Fatherly Love

The love of a father. One of the strongest loves of all. Two threads woven together, into an unbreakable cord. The love of our Heavenly Papa, reflected so clearly for the earth to see. It is on this beautiful beam of heavens light that today’s short story places its focus. Once again, this story has a tragic element, and it is not my favorite. But it is a different kind of tragedy from the last one, and I hope you enjoy it. Click the photo below to find it!

Tragedy Has Taken So Many…

Fifty brownie points to the reader than can name where the title of this post came from. I will love you forever. (And yes, it has to be where I’m getting it from, not some other source. If there is one.

Moving on to business, once again I have very little time to post today. But, as promised, you can find the second short story of the week by clicking the picture below. As a warning to anyone unfamiliar with my short stories, they tend to have hefty elements of tragedy. Today’s is a war scene, so please do not go read it expecting a happily ever after. Those of you that tend to cry may even want to grab a few tissues, though I do not deem this my best work.

Finally, when you have finished, I recommend taking a listen to this song. An awesome English teacher of mine showed it to me after reading this story, and it ties in rather well.

Just To Keep You Busy…

Well, I still have to wait to reveal my big news, and I haven’t had time to work on Flesh and Blood: Hijacked Part Four yet, but I hate to let my blog go radio silent. So, for the next few days, I will be posting links to some of my short stories. I hope you enjoy them! Click on the picture below to go to the first one, Precious Few. For more interesting stories, poems, and so on, check the tabs up above!

Hold Your Horses…

My dear, dear readers, I feel as though I’ve been neglecting you! I’m terribly sorry for how little I’ve been posting lately. I promise I am not lapsing back into my old bad habits! But, I beg patience of you for the coming months. I will be finishing Flesh and Blood: Hijacked, and I will continue to update as often as possible. It will just be more time between posts for the next couple months, as I have far too many metaphorical balls to keep rolling at the moment, and the list is continuing to grow.

However – big, huge, amazing, ginormous developments are coming. I am hoping to have a giant announcement coming soon, so stay tuned! If all goes well, I will have this announcement up by the end of next week, possibly sooner. The date is out of my control at this time, as I am waiting for a correspondent to get back to me before I can make it final and open to the public. I promise, once this has been posted, you will understand one of the reasons I am so busy right now, and I hope you will be able to catch on to my excitement!

Thank you for your time, your loyalty, and your patience! I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you awesome people out there!

Flesh and Blood: Hijacked Part Three

 You’re the writer. What are you going to do? This is your world, these are your words. No one can control them like you. You’ve never been in a story before, but you know this story better than anyone. You can change anything. So what are you going to do? I think to myself, doing my best to recover from the shock of my situation.

Theoretically, I should be able to control anything here with my mind. It was born of my mind, it’s a part of my mind, and no one holds power here but myself. A power that can do anything, create or change whatever I like. But no matter what I think or how I try, nothing in my present situation changes. I can’t even cause ripples in the glass of water on the table, or make that blasted dripping cease. What is going on? Is this what Judas meant when he said I’d find out? Could he have written an author-proof cell? Or am I simply mistaken about my power here? After all, the stories come to me… I just write them.

The steady dripping threatens to drive me mad, pinching my nerves and clouding my thoughts. I almost want to believe that Judas wrote the dripping in himself, just to get to me. That’s crazy Hannah. Now you’re just paranoid. I chide myself. Why did you ever make such an unpredictable and hard to handle villain anyways? This is all your fault after all, you know. I shut my eyes tightly, trying to stop the guilt from striking, but it’s too late. Images, words flash through my mind, pictures of the pain, agony, and destruction that he has and will cause. Tragedies that only I could stop from happening, but can’t. Not that you could change anything now. Who knows if you’ll ever get back again, anyways? You know how wicked he is more than anyone. What hope do you have, really? 

Hope. The main idea behind this story’s plot. Or, more accurately, behind the first story’s plot. There are many different ones woven together in this land, after all. Hope was only the first. Endurance through hope. Endurance through hope that the work will be finished, whether we live to see it come to pass or not. Like in 1 Thessalonians, when Paul encourages the church of Thessalonica for their bold work for Christ, specifically their work through faith, labor through love, and endurance through hope.

“What are you thinking, Hannah? There’s always hope. You designed this prison. Judas may have thrown a couple kinks in it, but he didn’t have time to change much. You can get out of here.” I whisper aloud. My voice, so loud compared to the smaller sounds around me that moments ago seemed thunderous, makes me jump. I glance at the door, praying Judas didn’t hear. When it remains shut, I sigh in relief. Now, how do I get myself out of an Author-Proof room?

I lean my head back, staring at the ceiling as though it held the answers, and something jabs my neck. Of course! My pencil! Judas might have changed certain pieces of this world, but he can’t change his author. And as a character within it, my quirks must have traveled with me! Even if he could have changed it, how could he have known I always have a pencil stuck through my ponytail? I strain, stretch, and contort myself until I somehow wrangle the small mechanical pencil from its place into my hands, still bound behind the chair.

The door is still shut, and the only sound is that of the murderous water dripping. It’s not going to get any safer, Hannah. I hesitate a moment longer, send off a silent prayer that this would work, and take a deep breath. Then, I set the eraser against the rope and slowly, carefully, rub it back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. It doesn’t give way quickly, like I’d imagined it would, but slowly, layer by layer, like trying to erase all traces of a sentence rewritten numerous times. But eventually, the rope around my wrists goes slack. I hastily shake it off, and bring my hands around in front of me, trying to rub the aching from them. You just had to make the prison cold, didn’t you? I complain.

It takes only moments for me to untie the knot that binds my torso to the chair thanks to my years at the barn, and seconds to unwind myself. A smile threatens to lift the corners of my mouth, but I suppress it. You aren’t nearly out of the woods yet! Don’t you dare start celebrating now! I lay the ropes down on the seat of the chair, stretching the kinks from my back and shaking my legs to loosen them. I turn around, stepping towards the door as I stick the pencil back in my hair gratefully. But just as I’ve set my foot on the ground, the door flies open, and two snake-like blue eyes meet mine, and narrow into slits. No…