• About
  • Contact Tanara

Tanara McCauley

~ Love Knows Color

Tanara McCauley

Tag Archives: giveaway

Seven Books in Seven Weeks Drawing Results

21 Friday Jun 2013

Posted by tanaramccauley in Book Reviews

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

author, book reviews, contest, giveaway, reading marathon, seven books in seven weeks, susan may warren, take a chance on me, terri blackstock, the language of flowers, truth stained lies, vanessa diffenbaugh, writer, writing

Thanks to all of you who followed along and participated in my Seven Books in Seven Weeks reading marathon! I had a great time and read some great books because of your recommendations.

I also enjoyed your comments and some of the emotional turmoil we shared. All that was missing was the ability to share a cup of coffee while reading together real-time.

But don’t worry, I always drank an extra cup in your absence :-).

Now for the winners of the three books included in the giveaway for this series:

20130621-015621.jpg

Congratulations Pragya, Daniellajoe, and Victoria! I will be contacting each of you by email in order to deliver your books.

And again, thanks and many blessings to everyone who participated to make this series a success. God bless you!

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • LinkedIn
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

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!

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • LinkedIn
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

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.

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • LinkedIn
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

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.

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • LinkedIn
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

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.

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • LinkedIn
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

The Atheists, The Agnostic, and The Not Even Sunday Christian – Truth or Fiction Story 3

16 Tuesday Oct 2012

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

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

agnostic, atheist, author, bar, Christian fiction, faith, giveaway, short story, spirituality, true, truth, vote, writers, 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.

We sat there–bellied up to the bar no less–debating about the Bible.

The modest pub was a sectioned-off box connected to a restaurant, and it was ours for the night. Different motives led us there. Mine was to ire the date who’d tried to stand me up, despite him being a good guy with a good reason. The two middle-aged Africans were new to the area and checking out the nightlife (or lack thereof), and Alan was working. Everyone else who entered took one look at the empty scene and left without a greeting.

My new friends and I were equally matched in passion, secondhand information, and a steady supply of rhetorical comebacks. The lot of us Bible experts–though none of us had read it.

“But if you look at the scientific proof of evolution…” It was how Brooke started all of his sentences. His voice was like honey. I was tempted more than once to ask him to sing a tribal ditty; but he’d dip into his bag of Darwin, whip out redundant theories and throw in big words no inebriated mind should hear, and I’d lose my train of thought.

He was an enigma to me. I wasn’t raised Christian–or any other religious affiliation for that matter–but I’d certainly never met a black atheist before. I probably would’ve marveled over him all night if not for Johan, the other South African.

Despite all I’d heard about apartheid, the heart of which was racial inequality, it had never occurred to me until then that a South African could be a tall, pale blonde who spoke in an almost Australian accent.

The new knowledge was distracting–and a bit of a blow to what I thought was my intelligent mind–but not so much that I couldn’t hold my own in our verbal scuffle.

“Don’t get me started about carbon dating,” I said. “Oh yeah? And where did that come from?…Okay, so where did that come from?…Say something new, Brooke, say something new.”

I rolled my eyes and took occasional swats at the smoke from Johan’s chain of cigarettes. We all ducked in and out of heated words and bouts of laughter, and they took turns buying drinks while I silenced my phone every time my no-show called.

Johan detoured from our contest of biased facts and popular verses. “Tell me what makes you so certain of your beliefs,” he said through a cloud. He pulled a stack of large bills from his pocket to buy the next round, moving as calm and slow as he talked. I sipped on my Apple Martini and thought hard for an answer.

I didn’t have one.

There was never a time I had not believed God existed. It was something I just always…knew. My faith in Christ, however, still in its infant stages, was sparked by something I couldn’t explain with the same logic that had run our conversation around the same track all night.

And though time had diminished the initial urgency I’d felt for Christ, I was all of a sudden very aware of it.

And very aware of Him.

I lowered my drink and shut my mouth while Johan looked on with a curious expression.

Alan broke the silence. “You don’t really believe in evolution do you? Look dude…” Whenever he said dude he pulled half his mouth up in an actor’s smile. “A house has a designer. Four walls and a roof, man. As basic as it gets, and it still has a designer. You mean to tell me you honestly believe that this whole workup we’ve got going here–galaxies, orbiting planets, gravity, seasons–all this order, and it just happened on its own?”

He wiped the clean spot in front of him with a rag, moved some glasses around, and kept talking. “I’m not gonna go so far as you,” his smile told me he was sorry for not committing to my camp, “and say there’s a god or anything.” He looked back at Brooke, “I just think if you look at it logically, dude, you have to accept that we have a designer out there somewhere.”

He’d said something pretty profound, but he still didn’t get it.

“If that ‘designer’ isn’t God,” I asked Alan after a moment, “then who is he?” He looked like I’d felt when I discovered black atheists and white South Africans.

My phone rang again. This time I answered it. I was no longer interested in a battle of wits and cunning debate. I didn’t know much after all, except that I had never fully committed to Whom I knew to be true.

“I have to go,” I said when I hung up. And so our religious debate ended without ceremony.

“You’ll come back next week?” Brooke stood. “Bring the lucky guy with you.”

I smiled without answering.

We parted with the lingering hugs of people who’ve known each other forever.

“You won’t be back will you?” Johan said in my ear when I embraced him last. “I have a feeling I’ll never see you again.”

And he never did.

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • LinkedIn
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

Truth or Fiction Story 2 – Starting Over

09 Tuesday Oct 2012

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

≈ 13 Comments

Tags

author, Christian fiction, divorce, faith, giveaway, marriage, new beginnings, relationships, starting over, story, 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.

Starting Over

Divorce is not an option. It was a committment they’d made before they married and a slogan they’d quoted in the years since.

Natalie gazed at David across the glass bottom boat–watching as he laughed with the guide like the two were old friends–and wondered how he would take the news.

He had to know it was coming. It took a lot less than his medical practice and high IQ to figure out the terminal state of their marriage. This vacation to Fiji, an event to put tick number twenty on the anniversary counter, was nothing more than the obligatory shock into an already dead patient. It was time to call it.

The cough of the engine ceased. Some passengers responded with a whoop as they jumped into waist-deep waters to wade the rest of the way to shore. Natalie grabbed her beach bag and adjusted the knot on her full-body sarong. She considered taking the plunge too, but the procession of younger, leaner bodies dropping in ahead of her convinced her otherwise.

She wasn’t fat…yet. Compared to most of the local women–whom she favored in complexion and hair thickness–her frame was quite small. But year by year, cookie by cookie, she was inching her hips into larger sizes.

She resolved to address the weight issue as soon as more important changes were made, then sat back down in preparation for a more conservative exit. By the time the guide pulled the little boat as close to the gleaming shore as he could get it, Natalie and David were the last two on board.

“You’re not just paying me lip service now, Joseph?” David was saying. “Don’t get the desperate tourist’s hopes up just to turn around and ditch me.” He laughed and stepped into the water, then reached up to take Natalie’s elbow.

“No, no, Mr. David.” Joseph’s smile stretched equally wide. “Leave for me a message at the hotel a day before, and I come for you and Mrs. David. Me with my wife. It would honor us.”

“Not as much as it’ll honor us. I look forward to it.” David touched the pocket of his tacky floral shirt. “You sure you won’t take a tip for your excellent service today?”

“No, Mr. David, please. I would not think of it.”

Natalie had stood in the water just long enough for the warm waves to pool around her knees. With her bag situated, she reclaimed her elbow and faced the beach where groups of people congregated in and around a large hut with music blaring from its midst. She stepped in that direction, but David grabbed her hand and kept it while he said his final goodbyes.

“In a few days then. I can’t wait, Joseph. Bula!”

“Bula, Mr. David. Bula, Mrs. David!”

“Goodbye. Bula to you too,” Natalie said. She pretended not to notice as David twined his fingers with hers and led the way to the white beach. They still had an audience, so she may as well play her part. The gig would be up soon enough.

They reached the hut and peered inside. Natalie tried to ignore her stomach’s response to the smell of grilling fish. She watched with distracted interest as Polynesian dancers led a raucous group of English men in a dance similar to a hula. More than one was off-beat, probably because they were already red with early morning intoxication, and Natalie pitied the beautiful island girls tasked with keeping them in line.

A few tourist women looked twice at David. Though he often got such attention, Natalie wasn’t so used to it that it no longer displeased her, especially since the gray sideburns edging his smooth, tanned face made him as good-looking as ever; and he would soon be single again.

“Let’s go this way,” he said, leading her away from the crowd.

“Mr. David Howard?” The voice boomed out of a smiling face.

“Ready whenever you are, Kelahi.” David’s eyes flicked across the man’s name badge. “Did I say that right?”

“Yes, sir! Perfect pronunciation.” The large Fijian opened his arms wide like he was ready for a bear hug, then gestured to the path behind him. “Follow me.”

Curious, Natalie walked the three minutes to the other side of the tiny island without asking questions. Palms and thick vegetation hovered above and around her, making the trek a little claustrophobic. By the time they reached a wall of leaves barring their path, the sand clumped like gritty socks around her toes had begun to fall away.

Kelahi parted the wall and held a portion of it open for David and Natalie to duck through. When they appeared on the other side she sucked in a sharp breath. Thick-leaved foliage formed a sort of cave around the small clearing, and flowers of every color drooped overhead and jutted from the ground, saturating the air with their sweet fragrance. Set up in the center was a small table dressed in white linen, covered dishes, and burning candles.

“What is this, David?” Natalie crossed her arms and looked behind her. She was alarmed to see that Kelahi had already gone, taking with him knowledge of which section of the wall led to the exit.

“Happy Anniversary, my love.” David walked to the table and pulled out a chair. His look was softer and more intent than she’d remembered it could be, and it beckoned her to come closer.

Natalie shook her head slowly. This anniversary was anything but happy; and the bitter feelings, unfulfilled longings, repressed emotions, and anger wouldn’t be sated with a last-minute effort to romance her. Tears threatened to fall, and she swiped them away like the traitors they were.

“I’m divorcing you,” she said. Her voice lacked the confidence she was going for.

“I know.”

She tensed. “So why all this?”

“Because I don’t want you to.” David released his grip on the back of the chair and took a few steps in her direction. “And I’m willing to do whatever it takes. I’ve already sat down with Pastor Zeke–”

“Since when do you sit down with the pastor?”

“Since the most important person in my life started making plans to walk out of it.” He came closer. “You say I don’t pay attention to you, Nat. But I do. It’s hard not to notice when my wife’s not smiling anymore.”

She began to cry, the walls around her heart crumbling despite her efforts to hold them up. She couldn’t do it anymore, this dance they’d perfected–where he stood on her feet while she carried their relationship with the strength of her love.

“It’s too late, David. I’m tired,” she said.

“I know you are. And I’m so sorry, but I’ll do anything to keep from losing you.”

He closed the distance. Natalie tried to convince herself it was her lack of energy, not the spark of hope in her heart, that kept her from moving away.

“You’ve been a rock to me all these years,” David said. “And I didn’t see it as taking you for granted, but now I know that’s exactly what it was.”

“But we’ve been through this–”

“And I didn’t listen. I’m a hard-headed idiot, Nat. One who’s begging for another chance.”

He pulled her close and brushed the tips of his fingers across her bare back. His breath on her face made her want to fall in a heap of surrender, but her mind protested the idea of such a swift defeat. He couldn’t become a present, attentive husband overnight. When it wasn’t med school it was getting the practice started. When that was accomplished it was the practice growing. Once it grew it was all about making it prestigious. Something else would be next.

Always something else.

And meek, patient Natalie would be there, left to spectate and show up only when summoned.

David broke into her thoughts. “If I have to sell the practice I will, Nat.”

He’d never said that before. She didn’t dare believe it.

“I love you.” He leaned back to look into her face. “I’ve let my work get to the point where divorce has become an option for you. It’s not worth that. Nothing is worth losing you.”

She searched his eyes, and knew deep in her heart that he meant it. “What thing did you plan with Joseph?” She didn’t know why she asked, but for some reason his answer mattered.

He smiled and smoothed her brows with his thumbs. “We’re going to go fishing and cooking with him and his wife, enjoy the simple basics for a moment. Start fresh, so to speak.”

Natalie laughed despite herself, and David’s face flooded with relief at the sound. They had been married long enough that they knew it without saying it.

Divorce was still not an option.

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • LinkedIn
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

Truth or Fiction Story 1 – Eyewitness Testimony

02 Tuesday Oct 2012

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

≈ 30 Comments

Tags

author, Christian fiction, eyewitness testimony, faith, fear, fiction, gift card, giveaway, short stories, story, testify, true, truth, vote, writing

It’s Truth or Fiction Tuesday! Just a few reminders:

  1. To be eligible to win the $25 USD Amazon gift e-card giveaway, you must comment whether you think the story is true or fiction in the REPLY/COMMENTS section. You also earn extra entries when you share the link on your Facebook, Twitter, or Pinterest, and note in the reply/comments section that you did.
  2. The stories, even if they are in first person, are not necessarily my experiences, so keep that in mind when you vote.
  3. And now…

Eyewitness Testimony

I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Now I’m probably going to die.

“They’re almost ready for you,” Mandy says.

She’s the D.A.’s assistant. Her attempt at an encouraging smile doesn’t fool me one bit. The truth is in her eyes. They’re bland eyes, really; like they’ve never seen anything more exciting than water boiling on the stove. And in their calm, bored way, they show she thinks I’m good as dead too.

I want to say something, but all I manage is a nod and a lift lip just as phony as hers. She goes back into the courtroom, and I twist and re-twist my fingers so hard they hurt.

I ought to get up and leave; just go straight out the door, backtrack the bus route I took to get here, stuff a bag with clothes and my most important belongings—college degree, songbook, Bible, and my Matchbox Twenty CD collection—and hightail it out of the city. I would do it too, if I didn’t feel like something else was clamping me to this plastic chair, something besides the escort assigned to usher me from the reception area to the witness stand.

I didn’t think to bring a sweater. So even though it’s pushing a hundred outside, I’m starting to tremble underneath my sleeveless blouse. My toes are freezing too. Kim, my best friend since second grade, shows her head of curls just as I’m about to give in to an onslaught of teeth chattering. Praise God she thought to bring coffee.

“You look awful,” she says. She drops her work satchel and pulls her chair close to mine. Her makeup is as fresh as if she’d just applied it, and her perfume punches away the smell of hot mochas.

I grab the cup she offers and hug it to my chest before taking a sip. “I feel worse,” I say. “I’m just ready for this to be over.”

“Having second thoughts again?”

“Uh-huh.” I look away, and for a moment I’m irritated. Her faith is stronger than mine, and even though I know it’s all in my head, I sometimes feel like she mounts a spiritual high horse when I’m in the trenches.

I’m not in the mood for any more verses or prayers or pep-talks about doing the right thing. She seems to notice, because she sits there quietly. For some reason, after several minutes, this annoys me too.

Mandy returns with my escort. “You ready?”

I’m still cold. I take a swallow of the hot coffee to warm my insides, and it scalds my tongue. I give it back to Kim and she squeezes my arm.

“Be brave,” she says, “God will help you, and I’m right behind you.”

I can only nod. My head aches. I realize my hair is tied too tight. Now that I notice it, my scalp where the pin holds my bun is screaming for relief. I guess it’s a good thing, because the distraction helps me walk the length of the courtroom without thinking too hard about the fear of seeing him.

Our eyes meet for a second as I slink past, and in that moment I see the same threat an anonymous caller gave two nights ago. Talk and I’m dead.

So much for holding it together. I’m shaking so hard I can barely suck a straight breath, and my knees don’t feel stable anymore. All of a sudden I feel like crying.

The swear-in comes and goes, and the district attorney seems to magically appear right in front of me. He could use a haircut and a new suit. His empathy seems real, but not so much that it slows his agenda. He dives right into questioning me.

“Rene, tell us how you know the defendant.”

“He’s my neighbor,” I say.

“Can you be more specific as to the proximity and the type of building?”

“We live in a triplex. That’s, um, like a duplex but with another place on top. Javi lives on top. I live on the bottom right.”

“And who lives on the bottom left?” He asks the questions as casually as if we’re talking over lunch. So far they’re easy, and I’m starting to calm a little.

“Right now it’s empty,” I say.

“And how long have you and the defendant, Javi, been neighbors?”

“He’s been there since I moved in, so about two years.”

“Two years.”

The way he says it and pauses reminds me of court cases I’ve seen on TV. It also gives me time to take in the twenty-something faces peppered about the small room.

“Two years is a long time,” he says. “Do you know Javi beyond just being neighbors?”

The question makes me look at Javi against my will, and my mouth goes dry. Even now, sitting there on trial for murder and with the threat of my life in his green eyes, he’s one of the most attractive men I’ve ever seen.

He’s Cuban, but I know that only because he told me the origin of his accent. Anyone else would think he’s just light-skinned like me. We’ve only talked in passing, and despite his notorious drug reputation he’s always been nice to me, but that doesn’t qualify as knowing each other. I manage to pull out of his stare and answer the question.

“Um…not well.”

“Let’s talk about the night of August 27th. Tell the court what you told the reporting officer.”

I look down at my hands and clear my throat.

“It was about six or so. I’d just come home from work and was going in when Javi and three others passed me on their way to his place.”

“Can you tell the court if this young man, Marcus, was one of the others?”

He holds a picture up to the jury then places it in front of me, and the tears I wanted to cry earlier wet my eyes again. The boy in the picture wears a baseball uniform and looks happy, like a seventeen-year-old should look. My mind erases the printed image and brings up the frightened kid I saw on his last day of life. I want to throw up.

“Yes,” I say. “He was.”

“What happened after you saw them?”

“They went their way and I went mine.”

“And then?”

“About an hour or so later I was fixing something to eat and they turned on music upstairs.”

“Did you hear anything else?”

“Some banging around…and talking…like somebody was angry. I couldn’t tell what they were saying though, the music was too loud.”

“Then?”

“Everything but the music stopped.” My hands develop a cold sweat as I rub the chipped paint from my nails. The D.A. walks back to his table and leans against it. I wish he’d stayed in front of me. Now I feel exposed.

“When did the music finally stop?” he asks.

“Maybe ten, fifteen minutes later.”

He’s silent, like he wants me to keep going. When I don’t, he waits for me to look at him, then speaks to me in a soft voice. “Tell us what happened next, Rene.”

I’m accustomed to hiding behind humor, and I want to say something light—like it’s just like me to start cooking something without making sure I have all the ingredients—before I explain what happened when I walked out on my way to the grocery store. But humor would be inappropriate. Because some of the people are crying so soft it sounds like kittens mewing.

And I’m afraid.

If I tell everything I saw and heard from the shadow of my doorway–memories to both haunt me and put Javi away for the rest of his life—I could be killed. And I don’t want to die.

It’s not too late to quit, since nothing I’ve said so far is enough for a conviction. And I’m convincing myself I’m not strong enough to do this when a verse pops in my head.

I, even I, am He who comforts you.

I look up expecting to see somebody speaking the words, and I find Kim sitting by herself near the back. Seeing her face reminds me that she was the one who quoted the verse to me last night.

Who are you, that you should be afraid of a man…and you forget the Lord your Maker?

The words come back so clearly they stun me, and Kim nods as if she knows I’m hearing them. She smiles, and I decide I will tell her later that her purple lipstick is not flattering.

“Rene?” The district attorney needs an answer.

I’m still scared out of my mind, but something else bothers me more than this. I have forgotten my Maker, haven’t I?

I let the verse play around in my head a few more times. When it settles deep enough to stop my heart from pounding, I look away from Kim, past the district attorney, and rest my gaze on Javi.

Then, I testify.

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • LinkedIn
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

Truth or Fiction Tuesdays, With a Giveaway on the Side

25 Tuesday Sep 2012

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

author, contest, false, fiction, gift card, giveaway, literature, series, short story, true, truth, vote, win, writing

It’s almost time!!!

A couple of weeks ago I posted about upcoming fiction blogging. As promised, the first two chapters of my debut novel were posted here for little over a week, but have since been removed in order to comply with the rules of an upcoming contest I intend to enter.

But no worries. Her red-headed step-cousin is fast on her heels as a replacement.

Want that in English?

I am still going forward with my Truth or Fiction Tuesdays short story series. Beginning…next Tuesday!

That’s right. That gives you a chance to win the giveaway, a $25 Amazon gift e-card, in time for the Christmas holiday. Here’s how it works:

Each short story (1,500 words or less) posted here October 2nd – November 13th will either be fiction or based on true events.

To be eligible to win you must decide if a story is truth or fiction and cast your vote in that story’s comment box. All votes must be received by Friday, November 16th at 11:59 PM. The more you read and participate, the better your chances of winning!

To earn additional entries, share the link on your Twitter, Facebook, or Pinterest account and let me know that you did so in the comments box when you vote.I will publish the results of the winner and the truth/fiction status of the stories by title the weekend following the end of the contest. The winner will then be contacted and sent the gift card via email.

Sound easy enough? Here’s the short version: read, vote, share, and you could WIN!

I am looking forward to having a lot of fun with this series, and I’d love for you to join me :-).

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • LinkedIn
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

Bring on the Fiction!

14 Friday Sep 2012

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

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

author, blogging, chapters, compassion, fiction, giveaway, novel, october, scorpion hunt, series, sponsor a child, truth or fiction, tuesdays, video, vote, when morning comes, writer, writing

It’s been a few months now. I’ve learned to crawl through this blog thing–post a bit about writing, topics related to my book plot, random everyday me stuff, and scorpions.

Now I think I’m ready. It’s time to give my blog knees a break and stand up on wobbly blog legs. It’s time to pull the pages away from my chest, place a few of them gently down on the digital table and push them across to the other side.

I’m a fiction writer. It’s time to start posting some fiction.

Drum roll please…and a red carpet…maybe some long stem–but I digress.

Enter the first two chapters of my debut novel When Morning Comes. Next Saturday I will post a link here to my website at tanaramccauley.com where the chapters will be in PDF format. UPDATE: These chapters were posted as promised but have since been removed in order to comply with the rules of an upcoming contest that I intend to enter. If and when I am able to re-post them I will notify my readers through a new blog post. Thank you for your understanding and support.

Then, to keep that fiction coming, I’ll be starting a series in October called Truth or Fiction Tuesdays. These short stories will be 1500 words or less and will read like fiction, but some of them will actually be based on fact. It will be up to you, the reader, to vote and decide which. I’ll be wearing my sly-as-a-fox hat, so don’t think guessing will be easy. The payoff for your efforts? A giveaway at the end of the series. All who participate will be entered into the drawing. I’ll post more details later.

In addition to these, I’ll continue this month with my Blogging for Compassion campaign with Compassion International for child sponsorship; and I’ll blog other posts that, on their way through my head, stop and rest a while. I may even let you in on a scorpion hunt video we taped when we had visitors (not committed to that one yet, as video has shown me that I talk urgently, loudly, and much too much when there are scorpions involved).

Stay tuned, chime in, and get ready for me to bring on the fiction!

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • LinkedIn
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

Recent Posts

  • AWOL Writer Captured!
  • Reclaimed
  • Unseen

Categories

  • Writing and Pursuing Publication
  • Short Stories, Songs, and Poetry
  • Book Reviews
  • Faith, Relationships, and Other Topics
  • Website

Facebook

Facebook

Twitter

  • Marked as to-read: Sisters of the Resistance by Christine Wells goodreads.com/review/show/37… 6 days ago
Follow @tanaramccauley

What I’m Reading

Instagram

No Instagram images were found.

Subscribe in a reader

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

American Christian Fiction Writers Association

Blog at WordPress.com.

Cancel
%d bloggers like this: