Rivulets

(I linked to this story soon after I wrote it, but I rediscovered it today, and I wanted to post the actual text of the story on this blog.  You can find the details of the contest it was an entry for here.)

            Rivulets of blood streamed down my fist.  “What have I done?” I muttered again, falling to my knees.  The tears slipped off my chin.  The blood ran cold down my palm.

            “You made a mistake.”

            I turned to face an ageless man, his linen robes cinched with a golden belt.  He seemed to be shining, but I figured it had to be from the crying.  “I hurt her.”

            “You did, son, but it’s over now.  You’ve learned.”

            “Who are you?”  My throat burned.  I cleared the dampness from my eyes and saw that he was glowing with fourteen rays of light.

            “Your guardian angel.”  The man smiled.

            I crinkled my forehead.  “Why are you here?”

            “I am always here.”

            “Where?”

            “Wherever you are.  Standing in a place beyond belief between your realm and mine.”

            I stood and wrapped my hand with a handkerchief, thankfully clean.  “Between Earth and Heaven?”

            “Sort of.  We understand it about as well as you do.  Only God knows.”

            “Why are you showing yourself to me?”

            “It’s been months, Rickard.  You need to move past it and remember.”

            I shuddered.  “Remember?  I remember.  I remember all of it.”

            “Not that.”  The angel shook his head.  “I’m here to make you remember what you learned when you were young.  Remember that you are not alone and that you are forgiven when you repent.”

            “I guess it’s true then.”  I chuckled, looking down at my shoes.  “Unless I’m just finally going insane.”

            “It is quite unusual, being given the green light to show myself, but I could see you suffer no longer.  You’ve always believed, son.  You had only forgotten what it meant.”

            “And what does it mean?”  I tried to look the angel in the eyes, but they were too bright.

            “It means that you will always be given another chance so long as you continue to believe in Him and that He will be with you always, to conquer all.”

            In that moment the grace of God poured down upon me in rivulets.  And I remembered.  I blinked and the angel was gone.
            No, not gone.  Just there in his little place beyond belief once more.

Some Contest Entry Stories

"Usually the Arsenic Works" (Contemporary Fantasy; Special Challenge Runner Up that week)
"Two For Hell" (Horror)
"Rivulets" (Christian)

N is for Nina's Revelation

            Nina glanced at her watch through the waterfall of her tears.  It was nine-thirty at last.  She laughed, rolling her eyes.

            A paper towel commercial faded away into the opening theme of Facing the Unknown.  Nina scrubbed at her tear ducts with the back of one hand and squeezed the armrest of her couch with the other.  The pain in her chest subsided along with the song.

            The opening scene left Nina racked with laughter.  She laid her head against the couch cushion during the following commercial, remembering how she had been racked with weeping minutes before.  “Stupid boy,” she muttered.

            The next scene unfolded like a love note.  Nina sat herself up straight and stared at the screen.  Her pulse quickened along with the main guy as he poured out his feelings to the main girl.  The girl in the show froze and drifted away, off to some other wing of the high school she attended.  Nina parroted her motion, starting toward the fridge to find a heap of comfort food.

            Then she saw it, just before the cut to commercial.  A little gold cross set against the main guy’s chest, dangling from a hidden chain.  “How did I never notice that before?” she asked herself aloud.

            She plucked a dust-coated Bible from the drawer of her side-table and peered at the words.  When Facing the Unknown returned, she focused on the cross necklace.  It was beautiful.  She hung on the main guy’s every word and realized that spoke not only like a sweet teen boy, but also like a genuine, admirable young man with morals.

            Nina turned back to her Bible, flipping to the book of 2 Samuel.  “Samuel,” she whispered.  “He’s a Christian.  And I think he said he liked Facing the Unknown yesterday.”

            She folded her hands, closed her eyes, and prayed a simple prayer, thanking God for her favorite show and this sudden change of heart.  All the pain from her evening of crying was gone, replaced with mirth.  How?  Why?  “Maybe I should talk to Samuel about it.  I bet he’d make a much better boyfriend than Todd,” she said to herself.

The Angels Proclaim It Again and Again

My story "The Angels Proclaim It Again and Again" won the twenty-fifth Finish That Thought contest.  Here it is, with my original typo (I typed "race" instead of "grace" at one point) fixed:

“Who invited Uncle Jasper to Christmas dinner?”

I looked down to see who had spoken, tugging on my skirt as he did.  “Now Timothy, that’s no way to speak of your uncle.”

Timothy shoved one of his thumbs in his mouth and proceeded to talk around it, “My mommy says Uncle Jasper is a nuisance who needs to stop playing around and join the progressives.”

My eyes widened.  “My, those are very big words, for you and your mother both.  Your uncle is a very nice man.  He celebrates the true spirit of Christmas.”

Dinner bells rang out from the dining room, tinkling lightly.  Then pealed the bells more loud and deep.  “Dinnertime” said Cousin Martha.

I led Timothy to his mother at one end of the table and sat down at the other.  My mouth watered at the scent of the gorgeous ham at the center of the table.  My brother, James, passed me each dish of food in turn.  I took a bit of everything—ham, potatoes, green beans, duck, buttered rolls—before passing it along to my sister, Gloria.  A smile forced its way to my lips.

“Jasper, I believe you said you wanted to do the blessing this year?” said Cousin Martha.

Uncle Jasper smoothed his thin mustache and stood.  “Joy to the world!  The lord is come.  It is Christmas yet again.  Thank you Lord for that first Christmas, so many years ago.  Behold him come, offspring of a Virgin’s womb.  Veiled in flesh the Godhead see.  Hail the incarnate Deity, pleased as man with man to dwell, Jesus, our Emmanuel. 

“Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask Thee to stay, close by me for ever and love me, I pray.  Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care and take us to Heaven to live with Thee there.”

I heard Timothy’s mother try to hide a scoff under her breath.

Uncle Jasper seemed to respond in turn, beginning to sing his blessing.  “Peace on earth, goodwill to men, from heaven’s all-gracious King.  He rules the world with truth and grace, and makes the nations prove the glories of his righteousness, and wonders of his love.  And wonders of his love.  Son of God, love’s pure light.  Radiant beams from thy holy face with the dawn of redeeming grace, Jesus, Lord at thy birth.”

Uncle Jasper’s words went solemn.  “Now we all know what happened to your son, oh Lord.  And we know that some today don’t care about his great sacrifice.  But I have one more carol for you, Lord.  God is not dead, nor doth He sleep; the wrong shall fail, the right prevail, with peace on earth, goodwill to men.  We may be forgetting what Christmas is all about, but the angels proclaim it again and again: peace on earth, goodwill to men.  Amen.”  He sat down and began to eat, without another word.

Timothy’s mother was burying her face in her hands, sobbing.  I saw her through my own tears.

Y is for Yellow Flowers

     Yellow flowers mark the trail to my little hut in the woods.  They droop down slightly, as if bowing in respect.  I give a little mock salute, my face as rigid as a soldier’s.

     My hut is a place of rest and reflection for me.  A little bible sits in one dusty corner on a cushion I found in the attic.  The bookmark is usually placed delicately in Psalms, today at the fifty-fifth.
     I read the twenty-second verse out loud, “‘Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee: he shall never suffer the righteous to be moved.’”
     The words swim around in my head.   My burden?  Could that be sin?  Sadness?  At least it’s good to know that whatever it is the Lord will guard me against it.  Never, it says, will he let the righteous be moved.  I guess that means breaking down, letting it depress you.
     Am I a righteous person? I ask myself.  I try.  My chores are always done on time, lies rarely make it to my lips, and I seldom get in fights with my little brothers, but is that enough?  I’ve helped Mrs. McCarthy with her sewing and put out milk for her tabby cat at Christmas, but does that make a difference?
     I lay my head back against the soft wood walls of my hut.  Birds chirp outside, soothing the light thump of pain in my head.  Yes, I finally decide.  I’m righteous enough, even if there’s still room for improvement.
     The weight on my shoulders, what brought me into the woods to my home-away-from-home, suddenly feels lighter.  God is willing to accept my pain, my guilt, my sorrow.
     I realize that from now on I can walk to my little hut with a smile.  It might be a half-smile, twisted a little at the corners, but a smile nonetheless. 
     The yellow flowers on my way home look straighter and taller than ever.

The Final Hour

                The man wafted upward as if carried by a pillow of smoke.  Roof no obstacle, he continued to rise high above the copse of redwood trees surrounding his home.  A feeling of serenity spread over him, growing along with his altitude.  The man’s crooked scowl morphed into a smile long past-due.

            A voice boomed from farther above, saying, “your time in this world is nearly spent.  I have granted you bliss, recent years forgiven.  You have one last hour here, although you alone know of it.  Use it wisely.”

            The man stared at the clouds wide-eyed.  His ascent had stopped when the speaker began, yet he wasn’t falling either.  He looked down at the ground thousands of feet below him and flailed, the effort jetting him forward.  “One last hour,” he said, and then added, “And I can fly.”  The smile returned.

            Tumbling through the air, the man zoomed north-west.  “I’ve always wanted to see the Aleutian Islands,” he remarked, although his choice of direction was more random than otherwise.  The forest below bled to beach and then to sea with what seemed to be successive blinks.

            A puff of tephra alerted the man of his position a several minutes later.  Stratovolcanoes were spread out in front of his tilted view.  The water below him was an angelic shade of crystal blue.  Descending, he reached his hand out to break the surface and awed at its warmth.

            The man shot into a climb, staggered by fits of laughter.  “To the Great Wall,” he shouted against the consequential wind while veering south-west.

            A mix of humble villages and smoggy factories littered the ground once the new continent was reached.  Not long after, a snake-like structure carving into mountains and woodlands emerged.  The man matched every turn for many miles.  “It’s magnificent,” the man said.  He wiped his eyes with the back of one hand.

            The man made a conscious effort to slow.  “Where next?” he pondered.  Glancing up, he arrived at a decision.  “Jerusalem.”

            Fertile land became arid and dusty.  The sky changed tone as well.  It was a soft orange when the Jordan broke into view.  The man knew his time was running short.  He high-tailed it to the largest settlement he could see, the place he realized was closest to his heart.

            The man didn’t know how he found it, he dropped and it was simply there, a little hill.  He landed at the top and gasped.  One moment­ there was nothing, the next—a cross.  On the ruff wood frame was mounted by a bearded figure wearing a crown of thorns.  The man dropped to his knees and wept.  “Thank you,” he muttered.  “Guide me to your house, my shepherd.”