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Tanara McCauley

~ Love Knows Color

Tanara McCauley

Category Archives: Short Stories, Songs, and Poetry

Twice the Miracle

09 Wednesday Apr 2014

Posted by tanaramccauley in Faith, Relationships, and Other Topics, Short Stories, Songs, and Poetry, Writing and Pursuing Publication

≈ 21 Comments

Tags

Bible, Christian, faith, family, miracles, parenting, pregnancy, premature birth, religion, submission, surrender, twins

nurse

I could tell by the look in the nurse’s eyes she wasn’t sure I understood what she was saying. We stared at each other, she with one brow lifted in question for some sign of comprehension on my end; me drifting inside myself with a host of “what if’s” tumbling through my mind.

My twins, due in two months, would be delivered in a matter of hours. The medical staff had done their best to keep them in, and now they had no choice but to take them out surgically.

In part I was relieved. My son, whose water had burst five days earlier, and whose heart stopped with every contraction, couldn’t possibly survive much longer. But the nurse wanted me to acknowledge the risks of such an early delivery: long-term disabilities, breathing difficulties, jaundice, stunted growth, brain defects…and very possibly death. My husband squeezed my hand and spoke for me. Yes we understood. Yes we were prepared.

But no…I wasn’t.

I remember feeling so cold that the blanket tucked around my swollen body was about as effective as it could’ve been warming a block of ice. A new mother, never having held one of my children, I wasn’t at all prepared for the worst. In truth I wanted nothing to do with it.

In my mind’s eye I saw my children alive and healthy, growing and happy. From the first toddled steps to the first days of school; then on to camping trips, family vacations, and game days. That’s what I was prepared for. My heart, which others wanted me to coax into being ready for anything, was defiantly unyielding in its loyalty to the original plan. Come what may, problems and all, I wanted those babies.

But soon enough, as with every other time when my will has rushed to the frontlines of battle and tossed it’s proud locks, words buried in my core began to whisper what I knew all along to be true. It wasn’t my choice. And no amount of will could change that. Whether either twin would suck that first breath of God’s given air into their lungs, or pass quietly on to the call of their Maker, was out of my hands.

I had to lay before Him the desire of my heart – that He let my babies live – then lay my will flat-faced on the floor in submission to His, and accept whatever He chose for me. And in all that still know that He loves me, He is for me, and He is now and forever will be my King. As soon as I did that I had peace about the entire situation, and was finally prepared in the way the doctors and nurses wanted me to be prepared.

What strange creatures we are! What is it in us that makes us automatically think when we’re willing to let go of something we desperately want, it means we’ve already lost it? For at that time, though I still had hope, and I knew beyond doubt that God could not only let them live but make them completely healthy, I was internally cringing in preparation for loss.

I look back on that now, nine years which seem to have passed as quickly as nine glorious sunsets, and I can imagine Him looking down at me on that rather hard, sterile rollaway. His eyes full of compassion as He listened to the fears suppressed beneath my brave exterior. He knew I would love Him no matter what – perhaps He just wanted me to know it too – then He blessed me with two completely healthy, beautiful babies.

SAMSUNG DIGITAL CAMERA

twinsbday

My twins – His twins – turned nine recently. And as they reminisce over the fun they had bringing in the “big nine,” I sit back and look at them in celebration. Not just celebration for their lives, but also celebration of the worthy, mighty Father who gave them life. He who did not spare His own Son, spared both my son and my daughter.

And He is now, and will forever be, my King.

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The Value of Grace

01 Thursday Aug 2013

Posted by tanaramccauley in Faith, Relationships, and Other Topics, Short Stories, Songs, and Poetry

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

brotherly love, cheap grace, Christianity, covenant, encouragement, exhortation, freedom in Christ, grace, holiness, Jesus Christ, judgment, legalism, rebuke, relationships, riches of grace, spirituality, walking in obedience, wisdom

ID-10051379

Value A:
I know I’m not perfect
So why even try?
Don’t want too much Jesus
Just some of his pie
And you there, don’t judge me
Hold onto that stone
Who made you my keeper?
My life is my own
I’m free now, He said it
I’ll live as I choose
Your talk about walk
Don’t apply to these shoes
My sins have been paid
My failure erased
Try daily for holy????
Ain’t you heard of grace?

Value B:
I know I’m not perfect
But sin breaks my heart
Today I may stumble
The next’s a new start
To live it for Jesus
This life He redeemed
And walk so that in me
His name is esteemed
If I get distracted
Or wander astray
Encourage, correct me
And more ’til that Day
Though you may not know me
Our Father’s the same
And we have a duty
To GLORY that name!
Christ suffered my judgment
Then died in my place
I’ll not dare forget that
Nor cheapen His grace

Which is yours?

Image courtesy of digital art / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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Chevy Man Prayer

18 Thursday Jul 2013

Posted by tanaramccauley in Faith, Relationships, and Other Topics, Short Stories, Songs, and Poetry

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

amwriting, chevy, dialysis, God, healing, health, miracles, organ transplant, poetry, praise, prayer, psalms, sickness, spirituality

toolbox

He sat alone in the cab of his Chevy
Eyes burning, heart heavy
He rubbed on the arm that had just been used
His blood recycled, his spirit abused
He looked to the sky to the One he can’t see
Do You know? Do You hear? Some mercy for me?
It’s been only weeks and I know they said years
But Lord I can’t take this…Lord I can’t take this

That night at his home he pondered the morrow
More tragic sessions, unending sorrow
He felt the guilt of not having more hope
Of thinking of self, of failing to cope
Try as he might he could not reconcile
A lifetime of pain and poor health with this trial?
Of lacking in joy for indefinite time?
Oh Lord will You take this? Lord will You take this?

That very next day Chevy man got a call
Mr. M.? We’ve got news that’ll make your mouth fall
A donor’s been found, the organ’s en route
You’ve got to come put on this hospital suit
Transplant’s in the morning, and if all goes well
You’ll have quite a story of wonder to tell
His mouth fell indeed, his heart leapt in praise
Lord my God! Lord my God! Lord my God!

Sounds a bit far-fetched right? Only it isn’t.

Mr. M. is one Mr. McCauley–my dad.

He started dialysis this April. In June he was approved for placement on the transplant list. He was told to expect 5-7 years of waiting for an organ, if one ever came at all due to his rare blood type.

After a particularly horrific dialysis session in late June, he sat in his truck with the same heaviness of heart mentioned in the poem. He looked to the sky and asked for deliverance.

The very next day he got that call. And the day after that he was the recipient of a new organ. I was able to visit for a portion of his recovery and walk with him, talk with him, watch movies, laugh over memories, and just wow over what God had done.

In the words of King David: “I have set the Lord always before me; because He is at my right hand I shall not be moved.” Psalm 16:8

I will praise Him high and low, through good and bad, health and illness, practical and miracle.

Lord my God! Lord my God! Lord my God!

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What Happens Next?

08 Wednesday May 2013

Posted by tanaramccauley in Short Stories, Songs, and Poetry, Writing and Pursuing Publication

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

amwriting, book giveaway, books, characters, Christian fiction, conflict, creative thinking, james scott bell, moral, outside the box, paragraph writing, plot and structure, questions, redemption, relationships, scenes, setting, short stories, writing

144863-20130508

My mind is always churning. I comfort myself with the notion that I’m a writer and, as such, my thoughts should walk a creative distance outside the box of normal thinking folks. Honestly, though, sometimes I suspect I’m a blurted comment away from being professionally observed.

As for those thoughts I think, they tend to come in scenes with the promise of a story somewhere. Absurd or dull ones get shot down as quickly as they come, lingering ones may turn into a short story (or at least get the nod of an honorable intention to make a short story), and great ones get scribbled down and chewed on with the promise of a full book someday.

Then there are the write-a-paragraph-and-never-touch-again scenes. There’s a story, typically something of redemptive or moral value, but I don’t know what it is. It could be anything, so why limit it to one thing? But if I don’t limit it to one thing, how will it ever become anything? And there I go again, off on my mental tangent…

Now here’s where you come in! Written below is a very short scene. The characters are there (at least the initial two), and the stage is set for something…

That “something” is up to you.

Throw me ideas for conflict, questions, promises, future hopes, past regrets, titles…whatever comes to your mind after you read the paragraph.* If your mind embraces the scene and takes off with it…feel free to write it out and add to the story instead of just offering your idea.*

Here goes…

The bed was hard and stiff, as if it had been soaked through then dried in a harsh summer sun. Jenise perched on the edge with one leg crossed over the other and fingered the cheap dove necklace sticking to her skin. The window facing her was lifted just high enough for a small bird to fit through, as high as it could go, and despite several holes in the screen, no air seemed to come in.

A cart rumbled up to the door and paused, then rumbled away again accompanied by the faint tunes of a radio with poor reception. Jenise took a long drag of her cigarette and blew the smoke over the sleeping form of her new husband. Only his fingers moved in response, the rough tips finding the back of her polyester slip and sticking like velcro.

“David,” Jenise called in a soft, shaky voice, half hoping he didn’t hear…

Now it’s your turn! Tell me what happens next. Where are they? Why are they there? What’s keeping her awake while he’s sleeping? What’s she thinking about? I can’t wait to see the ideas that come pouring in.

And that’s not all…the most creative, workable idea or add-on will receive a new copy of James Scott Bell’s Plot & Structure, a must-have for every writer or writer-to-be. Be creative and have fun!

*Please do not submit using profanity, gratuitous sexual content, or malicious violence.

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26 Tuesday Mar 2013

Posted by tanaramccauley in Short Stories, Songs, and Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Never forget what’s most important to remember…

Tanara McCauley

Let Me Clarify:

I’ve never considered myself a songwriter. Not officially anyway. Sure I sing songs – louder and more ambitiously than I’ll ever be capable of doing well – in the safety of my home’s four walls. And if I particularly like one, or seven, or thirty, I’ll write them down. It’s a form of worship, one that’s spontaneous and rich with the immediate needs, feelings, or joys contained in the heart. And no matter how bad it sounds, the Lord loves it. It’s His Word and His love that inspire me to sing Him new songs.

What He doesn’t require is for me to do it publicly. But this song was born under special circumstances, and as such required a special response. It was inspired by something very personal; but grew into something I could not claim as mine alone. Somewhere there’s someone, or many, who need to be reminded…

View original post 495 more words

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And the Winner Is…..

24 Saturday Nov 2012

Posted by tanaramccauley in Short Stories, Songs, and Poetry, Writing and Pursuing Publication

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

amwriting, author, Christian fiction, congratulations, contest, faith, giveaway, real life, relationships, short story, truth or fiction tuesdays, winner, writer

Thank you to everyone who participated in the Truth or Fiction Tuesdays Short Story Series! The votes have been tallied and a random winner has been electronically selected.

Before I announce the lucky winner, here are the results of each story in order of appearance:

Eyewitness Testimony: Fiction

Starting Over: Fiction

The Atheists, The Agnostic, and The Not Even Sunday Christian: True

Deadly Intuition: True (though there were a couple of fiction elements, they weren’t significant enough to alter the events that were based on a true story)

Newly Wed and Hostile: True (and no, I’m not Tina :-))

The Receipt: Fiction

Angel with a Gun: Fiction

And now for the winner of the $25 Amazon e-giftcard:

Congratulations Nichelle Montano! I will be contacting you to confirm which email address you would like the card sent to.

To everyone else, thank you again for your participation. I had a lot of fun with this series and really enjoyed discussing the stories with all of you!

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Angel with a Gun – Truth or Fiction Story 7

13 Tuesday Nov 2012

Posted by tanaramccauley in Faith, Relationships, and Other Topics, Short Stories, Songs, and Poetry, Writing and Pursuing Publication

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

amwriting, author, books, broken family, Christian fiction, faith, girl, giveaway, guilt, gun, Jesus, mistakes, new beginnings, police officer, reading, relationships, second chances, short story, single parenting, teenagers, troubled youth, truth, vote, writer, writing

We’ve reached the last installment of Truth or Fiction Tuesdays! If you’re new to the series and would like to participate in the giveaway click here for more information.

Angel with a Gun

“Don’t worry, okay,” Kenny said, “Rod knows what he’s doing. We’ve done it before.”

Sienna threw him a sideways glance then looked again over each shoulder. Their little group of four stood in front of room 107 at the Dryson Inn, waiting while Rod dipped into his handful of plastic keycards and tried another one. Sienna rubbed her arms and watched her breath ascend as a cloudy mist, hoping this key failed like the rest.

It didn’t.

“Whew! We’re in man.” Rod’s smile stretched between almond-shaped dimples as he walked to the farthest bed and began unloading his backpack. “Let’s get this party started.”

Sienna hesitated just inside the door. The entire room was dingy–the floor, the walls, even the thin quilts on the lumpy mattresses–as if each cigarette ever lit in the place had vowed to tag the room with its smoke stains and ash scent.

Kenny applied pressure to the small of her back until Sienna approached the other, closer bed and perched on its edge, hugging her purse to her stomach. He sat beside her and pulled her close.

“You cold?” he asked.

She nodded. “You sure we won’t get caught in here?”

“Positive,” he said. “Rod’s got the hook-up on rooms. We’ve–um–he’s done this a million times.”

“Yeah, you said that.” Sienna pressed her lips together and looked at Kenny.

He tried to laugh through clearing his throat. “It’s nothing. We just use these spots to hang out. Besides,” he put a finger under her chin, “the last time was over two months ago, before you and I got together.”

She rolled her eyes and turned her face away.

“Look at you getting all jealous,” Kenny said.

Jealous wasn’t the word, more like petrified that the night–which should’ve landed them at the movies–was headed south on a bullet train.

She gulped and watched Rod light a joint while his girlfriend Lex poured brandy into styrofoam cups.

“Pour us a couple, Lex,” Kenny said. He leaned back and tried to pull Sienna with him, but she stayed where she was, hugging her little purse like it was a pole cemented in the ground.

“And cut that heater on. My girl’s freezing.” He rubbed Sienna’s back. “What’d you tell your mom?”

“That I was going to Jennifer’s to study.”

“On a Friday? Your mom bought that?”

“Yeah, well, right after I told her she got a call from her office about the system crashing. She had to rush out so she didn’t question me much.”

“Nice,” he said. “Baby Bird gets to flap her wings.”

Baby Bird wanted to flap her wings all right, but not for the reasons strutting around Kenny’s brain. For the first time Sienna found herself wishing her mom had been as vigilant as always.

She looked at Kenny. He wasn’t very good-looking. His fun personality and daring ways had attracted her. She realized now why “daring” hadn’t made her father’s list of admirable qualities in a guy.

Thoughts of her dead father shamed her.

“What are you thinking about?” Kenny asked, tugging on her elbow. “Come here.”

She cringed at his touch, hating him for putting her in this position. God, get me out of this. She knew the desperate prayer was futile, she and God hadn’t been on speaking terms in over a year.

Just then the door shook with pounding. “Open up! Police!”

The room erupted in activity–Lex poured brandy down the sink, Rod flushed weed and batted at the smoke with pillows, and Kenny peeked out the window. Only Sienna froze where she sat.

“It’s really them!” Kenny said.

Rod cursed and paced the small room looking for ways to hide any lingering evidence. He took the brandy bottle from the tin wastebasket and stuffed it under the mattress, then threw his backpack and the keycards in the closet.

“Don’t make us kick the door in. Open up!”

“What do I do?” Kenny looked at Rod, his face almost the same color as his white sweater.

Rod sat on the bed and ran a hand over his blonde spikes. “I’m screwed.”

More banging.

“Open it already,” Rod said, his gruff voice turning angry.

Kenny had barely removed the latch when three officers pushed the door open and entered with guns drawn.

The offenders lifted their hands while the room was checked. Sienna, however, remained faithful to her purse.

One of the officers looked at Rod. “Can’t say I’m surprised to see you. Still on probation?”

Rod only glared.

“Well that answers that question.” He turned to the officer standing near the window. “Take him, Sanchez.”

As Rod was being cuffed, Officer Reed–according to the name on his badge–spoke to Lex. “And you are?”

Lex put her hands on her hips. “Sarah.”

“Lie to me again, not-Sarah, and you’re going downtown with loverboy. Name and age.”

She hesitated only a moment, “Alexia Peterson, seventeen.”

“Are you high, Ms. Peterson?” He moved closer. “Yep, she’s yours, Wright.” Sienna’s stomach churned with the quick formality of it all.

When Kenny refused to give his real name, he was cuffed and ready by Sanchez’ return.

Then Reed turned to Sienna. “And what about you?”

“My name’s Sienna,” she said just above a whisper.

“Sienna what?”

“Sienna Takana.”

“How old are you, Sienna?”

“I’m fifteen.”

“Fifteen.” Sienna detected a hint of disappointment in his voice and it forced her to look up. His eyes were surprisingly soft.

“Do your parents know where you are?”

“No sir.”

“Ever been arrested, done drugs, or any other kind of trouble?”

“No sir.”

He studied her a moment. “Okay, here’s what I’ll do. If I reach your parents and can get them to pick you up I’ll allow it. If not, I’ll chauffeur you to where you’ll be staying often if you ever do something like this again.”

Sienna didn’t know which was worse: going to jail and getting bailed out, or having her mother pick her up directly from the no-tell motel.

“What’s it gonna be?”

She cleared her throat and gave her mom’s number, then suffered through his end of the conversation when he made the call.

“Where’s your dad?” he asked after hanging up.

“He died a year ago,” she said.

Officer Reed paused. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said finally. “Is that why you’re running with that crowd?”

She shrugged, and he continued, “I have a daughter your age. I don’t pretend to know what kind of man your dad was, but I’m guessing he wouldn’t be too happy. Am I right?”

Sienna avoided thoughts of her dad as much as possible. Suddenly he was alive and fresh in her mind, smiling at her out of his olive face. That he would be grieved was an understatement. She began to weep.

Officer Reed sighed and pulled her into a hug. The embrace–performed by strong arms and a broad shoulder, and scented with some spice version of aftershave–undid her. It was a man’s embrace, not unlike her father’s, and she clung to it for dear life–melting into it and pouring out her pain upon it.

“I miss him so much,” she said, her fists clutching pieces of Officer Reed’s uniform.

She cried like that for a time, and Officer Reed held her and told her about what he and his daughter endured after losing his wife some years back. “It took a lot of prayer, but eventually we healed, and–“

“Sienna.” Her mother’s voice sliced into the moment. Sienna pulled away and wiped her eyes.

“Ms. Takana.” Officer Reed stood and introduced himself, then explained what happened.

“Does that mean you aren’t pressing charges?” She didn’t take her eyes off of her daughter, and Sienna squirmed under the cold stare.

“The owner of the hotel just wants the kids out of here, ma’am. He’s not pressing charges.”

“Thank you. Let’s go Sienna.” Despite the sweats and scrunchy-tied hair she had rushed off to work in, Sienna thought her mom had never looked angrier–or more hurt.

“Ms. Takana?”

“Yes?” She looked at Officer Reed for the first time.

“I have a daughter the same age who has experienced the same kind of loss. This isn’t protocol, but I’d be happy to have her contact Sienna if that’s okay with you. It might…help Sienna deal with some of her grief.”

“I’ll have to think about that,” she said. “Do you have a card or something?”

Officer Reed checked his many pockets before producing the small slip. When he offered it, Sienna noticed that the look on his face mirrored the same expression many men had given her mother since she became a widow. Sienna despised that look…until now.

Her mother took the card, thanked him again, then walked ahead of Sienna with an unspoken command for her to follow.

Sienna looked at the handsome officer one last time and found him watching after them. Her father’s smile mingled with the memory of the officer’s embrace, and for the first time in a year, in the inner recesses of her heart, she spoke to God.

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The Receipt–Truth or Fiction Story 6

05 Monday Nov 2012

Posted by tanaramccauley in Short Stories, Songs, and Poetry, Writing and Pursuing Publication

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

amwriting, author, bank error, character, giveaway, honesty, millionare, receipt, relationships, series, short story, test, truth or fiction tuesday, vote, writer

It’s almost Truth or Fiction Tuesday! And because tomorrow is election day, I am posting the story early and making it an even shorter read. Hope you enjoy…

Oh, and make sure you get out and vote!

Seventeen dollars and thirty-two cents. That’s how much Naira had to her name before she deposited her weekly paycheck of eleven hundred. Now, according to her ATM receipt, her balance was just over twenty million. She rechecked her account number and the eight figures beneath, then slid the sweaty paper across to her boyfriend Jacob, who was busy wolfing down his second bowl of Mongolian barbecue.

One glance almost choked him.

“Wow. You weren’t joking.”

“Why would I joke about something like this?” Naira drummed her fingers on the laminate tabletop, pausing often to tug at her short, kinky curls and glance around the noisy restaurant. Her bowl, which reeked of garlic and Kung Pao, remained untouched.

“Well, you are quite the prankster, dear. I thought you were just pulling my leg.” He polished off another mouthful, then asked in his slight accent, “So what are you going to do?”

Shouldn’t he answer that question? Wasn’t he the voice of reason in this outfit? Never mind her student loans, tapped out credit cards, and dead-end job at the phone company, the money wasn’t hers. She cleared her throat and leaned in. “Give it back…right?”

“I don’t know. The bank’s going to take it back as soon as they realize their mistake. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t grab some of it before they do.”

“You’re not serious?” The thought had crossed her mind of course. But coming from Jacob–the guy who’d once revisited a drive-thru and waited twenty minutes to return extra hamburgers–it sounded just plain wrong.

“Take enough to quit your job and hide.” He pushed away his empty bowl. “Then you can focus on painting.”

“That sounds like a great plan. Go on the lam for grand theft, spend years painting my masterpiece, then go to prison after I’ve surfaced to unveil it. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Jacob’s full lips parted in a lazy smile made for fantasies. “Thieves do have aliases, Naira.” He took her hands, and her toffee-colored fingers instantly paled next to his dark skin. “It’s just…I know how strapped you are for cash, and I hate to see you struggle.” He sighed. “I’m only halfway through med school, love. I don’t know how much longer I can tolerate not being able to help you. It makes me feel unworthy.”

Naira frowned. He’d been many things in their two years of dating–on call handyman, karaoke partner, art critic–he was hardly unworthy. With him she had learned to appreciate simple things, especially the love they shared. Was money worth risking that?

“I can’t do it.” She snatched up the receipt and crumpled it.

“Wait, you sure?”

She nodded. “I’ll call the bank first thing in the morning.”

“But have you thought of the possibilities?”

“Jacob! I can’t believe you’re trying to talk me into something I was sure you’d be talking me out of. So I don’t have a lot of money?” She twisted spikes into the balled up receipt and lowered her voice. “I’m happy with you. I can’t jeopardize that.”

Jacob stared, wordless, making Naira wonder if her choice upset him. When he pushed his chair back and stood, she felt a rush of panic.

“Well,” he said slowly, reaching into his pocket, “since you won’t steal it from me…will you share it with me?” He knelt in front of her and placed a small felt box in her palm. “And will you take my name with it?”

“What?” Words failed her as he lifted the lid and pulled out a thick band with small white stones spiraling in a staircase to a large canary diamond. “Jacob!”

Women in the restaurant, who had popped up like moles when Jacob knelt, gasped as one at the ring.

“Marry me, Naira?”

“Wh-wh-what?”

“The money? Half of my inheritance. Wired from Dubai a week ago. I get the other half when I finish med school. Do you think that’ll be enough to carry a pro bono physician and his artist wife to their graying years?” He touched her cheek. “Will you be my wife, Naira?”

She fought past the tears in her throat, threw her arms around him and squeezed until he grunted a laugh.

The tattered receipt fell to the floor.

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Newly Wed and Hostile – Truth or Fiction Story 5

30 Tuesday Oct 2012

Posted by tanaramccauley in Short Stories, Songs, and Poetry, Writing and Pursuing Publication

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

arguments, author, Christian fiction, hostile, marriage, newlyweds, relationships, short stories, truth, writer, writing

It’s Truth or Fiction Tuesday! To be eligible to win the $25 Amazon gift card remember to cast your vote using the comments box. For detailed instructions click here.

Don’t do it!

Wisdom called to Tina like a patient friend, and other relevant sayings joined the chorus: “Two wrongs don’t make a right. Be the bigger person. Kill him with kindness.” She knew she should relent. Her mind ran through a host of reasons why her current intentions would only make things worse. But she was seething.

He’d erased all twenty-two episodes of her Judge Judy.

And he’d done it on purpose.

Tina shifted on the couch and took steady aim at the DVR list. Damien wanted to see this football game as bad as she’d wanted to catch up on her favorite court show. She sharpened her anger with the memory of how nonchalant he’d been when she’d confronted him.

His “yeah, so?” was like an audible smirk over the phone line.

Yeah so this! Tina bit her bottom lip, squinted her eyes, and pressed delete. She’d timed it so perfectly that when Damien walked in seconds later, the remote was still pointed at the TV like a smoking gun.

“Hey babe.” Damien passed through the kitchen and frowned at the clean stove. “No dinner?”

If she’d had any guilt about what she’d just done, it grew wings and flew away.

“Sorry, no dinner,” she said with a broad smile.

He approached her in his delivery blues, his thin lips making a valiant effort to form a pout. Before he spoke, the notice plastered across the sixty-five inch screen caught his attention: No Entries.

“What did you do?!” He snatched the remote and began shaking it, pushing random buttons like there was a magic formula to bringing his game back.

“What?” Tina rounded her eyes and lifted her brows.

“I didn’t even watch that game yet, Tina!”

“Well, I didn’t watch my shows either. You didn’t have a problem deleting those did you?” Her eyes retreated into slits and she sat back with her arms crossing her chest. She could tell by the heat rising up her neck that her light face was turning the color of a pomegranate.

“Your shows? This is about your stupid judge shows?” Damien threw the remote on the floor by her socked feet. “Those shows air a million times a week. I’ve been avoiding phone calls and TV’s all day waiting to watch that game. And you erase it over some dumb show?”

No, it wasn’t just the shows. It was everything about their four-month-old marriage. She was tired of him walking in asking about dinner. How about asking how her day went? She was sick of seeing the laundry pile up, with his only contribution being to pluck out his necessary pieces and ask her to iron them.

They both worked full-time jobs, but somehow she came home and had yet more work to do while he had none. He was a modern-day Ralph Kramden, and it was about time he found out she was no Alice. She’d had enough.

Tina picked up the remote and held her head high while Damien continued his rant. His dark face turned even darker as he gained momentum. She stole glances at him and wondered if he was really as handsome as she’d imagined when she was walking down the aisle. With his top lip curling in a half snarl and his eyes bucked like that, she wasn’t sure.

She turned to the game show channel. Not being a fan of Jeopardy didn’t stop her from calling out answers like she’d been watching it all her life. “What is hickory!”

“Oh, you’re just gonna ignore me now, huh?” Damien said.

“What are the Rocky Mountains!”

Damien walked over to the TV and pulled out the plug, then held the cord with a triumphant grin before he dropped it to the floor like a strangled pet. Tina’s mouth fell open, and she barely had time to close it again before Damien stalked back, took the remote, and went to the room, slamming and locking the door.

Tina stayed on the couch. Her stomach growled, and she regretted not having had the foresight to at least fix herself something to eat.

No food. No TV. She was becoming a victim of her own plot.

She huffed a sigh and went to knock on the door.

“Give me back the remote!” she demanded.

Damien turned up whatever he was watching.

Tina balled her fist and shook it in the air. She’d started this fight, if he thought he would win he had another thing coming. She grabbed a flashlight and pushed open the sliding glass door to the backyard, then walked around the pool to the side of the house.

Frogs croaked a conversation in the cool night air, and Tina felt like a mission impossible agent as she opened the breaker box and shined her light on the labeled switches.

She pulled one and looked at the window where Damien had run like a fox to his hole. Nothing happened.

“Not that one,” Tina muttered to herself. She pulled another switch. “Not that one either.”

Before she pulled the third, she remembered some of the verses her sister had shared with her about marriage. Something about a soft answer turning away wrath, a virtuous wife doing her husband no wrong, and wives being submissive to their husbands as to the Lord.

The last verse was like a dagger in the heart, but she pulled it out and patched it over with excuses. She was new at the whole Christian thing, there had to be some kind of concession for rookies.

She pulled the next switch and, voila, the lights went out in bad-husband-land. Ha! Tina danced a little jig all the way back into the house.

Just as she slid the heavy glass back into place and pulled the blinds, Damien came storming from the bedroom.

“Are you crazy?” The smile on her face must’ve convinced him she was. “You’re certifiable Tina! Who thinks to go outside and cut the power off from the breaker. Did I really marry a crazy person? Unbelievable!”

He slammed the blinds back out of the way, bending one in the process, and stomped outside.

Crazy, huh? Tina waited until she saw his figure approaching, then slid the door closed and locked it. “Yeah, I’m crazy!” she said through the glass. “Crazy for marrying you!”

The joy of outwitting him lasted only a moment. Wisdom was back in her ear again. She couldn’t really leave him out there. She waited for him to ask just once then let him back in.

Damien entered without speaking and went directly to their room, and Tina returned to her couch post in front of the remoteless TV.

He owed her an apology. And this time she would stand her ground until she got it.

“Hey,” Damien said. Tina looked up and found him standing near the edge of the couch. “Can you come set the alarm?”

Her alarm clock was a complex piece of technology, one Damien hadn’t bothered to figure out since he had Tina to work it for him. But there was no apology in his question. His posture and tone made it clear he was speaking on a needs-basis only.

“No,” she said.

“Then how am I supposed to wake up for work in the morning?”

“Sounds like a personal problem.”

“Fine!” he said through clenched teeth. “I’ll set it myself.”

“Imagine that,” Tina called after him. There were only two ways he could figure out that clock. And the first, the manual, was long gone. She waited with a smug grin on her face for him to come tramping back with her apology and needing her help.

Instead, several minutes later, it was her clock that came flying down the hall, followed by a final door slam.

She refused to credit him with the victory, even though she ended up on the couch with a decorative throw as her blanket. She set the alarm on her cell phone and forced herself to sleep.

When Damien came home the next day, Tina tensed herself for round two.

“Hey,” he said when he walked into the kitchen from the garage.

“Hey,” she responded with a guarded heart.

He piled a series of bags on the counter. Tina smelled the scent of Chinese before noticing the Panda Express logos. If she wasn’t mistaken, there was enough food for both of them.

Damien opened a separate sack and pulled out a rectangle box. He sat it on the counter, then busied himself with grabbing plates and drinks for their dinner.

Tina looked at the box and burst out laughing. It was the most generic alarm clock her eyes had ever seen. Damien laughed too, then walked up and put his arms around her.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Me too,” Tina said.

And just like that, being newlyweds was once again a good thing.

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Deadly Intuition – Truth or Fiction Tuesday Story 4

23 Tuesday Oct 2012

Posted by tanaramccauley in Short Stories, Songs, and Poetry, Writing and Pursuing Publication

≈ 13 Comments

Tags

author, Christian fiction, deadly intuition, giveaway, gun, life or death, prayer, second chances, short story, troubled teenager, truth or fiction tuesday, vote, writer, writing, youth

It’s Truth or Fiction Tuesday! To be eligible to win the $25 Amazon gift card remember to cast your vote using the comments box. For detailed instructions click here.

The breeze blew by her with a carefree lilt in it. She tipped her face to the sky and smiled in response to the sun’s gentle warmth on her cheek. It was a welcome change to the ruthless desert heat which had lingered beyond its season.

She took the book she’d been trying to read for the past month and cracked it open. The marker had been on page seven so long it would probably leave a permanent crease–thanks to her three children who now dashed through the deserted park like a band of pirates. After another glance at them, she found her spot and tried again to conquer page eight.

She reached chapter two when a shadow interrupted her focus. Its owner was a pedaling teenager, presumably coming from school. She smiled and started to look away, but met his gaze before he moved from her line of vision.

Her internal alarm screeched like a siren.

His bike stopped behind the chunky blue dinosaur where she sat, and her body went stiff. She calculated how long it would take to gather her kids and cross to where her truck sat like an orphan on the street. If his intentions were evil, they didn’t have a chance.

“Mommy! Mommy, watch me!” Three-year-old Maya plopped down on the slide, her chubby cheeks flushed and glistening. “But don’t catch me, okay.”

“Okay, baby.” She walked over to where Maya would land in the woodchips, then braved a look at the boy. Maya could have flown at her like a superhero and she wouldn’t have noticed.

He was watching her.

She couldn’t place what she saw in his eyes–anxiety, determination maybe–but it reinforced her initial sense of foreboding, and filled her mind with terrible scenes made for movies.

Get a grip, Lorraine. She was just being paranoid. She knew from experience that her imagination was boundless when it came to her children’s safety. Surely this was one of those times.

But he didn’t look away. Lorraine forced herself to stare back and size him up. He was average height, maybe just an inch or two taller than she, with a solid, muscular build. When she was younger–nothing but lank, limbs, and attitude–his height alone would’ve convinced her she could take him. She didn’t dare make such an assumption now, especially with her whole world running about the park on three pairs of short, vulnerable legs.

She appraised his cropped blonde hair, baggy shirt, and skater shorts. He also wore an earbud in one ear, with the other dangling from the front of his shirt. Apart from the hardness of his features and his constant fidgeting, he appeared normal. And, as she continued to stare, he gave a slight smile and finally looked away.

So it was paranoia.

Then why couldn’t she shake the dark feeling that defied the beauty of the day? It kept her from rounding up her children, for fear that something terrible would happen if they were huddled together with their backs to him in retreat.

It also kept her thinking of ways to fight and stay alive long enough to save them. She didn’t think like that. Why was she thinking like that? Why could he possibly want to hurt them? They didn’t know each other. In her many trips to this same park over the years, she’d never even seen him.

She couldn’t figure him out, or the ominous vibe that tickled her senses. As she puzzled over it, he mounted his bike, rode to the other side of the playground, got off, and began to pace. He pulled out his MP3 player for a brief look, then shoved it back in his pocket, all the while stealing unsettling glances at her. He repeated this ritual, including the bike trek, several times.

The pacing reminded Lorraine of an agitated tiger, tense and ready to pounce on the first thing within its reach. Coldness spread over her as intuition told her she had made the connection.

She and her little family were within his reach.

She began to pray wordlessly, ignoring the complaints of her older daughter Ria that Nate was throwing woodchips in her hair. Desperate for God to intervene, Lorraine threw up every solution she could think of, including striking the boy dead on the spot if needed–anything to keep him from hurting her babies.

She scanned his oversized clothes again, looking for the bulge of a weapon. She had to get close enough so that she could at least fight him for it. That was their only chance, if God let him live.

All of a sudden he stopped and faced her. Lorraine opened her mouth to scream for help. What came out was a controlled, “Hello.”

He blinked and pulled his brows together, confusion replacing the rigid set of his face.

“Hello,” Lorraine said again with a weak smile.

“Hi,” he said.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

He paused as if he had to think about it, then shook his head. “No.”

“Just get out of school?”

“Kinda.”

“Oh yeah? What grade are you in?”

“I’m a junior.” He walked with an unsure step and stopped close enough to touch her. Lorraine struggled to appear relaxed. “I would be a senior but I got held back,” he said.

“That’s terrible.” What a dumb thing to say. “The last years of high school are rough, though. You can’t give up. What’s your name?”

“Miguel. Or Mike. Either one.”

Lorraine searched his face again. “Miguel? You don’t look Hispanic.”

“I’m not. I’m adopted. My real mom left me when I was one. My dad left when I was four. I was adopted by a Mexican family, so I named myself Miguel. But you can call me Mike.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mike–about your first parents I mean. Are you and your adopted family new to the area?”

“No, just me.” His attention was momentarily arrested by a yellow-winged butterfly. “I got in trouble a few years ago, so I’ve been in foster homes ever since. I’ve been in this new one about a week.”

She chose to forego the obvious question and asked, “How do you like it so far?”

He searched her with plain brown eyes that seemed expert at reading people. “It’s okay, I guess. I don’t like the school. They’re real strict, with metal detectors everywhere. The family seems alright, though. I miss my other family, but I’m not allowed back there.”

Once he got going he didn’t stop. He proceeded to tell her about his brother going to the army, and how he wanted to follow in his footsteps, or maybe become a Marine. Though Lorraine picked up on the awkward slant to his social skills, she couldn’t help being touched by the soft earnest in his voice and how his hostile exterior seemed to drip away as he unloaded his burdens.

He wasn’t a dangerous teen after all, just a troubled one.

“Do you like music?” he asked without prelude.

“Sure.”

When he rattled off a list of artist names she’d never heard before, he frowned and asked, “Well what do you listen to?”

She laughed. “Christian music mostly. Anything else you probably wouldn’t know. I’m about twice your age, Mike.”

He looked skeptical for a moment then shrugged. “Well, you might like this then.” His thumb whipped around the dial on his MP3 and he offered her the earbud resting on his chest.

Lorraine suppressed her inner germophobe and took it. He needed love, not her ridiculous hang-ups. The song, Stand By Me, was in English but infused with a Latin sound. Lorraine smiled and sang a few lines before handing it back to him.

The sprinklers came on and drew the kids like magnets. Lorraine and Mike talked more, mostly about his dreams and how with hard work he could achieve them, and she relaxed as he soaked up her attention like a happy sponge. He was handsome when he smiled.

A truck drove by, and Mike sagged when he saw it. “That’s my foster dad,” he said. “Guess I better go.”

“Okay,” Lorraine was sad to have him leave so soon. She almost forgot she’d been praying for his destruction earlier. The memory made her feel silly.

“See you around,” he said. He hesitated, then dropped his heavy arms over her shoulders in a loose hug, and touched her cheek with the quick kiss young boys give their mothers. It broke her heart.

“Be good, Mike,” she said. “Work hard.”

“I will.” He jogged to his bike and tripped just as he reached it.

He recovered quickly, pulling the bike up with him as he stood. He adjusted his shirt, which had lifted during the fall, and Lorraine caught sight of a gun lodged in his waistband.

Her mouth dropped open. Mike, however, didn’t notice. He flashed her one last smile–radiant and beautiful–threw his leg over the seat, and pedaled off in the direction he’d come from.

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