Tag Archives: truth

Unashamed

27 Saturday Jun 2015

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Man with arms raised towards the sky

“For whoever desires to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it.”

I am not ashamed of the Gospel.

Nor am I ashamed to love. But neither love nor encouragement equals unlimited concession or acquiescence. Love is truthful and patient. Sometimes encouragement is to encourage away from the bad and toward the good. Sometimes love is the courage to say “I’ll never leave you, but I won’t lie and tell you this is good.”

Love doesn’t support or congratulate self-destruction. It doesn’t sell the eternal for the temporal. I don’t correct those who aren’t in my close circle because that’s not my thing. But I wonder about Christians who say, “Do what makes you happy” instead of “Do what God created you to do.” Anything that leads away from Him and more towards self is a lie.

We weren’t created to glorify ourselves. We weren’t even created to be happy. We were created for His glory. Everything above that is a blessing and a gift. And if we put happiness before His glory, before obedience, before truth in love, before dying to self, then we’ve sold the Creator for the creation. It’s a cheap trade of tragic proportions.

All have sinned and fall short of His glory. That doesn’t mean we languish in sin because we’ll never measure up. It’s meant to turn our eyes toward His grace, His goodness, His love, so much so that we find ourselves lavishing in His glory. It’s about Him, not us. So when I feel tempted, by popular opinion or law or fear of being misunderstood, to conform to the world and not God, I remember. And I remain…

Unashamed.

Angel with a Gun – Truth or Fiction Story 7

13 Tuesday Nov 2012

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

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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.

Newly Wed and Hostile – Truth or Fiction Story 5

30 Tuesday Oct 2012

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

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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.

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

16 Tuesday Oct 2012

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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.

Truth or Fiction Story 1 – Eyewitness Testimony

02 Tuesday Oct 2012

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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 smile 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 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.

Truth or Fiction Tuesdays, With a Giveaway on the Side

25 Tuesday Sep 2012

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

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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 :-).

A Classic Wreck

03 Friday Aug 2012

Posted by in Writing and Pursuing Publication

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It all started in a ’77 faded red Buick Skylark. The engine was stellar, the white leather seats unmarred, and the driver a young eighteen-year-old version of clueless personified: me. There I sat behind the wheel on a humid summer morning, cruising backwards country roads on my way to work. Windows down, warm air slapping at my face, and the grating sound of locusts peaking every time I passed a tree or bush. Then it hit me: the very unladylike urge to spit out the window. For most this is an uneventful occurrence. But for me – a novice at the practice – visions of spittle flying back into the car and landing on my forehead played in my mind. I over thought it.

Too bad I had already prepped the spit in my mouth. I had to do something with it. Convincing myself it couldn’t be that hard, I leaned my head as far out the window as I could, and let fly. It didn’t boomerang right back at me as I had feared. But all the same I suspected it didn’t clear the car. Oblivious that I was otherwise occupied in steering this heavy vehicle down a two-lane residential street, I craned my neck further out the window and turned it to investigate the car’s rear. Colossal error.

Residential roads in parts of rural Oklahoma can be a bit complex. While the driveway leads all the way to the street, there are ditches to separate each driveway from the next. So for about four houses, me and my Buick barreled down ditches, only to be tossed into the air with each driveway collision, taking a host of mailboxes and garbage cans with us. By the time it was over, I was parked in the middle of the street with the windshield busted out, the hood up, and the entire car inexplicably totaled beyond repair.

Elderly residents flocked out of their houses at the noise, followed quickly by the arrival of the police. They all wanted to know the same thing: Are you okay? Are you hurt? Can you stand? When I confirmed I was fine, the inevitable was asked: What happened?

What happened indeed! I couldn’t bring myself to say, “I spit out the window and was checking to see if it landed on the car.” Especially since that car had previously belonged to my beloved great-grandfather, who passed away only months before. I couldn’t – and didn’t – say what really happened. Instead I said the first alternative that came to my mind. “The steering wheel locked. I don’t know why.”

I felt guilty as soon as the words were whispered. I felt even worse when those sweet elderly people proclaimed me the poorest dear they’d ever seen – giving me hugs and rubbing my back and thanking the Lord “this precious child” was unhurt. And worse still was having to repeat the lie to my grandmother, my parents, my aunts. Oh the agony of deceit.

It took me years to confess the truth of that accident to anyone. Why? Because like most people, I feared rejection, unforgiveness, and criticism. I made a mistake. I wrecked a classic family heirloom, and wrecked the truth right along with it. But in the end I found the courage to fess up. And I learned a great lesson. We all make mistakes. Sometimes we right them, sometimes we make them worse. But nothing is irredeemable. In my debut novel, you’ll find characters just as flawed as the clueless eighteen-year-old driving the old Buick, and as imperfect as your neighbor and yourself. Some make bad decisions with the potential to wreck their lives, and they learn about consequences and redemption in the process.

What things in your life qualify as a classic wreck? Is it something you can laugh about now? Or does it still hang in the shadows threatening to surface at the most inopportune time?