Song of the Sunbeams

Palm Sunday is one of my favorite days. I love the thoughts surrounding the story of Jesus going going to Jerusalem as King and look forward to the day He will again ride into Jerusalem as King over the whole earth.

 I like the thought of "even the stones" crying out in praise to God. Here is a fictional story that I wrote that came from the idea of all nature praising the Lord -

Song of the Sunbeams

Mike wasn’t supposed to be there, but Uncle Ted said, “History is happening today. Science will never be the same. I want you to have a front row seat to the future.” 

Men and women with briefcases streamed into the auditorium. They set up their laptops and greeted old friends. Chairs clanged and microphones squeaked and voices echoed on the high ceiling. Uncle Ted stepped to the podium. 

“Ladies and gentlemen...” 

People scurried to their places.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Universal Code Project. We are honored to have many science and technical experts here. I am excited about what today will mean for the future. 

“As you can see, we will be projecting our reports to the screen behind me. So, would you each log-in to the Universal Code site with the password emailed to you earlier? If you wish to speak, use one of the microphones set up on each table, please. This session is being recorded. If everyone is ready, let us begin.”

Mike found a chair near the back wall. 

The screen lit up with the UCP logo, the earth with dotted lines across it. Uncle Ted smiled. “The Universal Code Project was established by Dr. Samuel Warden to decipher the newly discovered pattern in all of nature. With his technology, we have been able to digitalize the intricate design of the strange code. This code is imprinted on delicate snowflakes, viscous lava, and even the layers of rock at the Grand Canyon. Instead of listening to me spouting hot air, we’d like to hear from you. Tell us what you have discovered.” 

A man near the front began. “Good morning. My name is Maitland Richards, doctor of biology at Harvard. We have been amazed to find the universal code in everything we have tested. It is in the DNA of the smallest bacteria to the oldest dinosaur bones. It repeats itself, but yet varies slightly from species to species.” A chart flashed up on the screen. “As you can see, even colors have a code, as do the different elements. Especially interesting is the code found in homo sapiens. We seem to have a code of our very own, different from all others.” 

Mike leaned forward in his seat as professors and doctors each presented their data and discoveries.

“I’m Jack Reicher, a music professor from Berkley College. We are excited to discover that with Dr. Warden’s technology, we can digitalize sound. In the past, we have recorded sounds in the ocean and underground, but now we have found sound in unexpected places. There is sound in plants and rocks and even in electricity. This is what it looks like-”

002302040502050060020030100
100300110002000500400060003

“And this is what it sounds like-” 

A trill of chirps and beeps filled the room. 

Another man stood. “My name is Vince Tacker from NASA. For decades we have heard static sounds from space. It sounded like this-”

A loud buzz filled the room. 

“Now, with our new equipment, it sounds like this-”

The sound changed to cascading tones. 

Mike jumped to his feet. He lifted his arms. The music surrounded him. He turned. An old man with a broom stood in the doorway. “I know dis song! I hear it all da time. It is da song of sunbeams when I sweep. It is da song of raindrops. It is beautiful, yah?” 

Mike smiled, but the others in the room covered their ears and begged for it to be turned down. Uncle Ted tapped his microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, please calm down. I want to progress to the next stage of our project. We now have a program that converts the digital information into language. In other words, we should be able read the patterns found in nature.” 

He signaled his assistant and the numbers on the screen changed. They became strings of letters. 

RDWORTHYNAMELAMBLORDMAJESTYHOL
PHAOMEGAGLORYFOREVERHONORKINGAL

The room was silent. Whispers drifted back and forth. Finally one man stood up. “What is this gibberish? It doesn’t make sense at all!” Chaos erupted. 

Mike could see the words. They were squished together, but he could see them. “Worthy, Lamb, Majesty—“

The old man nudged him. “You know da words? I only know da German. What da words say?” 

Mike began to sing. “Holy is the Lord. Worthy is the Lamb.” 

The voices fell silent. Mike closed his eyes and lifted his voice. He could hear the song in his head.

“Glory! Honor! Majesty to God…”

Friday Fiction - In the Fog

I've gotten back into doing the Faithwriters Weekly Challenge. 

Here's my spooky entry for the topic - Fantasy.

(based on the photo at the end of the story) 

IN THE FOG

The fog closed in like a hungry invisible creature – stealing my vision, my hearing, and even my courage. 

My shirt clung to me in the chilly mist. All I could hear were the oars. 

“Splash” – into the silvery water, 
"Clunk” – against the oarlocks, 
“Drip, drip, drip” – back again. 

Day after day, I’d scrounged for clams in the sandy coves at low tide – a tiresome, boring job – until my hoe hit an old wooden chest. Stories were told of pirates along these shores, but I thought them only tales – until today. 

It’s mine. I found it.

The gray fog thickened. I couldn’t even see the water anymore. I felt like I was suspended between earth and sky – no up or down, no east or west. I stopped rowing with a frightening thought.

I could be heading into the open sea!

I heard a sound – like a far away lighthouse horn, but a wild and mournful bellow. I waited. It sounded again. Whatever it was, there had to be land, and I pulled my oars toward it. 

I stretched my arms and back, pushing my skiff through the water, until it grounded fast upon a sandy shore. Silence. The horn had stopped. The only sounds were the waves lapping the shore and a soft whisper of trees. 

Grabbing the coil of rope, I stepped over the edge. I slowly sloshed through the shallow water toward the shore and secured my boat. 

“HELLO!” I called, but I heard only the waves and whispering trees. 

I considered bringing my treasure ashore, but decided to leave it safely in the boat. I’d need only to wait until the tide turned. I hoped the fog would lift by then. I scrambled up beneath the dark trees. Under their sheltering branches, I laid my head on the crook of my arm for a few hours of rest. 

I awoke with a start!

Something had touched me – something I couldn’t see. My pulse beat in my ears. My eyes darted left and right. 

A shadow emerged from the fog – a creature, the size of a child, yet with the appearance of a very old man. He wore a large shell on a string around his neck. With his gnarly hand, he beckoned me to follow. We walked on and on, through dark pines and grassy meadows. He led me beside a smelly swamp and even across a swinging rope bridge. 

We finally arrived at a clearing with a fire in its midst. Its light revealed several more little men. Their clothing was dark, like mossy bark. Shaggy beards covered their faces, except for their eyes, which shone with reflected firelight. They stared at me without a noise. 

My guide offered me a steaming mug, and the others turned back to their discussion.

I took a sip. It tasted like honey cider. Sitting on a stump near the campfire, I listened. Their words were strange to me. They snacked on tiny shelled snails, cracking them like peanuts. 

Two men dragged a box into the clearing and opened its lid. They laughed and tossed some of its contents into the fire – which made the flames shoot sparkling cinders into the starry sky. 

It's my treasure! “Stop! You can’t have that! It’s mine. I found it!” 

They laughed and continued their game. Some tossed the coins up into the trees, where they got stuck high in the branches. It became a contest, and they all had a turn to see who could score the most. I shouted and tried to stop them, but the game went on until the box was empty. 

With their contest ended, they returned to their babbling conversations. I drank a few more rounds of hot honey cider until my mind got fuzzy with sleep.

I woke to a light flickering on my face. The sun was playing with fluttering golden leaves above me. The fog was gone – and so were the little men. There were no ashes or any gold coins. 

In only a few strides, I returned to the beach and also an empty skiff. With daylight to help, I searched for my missing treasure. I circled the tiny island with less than a hundred steps. 

Where was the forest, the swamp, or the swinging rope bridge? 

As I pushed off from shore, I noticed an over-turned stump. Its roots were positioned like arms and legs. Some moss hung down like a shaggy beard, and a large shell lay at its feet.

Friday Fiction - Bucky

This is an excerpt from my next novel, 

the sequel to A Home for Phoebe. 

She earns a penny a day for keeping 

a young neighbor boy out of trouble, 

but it's not easy. 

Bucky

“Matthew! That goat is in the garden again!” Deborah hollered out the door, “Shoo! Shoo!”

The goat lifted his head and backed away from the flailing apron. His chin hair wobbled back and forth and he chewed.

Bucky wasn’t a cute little kid anymore. He weighed over a hundred pounds and sported two long horns. Every two or three days, Stanley would drive a tall iron stake into the ground to which Bucky was tied. Each morning, Matthew would slip the loop on the end of the rope over the end of the stake, and Bucky would munch on the grass and shrubs around it, clearing a circle each day. It was a good way to keep the lawn looking trim—as long as Bucky stayed tied.

He was getting so big that it took all of Matthew’s strength to pull him away from the garden. Sometimes, Phoebe was there to help. She’d push from behind, and he’d pull from the front until they got him closed in the barn. Bucky didn’t like being in there. He’d bang his head against the wall and bleat loudly over the injustice of being separated from his food.

Matthew couldn’t figure out how Bucky was getting loose. The rope wasn’t broken or chewed. The knot of the loop was still intact. He decided to watch and see how the goat was getting loose. Only Bucky acted very mild and obedient while Matthew sat nearby. Bucky would calmly graze around and around the stake and sometimes find a shady place to lie down for a nap and chew his cud. Matthew didn’t want to waste his time watching a sleeping goat. But it wouldn’t be long before his mother was hollering again about Bucky being in the garden.

Phoebe thought they ought to spy from a crack in the shed. Matthew’s father had moved the long stake to the back field behind the shed, where there was plenty of new grasses and flowers for Bucky to eat. He seemed content with his new surroundings, so Phoebe and Matthew decided to wait until the next day when most of the grass would be gone.

 “Here’s a good wide crack to watch him, Matthew.” She leaned her face against the rough boards.

Matthew scooted a crate next to her. “Let me see.” He gave a peek and then sat back. “This is going to be boring.”

Bucky lifted his head and looked toward the shed.

“Shhhh, he heard us.” Matthew whispered.

Bucky could see the garden behind the barn. He stretched the rope as far as it could go, but it didn’t come close to the carrot tops at all. He pivoted around and ran straight toward the pole.

“He’s going to butt it!” Matthew exclaimed.

But Bucky ran past the stake until the tension of the rope yanked on his neck, pulling his front feet off the ground. He turned and ran past it again, yanking on the rope the other way. He did this eight or nine times until the stake loosened in the ground and leaned at an angle. Then Bucky walked deliberately to it. He nudged the knot of the loop over the end of stake and he was free. He strutted proudly off to eat his fill of carrots and cabbages.

Matthew slapped his hand down on his knee. “That stupid goat is pretty smart!”

Phoebe giggled. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. I guess we better go get him before your mother finds out.”

Bucky didn’t want to be caught. He tromped through the green beans and peas, nibbling as he went. Whenever Phoebe or Matthew came close, he’d run off a few feet. Matthew tried to step on the trailing rope, but was pulled on his backside as Bucky continued on.

“OWWW! Come back here, you stupid goat!”

Phoebe found some wild clover and picked a handful. “Come, Bucky. Look what I have for you.” She waved the bouquet in front of the goat. He took a couple steps toward her. She backed up and he followed.

Matthew whispered, “Hey, keep going, Phoebe! He likes them.” Matthew stood up and brushed the dirt from his hands. “I’ll try to grab the rope while he’s watching you.”

“Come on, Bucky. Come get the delicious clover.”

Matthew crept forward with exaggerated slow motion steps until he reached the end of the rope. He grabbed the loop and twisted it around his arm. “I got it, Phoebe!”

Bucky wasn’t going to be caught that easily. He jumped and pulled and twisted and began running across the yard, pulling Matthew behind him.

“HEELLLPP!” Matthew’s feet dragged through the thistles and burdocks and rocks.

 Bucky pulled him around the house all the way to the front porch, where the steps anchored Matthew’s progress anymore. Matthew stood up and reeled the rope around his arm as he walked up the steps toward the cornered billygoat. “I’ve got you now.”

Bucky lowered his head and plowed into Matthew’s stomach, sending him sailing through the air. Phoebe arrived around the corner just in time to see him land head downward on the ground. She heard a CRACK!

“OWWWW! I’m dying! I can’t move my arm!”

Deborah ran out of the front door with little Sally on her hip. “What happened?”

Phoebe answered, “Bucky pushed Matthew off the porch. I heard a crack. I think he broke something.

(based on a true experience)

Friday Fiction - "Carroteened"

Poor Willy! 

Being quarantined because his sister is sick just isn't fair -

 especially during baseball season. 

I wrote this a few years ago for the Faithwriters Challenge (topic - Charades). 

CARROTEENED

“It’s not fair! Just because Sally has the whooping cough, I’m grounded. It’s just not fair that I’m carroteened for ten days, or whatever that word is. It’s springtime- the time when a boy just has to play ball with the guys.”

Willy flops on his back on his bed and throws his pillow at his model rocket, sending it exploding in sixteen pieces across the dirty sock carpeted floor. A “ping” on the window could have been a piece of the rocket, but Willy isn’t sure. So he galumphs over the end of the blanket mountain and looks down through the leaves of the oak, to see his friend getting ready to throw another acorn at his window.

“Hey, Jake...I can’t play with you today,” he yelled, shaking his head. He tries to open the window, but with all the damp weather, it is swollen stuck.

Jake is wearing the after-school fashion of a red T-shirt, grubby denim jeans, and a baseball cap. He cups his hands around his bucktoothed mouth. 

“I can’t hear you.” After shaking his head again, Willy wraps his hands around his throat, hacks a few times, and sashays back and forth.

Jake puckers his forehead and shrugs. He waves goodbye and runs off to the ballgame.

“Sauerkrauts! I hope they lose the game without me.” He kicked his skateboard. “Ouch!” Clutching his toes, he hops back to the bed. After counting all his baseball cards and digging the grit out of his belly button and trying to do five pushups and looking out the window 29 times, he sees Jake scuffing down the sidewalk. 

Willy raps on the window. Holding his arms out to his sides, he lifts his eyebrows.

Jake hangs his head and arms and shakes his head. He flaps a piddly wave and trudges home. 

Willy smiles to himself.

The hours and minutes of each day snail by. He dutiful completes the assignments sent by his teacher. School was usually an unavoidable torture, but Willy is so bored that he even begins dreaming of diagramming sentences and finding the distance a speeding train will travel in a day. A spelling test starts looking like a triple banana split.

The best part of each day is the daily visit from Jake. On Monday, he traces out the letters with exaggerated strokes. C-H-A-R-L-I-E Then he hops on one foot and swings both clenched fists forward and backward in synchronized movements. 

Tuesday was rainy, and Jake didn’t come.

On Wednesday, he pretends to write on his hand and fold something and hold it out. He traces the letters B-E-C-K-Y, then pretends to open something and be surprised. He tilts his head and flutters his eyelids. He finishes by sticking out his tongue at Willy.

“Oh, sauerkrauts!” 

Thursday, Jake is almost under the window when he freezes mid-step and turns his head toward a something. He hurries off to catch up with the ice cream truck. 

On Friday, Willy sees Jake jogging by in his uniform and carrying his ball glove. Willy gently tosses and catches his ball while waiting for the outcome of the game. 

Jake grins up at Willy.

Willy holds his arms out questioningly.

Jake points to himself. He swings an imaginary bat and looks way up. He then runs in a circle, ending with a series of jumps. 

“No way! No fair! Sauerkrauts!”

Jake begins stomping and swinging his arms in circles. He spins to the left and then to the right. He flops on the grass and rolls over and over through Mom’s flower garden. With a few more wild gyrations, Jake zigzags down the sidewalk. 

“Well you don’t have to get carried away with it!”

On Saturday, Willy feels like a pebble out of a slingshot. He grabs his glove and races down to the baseball field. 

“Hey, coach! Where is everyone else?”

“Oh, I guess you didn’t hear. We have to postpone practices for a few days. Too many people are sick. You had whooping cough-“

“It wasn’t me! I had to be locked up, just to be sure.”

“Oh, anyway, Charlie broke his leg, and I just got a call that Jake stepped on a nest yellow jackets yesterday.”

Willy can’t believe it. He saunters over to the plate, pantomimes a few swings, watches a few imaginary balls go by and then lets it go. He gazes up into the imaginary stands as he gallops around the bases, waving at the crowds cheering for his grand slam.

Friday Fiction - The Best in the Land

The Best in the Land

"Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall"

CRASH!

The gold goblet clattered at my feet – the wine still flowing from my pitcher. I followed the gaze of Belshazzar to the wall behind me. 

I thought maybe I had forgotten to light a lamp or wash a window. There had been so many things to do, so many things to remember. The other servants and I had been preparing for this feast for weeks – even months – searching for the best in the kingdom for this night. 

The king had invited the nobles and dignitaries from the all regions around to celebrate his great success as a ruler. The best meats were roasted. The ripest fruits gathered. The finest wines were stored in the cool cellars for this night. Every table was laden with the best the kingdom could offer. Even the gold and silver vessels which had been stolen from the temple in Judah were displayed as trophies of the king’s power. 

My heart despaired at the sight of the holy vessels. “How long, O LORD God? How long will Your people be captives in a foreign land? How long until we return to Jerusalem?” 

I looked at the wall and saw it. The laughter and noise of the room hushed. A hand – the spirit of a hand – was writing on the wall between the flickering lamps. 

I could not move. I could not breathe.

Belshazzar grasped my arm as he crumpled to the floor – his eyes wide, his jaw slack, and his skin ashen white. 

“Ashpenaz!” I called for the master servant. “The king needs help.” 

As a litter carried the visibly shaken ruler away, he was still giving orders. “Call the astronomers! Call the soothsayers and all the best wise men of the kingdom! Find me someone who can tell what it means.” 

I knew who would know. 

The wise men and astronomers and soothsayers stared at the strange markings on the wall. They scratched their heads and tugged on their beards and whispered to each other, but they didn’t know what it said or what it meant. 

I whispered to Ashpenaz, “I know who knows . . . Daniel.” 

Ashpenaz nodded and whispered to the king. In a few moments, Daniel, the prophet who had been forgotten as the kingdom changed, was escorted to the palace. I hadn’t forgotten him – neither had Ashpenaz. 

King Belshazzar was still ranting. “Can’t anyone tell me what it means? I will give him a scarlet robe and gold chain and a high position in the kingdom.” 

Ashpenaz bowed close to the king’s ear and pointed to Daniel, standing quietly nearby.

The king looked up and motioned him closer. “I have heard of you from my father. You can make interpretations and remove all doubts. If you can read the writing, I will reward you greatly.”

Daniel lifted his chin. “I don’t want your rewards, O King. Give them to another. I only say what the LORD reveals to me. Your grandfather Nebuchadnezzar was made as low as the beasts of the field because of his pride, until he knew that the Most High rules the kingdom of men and appoints over it whomsoever He wills. You have not humbled yourself, but have lifted your heart in pride. You have taken the gold and silver of His holy temple and worshipped the gods of stone and brass. You have not glorified the God that gives you life and breath. 

Here is the writing: MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN. God has numbered the kingdom. You have been weighed in the balances and found wanting. Your kingdom will be conquered and divided between the Medes and the Persians.” 

Belshazzar ordered the robe and chain to be put on Daniel anyway and proclaimed an exalted position for him in his cabinet. While the sound of the Daniel’s footsteps echoed down the hall, Belshazzar stared at the strange markings. No one dared to speak. No one dared to move.

Silence.

A shout rang out, “The enemy has breached the city!”

Watching with Shomer

"Be sober, be vigilant!

For your adversary, the devil, as a roaring lion,

walks about, seeking whom he may devour."'

(I Peter 5:8)

WATCHING WITH SHOMER

“Terach, wake up.”

“I’m awake.” Terach squinted at Kerem’s flashlight. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. That’s the trouble. It’s too quiet.”

Kerem ambled to the other side of the guard tower. A slight breeze whispered down the rows of drooping vines. Their shadows fluttered in the moonlight, making them seem alive. The fruit was ready to harvest. It was the time to be vigilant. Shomer lifted his head and gave a low “gr-r-r-r.” Kerem scanned the fields but saw nothing unusual. 

“I don’t like it.”

“Don’t like what?” Terach scratched his back against the guard house wall. 

“I’ve just got a strange feeling.”

“Well, I have a bored-of-your-worrying feeling.”

Kerem worried about Terach. Being an employee of the king, with job security and a good retirement, was enough for him. He didn’t care about the king’s vineyards. Terach looked up as another breeze swished through the leaves. A shadow on the far side caught his attention. 

Kerem gave Terach a nudge with his boot. “Let’s walk the perimeter. I think I saw something.” 

“Ahhh, Man. It’s just a rabbit or something.” He leaned his head back, eyes still closed. “I’ll wait here for you.”

“Come on!” He nudged Terach again and untied Shomer’s leash. The dog pranced around—alert and ready for action. 

Their rhythmic strides were interrupted only by Shomer, sniffing around a gopher hole. As they turned the corner on the back side, the dog tensed—his fur bristling on his back. “Gr-r-r.”

Kerem stopped. He peered along the shadowy path ahead. The silhouette of a craggy rock looked like a giant’s head waiting for its next victim. “Come on, Boy!”

The dog obeyed but continued to growl. 

Terach laughed. “What a wimp! He’s afraid of shadows!”

Kerem’s heart pounded. “He’s never been before.”

Terach pulled out a cracker. “Come here, Boy. Here’s a treat. This will help you not be afraid.”

“What are you doing? What if there really is danger? He won’t warn us; he’ll lick us—looking for a treat!”

“Don’t be such a ridgepole! Do you always follow every itty-bitty rule? Loosen up at bit, Man!” 

Kerem stared at Terach playing with Shomer. Maybe I am just being paranoid. Maybe I worry too much. 

They continued around the edge of the property. The night was warm and bright and the air filled with the sweet scent of ripe fruit. All was well.

The next night, Kerem had been on duty for an hour before Terach finally arrived with Shomer. “Where have you been?”

Terach settled against the wall. “Oh, I had to give some new guy directions. We got to talking about the king’s land and all. He seems like a nice fella. “

“Really? What’s his name?”

“He didn’t say, but we’ll probably see him around.”

The night was colder than usual, and clouds hid the moon. Kerem pulled his hat over his ears and paced back and forth to keep warm. Something’s not right. I just know it! He wished he felt as relaxed as Shomer and Terach—dozing side by side. Shomer isn’t worried, probably I shouldn’t be either. 

Kerem walked to the other end. Something caught his eye over near the big rock. A light? There it is again! 

He grabbed Shomer’s leash. “Terach! Terach! Wake up! There’s something over by the big rock.”

Moving double-time to where Kerem saw the flickering light, they slowed, but all was dark. Shomer didn’t growl or bark. In fact, he was sitting near Terach, nuzzling his pockets for a cracker. Terach gave him one. They were about to turn back when Kerem heard a “snap” amid the grapevines. He shone his flashlight into the fields and illuminated a face.

“Hey! Who are you? Come out here where we can see you!”

Terach laughed. “It’s the new fella! Man, you really are lost! What are you doing in there?”

The man raised his arm to shield his face from the bright light. “I thought I could take a shortcut through here. Sorry if I scared you.”

Terach slapped the man’s shoulders. “Sure! I’ll even walk a ways with you.” He turned to Kerem. “See, it was nothing. Doesn’t the king say we’re supposed help those who are lost? Go on back to the tower. I’ll be along in awhile.” 

Kerem turned, but then noticed the broken vines, stripped of their precious fruit. I knew it! He bent to release the dog from the leash and whispered, “Shomer, sic’em!” 


(Hebrew names)
Kerem – a vineyard
Terach – a wild goat
Shomer – a watchman

Friday Fiction - Amar's Message

I wrote this story as a Faithwriter Challenge (topic: India). It breaks my heart to hear of thousands of Christians giving their life because they love the Lord. Pray for them. 

To find more great stories, go to Fiction Fusion (Be sure to leave some encouraging comments.)

Amar's Message

The black jungle vibrated with sound, the rumbling of the big cats, the screeching of monkeys, and the roaring—the crackling roaring that drowned out all other sounds. The drooping branches hung heavy with the misty rains that never stopped. Amar huddled under the broad leaves of the peepal tree. His mother whispered against his head. 

“Amar, you must go to the mission compound. You must go tonight. They must know.”

He turned to look in her face. He could see the fires reflected in her round eyes. He turned away, for he didn't want to remember. He didn't want to hear the men shouting at his Papa. He didn't want to see his father's face. 

“Amar, listen carefully. You must find the missionary and tell him.”

He looked again into her eyes. “Mama, how will I find him?”

“Follow the smooth path of the elephants over the mountain.”

He peered into the inky darkness. Even the moon dared not reveal their hiding place. He knew the way to Raikia but had never walked alone in the jungle. The the tall teak trees wavered threateningly in the flickering shadows.

“Mama, I am afraid of the tigers and the cobras.”

“God will protect you. You must be a man. You must be like your father and not be afraid.”

A wailing scream from the village pierced the throbbing, roaring, raging night. They both looked and instinctively pulled back farther into the darkness. Mama's hand cradled his shoulder against her side, and she laid her soft lips upon his young head. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps.

“You must go, Amar.”

He felt her grasp him in pain. “Mama?”

“Do not turn back, Amar.”

“Mama, what am I to say to the missionary?” He looked at her bruised cheeks, then turned away. He didn't want to remember.

“Tell him these words, 'Many faithful have fallen, but we will not turn back.' Keep them in your mind.”

She laid her head back and shut her eyes. He could not see the fires in her face. 

“Mama?”

He felt the damp soil beneath his knees. He tasted salty drops upon his lips. He smelled the choking smoke in his nostrils. He could not see his mother's face.

“Mama?”

She sat up. 

He saw the flames again. 
“Say it to me, Amar. Say the words.”

“Many faithful have—Mama, I can't do it.”

“Say it!”

“Many faithful have fallen, but we will not turn back.” He closed his eyes, and he saw his Papa, Sudhir Raman, once a member of the head counsel of the province of Orissa, but now the pastor and leader of a Christian church. His father had stood tall, with head held high, with feet firmly planted, and with heart unmoved. The boy squeezed his eyes tight. He didn't want to remember.

“Say it again.” The last word mingled with her breath.

Amar repeated the words and wrapped his bare brown arms around her. He felt the silky soaked sari clinging to her body. He smelled the sweet jasmine in her hair. He lay there like he had when he was little, like baby Surhi had done just this morning. He didn't want to remember. He didn't want to see the angry men. He didn't want hear his sister 's cry. He didn't want to remember. 

With sudden realization, he pulled away. “Mama, you must come with me!”

“No, Amar. I can't. You go. You must be strong,” she whispered. 

Mama's eyes were closed. She did not move. Amar stood. He wiped the droplets from his cheeks and turned his face toward the mountains. 

(Although this story is fictional, there are many around the world tortured and martyred for their faith. Please pray for the Christians who are giving their all for their Lord.)

Friday Fiction - Sparks of Imagination

SPARKS OF IMAGINATION

What beautiful evening! My husband and I lounge before a crackling campfire. The flames mesmerize me. I listen to the chirping crickets and gurgling stream. The night sounds put my mind into a creative mode. A log tumbles, and sparks dance upward into the night sky to join the stars. Ah! Personification! 

Sparks dance upward to the sky
They turn this way and that…

Hmmm… I need something to rhyme with “sky.” My mind flips through its internal vocabulary list. ...shy, by, die, try, sigh, why, fly…FLY!

Sparks dance upward to the sky;
They spin around and upward fly.

No, I already used “upward.” …skyward? heavenward? spaceward?...sigh…Maybe I need to go another way. 

Sparks dance upward to the sky;
Giggling, spinning—higher, higher!
Joining the stars in the dark sky…

I can do better than that. Couplets are too common. I’ll make an alternating rhyme pattern. What other word means “join?” ...mix, merge, mingle…

Sparks dance skyward—higher, higher!
Mingling with the starry host,
Giggling, spinning—specks of fire.
Jewels on the heav’nly coast.

That’s not too bad, but the lines don’t match in rhythm. 

I count out the syllables on my fingers.

Sparks-dance-sky-ward-high-er-high-er

I need eight syllables. Are they iambic or trochaic? I can’t remember which is which.

Sparks dance skyward—higher, higher,
Twirling with the starry million,
Giggling, spinning—specks of fire.
At the universe cotillion.

Ah! Now we’re getting somewhere. I need to describe the ballroom now.

Gliding across velvet indigo,

What rhymes with “indigo”… show, blow, grow, arpeggio?

To the trill of the cricket arpeggio.

No, that has too many syllables. 

Gliding o’er velvet indigo,
Waltzing to crickets’ arpeggio,

I like that! Now what else can I do? Maybe something about singing…

Evening birds sing a lullaby…

I’m back to the words that rhyme with “sky.” 

Evening birds sing a lullaby;
Soft breezes whisper a gentle sigh.

Now, alternate them. 

Gliding o’er velvet indigo,
Evening birds sing a lullaby;
Waltzing to crickets’ arpeggio,
Soft breezes whisper a gentle sigh.

ARGH! What a mess! I’ve got to rearrange those lines and fix them somehow.

Evening birds sing a lullaby,
Crickets chirping arpeggio,
Breezes whisper a gentle sigh,
Jewels waltzing on indigo.

Whew! That’s better. I really ought to write this down, but I’d have to find a pencil …and paper…which is in my bag…in the car. Let me go over what I’ve done so far. 

Sparks dance skyward—higher, higher,
Twirling with the starry million,
Giggling, spinning—specks of fire.
At the universe cotillion.

Evening birds sing a lullaby,
Crickets chirping arpeggio,
Breezes whisper a gentle sigh,
Jewels waltzing on indigo.

Hmmm…what else can I add? 

“Oh, look, Dear!” I nudge my husband. “There’s a full moon tonight.”

The glowing moon shines over all,
Ascends above dark silhouettes,
Majestic trees and waterfall…

Silhouettes is a great word, but it will be hard to find something to rhyme with it. 

I close my eyes and listen to the night sounds. 

It’s so peaceful. There’s a whippoorwill calling and an owl, too. It sounds like a duet. Hey! That rhymes with silhouette!

And owl and whippoorwill duets.

That stanza was easier. I’m getting pretty good at this! I really ought to write it down. If I say it over again and again, I’m sure I’ll remember it. 

Sparks dance skyward—higher, higher,
Twirling with the starry million,
Giggling, spinning—specks of fire.
At the universe cotillion.

Evening birds sing a lullaby,
Crickets chirping arpeggio,
Breezes whisper a gentle sigh,
Jewels waltzing on indigo.

The glowing moon shines over all
Ascends above dark silhouettes,
Majestic trees and waterfalls
And owl and whippoorwill duets.

How should I end my poem?

“Honey! You’re blanket is burning!” 

Jumping up, I throw the smoldering cloth on the ground. I stomp and thump and then GASP as icy water swooshes over me. I look at my husband standing before me with an empty pail. “What did you do that for?” 

He grins at my dripping hair and plastered shirt and shrugs. “The fire’s out.” 

I watch the last ember sputter and die at my feet. 

“What were you thinking about anyway? Your mind was a million miles away.”

Hmmm…what was I thinking about?