Another from the toolbox

The cool thing about the toolbox is that it prompts you to write stories that you never would have otherwise dreamed of writing. For examples, check out my sister's The Exotic Dancer. Bit of steamy writing there. Or her newest addition, The Other Woman. Mom's put together some rather intriguing short stories too, but hasn't got up the nerve to post them yet. What if someone thinks I'm writing about myself?... She's right I guess. That would end up being quite the scandal. Stephen wrote one too that's just plain hilarious. Not sure yet if he'll be posting. This time I took three sticks, allowing about 10 minutes in between of writing. Of course the sentences you pick, never seem to have anything to do with each other. Forced writing? Certainly. Humorous results? You decide.

My sentences:
FS. He swore on his mother's grave, but then he swore on just about everything.
NS. Margaret had a habit of spitting, and it was getting on his nerves.
NS. "If you don't take chances," said the man in the striped pajamas. "You might as well not be alive."

Trouble with Tony

He swore on his mother's grave, but then he swore on just about everything.

"It doesn't matter," his friend was saying. "Your word is useless to."

"C'mon, Jacob. 300 bucks. I'll make it up to you. I'll pay back every penny. I swear on my father's grave."

Jacob scowled at him. "Your father isn't even dead. For that matter, neither is your mother. You can't swear on the grave of someone who isn't even dead."

"They will be," Kyle muttered under his breath.

"What do you need the money for anyway?"

"Just trying to pay off a loan."

"Bad interest?"

"You could say that."

Jacob eyed Kyle suspiciously. "Who do you owe?"

There was no sence hiding it from Jacob. He had just opened his mouth to answer when the little bell above the door dinged. They both turned to look. Kyle grimaced inwardly as Margaret sauntered in. Her too big jeans were muddy where they draped over her tennis shoes. Her t-shirt looked like it had been slept in. She waved as she joined them.

"Am I interrupting anything?"

At least she had the decency to admit she might be interrupting. She cleared her throat and spat, nearly missing the trash. She had a habit of spitting and it was getting on Kyle's nerves.

"I was just telling Jacob about a little conversation I had with Toni Spinelzi the other day."

Jacob's eyes grew wide. Margaret's jaw dropped.

"Are you in trouble?" Her eyes searched him. "Do you need money?"

"No, no," he said hastily. Margaret was the last person he would borrow money from.

"Toni's bad news. My cousin lost three fingers in a business deal with Toni." Her eyes flew to his prematurely supposing the worst. He quickly stuffed his hands in his pockets. Margaret grabbed a napkin from the nearest table and spread it out on the counter between them.

"We're going to need a plan if you don't want to end up with a horse between your sheets."

"It wasn't a whole horse," Jacob interjected. "It was just the head."   

Margaret ignored the comment. "Toni lives over by the Northside Condos. I'll wait over here." She was scribbling furiously on the napkin. "And one of you will sneak to his house and slash his tires."

"What?! No!" Kyle lunged for her napkin, balling it in his fist. "We're not slashing any tires or I'm gonna owe him more money."

Margaret looked unaffected. She had already reached for another napkin. "Toni takes his meals at the Wellington Diner. One of the cooks there owes me a favor. If I can get him to slip..."

"What? Poison?" Kyle looked over his shoulder, suddenly sure their conversation was being heard.

Margaret wasn't out of ideas. "I've got a friend, really big guy. Maybe I could get him to talk to Toni."

"This isn't working. It's completely outrageous. You are outrageous."

"If you don't take chances," Margaret said with conviction. "You might as well not be alive"

Just Gotta Touch

I picked up a new game. It's called the Writer's Toolbox. With a series of writing prompts and an egg timer, it lends itself to a lot of activities. This particular one has you pick a fist sentence at random. Write for 3 minutes. Draw another sentence. Three minutes. Another sentence. You get the idea. Click here for my sister's story. This is my result.

Just Gotta Touch 

There I was just standing there when what I wanted to do was forbidden. My arms tingles. Anticipation? I was filled with a longing and as the seconds ticked, I scarcely trusted myself. I seriously doubted I would be able to restrain myself. The crowds moved behind me oblivious to the battle that played out in my mind.

In front of me, long and sleek, was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. I wanted to touch it. The sign above the cage warned people of the danger. Perhaps that's why the urge was so strong. Perhaps it was because it was forbidden. Perhaps it was the thrill of the danger, but I sincerely felt it was because so few can boast that they have actually petted a tiger. I wasted to be among the few. There was something so rare and exotic about it. There was something about the tiger that looked like just a giant pussy cat.

I slowly reached my hand between the bars holding my breath, my fingers trembling slightly. It was like placing the top block of a precariously stacked pyramid. It was like lighting a candle in a tornado. It was like skating on thin ice. So basic, so easy, so outrageously impossible.

The tiger wasn't the only danger. The zoo security riding around in zebra striped golf carts could have me thrown from the premises for violating a clearly marked warning sign. I was just building up the final ounces of  needed courage when a head popped up behind the tiger.--A second tiger! Now I would have to choose. Oh dear. Well, they were both the same, I decided.

Inches from the orange and black fur, I felt a strong hand grip my shoulder. I spun around now face to face with an orange and black striped shirt. The stranger wearing the shirt didn't say a word. He didn't need to. His left shirt stopped abruptly, armless.

These were the sentences I had to work with:
FS. There I was just standing there when what I wanted to do was forbidden
NS. He was walking on thin ice, that's all I'm saying
NS. Well it was all the same, I decided

Greater is He

God breathed, and Satan coiled.
God spoke, and Satan deceived.
God was exalted and lifted up on high.
Satan exalted himself and tumbled low
God cursed Satan
Satan cursed man

In a darkest Africa, dark not from primitivism or from poverty, but from spiritual oppression, Satan held an African village in his clutches. The people worshiped him. They worshiped in fear and in pain, in self mutilation and physical sacrifice, clutching artifacts of rock and wood and bone. Their fear had made them crazed. Their faith had stripped all hope. Their religion was one of blood and death.

Then God intervened. With an all powerful hand, He touched their hearts. With an all knowing mind, he prepared their minds. And he sent in a messenger, one to preach the truth to the glory of God.

The people repented. That night, the death wail transformed into a song of praise. Men and women tore off the fetishes that had held them in bondage and thrust them into the fire. The air grew sticky and sweet from the scent of medicine bags ablaze. The darkness lifted.

The witchdoctor was furious. His livelihood was gone. He snuck onto the mission compound and cursed the missionary. He braided the leaves of a palm tree indicating the presence of the curse. When the missionary discovered it the following day, he climbed the tree and cut down the braided branches. He threw them in the garbage pit, covered them with gasoline, and set them on fire. All the while, the people screamed and wailed in fear.

That’s where the story ends in the telling but it has not ended. God was victorious in that small African village. And while He is victorious still today, indications of the presence of that curse have followed that missionary everywhere he has gone since.

There is no doubt that Satan is powerful. He is mightier than I. His deceptions are lies that I fall for time and time again. His tricks are clever. His servants have triumphed over Christians all throughout history from the first martyrs to the Christians who are still persecuted today (and not just outside American borders). And I am terrified of him. Praise God “greater is He that is in me.” God is more powerful than he, but I am not. I fear we often miss just how terrible our foe really is. We poke fun and laugh and minimize the adversary. But would you alone take on a roaring lion?

This is a sensitive topic in our circles. We are aware of spiritual warfare, but we don’t speak of it. Perhaps we fear we will sound charismatic. Perhaps we don’t want to encourage man’s twisted mind that actually seeks this kind of encounter or finds a thrill in it. I did not write this post to feed imaginations or for self praise but to share an account of just how powerful I have seen God. If we see Satan for how terribly powerful he truly is, how much more powerful must God be?

The Impatient Rose

Once upon a time, within the stone wall of the castle keep, a garden blossomed into every color imaginable. Roses of yellow, etched in shades of red and gold competed with the sunrise for its glory. Deep reds, pure whites, gentle lavenders grew in abundance. Every shade of pink was present, from the soft pink of a kiss to the deep passion of fuchsia. Tiny forget-me-nots begged to be noticed peeking through a thin covering of green. Morning glories climbed the crevices of the stone wall, pointing their trumpets to the sun in jubilation.

Every day, the royal gardener came and tended the plants. He offered water, trimmed and pruned where needed. And sometimes he sang. Always, he sang about the sun. And when the flowers heard his voice, they raised their heads a little higher sharing the warm rays of the sun.

But in one corner of the garden, a rose had not bloomed. Half hidden by leaves, camouflaged in a green cocoon, the tiny bud waited to be seen. If only the gardener would notice me, thought the little flower as she looked with envy at the other roses on her vine. If only he could help me shed this confining cocoon, then I could be all that I was meant to be.

The gardener did come. He gave water; he trimmed and pruned; he pointed the little bud toward the sun, but the little bud would not open. The little bud showed no color. Ashamed, she hid her face from the sun.

A few more days passed, and still the rose had not opened. She tried. She tried hold her breath till she was nearly purple, but the leaves of her enclosure held fast. She tried stretching and straining and wiggling with all her might. Nothing. So as always, ashamed that the sun would notice she hadn’t bloomed, she hid her face under the leaves. She would not look at the sun.

I can’t do it, the rose cried that night. I just can’t change. And as she fell asleep looking at the other roses in full bloom, she made a plan. I will ask the gardener for help. Then together, we can separate these leaves. And finally I’ll see the color I know is in me somewhere. Finally, I’ll be able to look at the sun without shame.

And so she did. In the morning she made her request. It was humbling to admit she couldn’t do it on her own. The little bud felt as if the thorns on her vine were piercing through to her heart. The gardener will understand. She was certain. Surely, he would help her. And then he would sing about the sun as he always did.

But the gardener refused.
“What?!” asked the little rose in confusion. “Why won’t you help me? Can’s you see I can’t do this on my own?”
The gardener smiled. “Of course you can’t. You weren’t meant to.”
Anger flared in the little rose.
But the gardener continued, “I can’t change you from the a bud to rose any more than you can. If I were to pull apart those leaves, I would tear your petals. You would be small and fragile. You would never grow, and you would soon die.”
Tears filled in the eyes of the tiny rose. It was hopeless.
The gardener smiled, “Only the sun will make you what He intended for you to be. I can water. I can trim and prune. I can point you in the right direction, but only the sun will change you.

And so the gardener did. He watered; he trimmed; he pruned; he pointed the little flower toward the sun. But that was all he did. Soon, the little rose began to bloom. She wasn’t beautiful yet. She wasn’t in full bloom. But slowly she was changing.