• The Writer

    Hello! My name is Laura, welcome to my blog! I write weird stories, collect dragon plushies and stay up too late with my nose in a book. I am a wife, mom and child saved by grace. My hope is that you find encouragement here or at least a smile or too.
    God bless!

  • “Now go, write it before them in a table, and note it in a book that it may be for the time to come forever and ever.”
    ~Isaiah 30:8.

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  • Quotes

    We have come from God, and inevitably the myths woven by us, though they contain error, will also reflect a splintered fragment of the true light, the eternal truth that is with God. Indeed only by myth-making, only by becoming 'sub-creator' and inventing stories, can Man aspire to the state of perfection that he knew before the Fall. Our myths may be misguided, but they steer however shakily towards the true harbour, while materialistic 'progress' leads only to a yawning abyss and the Iron Crown of the power of evil.
    ~J.R.R. Tolkien

    "The only just literary critic," he concluded, "is Christ, who admires more than does any man the gifts He Himself has bestowed."
    ~J.R.R. Tolkien

    “Fantasy is escapist, and that is its glory. If a soldier is imprisioned by the enemy, don't we consider it his duty to escape?. . .If we value the freedom of mind and soul, if we're partisans of liberty, then it's our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as we can!”
    ~J.R.R. Tolkien

    "Writers who see by the light of their Christian faith will have, in these times, the sharpest eye for the grotesque, for the perverse, and for the unacceptable. To the hard of hearing you shout, and for the almost-blind you draw large and startling figures."
    ~Flannery O'Connor

    You write to communicate to the hearts and minds of others what’s burning inside you. And we edit to let the fire show through the smoke.
    ~Arthur Polotnik

    Words - so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them.
    ~Nathaniel Hawthorne

    "There are forms of insanity that condemn people to hear voices against their will, but as writers we invite ourselves to hear voices without relinquishing our hold on reality or our right to control."
    ~Writing Fiction by Janet Burroway

    Christians have sometimes been suspicious of stories, because they really can influence you. If you read the Twilight novels once a month for a year, I think you'd be a different human afterward—and not a sparkly one.
    ~Nate Wilson

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Gray Skies – A Beginning


(Introduction for a new serial I hope to start posting on here soon.)

A gray sky shrouds a ruined landscape of twisted metal buildings that once stood high and proud. No sunlight pieces through the thick, ever percent clouds, casting the world in a premature twilight. A cold wind stirs up a gloom of dust, blowing it through the skeletal branches of a long dead tree. A lone figure steps from the shadows, stooping over piles of junk gathered here and there, rummaging through and putting whatever “treasure” may fit into a little sack they carry over their shoulder. The only sound is that of the wind, nothing else, and the occasional clink of metal created by the person sifting through the debris piles.

Then, the wind picks up and for a brief moment, the clouds are pushed aside and the sun breaks through the gray canopy to warm the face of the figure all alone. Glinting of the scraps and beams of a forgotten city, illuminating the places that once held life. The someone lifts their head, shading their eyes and looks up into the sky. As the suns warm fingers touch her face, she smiles. But in less time than it took for the sun to appear, it vanishes, and the world is once again plunged into a vale of gray and twisted metal.

Finished with her scavenging, the girl turns and heads back they way she had come. The ground is nothing but packed dust under her feet. She struggles along, but something catches her eye. She stops, bends down and peers at the ground. A tiny green shoot has found its way through the dry soil to search for the sun. Its one tinny sprout, so green, fills the girl with hope maybe, just maybe, there is still life to be lived and found out there.  The war hasn’t destroyed everything. 



The Beginning

Twelve likes and one comment… I guess I can go ahead and post that sneak peek. 😉


*     *     *



Still born.  Ephraim stared at the maid who held his son.  His dead son.

“My Lord…” She didn’t look Ephraim in the eye, but stood holding the still bundle of blood stained swaddling clothes concealing the boy.


The maid looked up.

“What’s wrong with Kathryn?”

A woman’s scream broke out from behind the drapes leading to the bed chamber.  The maid, still holding the lifeless child, hurried back into the room.  More cries and screams filled the chamber, then… the cry of a babe.  Ephraim pushed back the drapes and stepped into the room.  Kathryn, his wife, lay on the massive canopy bed, her face slick with sweat and her eyes closed.  The physician turned to Ephraim, holding a live baby girl.  He gave Ephraim a faint smile.

“Twins my Lord.  Your wife has given you twins.”

The child was covered in blood, her face contorted in an aching cry.

Ephraim didn’t acknowledge, but rushed to his wife’s side.  He knelt by the bedside and took her hand.


She didn’t respond.

“Hector,” Ephraim spoke to the physician.  “Hector!”

In an instant, Hector was at his side.

“What is wrong?”

It was a moment before he answered.  “I am sorry my Lord.  We were not prepared for the second child, it was too much.  Something was torn, she is bleeding and I cannot stop it.”

Ephraim gripped his wife’s hand.  No.  God, You cannot take her from me.

He rose to his feet and leaned over her.  Reaching out, he gently stroked her wet forehead then kissed it, breathing in her scent.  She still smelled of mint, like the day they first met.

“Kathryn,” he whispered.  “My Kathryn.”

There was a flutter of movement under her eyelid.  Slowly, she opened them.

“My Ephraim,” she whispered back, a small smile on her lips.  Ephraim tried to smile back.

“The children,” she continued in a faint voice. “Our children… Ephraim?”

Ephraim glanced at Hector.  The physician nodded, “She, the child lives me Lady.”

“She…” Kathryn breathed out. “Our daughter….the other?”

“A son,” Ephraim responded before Hector could say a word.

“A son… Ephraim,” she took a shaky breath.  “What shall we call them?”

“Whatever you want my love.”  Ephraim stroked her forehead with his thumb.

“Wrenna and Aaron.” she whispered after a moment.  “You…you choose the rest.”

“Kristine and… Walter.  Kristine for her mother and, Walter for my father.  How is that my love?”

“Wrenna Kristine and Aaron Walter Fulton.”  Kathryn smiled.  “Fine names.”

He nodded.



She whispered something, so softly, he couldn’t hear her.   He leaned in closer.

“I love you.”

A tear slid down his face.  He laid his hand on her cheek and kissed her.

“I love you too.”

(Copyright L.E.R. Jenkins 2013)

His Blood (A Story for Good Friday)

No, that’s can’t be him.  How can that be him?

The crowd thronged around me.  Hundreds of people were pushing and shoving, trying to get a clear view of the procession moving up the street.  I stared at the man being driven along by the whips of Roman soldiers, the weight of a crosses beams pressing against his bleeding shoulder.  I wanted to rush in and set him free.  I knew the sting of those whips, knew the humiliation they brought.

How could they be doing this to him?  What had he done?  A lump formed in my throat, I tried to swallow it, but it wouldn’t yield.  What had he done?  He saved me.  Me, a bitter slave, he had called me by name.  He had done the same for so many others.  Why?  Jehovah why?!


I turned and looked over my shoulder.  Laurel was trying to get to me through the crowd.  I forced my way to her.  Once I reached her she took my hand and pulled me away from the crowd.  The throng continued to move up the street.

“Dafydd, it’s him isn’t it?” She looked up at me, tears glistening in her eyes.  Those eyes, not long ago they were clouded and couldn’t see.  Now she stared up at me, her eyes clear and whole.

I nodded.


“I… I don’t know.”

“Can’t we do something?”

I shook my head.  “Come,” I squeezed her hand.  “The people have moved on, if we don’t hurry, we will miss him.”

Laurel gripped my hand and let me lead her up the street.  We passed through the gate and stared at the sight that met our eyes.  Golgotha, the place of the skull. The Romans preferred this spot for their executions.  It was outside a city gate, on raised ground where everyone could see.  The people were gathered around the hill, I could hear women wailing.  Admits the calmer of voices and the wails of the anguished the strike of a hammer rang out along with the cries of a man.

My stomach knotted.

We made our way up the hill.  As we neared the top Roman soldiers heaved on ropes and three crosses rose up, each with a man nailed to the beams.  Laurel pulled me to a stop, covering her mouth to stifle a cry.

There he was, Jesus, the master, hanging there, dying.  No!  My own eyes filled with tears and I feel to my knees.  Jehovah no!  Laurel knelt beside me, her body shacking with sobs.  I raised my eyes and gazed at his altered form.  His body was so bloody, his face so torn, I hardly recognized him.  Could it really be him?  Maybe it was all a dream, just a terrible dream.  A crown of thorns dug into his skull, a mocking sigh hung over his head, “The King of The Jews”.  It was real, all of it.

A group of robed priests stood not too far from where Laurel and I knelt.  I glanced at them.  They’re faces were stoic.  What did they think of the injustice they had caused?  An innocent man was dying before them, and they just stood and watched.  I knew the blood of the master was on their hands.

I clenched my fists.  Before, I would have cursed them, wished hell to fall on their heads, but now, now I pitied them.  I looked back to the cross, his cross.  He was the reason the hate was gone from my heart, and now he was dying.  They had killed him.

Someone shoved by me.  I fell forward, catching myself before my face could slam into the ground.  My hands landed in wetness.  I raised them, staring at me palms.  Blood covered my hands.  I looked down at the ground, a trail of red spread from where I knelt to the cross where Jesus hung.  Fresh tears rolled down my cheeks.

“Dafydd?”  Laurel looked at me.

“His blood… His blood is on my hands.”

G-Nomes: A Clip from “Scribblings”

Here is a little clip from a brand new story to be featured in Scribblings.

G-nomes.  That’s right; you say the “g”.  These little guys are very particular on how you say their name.  For years people of been mispronouncing it and they have become quit indignant about it.  As a result, they have called me in for damage control.  I have been hired by these little fellows to present to the public the truth about their existence and to clear the smoke of all our modern misconceptions concerning them.

Now, Gnomes do not trust very many people and it is a great privilege if they choose to let you into their inner circle.  I only managed to find myself in such a place when I discovered one of the creatures, quit be accident, trying to make off with my whole box of Kleenex.  Gnomes have very large runny noses you see, so they are always making off with peoples tissues.  It took some time, and the rest of my secret stash of chocolate, to keep the little thing from going goblin on me, but in the end, we became friends.

Scribblings © 2012 L.E.R. Jenkins



A Little Imagination

Here we are, my final story for my Fiction writing class.  For this, the assignment was to write a story in a different form from what we had written before.  I decided to try my hand at writing a poem story.  I had a lot of fun writing it, though in my opinion it could still use a little work.  Even so, I’m pretty happy with the turn out. 

Read and enjoy.  🙂 

P.S.  To Garret: It’s not Beowulf, but here you go. 😉

A Little Imagination

Corridors of darkness where no spark of light be found,

Is where our hero treads his courage is unbound.

He walks with silent footfalls as quiet as the night,

A sword clasped in hand he wields an awesome might.


A figure at his shoulder sits to offer aid and guidance,

Her little wings sparkle and gleam with fair reliance.

Her tiny voice steers him on for her magic eyes can see,

In the darkness no eyes are better than a fairy’s eyes can be.


Together they embark on a quest of great weight and degree,

To find a land of toil and strain and set it’s captives free.

They journeyed long to find this place and now they’re at the door,

A portal awaits, they must pass through but then they hear the roar.


A mighty beast with flaming tongue out from the darkness bounds,

 Its great clawed feet upon the earth beats and stomps and pounds,

Seeing the beast our hero thinks, “Perhaps we should depart.”

The fairy flutters and whispered, “No, now be brave take heart!”


“Take up our sword and slay the beast take courage and stand fast,

For once this fiend is dead and gone, into the land we pass!”

So our hero raises his gleaming sword and charges at his foe,

And delivers to its chest a mighty thrust and blow.


The monster screams and fire pours from its gapping maw,

It tries to snare our hero with his outstretched reaching claw.

But our hero ducks then thrusts and stabs with every bit of force,

The beast then falls and breaths his last, our hero stumbles forth.


Into the portal they now walk, our hero and his fairy,

They’ve done a great deed they’ve slain the beast, but no they must not tarry.

On they go and pass into the land of toil and dread,

Over hill through the dales across the land they tread.


To find the captives bound in chains pleading for a way,

For someone to come and set them free and bring a sunny day.

But something has happened someone’s here, watching our hero daring,

To cross this land amidst the grief and strife and evil glaring.


“Johnny boy,” a voice comes through our hero stops and turns,

His mother stands inside the door, his stomach flips and churns.

“The night is late why are you up, why aren’t you now in bed?

You should be sleeping Johnny boy, that’s what your father said.”


“I was playing a game mother dear, I was a hero brave,

“My fairy here was helping me, the captive we must save!”

His mother smiles and shakes her head, “To bed you now must go,

You can play tomorrow then in daylight you can fight your foe.”


And so our hero drops his sword that’s really made of wood,

And places the fairy back on the shelf next to his Robin Hood.

His mother tucks him tight in bed and tells her boy good night,

“What an imagination you have,” She whispers turning out the light

A Sneak of a Peak (Birthday Special 2011)

I started this thing on here where every year on my Birthday, I give you guys an entire scene from my most current story.  Well, since I’m not going to let anyone lay so much as a wink on Wolf’s Head until it’s edited (don’t you just love NaNo novels?) I’ve decided to give you all something extra special.  That’s right, you heard correctly, EXTRA special.

I am giving you a scene from a story that has not (as of yet) made it to the draft writing-table.  This is a scene from Wrenna, Geoffrey and Luke’s story. 

Hope you enjoy this little sneak of a peak! 😀


A battle cry rang out.  Geoffrey bent the cord of his crossbow until it locked into the catch, then set a bolt into the channel. 

“Ready yourself.”

Luke drew his sword and stood at Geoffrey’s side by the door.  He looked over his shoulder at Wrenna and Shea.  Wrenna stood clutching the table top while the older woman drew two flintlock pistols from a high cupboard.

“Mercenaries?”  Wrenna asked.  She gazed at Luke.

“Stay back.  They don’t know we’re here.”

“That won’t matter,” Shea loaded flint into the first pistols cock and tamped power down the muzzle.  “They’re here to loot the village and to kill as many as they can.  You can be sure they will search every house.”  She finished loading the gun then handed it to Wrenna.

“I… I’ve never fired…” 

Shea took Wrenna’s hand, forcing her to except the weapon, “Learn now.”

“Is that necessary?”  Luke asked. 

“This is life or death boy.  It’s necessary.” 

“We’ve got company!”  Geoffrey called out.

Shea grabbed the second pistol and hastily loaded it.  “Pull the table over!”  She instructed.  “We can use it as a shield if we have to.” 

Wrenna and Luke helped her push the table onto its side.  Luke returned to Geoffrey at the door and Wrenna and Shea crouched behind the table, pistols ready.

Wrenna heard a click as the arrow sped from Geoffrey’s cross bow.  The sound was soon followed by the scream of a man.  Geoffrey hastily loaded another arrow and fired before flinging down the weapon and drawing his sword just in time to meet the blow of a mercenary’s thick blade.  

Geoffrey was forced out the door by his attacker and three mercenaries charged into the house.  Luke felled one before he could react, dropping the man on the threshold.  Shea fired her pistol, sending the second mercenary spinning to the ground with a cry. 

The third charged into the table, knocking it over and pinning Shea underneath.  The old woman struggled, but could not free herself.  Wrenna tried to help her, but the mercenary grabbed her by the hair and pulled her away.

Wrenna screamed, clutched at her scalp.  Luke tackled the mercenary.  The two men went tumbling over the table; the mercenary’s sword went flying.   Wrenna scrambled up, backing against the wall.  The mercenary kicked at Luke’s stomach, sending him backwards into the cupboards.  Luke crashed into the cupboards, the sound of wood cracking rang in the air and Luke crumpled to the ground with a groan.

“Luke!”  Wrenna cried.  

The mercenary picked up his sword and stalked towards Luke’s limp form.  Wrenna picked up her pistol, pointed it at the mercenary and fired. 


The flint flashed in a cloud of smoke followed by the mercenary’s agonizing cry.

Angel Wings

My fourth short story for Fiction Writing Class.  The assignment was to write a story inspired by a song.  My inspiration was the song “Angels” by Owl City.  (You can listen to it here.) 

This story is loosely based on an event in my life.  The sound of the wind pounding against the window during storms always terrified me.  I knew that God had angels around me, so I would have tea/pizza parties with my guardian angels and that helped me calm my fears.  I like to believe they played along with, someday I’ll get to ask them. 🙂    



The indications reveal, that few of us realize life is quite surreal.
So if you’re dying to see I guarantee, there are angels around your vicinity.
Owl City

For Elliannah

Ellie buried her head under her blankets, trying to block the sound of the roaring storm.  Wind hammered against the house, shaking the oak tree outside her window until it shuttered as if freezing in the fall wind.  Ellie peeked out from her downy hiding place and gazed at the bedroom wall.  Shadows from the dancing branches skipped across the white surface like a swarm of dark fairies throwing themselves to the storm.  As another assault of wind crash against the window Ellie threw herself under her quilt, trying to block out the elemental battle.  She hugged her stuffed puppy close to her heart.

“Don’t be scared Puff-Puff, it’s only wind, it can’t get in,” she whispered in the dog’s ear.  “It can’t get in…” 

Her little heart beat wildly.  She hugged Puff-Puff tighter as if the stuffed creature could keep her safe from the raging gale that wanted to come through her window.  Ellie squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face in Puff-Puff’s fuzzy body.  The storm raged on, the wind throwing strike after strike against the house.


A sweet voice whispered, competing with the wind and drifting to the frightened child. 


Ellie opened her eyes and looked around her room.  She could see no one.  Her night-light flickered for a moment, its little glow winking at her in the dark.

“Hello?”  The little girl said, still gazing around her room.  The night-light blinked out. Ellie shivered.  She could still hear the wind raging outside, but the sound seemed distant now. 


The voice echoed in from the window.  Drawn by her child curiosity, Ellie slid out of bed and tiptoed to the window.  Light from a street lamp filtered into the bedroom, illuminating the floor and white walls. As she padded across the floor her bare feet sank into the thick carpet and her night-gown twirled around her ankles.

Ellie crawled up on her window seat and peered outside, pressing her palms against the cold glass.  Down below shadows of the oak tree casted by the yellow street light danced on the lawn.  Ellie watched the leaves blown by the wind skip and twirl in the air.  They looked like feathers blown about by the breeze.  One drifted up to her, sailing towards the window to press its soft veins to the glass.  As it traveled, spinning in the air, it changed, becoming a brilliant white feather.  A blue glow surrounded the feather and like a stone sinking in water, it passed through the window. 

Ellie moved away from it, sliding to the floor and watching intently.   The feather drifted down until it came to rest on her carpet.  Ellie leaned towards it, not sure what to do.  Still curious, Ellie crawled towards it on hands and knees.  She stretched out her little hand and brushed the white silky object with her finger tips.

As she fingered the velvety plume a laugh, like that of bells suddenly danced into the room.  Ellie jumped back.  The feather flashed white and they whole room filled with light.  Ellie covered her eyes, burying them in her hands.

Someone touched her head.  Ellie looked up and met the gaze of a woman with silver hair and golden eyes.  

“Hello Ellie,” she said smiling down on the little girl. 

That voice, Ellie had heard it calling in dark.  Ellie started at the woman.  She wore a gown of pure white that shimmered whenever she moved.  Her whole body shimmered as if lit from within by some unseen radiance.  Behind her stretched a pair of white wings haloed in a blue glow.

“Are you an angel?”  Ellie asked.

The woman laughed, “Yes.  I came because you were afraid of the storm.”

“Oh,” Ellie stood up, Puff-Puff tucked under her arm.  A big grin spread across her face.  She had a real angel in her bed room and she had an idea. 

“Do you like tea parties Angel?”

Angel smiled, “Yes, I do.  Do you?”

Ellie nodded and reached for Angel’s hand.  “Come with me.” She lead Angel to a little table set with a tiny porcelain tea set.

“Here,” Ellie said, guiding Angel to one of the little chairs.  Angel tugged in her wings perched on the edge of the offered seat.  Puff-Puff sat on the table.

As Ellie poured some imaginary tea she looked at Angel’s brilliant wings.

“Do all angels have wings like yours?” She asked.

“Some do, every pair of angel wings are different in some way.  No two are alike.” 

“Do you like pizza?”


“Great!  I have some, and chocolate chip cookies, they’re my favorite.”

“Mine too.”

Ellie put an imaginary slice of pizza and a chocolate chip cookie on hers and Angel’s little porcelain plates.  Angel smiled and took a bite.

“Mmm, this is the best pizza I have ever tasted.”

Ellie grinned.

A blast of wind slammed against the window.  Ellie dropped her plate and it clattered to the table top.  She rushed into Angel’s arms.

“I don’t like the wind.”

“There is no need for fear Ellie.  I am always here, watching over you for someone who loves you very much.”  Angle wrapped the little girl in her wings.  “Do not be afraid.”

Ellie nestled into the soft feathers of Angel’s silken wings.  Soon she was asleep.  The wind forgotten, her eye lids sagged and she slipped into slumber.

When she awoke the next morning she was in her bed, Puff-Puff beside her.  There was no sign of Angel, but when Ellie went to look out the window, she found sitting on her window seat, was a white feather.  She kept the feather, holding it close whenever there a storm hammered at her window, but Ellie no longer feared the wind. 

The End

Today in Hell, By Morning, In Paradise

This is a story I wrote for my Fiction Writing class.  Let me know what you think.


I would die at dawn, the guard told me that evening. 

As he held a plate of stale bread inches away from my groping hand he said with a sneer.   “We do not feed the condemned, Christianus.”  Christian. 

He spat the word out like bad wine and retreated, taking the treasured food with him.  I clutched at the bars of my cell staring after him, listening to his footsteps echo and fade into nothing.  Hunger clawed at my stomach, a painful ache digging through my gut.  Was it hunger?  Or was it the reality of my fate?  Tomorrow I would die.  I sank to the ground and wrapped my arms around my thin frame, the chains about my ankles ratting with the movement.  The coarse wool of my ragged clothing cut into my skin, the smell of my own filth hung thick in the air of my little cell.  I held my breath and squeezed my eyes close, shutting everything out.  No, no, NO!  What had brought me to this? 

My ears began to ring, my lungs begged for air.  I held on, maybe, maybe I could end it all right here, right now, save myself the pain of a Roman execution.  My life is no longer in my hands.  I had said those words, all thoughs years ago, putting my fate in another’s hands.    I gasped, opening my eyes and heaving in great gulps of air.  Tears stung my eyes and traced salty trails down my checks. 

As a boy, my father had told me men didn’t cry, but my father hadn’t known what would happen.  He hadn’t known the Romans would come and kill him.  He hadn’t known I would be taken to live out my days as a slave, never again to see my beloved Britton.  So I cried.  I cried for the past, for the boy I had once been, free in my homeland.  I cried for my fate, for the flames that awaited me come the dawn. 

My heart filled with anguish I raised my tear stained face to the small shaft of light flickering against the wall from a torch across the way. 

“Deus donavi meus ultionis!”  God give me vengeance!  I shook my fist, yelling in the Latin tongue at the light as if it represented the presence of God in this foul place.  Give me vengeance. 

My life is no longer in my hands.  I had given it away, let it go.  He had given his, what more was I to do with mine?  

I was afraid to die.  Afraid of the pain, but I could still escape it, I could still live. 

“Deny, deny your faith and you shall go free.”

I stared at the procurator; my chains seemed to grow heavier as if to embellish his words.  Deny, simple enough.  They were words only were they not?  God would still see what was in my heart, see I still believed though my tongue said otherwise.  I could live, continue serving Him.  What good was I dead?  All I had to do was say three simple words – “I deny Christ” – and I would go free.  Free.  The flames would devour another martyr, but not me. 

“Well?  What say you?”  The procurator stood looking down his nose at me, awaiting my reply.  “Stop preaching this false faith, deny the Christian God and your life will be spared.” 

Why was I hesitating?  Why was I silent?  Lord, I do not want to die.

The procurator gave an exasperated sigh and waved his hand at the guards.  “Take him away.”

I was dragged to me feet and hauled from the room, my chains clattering on the marble floor.

“There is still time, if you should choose to change your mind.”  The procurator’s words fallowed me from the hall, ringing in my ears.

I thought of them now, wondering where I would be and what I would be doing at this moment had I said those words.  Perhaps I’d be sitting with Laurel, our hands clasped together, speaking of our upcoming marriage.  Laurel, I could still see her face when they came to take me away.  She cried my name, her voice wrought with anguish and fear.


Oh, to see her again!  To lose myself in her dark eyes and the sound of her bell-like laughter. 

“Lord,” I prayed.  “Protect her; do not let her suffer my fate.” 

My fate; I wondered at my words.  Had I chosen to die?  I remembered that day, how many years ago?  The teacher, dying in agony on a Roman cross above my head, hardly recognizable as the man I had known.  He was innocent of any crime, just as I was now, but they had killed him and he had allowed it.  He had chosen death, could I do the same?  I followed him, I spoke in his name, but could I die for him?  So many had died already, they did not deny him.    

“Lord, you can see my heart, can you not?  You can see my fear, how can I do this?  Can I not serve you more by living to spread your Word?  What of my life with Laurel?  I will never see her again in this life, never have a life together.  God, how is this part of your will?  What have I done that you would abandon me to the flames?  Let me live!” 

My voice echoed back to me, bouncing against the stone walls, let me live! 

“He never abandons us Dafydd.  We are mere men; we cannot comprehend his thoughts or his plans.”  Stephen, his words returned to me.  “He sets a path before us and leaves us with the choice to walk it.  What will you choose Dafydd?” 

Stephen died, stoned for his beliefs.  He had stood fast, facing death.  Could I do the same? 

“Could I?” 

I thought back to the day I had met the Teacher.  The day he had given Laurel back her sight and in a way, he had given sight to my blind eyes.  I was a bitter slave, cursing those who had killed my family and taken me from my homeland to live a life of bondage among a people who thought of me as chattel.  My heart was filled with nothing but hate.  Laurel had tried to show me love, she had taught me Latin, nursed my wounds after beatings, but the hate in my heart blinded me to her kindness.  I was more a captive to myself and the bitterness inside then I ever was as a slave.  It ate at me, tearing my mind apart; then he came.

He healed my shattered heart.  Never before had I felt so liberated.  The hate, the bitterness, the hurt, it was all swept away at the touch of his hand and the sound of his voice calling my name.  He had shown me how to forgive those who had slaughtered my family and enslaved me.  Though by law I was still a slave, in my heart and soul, I was freed forever.

How could I deny that?  How could I deny the hope, the peace, the joy, the freedom I had been given?  I couldn’t.  I could not betray the love that had given me new life. 

“Acceptus calicis ex meus,” Take this cup from me.  “My life is in your hands.”            

As a cold chill crawled up my spine I shivered.  The night would soon be over, my last night on earth.  I leaned against the moist stones of my cell.  The slow drip of water sounded from somewhere in the gloom.  Laughter of the guards and cries of fellow captives could be heard as faint whispers in the silence of the prison.  I looked around me, the stench, the darkness, the hunger, this place was hell, but tomorrow, tomorrow I would find paradise.

My life is in your hands.     

The End


Pronunciation guide:

Dafydd – (Da-vith)
     a: short as in can


As a rare treat, (and since I don’t really have anything else to post, 😛 ) I’m going to post a series of pieces from stories that were never finished.  Most of them were going to be shorts, but the inspiration to write them sort of died.  Comment and tell me which one is your favorite, and whichever one gets the most votes… well, you’ll see. 😉


Robin of Locksley: (Part 2 for “An Outlaw in the Making”)

“Ouch!”  I stumbled back as Will’s wooden practice sword bounced off my right shoulder.  Will laughed,
“That’s three points for me.  What’s the matter Robin?  Have your reflexes decided to take a holiday?”

In answer I swung my own wooden weapon in two tight circles, and brought it down, Will blocked.  I spun his sword around, slid mine down to his hilt, then jerked it out of his hand.  It went flying to the side, landing with a clatter on the smooth stones.

“Touché,” I pointed my sword at his chest, a half grin spread across my face.  Will lifted his hands, raising them to the air.

“You win,” he slapped my arm, “Nicely done.”

“Here, here!” said Allen who sat leisurely in the shade. 

“Here, here yourself, why don’t you come here, and see how it’s done,” Will commented.

“No thank you Will.  I’m comfortable where I am.”  He crossed his legs, placed his hands behind his head and leaned against the stone pillar.

“Come on lazy!”  I jumped forward and thwacked Allen across the legs with me sword.

“Ouch!  Bad form Robin.”  Allen leaned forward and rubbed his legs.  I grinned,

“What’s the matter?  The great Allen-a-dale doesn’t want to challenge Robin of Locksley?”  I said pretending to pout.

“You can put it however you like,” Allen folded his arms across his chest.  “It’s too warm and I don’t feel like being bashed around at the moment.”

Love Conquers All

I flung my pencil on my desk then wadded up the paper I had been writing.

“That sounds like I’m a princess locked in a tower pinning for a knight in shining armor.”  I tossed it in the trash.  My best friend Alex looked up from her text book.    

“It’s better than what you said your last one sounded like.”

“Great, I’ve gone from an orphan Annie, to a love sick princess.”  I stood and walked to the window.  Outside my neighbor was mowing his lawn and the hum of the mower drifted up to my window.  Alex moved to a sitting position on my bed and chewed the tip of her pencil.

“At least you don’t have to turn it in until next week.  You have plenty of time to work on it.”

I went back to my desk and sat.  “It’s a dumb assignment anyway.  ‘Write a paper about what you think love is’”. I repeated what the teacher had said.  “Okay, not that easy.”

“Normally you don’t have a problem with writing assignments.  Mrs. Jones just mentions the words ‘writing assignment’ and your mind starts spinning with ideas.”

I shrugged.  My computer chimed, making me jump.

“What was that?”  Alex asked.

“I have an e-mail,” I pulled up my inbox.  “Figures.”

“What figures?”

“Mike and Elise can’t come tomorrow night.  They’ve already ‘made plans’”.

“Well,” Alex closed her text book.  “It was just a dinner.”

“Ya,” I scoffed, “Just a dinner to celebrate my eighteenth Birthday.  Forget it, if it’s not important, it’s not important.”

“I’m sure that’s not what they think.”

“It’s how they act,” I pulled out my history book and began studying.

*     *     *    

Alex threw her Algebra book on the floor, “Uh!  I hate math!”  I closed my own and looked over my shoulder at her. 

“It’s not that bad.”

“Really?  Only Einstein would know this one,” She cleared her throat.  “A girl runs at a constant speed for T minutes to run M km. How long, in seconds, will it take her to run N km if she runs at the same speed?  I’ve reread it so many times I’ve memorized it!” 

I laughed, “How about a break, I can’t wrap my mind around a problem either.”

“Fine by me,” she stuffed the text book and her doodle covered notebook into her backpack.

The Spider’s Lair

“’Come into my house’, said the spider to the fly,” Bran whispered as he stared into the gaping, dark hole that served as a caves entrance.  “Well this is one fly who would rather not.”

The cave mouth stared out at him, a black hole waiting to swallow him.  From deep within came a sound like a great beast breathing in its sleep.  Bran drew his sword and, one step at a time, crept into the black cave.


I love writing familiar Bible stories from a person’s point of view you would not normally see.  It gives the story a whole new flavor. This idea came to me several weeks ago.  It took my a while to finish, but here it is.  
Comments are welcomed. 


Do it!  Now!  I gripped the end of the stall.  My knuckles turning white, I began to shake.  My head throbbed within my skull as the voices yelled inside.  I clenched my teeth and dug my finger nails into the wood. 

“What are you doing?”  The owner of the stall had noticed me. 

Now!  Before he can stop you!

I glared at the man, my eyes seemed to burn.  He froze, fear creasing his forehead. 

“I’ll do what I want,” I gripped the stall and flung it at the man.  He threw his hands up to protect his face.  The stall and all its contents crashed into him and he fell with a cry. 

“Help!  Help!  Mad man!”

Before I knew what was happening, a crowd had surrounded me, cutting off my escape.  Several stern looking men stood watching me, chains held in their hands.  Something registered in my memory.  I knew those men, but I couldn’t remember why.

Fight!  Kill them! The voices cried.  My head throbbed with pain behind my eyes.  I screamed, clutching at my head I feel to my knees. 

Fight!  Kill!  Kill!  I screamed again, spewing froth that now formed in my mouth on the ground around me. 

Get up!

“Demon!  Contain him!”  I heard the words, but the speaker was hidden from me in the crowd.   Rage boiled through my blood, filling me with inhuman power. 

Yes!  Now!  Fight!

I rose to my feet, letting the anger roll from my gaze.  The men with the chains advanced, but now they hesitated. 

“Came if you dare!”  I bellowed.

“What are you waiting for?!” Called the hidden speaker, “He has nowhere to go!”  

Then men, faces now hardened, charged.  Screaming, I rushed into their midst.  Flailing my arms about me I clawed with my fingernails at anyone who came too close. 

Blood.  I felt it on my hands, warm and thick, running down my fingers.  The voices laughed.  I turned, a club met my gaze and I was plunged into tortured darkness. 

*     *     *

I pulled, straining at the chains that bound me to the rock.  All was quiet among the tombs and I was alone.  I lifted my head and raised my voice to the sky, breaking the silence, I hated the silence.  How dare they bind me!  They would regret it! 

These chains are nothing.  The voices cooed mockingly.  You are mightier then they. 

Heat rushed through my body.  Setting my feet firmly on the hard ground, I pulled at my bonds.  I roared, straining with every bit of my strength, and more.  With two load CLAPS! the chains broke free from my wrists.  Now free, I ran, ran from the rock, from the chains, from the silence.  The voices laughed.  I began to scream. 

*     *    *

Blood trickled down my arm.  I stared at it.  A sharp stone clutched tightly in my fist, I drug it down my arm once again.  Another thin line of red traced a sticky path down my arm, but I couldn’t feel it.  I did it again, and again, on my legs, my arms, my hands, anyway I could draw blood.  Still, no feeling.  I flung the stone away from me and yelled at the storm clouds swirling over the sea.  A small fishing boat floated not far off shore, the rowers guiding it safely to the beach.  One man, sitting in the stern caught my eye.  Suddenly fear, like no other took hold of me. 

No!  Not him!  He’s come, He’ll destroy us!  Mercy!  We much beg for mercy! 

Clutching at my rags I ran towards the beach.  As the man stepped from the boat I met him, falling on my face before him.

“Why have you come Jesus, Son of the Most High!  I beg you!  Do not torment me!” I cried, groping at the rocks on the shore.   

Jesus looked at me, “Come out of him.”

I screamed.

“What is your name,” Jesus held me with his gaze.

My name, what way my name?  The voices answered, “Legion, for we are many.  Please!  Do not send us into the pit!  Send us instead into the herd of swine!”

“Very well.”

Pain!  Pain tore through me, but it was a good pain, the pain of pulling a thorn from your flesh.  Before a minute had gone by, it was over.  I heard pigs squealing in the distance, but that didn’t matter, only the man before me mattered.  My mind was clear, the voices were gone.  No longer would they torment me.  Love. Pure, honest, love filled my senses, replacing the agony that had consumed me for so long.  A new voice, soft and gentle whispered through my heart, “You’re sins are forgiven my beloved.  Be made clean.”  Tears fell down my cheeks as the past melted away behind me.  I was free, I was whole again, I was loved and I was forgiven.     

“Oh my Lord, I will follow you forever.”

Jesus laid his hands on my shoulders, his gaze over flowing with kindness, “Go home, and tell your people of these great things the Lord as done for you, for He has shown you great compassion.”

“Yes Lord.  I will.”

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