eyes." Psalm 18:24 (Msg)

In the Throes of Nonsensical Hysteritude

IN THE THROES OF NONSENSICAL HYSTERITUDE

(A work of fiction by the mother of the bride-to-be)

May 19, 2013


My darling daughter,

You simply must forgive me.

Surely you of all people know I how treasured the anticipation that drove my adrenaline to levels dangerously high as the months, weeks and days leading to the moment you were to wed your life's love; your soul mate; your other half, crept along, snuck up, then suddenly, without warning, sprang upon me and caught me inexplicably unaware. Quite simply put: when the moment finally arrived, I was overcome.

That my inappropriate and unfortunately-timed breakdown betwixt the Pastor's pronouncement of holy matrimony and your blessed first kiss caused such disruption mortifies me to no end, but when the wailing ambulance sirens eclipsed the Pastor's oratory, and the flashing red lights strobed through the thrown open doors and illuminated your white bridal roses, I fainted dead away for your reputation's sake, thus causing even a greater stir.

I can never atone for preceding you down your own marriage aisle, albeit lying prone and unconscious upon a stretcher, but I pray you will allow me to proceed once again into your presence that I may enjoy the company of my beloved daughter and my new son.

Your ever loving and beseechingly humble,
Mother


Author's note to her darling daughter: No worries, my love. I don't truly foresee this happening. As long as I remember to take my medication.... mwahahahahahahaaha!!!

Catrina Bradley
"God rewrote the text of my life when I opened the book of my heart to his eyes." Psalm 18:24 (Msg)

Invitation (Fiction for Friday)

When tasked with writing a story for the topic "Banquet", I could think of no other feast than the Wedding Banquet of the Lamb. And I tried, believe me. It was my first thought, and it was accompanied by a favorite Bible School song from my childhood titled (what else?) The Wedding Banquet (aka I Cannot Come). Along with the persistent earworm, my Bible reading happened to take me through the Scriptures about the Wedding. The persistent earworm split, broke into beautiful harmony, and started broadcasting in stereo.

All this time, I was eking out a story. It was a pretty good idea, but then I came to a wall. I brainstormed with a buddy, and instead of no direction, I now had three. And I tried following each of them, but nothing seemed right. I'm tenacious, though, and was DETERMINED to finish SOMETHING and enter the "Banquet" writing challenge.

It was when I cried out to God the night before the 10am deadline, and told Him I only wanted to write what He wanted, but I was stuck and I couldn't go on unless He was in it. Then I sat, and was still before the Lord for a time (not easy for me). But my wandering mind took me to "What would a person wear to the Wedding Banquet, anyway?"

Why, "The Cloak of Righteousness" of course. And what does that look like? Then I saw the most beautiful thing unfold in my mind's eye. I hope I did justice to the vision God gave me, and that you are blessed.

INVITATION

Although she was very aware of his reputation, Lydia had never actually met him. That she would be asked to dine with him? The thought had never crossed her mind. But he issued the invitation himself--in person. And Lydia giddily accepted.

"I'll be hosting a banquet soon," he'd said, "and it would bring me great pleasure if you would be my guest. I have a place at my table reserved for you." His chocolaty eyes had melted her insides, and she was assured of his sincerity.

When she'd said yes, joy lit up his face, and he drew a folded garment from his coat. "My gift to you," he'd said, and let the small bundle unfurl to the ground in a shimmering cloud of pure white. "I pray you'll wear it to the banquet." He'd slipped the cloak over Lydia's shoulders, and she'd felt lighter, as if the weightless cloth was lifting her. She'd looked into his face and was ready to follow him anywhere.

"Soon," he said, "I'll be back to collect you. I can't say exactly when, but I hope you'll wait."

In the decades since his visit, Lydia had fallen about as far as a person could fall. Her descent from the suburbs to the streets was slow but steady, and now the only thing that remained of that giddy young lady with fanciful hopes and naive beliefs was her precious gift from him.

She ran her hand over the now dingy and stained cloak, its shimmer worn dull from years of serving as her backpack and grocery sack. It had kept her warm on many cold nights and cushioned her head on warm ones. She had misused it, but always appreciated its usefulness.

She didn't need a mirror to know her reflection would show the same ravages of time and trial, but Lydia had stopped worrying about the wrinkles, stains, and wear on both of them long ago; she was pretty sure homeless ex-prostitutes weren't welcome at his table.

Now, lo and behold, here he stood again. Even in the shadowy, dark space behind the dumpster she'd chosen as her shelter, she could see that his eyes hadn't changed. She started having that nice, melty feeling and looked away, embarrassed.

"Come, Lydia," he said, and held out his hand. "It's time for the banquet."

Lydia's tongue felt stuck in her throat. "But Sir, surely you don't still want me to...?"

"But surely I do! Your place at the table is ready and waiting. Come," he said, and he smiled.

"Your other guests, Sir. What will they say? I'm...?"

"Lydia, you are the guest I'm concerned about."

"Oh, but the cloak, Sir. I've ruined it. I'm so sorry. How can I...?"

"Ruined, is it? Rise, my good woman. Come out into the light. Let us see." He took Lydia's hand and pulled her to her feet, letting the cloak fall to makeshift cardboard pallet.

"Sir, I'm so ashamed. It's more than the cloak that I've ruined. I cannot come. I'm no longer worthy." Lydia could only look as high as his feet.

"Yes. You are." He picked up the cloak and led Lydia to the puddle of light from a street lamp. Shaking out the cloak, he said, "And look, your cloak isn't ruined either."

Lydia gasped to see the cloth radiating with diaphanous beauty once again. He wrapped the cloak around her shoulders and lifted her chin. She finally looked full in his face. No, he hadn't changed at all.

"Come," he said, "and take your rightful place at my table. The banquet can't begin without you."


**

© 2012

Catrina Bradley
"God rewrote the text of my life when I opened the book of my heart to his eyes." Psalm 18:24 (The Message)

Friday Fiction: In a Pinch

Sara is our host for Friday Fiction today - you'll find links to some awesome (quick) reading on her Fiction Fusion blog.

After a long dry spell, I entered the FaithWriters writing challenge again! Yay!! My fun story for the "Potluck" topic didn't score well with the judges, but the readers loved it. I hope you enjoy it as well.

_______________

In a Pinch

Candy's phone call threw Maggie into a tizzy, but she managed not to drive off the highway and to cover her consternation with aplomb. "Sure, Candy, of course I remember the potluck tonight." Maggie swallowed. "Yes, Josh and I will be there with bells on."

Maggie did remember. It was written in her datebook – for next week. A glance at the dashboard clock told her she'd better speed up a little.

Kicking off her heels as she bolted in the door, Maggie flung her keys in the general direction of the hall table. She flew to the kitchen, threw open a cabinet door and frantically shoved cans of carrots and corn out of the way. She spied her prize and plucked two cans of BeeBee's Baked Beans from the back of the shelf.

Thank you Mama K. for your side dish sermons.

The elder Kleinsdorf women, from generations before Maggie's mother-in-law, have preached the same lesson to the young women who marry their sons. “Always be prepared in a pinch.”

Maggie's signature “pinch dish” was her own Grandma's barbeque beans. ­Although I don't think canned beans was the type of thing Mama K had in mind when she admonished her daughters-in-law.

Maggie smiled, thinking of how folks back home had always crooned over Grandma's beans and clamored for the recipe. But this wasn't Foster's Hollow, and these weren't her folks. And beans didn't sound all that special anymore. What do church ladies bring to potlucks in the city?

Knowing she was fresh out of caviar and lobster, Maggie scanned her selection of canned goods and frozen foods, checked her watch, and, taking into consideration her limited options and the ticking clock, made the only logical choice.

Despite the recipe's name, Maggie had never made Company Carrots for anyone other than Josh. Her quick-dinner canned version cut the cooking time from 35 minutes to five. She prayed it would still be appropriate for company.

Maggie hoped she and Josh could saunter in nonchalantly and she could make a break for the kitchen. Her plan was foiled when a flurry flew at her as soon as they cleared the social hall doorway.

"Maggie!” Candy squealed. “And Josh, so glad you could come. Randy's over there talking football with the guys; he'd love a fellow Tech fan to back up his trash talk. Maggie, do you need the microwave? What did you bring? Please don't say beans. I love beans but we are overrun with them tonight. But if you did, it's ok.” Candy snagged the dish from Maggie's hands. “Come on, let's go to the kitchen.”

Maggie sent a pitiful look Josh's way, but he just smiled and gave her a thumbs-up as he made his way to the gaggle of men. She had no choice but to follow in Candy's weaving wake through the islands of people.

“I'm sorry,” Candy threw over her shoulder, “I didn't give you a chance to answer. I'm bad about that. Do you need to use the microwave?”

“Yes, please,” Maggie blurted out before she lost her nerve. They breezed past the buffet on the way to the kitchen, and she saw that Candy hadn't been exaggerating. Beans of all shapes, sizes, and flavors populated the long row of folding tables. In addition to five varieties of baked beans she saw three-bean salads, chickpea salads, Lima beans, butter beans, black beans, red beans and rice, succotash, and several obligatory green bean casseroles.

“So,” Candy said, bursting through the kitchen door ahead of her, “whatcha got?”

Maggie was stunned at the bustle of women, plus a few men, stirring tea, scooping ice, wrapping silverware, and otherwise making last minute preparations. They look kinda like me—harried and hurried. But they don't look panicked. They're...laughing.

“Maggie? The microwave's over here. What did you bring?”

“Oh, uh, carrots. It's not much really, but it's one of our favorite dishes.”

Candy was actually silent for a few seconds before she squealed and said, “Carrots? Oh bless you! Like I said, beans are good, but a person's digestive system can only take so much. Not to mention the ventilation system. Emma! Are those your famous baked beans you're about to nuke? Yum! But we've already got some on the table--can we save yours? Maggie brought carrots!”



(c) 2012

_______________

Friday Fiction: To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Friday Fiction today is morphing into Saturday Stories this week. Hey, it's summer. You understand, right? Sara is our host - you'll find links to some awesome (quick) reading on her Fiction Fusion blog.

Hello friends! It's been a dreamy spring day in Georgia. Yes, it's hot, but not too hot to enjoy the great outdoors, a.k.a., my back yard. Yes, it's been a Happy Friday!



Have you ever wished you could record your dreams? So did Georgia, but unlike you and me, she could do something about it. Intrigued? Read on....

_______________

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Georgia turned off the bedside light and curled onto left her side, snugging the rough blanket up under her chin. She doubled the thin pillow under her head and tucked her hands under her cheek. As sleep crept up on her, her right index finger curled around her ear and pressed the button under her skin. A green light glowed on the wireless monitor beside her bed, and Somniare started downloading.

Somniare was Georgia’s brainchild. She was its first test subject, and she allowed no one else access to the data dumps retrieved each morning. Her falling-asleep thoughts and her dreams were too private to share unedited. Her colleagues watched her through the two-way mirror and listened to her night noises on the audio, but they didn’t have clearance to access the Somniare files. Some of the videos were disturbing and confused Georgia herself; she couldn’t imagine how someone else might react were they to see the product of her subconscious.

At first glance, the pre-REM text files read like pages of stream-of-conscience run-on paragraphs of gibberish. But when Georgia ran a key-word indexing program on the text, patterns began to emerge. When she compared her findings to the dream videos and audio tracks from the REM sleep stages that followed, a direct correlation between the two became evident.

Why this so-called discovery should excite her, she didn’t know. Anyone with half a brain could have deduced those results without years of research and sleepless nights and praying for the grant to be renewed – again. Maybe knowing something was one thing, but PROVING it was another thing entirely. Maybe it was the first step toward her ultimate, but unspoken, dream.

If her colleagues knew what really motivated her to make this dive into uncharted waters and surface with the prize, they probably wouldn’t be such loyal mates. In all likelihood, they’d petition the university for her transfer to the psych department—as a patient.

Everyone is curious about their dreams. Everyone forgets most of their dreams. Who wouldn’t want to be able to watch a video of what happened in their head for the eight hours they were unconscious? And that brilliant idea that floated underneath the fog of almost-asleep? The one that jolted you awake and you swore to remember the next day? Who wouldn’t want to be able to click on an icon and retrieve a transcript of your pre-sleep revelations the next morning?

Grants for her project didn’t fall into her lap, but perseverance paid off. Up until now, Georgia was able to keep Somniare funded long enough to complete the research and develop a prototype. The university agreed to let her use one the sleep labs, and tonight was her fifth (and final, if her grant wasn’t renewed) date with Somniare.

Georgia was sure sleep would be long coming, but she hadn’t wanted to skew the data by introducing drugs into her system tonight. Dwelling on Somniare was probably influencing her dreams, too, and the knowledge that these very thoughts were being recorded never fully faded.

She rolled onto her right side, plumped her pillow, and did her best to empty her mind and paint a dark, blank canvas over her mind’s eye.

What Georgia truly feared was scaring him away. The man who came to her while she slept and left her with just a vague idea of what he looked like. He’d been a reoccurring character in her dreams since she was in a babe in bloomers, but while Georgia grew into a doctor’s lab coat, her Dream Man neither aged nor changed.

She’d failed to dream of him the four previous downloads. Tonight might be her last chance.

On the wavery black screen behind her eyes, she projected her blurry image of her Dream Man. The last thing she remembered before sleep overtook her was his face coming into focus as reached for her.



(c) 2012

_______________

Friday Fiction: Play Me that Tiger Rag

In recognition of National Poetry Month, I'm back with another poem!! I wrote this for the "Orange" challenge at FaithWriters.com, and while it is fiction, it's based on my husbands very real passions for his favorite color and his favorite team. Enjoy!




PLAY ME THAT TIGER RAG

"The game you're attending
Depends on one hue;
Wear it; proclaim it,
At all costs to you.

"Do not don a t-shirt
Of red or of black!
You must wear the Orange
Or risk an attack.

"The Tigers of Clemson
Are king of this day;
The orange and purple -
They WILL have their way!"

I scoured my closet;
A tiger I sought;
The closest to orange --
A pale apricot.

(I did this because it's
My husband's one passion.
I rarely buy orange, see
It's not quite my fashion.)

I put on the t-shirt
And strode to the kitchen;
Where hubby awaited
Just itchin' to pitch in.

Although I'd been told,
and my brain is not lame,
I listened with poise
As he said it again:

"The snacks and the drinks,
Hon, they cannot be scorned;
Be clever; inventive!
Pumpkin pie! Candy corn!

"Is it orange? Then yes,
It will be most accepted.
Bring Cheetoes, Doritos.
Faux pas? Soon detected."

Do I need reminding
Of consequence grim,
If I make a fool of
Big tiger fan him?

On this, my first trip
To his old college haunts,
He can't be subjected
To his buddy's taunts.

We can't take my car,
See, it's bright cherry-red,
So we pack up his pick-up,
It's full steam ahead.

Stuck to his truck with
Mechanical claws
Are flags of bright orange
Decked out with white paws.

We pull in the lot
To a welcome of cheers;
His friends are all jumping
And waving their beers

Hubby hops out and
Heads straight for our ice chest
While I contemplate
If I failed my first test.

I open my door and
Step out on the dirt,
Straighten my shoulders
And smooth out my shirt.

One look at his face
When he pulls from the ice
A bright can of soda
Says this won't be nice.

"Um, honey, is this
What you brought us to drink?
What were you thinking?
Did you even think?

"This is football, a tailgate!
Have you lost your mind?
I knew that I should have
Just left you behind."

I take a deep breath
And I say, "But my dear,
You gave me instructions;
You made them quite clear.

"I see that you're mad,
But I know you're no lush.
You said just one hue
So I brought Orange Crush."


(c) 2010


Be sure to visit Sara at Fiction Fusion for more Friday Fiction!

Catrina Bradley
"God rewrote the text of my life when I opened the book of my heart to his eyes." Psalm 18:24 (Msg)

Friday Fiction: "Scurvy Sue and the Quest for Abundant Treasure"

Ahoy, Mateys! It's a glorious day in Georgia. Creation is springing to life in full technicolor, and the pollen count is down. Yes, it's a Happy Friday!

Rick is hosting Friday Fiction today at Pod Tales and Ponderings.
He's got the linky-thingy on his blog. Come on over!

This family-friendly, pirate adventure bubbled out of my imagination while brainstorming and outlining possible creative directions and Biblical lessons for my church's upcoming, original VBS (Vacation Bible School.) We're stepping out of the box this summer - the box of curriculum and the box of expectation, and creating something new. Thanks, Blake, for the inspiration.

_______________

Scurvy Sue and the Quest for Abundant Treasure

Scurvy Sue scurried up the gangplank clutching her leather satchel to her bosom. "Pete! Joe-Joe!" Her boot-falls echoed through the Merry Marauder as she ran pell-mell across the scarred wooden deck.

A burly man crashed through the door from the hold, sword drawn and eyes on fire. "What scallywags be on yer tail, me girl? I'll take their sorry heads off."

"Ye like t'take me own head off, ye oaf. Watch where ye be swingin' that saber. Ye surely be dubbed correctly, Perilous Pete."

Sue started at a barking laugh. She peered around Pete's massive bulk to see Joe-Joe hitching up his britches.

"There ye be Jolly Joe. Not everythin's a laughin' matter."

"We all be carryin' monikers t'fit us, Scurvy Sue." Joe-Joe sniffed the air and chuckled. "Now, what be causin' this ruckus if yer not bein' hounded by no-good landlubbers?"

"Treasure," Sue whispered, eyes darting left and right. She leaned closer, patting her worn satchel. "I found a map."

"Shiver me timbers!" Pete roared. "Up anchor, hoist the sails. Let's be heavin' ho!"

"Quiet yer trap," Sue hissed. "We got some decodin' t'do first."

Safely behind closed doors, Sue laid her satchel on the wobbling table. "I might o'been misleadin' ye a wee bit. 'Tis not a picture map. More like a word map. But I snatched the decodin' book, too."

Pete's eyes flared, but Joe-Joe stopped him with a smirk.

Sue pulled a yellowed page from her bag. "This be the map. See that at the top? The Road to Abundant Treasure."

Pete scowled. "Don't be lookin' like no road t'me. It' be lookin' like a lot o'words. An' we don't travel by road, we sail the seas. What be the meanin' o'these letters an' numbers?"

"Secret code. But look here." Sue drew a thick, leather-bound book from her satchel.

Joe-Joe's eyes widened. "Holy Bible. That missionary ship we looted had some o'em. Where'd ye pilfer this?"

"Big fancy church. Thought t'find some doubloons lyin' 'round."

"Looky here, twas written by the late King himself. Thar's his moniker on the cover." A giggle burbled from Joe-Joe's throat. "Kings surely know where treasure's hidden, arrr?"

"Arrr, Joe-Joe. Me thoughts ezactly. That be why I took it. The map was inside." Sue crossed her arms and stood her full 5'2". "So let's be crackin' the code."

The three sat and put their dirty heads together over the documents.

"Gadzooks, Sue. Can ye back off a bit? Yer stench be stingin' me nostrils." Pete rubbed his nose. "Here, ye take the book, an' Joe-Joe the map. I'll do the thinkin'."

Sue snorted, but chose not to mention he never learned to read. "Right then. Joe-Joe, what be the first clue?"

"Romans 3 23. They all be startin' with Romans."

Sue gasped. "Blimey! This frontish page holds a list o'names an' suches. One o'em be Romans. There be a number aside o'it, but it don't match that'n. I think it be a page number." She flipped through the thick book and found the right place. "Arrrr, there be numbers all through this writin'. I think I cracked the code! What be the rest o'that clue?"

"3 an' 23."

Sue bent closer, scanning the lines with her finger. "Aha! 'For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.'"

Pete smacked the table. "Arrrr. We be pirates. 'Course we be sinnin'."

"But it said "ALL have sinned." Joe-Joe's puzzled face didn't erase his steady smile. "That'd include priests an' the good king hisself. Let's gander at the next one. Romans 5 an' 8"

Sue searched the pages, and found the right place.

"But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.' Well, that don't be makin' much sense."

Pete scowled. "I be thinkin' we ain't close t'no treasure yet."

On and on they deciphered clues. With each code, Sue's eyes grew softer, her face brighter, and her smile wider.

"Scurvy Sue, ye be grinnin' like Jolly Joe. If ye've figured where 'bouts t'set our compass, attest an' let's heave off. Thar be treasure awaitin'!"

"Me thinks I was mistaken."

Pete sprang up, sending his chair crashing over. "Arrrr! Ya mean t'say thar's no treasure?"

"Oh, thar be treasure alrighty. But it's not out thar. The treasure's in here." She thumped her fist against her chest.

Joe-Joe nodded. "Ye might be right, me curvy wench. Back t'the church?"

"Aye. Back t'the church. T'find someone t'explain this abundant treasure we've discovered."
(c) 2012

ba1969

_______________

Catrina Bradley

"God rewrote the text of my life when I opened the book of my heart to his eyes." Psalm 18:24 (Msg)

Friday Fiction: The Video

Hello friends, and happy Friday! The adorable and talented Sara Harricharan is hosting Friday Fiction today at her blog Fiction Fusion. Pop on over and see what she's got up her sleeve today!

_______________

THE VIDEO

The young soldier was ready. Just one more thing to do.

He tilted his laptop so the webcam centered his face on the screen. The worry lines and sad eyes had to go, so he took a breath and composed a smile. One more quick adjustment to his uniform, and he started recording.

***

“Hi Dylan. I hope that’s what your mom ended up naming you, cuz that’s the name we had picked out when I had to tell you goodbye, and that’s who you’ll always be to me.

I wish I could’ve stayed around to find out if you ended up bein’ a girl Dylan or a boy Dylan, but that don’t really matter.

What matters is that you know who I am.

I’m your dad, Dylan, and you’re my kid.

I hate that I’m gonna miss your birthday, an’ that’s why I’m makin’ this. Since I can’t be there in person, I figured this was the next best thing.

So happy birthday, kiddo.


If you’re a girl I'd have thrown you the best party and danced you around the room, laughin at the ribbons bouncin in your hair. I’d plant a kiss on your forehead and wish you happy birthday under a spotlight.

If you’re a boy, I’d have taken you to the ballgame and we’d pig out on hotdogs and peanuts and drink too much Coke. An’ I’d have them spell out “Happy Birthday, Dylan” on the big screen.

Since I can’t do those things, I want you to at least be able to see me an' hear me tell you. I promise I’m thinkin’ ‘bout you right now, whether I'm still fightin' this war somewhere, or I'm in Heaven with Jesus.

I wanna tell you why I had to go, an’ I hope you understand.

See, Dylan, sometimes a person’s got to make a choice. You gotta choose what’s most important for everyone, and you gotta trust that God’ll see you through.

To me, fightin’ to keep our country free is really important.

Fightin’ to keep other people free is just as important.

We got it good here, kiddo. At least we do now. I joined the service to help make sure it stays that way for you. An’ I know that over there there’s a daddy who loves his kids too.

If it means layin’ down my life to save someone else’s...well, I wouldn’t be the first one to do it. I figure yer mom’s raisin’ you to know the Lord, so that’s all I’ll say about that.

Dylan, I love you so much it hurts, even though I've never met you. It’s a good hurt, though. A love hurt.

If you’re a girl, I know you’ll feel that kind of hurt someday. And if you are a boy, I hope you do. I really hope you do, son.

I love you, Dylan. Happy birthday.”

***

The Soldier pressed STOP and wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. After logging onto his web mail, he composed a last love letter to his wife.

***

“My Sweet Dumplin,

You know I hope with all my heart that I’ll be back home with you for good in two years. I’ll be praying for that as long as I’m gone, and I know you will too.

But you also know there’s a chance I won’t come back.

This war won’t be over anytime soon, no matter what the media says. There’s real fighting still going on, and people are still dying.

I made a video, just in case I don’t make it home. It’s for Dylan. I want you to play it for him or her on the day he or she gets here, so my voice will be one of the first ones the kiddo hears. I probably won't be there for birthday number two, so play it for the kiddo then. And on every birthday after that if I’m not there for whatever reason.

I don’t want Dylan to grow up not knowing me.

I love you my Sweet Apple Dumplin. And I’ll never stop. I hope to see you real soon.”

***

He attached the video and scheduled delivery for six months from today. After another swipe at his eyes, the young soldier shut down his computer, and stood to go.

The transport was waiting.

(c) 2011

_______________

Catrina Bradley

"God rewrote the text of my life when I opened the book of my heart to his eyes." Psalm 18:24 (Msg)

Friday Fiction: Forever Family

 I get to host Friday Fiction today!!!!!! Thank you Sara!  If you'd like to join the fun, just leave a link on the widget at the bottom of this post. If you want to read some great short stories, hop around and follow where the links take you.

This is one of my favorite stories, and I dedicate this one to my darling niece, Haley M., who has a HUGE forever-family of her own.

Blessings!
Cat



FOREVER-FAMILY

"Julie, honey-child, what's wrong?" Evelyn pulled her reading glasses off her nose and let them dangle from the silver chain around her neck. She set her Bible on the little table to her right and beckoned to the sniffling, weepy child fidgeting in the doorway of her sitting room. "Come tell your Grammy all about it."

Four-year old Julie stumbled across the room into her Evelyn's waiting arms. "They won't play with me. They're mean!" She wailed into the older woman's ample bosom.

"Ssh, now, shh." Evelyn took Julie into her lap and stroked her dark curls, rocking, murmuring, and cooing, until Julie's sobs subsided into hiccups. She sat the child upright and put a withered palm to each side of her face, wiping her tears away with crooked thumbs. "Now, tell Grammy what happened."

"I don't have anyone for me. The boys won't let me play with them, and Tammy and Sue have each other and they ignore me, and the big girls don't want to play at all, and I don't have anyone. They're all having fun and no one wants me. They don't like me."

"Nonsense. Of course your cousins like you."

"NO! They don't. They tease me and call me names and laugh at me and run away from me. I hate them." Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

"Now, child, 'hate' is strong word. You may not like how they're acting right now, and that's ok, but I don't want to hear you say "hate" about your family."

"They're not really my family. I don't have no family."

Evelyn pulled a few tissues from the box on her side table. "We are your family now--your forever-family--and we all love you. Here, wipe your face and blow your nose. I'll tell you a story about another forever-family."

Julie rubbed her cheeks and honked into the tissues, then handed the crumpled wad to her Grandmother. Evelyn set it aside and pulled the soggy girl close, setting her rocker in motion.

"Many, many years ago, a long time before my own grammy was born, there lived a man named Abraham. Now, God knew Abraham was a real special man, a real good man, and God loved him. So much so that he called Abraham His own child.

"All of Abraham's life, he lived to please God, and so, when they were very old, older than your Grammy, God blessed Abraham and his wife, Sarah, with a baby. Can you imagine? And they named that baby Isaac.

"God had big plans for Isaac. Isaac had lots of children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and he taught all of them about God and how special their family was to Him. Most of them loved God, too, and God considered all of Abraham and Isaac's family His children. In fact, God even renamed Isaac and his family Israel, which means the children of God. They were His chosen people.

"But see, God loved all the people in the world and He wanted all of them, not just Isaac's family, to be His children. So He made a plan to adopt them all."

Julie looked up at her Grandmother with wide eyes. "Dopt? Like me""

"Yes, honey-child, just like you." Evelyn brushed Julie's tangles away from her flushed little face. Love poured out of the older woman's warm, green eyes. "You know who Jesus is, right?"

"Jesus is God's son and He died for my sins. I learned that in Sunday School."

"That's right, child." Evelyn kissed the top of her head and hugged her. "That was God's plan--for Jesus to die. But that was only part of His plan. God made Him alive again. Raised Him right up from the dead."

"Why, Grammy" Why'd He do that""

"So we'd believe He was real, that He loves us THAT much. And so we'd love Him."

"But what about the doption?" Julie squirmed around to look at her grandmother.

Evelyn chuckled. "I'm getting there. See, the best part of God's plan was this: He said that anyone who believes that God's son Jesus died for their sins, that He rose from the dead, well, God said he would adopt them and make all of them His children, too. We'd all be his forever-family."

"Wow. Mommy and Daddy said they could only pick one kid to dopt and they picked me. God dopted everybody?"

"He'll adopt anyone who believes in Jesus, yes. Pretty neat, huh?"

"Yeah, Grammy, that's real neat." Julie's little brow wrinkled and Evelyn could see her processing this idea. "God must have an awful big house to dopt so many kids."

"Indeed He does, child, indeed He does. But that's a story for another day."

© 2008


Add your link here!


Catrina Bradley

"God rewrote the text of my life when I opened the book of my heart to his eyes."
Psalm 18:24 (Msg)

Friday Fiction: Poetry Sampler

I know it's FICTION Friday, but I decided to do something radical and post a smattering of my poetry. I like to write poems - I'm not claiming to be an expert or anything, don't get me wrong, but I've got a lot of thoughts saved in my poetry file going to waste. I thought I'd share a few here today. Some are silly and fun, some I tried at imagery, but all are from my heart. (Oh, and they also remain unedited from when I typed them out.)

_______________

INSIDE OUT STORM
6/2/11

Rumbling and booming and blinding flashing light
Attack the black night
Rain hovers above the bloated opalescent clouds
Lying in wait for the command to fall
From a distended and suffering sky

Sighing, humming, rustling
Whispers in the leaves on distant trees
Tickle my ear
A breath of air sails in
A gentle melody
Caresses my skin
Refreshes my suffocating spirit
The wind’s whispering escalates
A crescendo of gusts and gales
Steals my breath.

Deafening crash!
Blinding flash!
Night is turned inside out
Black is made white
And this light
Is scary evil threatening
Hairs stand at attention
Mocking me

Springing to my feet
Freezing in awe and fear and
Go! my instincts scream
My feet are loosed from their concrete snares
A panicked dash
Cover and safety so near
And I go
For cover and safety
But still
Outside
The sky rumbles and flickers and flashes
But I am safe
Inside.



RAIN RAIN
9/20/11

Pitter patter pitter patter
Rain rain rain rain
Dusty dustbowl parched dry land
Drinks in soaking falling rain
after
Months and months and months
Of drought and dry and rainless days
Arid plains cry out their praise
For rain and rain and rain and rain

Pitter patter pitter patter
Rain



REDNECK PRAYER
12/22/11

Dear God, You know I knowed it,
But still I went and blowed it.
So here I am to fess up.
Will you forgive my mess up?
Again?
Amen.



HOLD ME CLOSE
(song lyrics - the tune came with the words as I wrote. If I could write music, I'd add the notes. :) )
11/8/11

Hold me close Lord
I want to drift away in you
Hold me close, Lord
My tired spirit needs renewed

Into your arms
I fall, Lord
Into your arms, Lord
You call and
I fall
Into your arms

Don’t let me go, Lord
Don’t let me squirm from your love’s breast
Don’t let me go Lord
My spirit craves your Love’s sweet rest

Into your arms
I fall, Lord
Into your arms, Lord
You call and
I fall
Into your arms

How can I move, Lord
When I’m too tired to lift my feet
Where do I go, Lord
when I can’t find the rest I need

Into your arms
I fall, Lord
Into your arms, Lord
You call and
I fall
Into your arms





ODE TO ELLEN
(Like many of my writings, this last one I didn't finish. The tears blinded me and the heartache was too deep. I meant to, but then it all came true and I couldn't do it.)
8/10/11

I’m planning tonight what to pack
Cuz I’m coming to see you tomorrow
To say goodbye
Knowing that goodbye means the next time I see you
I’ll need a black dress
And a sweater to ward off the chill
Of the air conditioned sanctuary
And the sorrow
Burrowing into my bones
And making me shake
When I see you again.

The mostly black summer dress with white designs
The one I wore to church on Sunday
Is tasteful and it fits
And that cardigan I have
The smooth knit one with the jewel buttons
And shoes
My shoes with the heels.
Shoes.
Don’t forget the shoes.
Shoes.
Selah

Tears have worn rivets on my cheeks





I hope you enjoyed this peek into a poet-wanna-be's secret files. Please visit Karlene's blog, Voices, to read some GREAT fiction (look in the comments on her story for links) or to post your own link. The more the merrier when it comes to Friday Fiction!

Have a BLESSED day!
Cat

Catrina Bradley
"God rewrote the text of my life when I opened the book of my heart to his eyes." Psalm 18:24 (Msg)

Friday Fiction: The First Appointment

I've been battling the Block Monster, as evidenced by the dust bunnies in the corners of my blog, but I did manage to enter the FaithWriters challenge last week for the topic "Employment". I'm not disappointed at the bottom-rung results in the standings - my goal recently has been to WRITE more than to succeed. And in that goal, I AM a success.  :)

Love and Blessings,
Cat

--------------

THE FIRST APPOINTMENT

Andrew Beaumont's first meeting today wasn't going to be pleasant. Still, he smiled. His old bones creaked in harmony with the old chair squeaking as he settled in behind his desk, hooking his walking stick on the brass drawer-pull. The framed documents hanging on the wall opposite his desk were crooked...again. Yet the smile did not leave his lips.

Gladys’ gift with a dust rag hasn’t dimmed, but her sights have shifted a little off kilter as we’ve aged.

From this distance, he couldn't make out the words on the treasured communiques. No matter; he could recite them by heart.

On the left, his first dismissal notice, AKA pink slip.

Dear Mr. Beaumont,

Blah blah platitudes...

Blah blah gratitudes...

Your writing talent and your drive cannot be denied, but we hope you will agree that the content of your articles is better suited for a different publication...

And so on, etc.

In other words... “see ya later, we won't miss you or your Jesus. Hope this small severance will make up for our stony hearts.” Andrew recalled storming in outrage, and plotting retaliation with the Sword of his words.

Ah, pride, you ugly old dog. That was the last time you bit me.

Thanks to free computer use at the public library, Andrew struggled through the long, lean months to come writing ad copy and freelancing wherever he could find acceptance.

The article that had cost him his first job was not forgotten. Andrew edited and tweaked and prayed and rewrote, and submitted to dozens of publications “more suited” to his message.

And rejection letters trickled in.

Sending it to the next magazine was lark. A giving-up-of-sorts on the world. A complete abandonment of all reason. Or a response to the Holy Spirit's prodding. He had no faith in his ability to be good enough for them. But he did it.

And in return for giving up, he received the prize. Acceptance.

The right-hand frame held another letter Andrew had memorized.

Dear Mr. Beaumont,

Your article submission has been received and reviewed by our editorial staff. We are pleased to tell you we have chosen to publish “On the Eve of Destruction” in our October issue. We invite you to...

Finally. Someone appreciated his efforts. No, not just “someone”– the crème de la crème of Christian publications. And the writer’s dream – a contract for more.

Andrew chuckled at the memory of his prideful prayers of thanks.

You and I have come a long way. Thank you, God.

He finally gazed upon the culmination of his career, the pinnacle on the pyramid of diplomas: his promotion to Editor in Chief.

Today, Andrew Beaumont was the one holding the power to change a life.

A glance at his watch told him time was nigh for his first appointment. A talented young writer in his employ had submitted an article whose subject matter was more suitable for a much different publication. And today, Andrew Beaumont was the one with the chance to show him a different Way.

He took a moment to ask for wisdom and for words that would encourage and edify. A knock at his office door cut short his prayer.

Okay, God. Let’s go fishing.


© 2012

Friday Fiction is at Vonnie's blog, "My Back Door". Come on over, the door's open and the coffee's on!


Catrina Bradley
"God rewrote the text of my life when I opened the book of my heart to his eyes." Psalm 18:24 (Msg)

Friday Fiction: It's For You

Happy Friday the 13th! In honor of the date, Today's Friday Fiction is a repeat of a spooky story (well, kinda spooky. may eerie would be a better word).

Be blessed!
Cat

---------------

IT’S FOR YOU

http://www.sxc.hu/profile/jmattson

Oscar heard the payphone ringing as soon as he got out of his car. Huh. I didn’t even realize that antique still worked. Never seen anyone using it. It was still ringing as he strolled past it, and he snatched up the receiver on impulse. The dead silence that met his “Hello” was devoid of any normal background hums or clicks, and he was about to hang up when he heard, “Oscar.”

Oscar nearly dropped the phone. The voice had an eerie quality, reminiscent of 2001’s Hal.

“Oscar, you haven’t called your mother lately.”

“Huh? Who is this?”

“The last time was Mother’s Day. She’d really appreciate a call from her son.”

“How do you know…”

“Oscar, give her a ring. Here, it’s on me.”

The voice was gone, replaced by the incessant drone of a dial tone. Oscar furtively glanced left and right, then hung up. That was weird. I should call mom, though. I’ll do it this afternoon. Yeah, this afternoon will be better. I’ll have more time then. After a troubled look at the payphone and another scan of the wind-swept parking lot, Oscar hurried on.

**

“Dave, was it necessary to speak to Mrs. Jamison in that manner last night?”

“Excuse me?” Dave actually took the receiver from the side of his head and looked at it before putting it back to his ear.

“I think you heard me.”

“Look, I don’t know who this is, or where you got your information, but I said nothing out of place to that … woman.” Dave was tempted to hang up, but his curiosity wouldn’t let him. There was something about the voice on the other end. It didn’t sound quite…human.

“Maybe not, Dave, but the way you said it was less than kind. She only wanted a ride this morning. Is that the type of ministry the church can expect if you become a deacon?”

He didn’t know what to say. Thanks to his wife, it was no secret he coveted the position, but no one could have overheard his conversation with that batty old woman last night.

“Dave? You still have time to go pick her up. Why don’t you call her – I’ll even dial for you.”

Immediately a dial tone hummed in Dave’s ear, followed by the digital beeps of a number being dialed.

Dave slammed the payphone receiver back into its cradle when the connection was made and a phone started ringing on the other end. He stormed off muttering. “Must be someone’s idea of a sick joke. Don’t know why I answered that thing anyway. Someone probably took my seat while I was out here wasting my time.”

**

Gloria was running late. Nothing had gone right this morning, and now to top it off she had to park at the far end of the lot. I really wish I’d worn flats instead of heels. Oh, well, at least I’ll look good as I walk all the way to the front pew. Of course, my luck today I’ll fall. She about jumped out of her skin when the payphone shrilled just as she approached it. Years of working as a receptionist left her unable to let it ring, so she answered it out of habit.

“Gloria.”

She wheeled around to check behind her before realizing it was the phone. “Um. Yes?”

“Why did you lie to your boss yesterday?” The calm, clear voice was kind even as it rebuked.

“I didn’t! I would never!” Gloria sputtered protests.

“And now here you are lying to me. Tsk. You weren’t really sick yesterday.”

Gloria was stunned. How could anyone know she only wanted to read her new book instead of working on her Saturday off?

**

Reverend Nielson watched from the church steps as his flock fled the morning worship service. It seemed more than a few were going out of their way to avoid the old payphone at the edge of the parking lot. That’s strange; I watched those same people using that phone before church. Now they won’t even look at it. When the crowd had cleared, he made his way over to check out the object of his curiosity. Lifting the receiver, he noted that it was indeed dead. He replaced the receiver in the cradle, and as he tapped his temple with his fingertip, he noticed a piece of paper on the ground. He picked it up, and on the reverse side, he read, “In Need of Correction.”.
 
Strange. Usually they say “Out of Order”.

The sudden shrill ring of the phone started the reverend's heart pumping. With a shaking hand, he reached for the receiver.

©  2008

---------------

Rick "Hoomi" Higginson is hosting Fiction Friday today at his blog "Pod Tales and Ponderings". He's sharing a chapter from one of his "Pod" novels today. Click on over! Find the linky tool at the bottom of his post to read more fiction or add your own link.

Catrina Bradley

"God rewrote the text of my life when I opened the book of my heart to his eyes." Psalm 18:24 (Msg)