The Famous Thanksgiving of 1977

Faithwriters.com Weekly Challenge
750 Word Max
TOPIC: A Comedy of Errors

THE FAMOUS THANKSGIVING OF 1977
by Jennifer Suchey

‘Twas the famous Thanksgiving of 1977, the year I turned eight and sported my super-trendy Dorothy Hamill ‘do. The traditional holiday spread was to be consumed at Grandma Slovick’s house, but the real story lies in the Dexter family’s designated offering to the feast. I am speaking of none other than the star of the meal, the veritable symbol of the holiday itself. That’s right … the Thanksgiving turkey.

I was the youngest and, therefore, the cutest of the Dexter siblings. My brother, Paul had just turned eleven and Robyn, nearing seventeen, was several years our elder. In my younger and even more adorable years, I had followed teenage-sister-Robyn around like a lost puppy copying everything she did, much to her chagrin. Oh how I wanted to be a teenager. My aspirations for teenagehood are inscribed in my baby book where Mom eloquently penned, “When Jennifer grows up she wants to be a teenager.” I think this was a fine choice, really, and far superior to my brother’s grand ambition to become a trash man.

Our story begins at the point where Mom was rendered bedridden with sudden and excruciating back pain. With Mom incapacitated, the illustrious task of preparing the bird was left to Dad. Having never roasted a turkey, he ambled back and forth from the kitchen to the bedroom for instructions.

The conversation went something like this.

“There’s stuff in there?” Referring to the neck and giblets.

“Yeah, you gotta get it out.”

“Well, how do I get it out?”

Imagine, if you will, my big, strong, building contractor of a father. Six-foot-four, with a size-15 foot and large calloused hands to match. Standing at the kitchen counter grappling with a raw turkey, he endeavored to locate and unearth the bag of giblets and neck  from … well, who knows which end?

Twenty minutes later, with jaw clenched, he was now long into the process of excavating his find. By now his pulsing temples were beat red, yet his determination to conquer his adversary was fierce and unwavering. He clutched his opponent with the firm grip of one hand, the other buried deep inside the cavity of the bird. Clasping the neck, he yanked with full force. Unwilling to submit, however, the turkey executed a sly maneuver. With impressive agility, that turkey slipped right out of Dad’s grasp and performed a beautiful nosedive directly into the sink full of dirty dishwater.

“Dagnabbit!”

Well, after the unruly fowl underwent a very thorough shower, inside and out, his innards were conquered and annihilated. No longer was he able to avoid the inevitable, and so it was that the turkey was finally roasted.

Transportation, however, was another matter altogether. With Mom disabled, Dad was obliged to stay home and play nurse. The task of transferring the turkey, along with little brother and sister, fell into the hands of teenage-sister-Robyn. Yet, oddly enough, she also would not be joining us for Thanksgiving dinner, on account of her gainful employment, waitressing at Alphy’s.

So, the very clean and very roasted star of the feast was loaded into the back of our late 60’s Ford Fairlane station wagon, which showcased a lovely shade of puke green.

And thus begins part two of the story.

Traveling north on Magnolia Avenue, teenage-sister-Robyn decided that this would be an excellent time to apply mascara.

You see where I’m going with this.

Little-sister-Jennifer, sat in the back seat staring at the bright red traffic light shining gloriously above the upcoming intersection, where an unsuspecting vehicle already lingered.

Umm … she wasn’t stopping.

“Robyn.”

No response.

“ROBYN.” A little louder.

Mascara was much more important.

“ROBYYYYN!!!!”

Teenage-sister-Robyn reacted with impeccable driving skill, thrusting her foot upon the brake with raw power. The station wagon careened to a screeching halt, mere inches from the parked car.

Whew! We were alive.

But what of the turkey?

Upon examination, it was discovered that the defiant turkey had indeed escaped, along with all of his juices, having glided freely about the slick vinyl space in the back of the station wagon.

The slippery suspect was restrained, and once again confined to his roasting pan. Sworn to secrecy, the Dexter siblings arrived at Grandma Slovick’s house and boldly submitted their peculiar offering to the Thanksgiving feast.

Upon being questioned where the drippings were for the gravy, teenage-sister-Robyn just shrugged. “I don’t know. I have to get to work.”

Thanksgiving dinner was enjoyed by all and no one was any the wiser.

Exploded on Impact

FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE #1

I entered a contest in which Friday night at 9:00 p.m. I was given a genre (drama), location (convention) and item (a bottle of vodka). I had until Sunday night at 9:00 p.m. to write a 1,000 word story and submit it.

In a month, I will get a new genre, location and item and write another story. Points for both stories will be tallied and, if I place in the top five of my group, I will move onto the next round. If I do well enough again, I will move onto the final round where I could win up to $1,500 buckaroos!

At the very least, I am guaranteed to write the first two stories and will get feedback from the judges, which makes it worth the entry fee. 

This is my first round story, Exploded on Impact. Enjoy!

*     *     *     *

“Your wife’s plane exploded on impact.”

John awoke in a sweat. Four years later the scene continued to play in his head, the day he was informed Sophie’s single-engine plane careened into the side of the Rockies.

John’s hope that the nightmares wouldn’t follow him to his new home in California was crushed. Turning on the shower, he contemplated what a skilled pilot Sophie was. His heart ached over such a senseless loss.

Today offered a distraction from his grief. His favorite author, James Welling, was at the Wrigley Book Convention signing copies of his yet to be released novel.

Upon entering the crowded convention center, John meandered among various vendors, perusing their offerings. He spotted James Welling’s booth and twenty minutes later was near the front of the line, where the author sat behind a table signing books.

Glancing to his left, John caught a sight that caused a ripple of hot and cold flashes to shoot up his spine. The chaotic world around him vanished. He stood mesmerized, gaping at a woman.

“Sophie,” he whispered.

She was speaking nearby with a man. Her features were exactly Sophie, yet her look was quite different. A polished platinum blond hairstyle replaced brown flowing locks. Darker and more glamorous makeup superceded light and natural. A sophisticated pencil skirt took the place of casual style. It was as if she was a Marilyn Monroe version of his outdoorsy wife. John stood transfixed. It was Sophie. It had to be Sophie.

“Sir?”

Shaken from his trance, John turned his gaze to James Welling, who was attempting to greet him. John’s mind raced with confusion. He peered back toward the woman. She had vanished. His pulse spiked. Frantically, his eyes searched further down the concourse between vendors. Then he spotted her. Her feminine form strolled away.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted and darted off.

Determined not to lose her, he kept a keen eye on her blond hair and clambered through the throng of people.

When she stepped into a vendor’s booth to the right, John veered left. He huddled near a publisher’s booth where he observed her slipping behind a table next to a young man, who was finishing a sale. A large poster displayed the cover of a book, Jumping Into Destiny by Julianne Thatcher.

“Would you sign my book?” A teenager held out her book to the blond woman.

John’s eyebrows lifted at the revelation that she was the author.

He scrutinized her, noting every detail … the brown eyes, the mole on her neck, the sound of her voice, her mannerisms. They all shouted “Sophie”.

Yet none of this made sense. Sophie was dead. How could she materialize four years later at a book convention, looking like a page out of a magazine and signing autographs?

“I loved your book.” Another female admirer approached. After an autograph and short discourse, the young lady left. John followed her to a food court, where she sat down with some coffee, glancing at the autograph in the book.”

“Excuse me, ma’am. Have you read that book?

“Yes, I have.”

“Could you tell me about it? I’m considering stocking it in my store.”

“Sure. Have a seat.” She sipped her coffee. “You want the whole plot?”

“The whole plot.

“It’s about a battered wife named Samantha. Samantha attempts to leave her husband several times, but he always finds her and beats her, one time with a bottle of vodka. Samantha devises a plot. She tells her husband she’s volunteering at the shelter, while she actually takes flying lessons.”

This perked John’s attention.

“She also learns to skydive. After getting her pilot’s license, she takes the plane up, aims it toward a mountain, puts it on autopilot and parachutes to safety. The plane crashes into the mountain, exploding on impact. Samantha fakes her death and gets away from her abusive husband. It’s very compelling.”

John was stunned. Blood drained from his face.

“Thanks,” he managed to utter.

Spotting a drinking fountain, he staggered over, splashed water on his face and leaned against the wall. He grappled with the outrageous thought of Sophie deliberately crashing that plane and faking her death. But why? He was not the abusive husband portrayed in her book.

He had to know.

With adrenaline surging, he rushed back to the booth and charged up to her, ignoring the nearby couple.

“Sophie?” John blurted. His breathing was heavy, his neck wet with sweat.

At the site of John, her eyes widened and she drew in a sharp breath.
“Why did you do it?” His eyes pierced right through her.

Attempting discretion, she stepped toward him, lifted her red lips to his ear and whispered, “Follow me.”

She led him to an empty meeting room and closed the door after him. Turning around she faced him with tears in her eyes.

“What’s going on, Sophie? Am I correct in assuming that you jumped out of an airplane and faked your death to get away from me?”

“No,” Sophie lamented. “I mean yes. I mean …”

“You better start talking.”

“I did fake my death, but not to get away from you. I did it to protect you.”

“Protect me?”

“I used to be married to a brutal man. I finally got away from him, changed my name and started a new life.”

“With me.”

“You were so loving and so opposite of everything he was.” She caressed John’s face and looked into his eyes. “I love you, John.”

“Then why did you put me through hell?”

“Because he would have killed you. I saw him poking around town one day and knew he was close to finding me. He would have killed us both, John. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You could have told me.”

“But –“
John placed a finger on her lips. “Shhh … I don’t need to hear anymore right now.” He wrapped his arms around her, drew her to his chest and together they wept.

His Sophie was alive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

100 Word Story: Venomous Fumes

Hello peeps!  So last week I took part in a contest where all contestants were separated into groups, each group was given a topic word at 9:00 a.m. and given until 9:00 p.m. to write up to three 100 word stories. That’s pretty short. My word was FLIP and I had to use it exactly like that, not flipped or flipping, etc.

In between other activities, I worked on my three stories. At about 8:35 at night, I felt I had three good stories and was ready to submit them. I attempted to do so, however upon submitting, I discovered that I had made quite an error in deciphering the rules. I was not supposed to write a 100 WORD story. I was supposed to write a 100 CHARACTER story … including spaces!

What the heck?! What’s the point of THAT?! 100 characters is like … a sentence. Maybe two! Ugh!

So now I had nothing to submit an like 15 minutes if I wanted to come up with something. I was so totally stressed, especially since I couldn’t figure out how to have my Word program count the stupid characters. So I had to physically count … 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 , 6 ….. wait, I think I messed up. Start over. UGH!

I about bit poor Karissa’s head off when she peeped her head in a few minutes before my dead line. “NOT RIGHT NOW!” I roared, blood surging through my whole being as I tried to figure out a five letter word to use instead of the six I kept coming up with … and the seconds were  ticking … ticking … ticking  away.

Okay, so I finally submitted something. Pretty sure it was kind of lame and, no I’m not posting it here! (Was that at total let down or what?!) Okay,  if I actually make it into the next round, I’ll post it. 🙂 However, I WILL post one of my 100 WORD stories, cause I really liked it and can’t just let it go to waste!

Remember, my topic word was FLIP.

So, without further ado, I give you Venomous Fumes, a 100 word story by Jennifer Suchey.

…………………

Together we stared down toward the task at hand. A horrific aroma of venomous fumes permeated the confined space, seeking to devour anyone or anything trapped within.

Seeking any form of relief, I turned my face in search of even a small pocket of fresh air. None could be found.

“Where’s the coin?” My eyes watered.

“Right here.”

“Flip it already.” I coughed and fanned the air.

The coin flew into the air and seemed to spin in slow motion, finally landing on heads.

An evil smirk replaced my grimace as I plopped a diaper in his hand and fled.

The Mark of the Beast

Faithwriters.com Weekly Challenge
750 Word Max
TOPIC: The Importance of Being Earnest 

THE MARK OF THE BEAST
by Jennifer Suchey 

The door crashed into the dark room followed by several armed men converging upon the safe house.

“On the ground, face down, hands on your head!”

Jolted from slumber, two men stumbled out of their beds and onto the floor. Ryan squinted from the glare of the flashlights. Scott winced with pain at the end of a rifle smacking into his skull, while handcuffs were slapped onto his wrists.  The men were blindfolded and thrust into the back of a military vehicle, barefoot with only a t-shirt and pajama bottoms.

During the hour-long ride, the prisoners trembled in silence while listening to guards chat about some movie.

The vehicle lurched to a stop and the captives were escorted into a building, down a hall and into a cold, damp room. The handcuffs and blindfolds came off and the cell door slammed shut.

“Are you alright?” Ryan rubbed his wrists.

“Yeah, I think my head is bleeding.” Scott touched his head where the rifle had struck him.

“I think this is it, man. This is where we choose.”

“You … you mean …”

“The mark. They’re going to make us take the mark or…”

“Or kill us, right? Just say it.”

“Look, it’s not like we have much of a life here anyway. Always looking over our shoulder, trying to survive without the mark. We can’t buy food. We can’t buy … anything.”

“But dude. They’re gonna cut off our heads!”

“Does that really matter? The moment we die, we’ll be with the Father. What can be better than that? But take the mark and … “

Two armed guards appeared.

“The Magistrate is waiting.

The men were lead into a dimly lit room. They nearly gagged from the chemical odor emanating from the wet surfaces of the cement floor and walls. A man adorned in formal military attire stood erect, hands behind his back.

“Have a seat.” He gestured to the only two chairs in the otherwise empty room.

“Gentlemen, it has come to my attention that neither of you have been to a registration office to be coded. Why is this?”

Scott’s blood coursed through his body. He looked to Ryan. Ryan always knew what to do. Maybe he could get them out of this.

“Answer me!” The Magistrate struck Scott across the face.

Ryan spoke up. “We have been unable to comply.”

“Unable?” The Magistrate spoke in a calm, eerie voice. “Or unwilling?”

“Both. In choosing to be coded, we deny our Lord. In denying our Lord, we face eternal damnation.”

“And so you choose to defy the commanding order of His Supreme Imminence, Premier Ramsey. You are aware, are you not, that refusal of the code is punishable by execution?”

Ryan’s heart slammed in his chest. “Yes, sir.”

“So, you’re a Christian. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And what about you?” He peered at Scott. “Do you choose your Lord over death by beheading?”

Hot and cold flashes ripped up and down Scott’s spine. He swallowed hard.

“I  … I um …“ His head was spinning. “I don’t want to die.”

“So, you’ll be coded then, yes?”

Ryan grabbed Scott’s arm. “Scott, think about it, man? You do this and you – “

“I’ll take the code.”

“Very well then. And you, my friend?” The Magistrate scrutinized Ryan. “What do you choose?”

Ryan’s quivering body stood. He looked the Magistrate in the eye.

“I choose Jesus,” he said with earnest conviction.

“Then that is your choice. Down on your knees!” the Magistrate ordered, pointing to the ground.

Ryan complied. Tears rolled off his face. He clenched eyes and whispered, “Help me, Jesus. Be with me now.”

“Ryan, no!” Scott lunged toward him, only to be jerked back by a guard.

Ryan could hear the ringing of a sword being removed from its sheath. The Magistrate gave a nod to a guard standing behind Ryan. With swift force the guard wielded his sword into the air and swept it from one side to the other.

And then it was over.

“No!” Scott fell to the ground in gut wrenching anguish.

He was given no time to mourn his friend, however. In a whirlwind of motion, guards hoisted him and drug him into another room.

Sitting at a brightly lit table across from a woman, he was curtly asked, “Right arm or forehead?”

Dizzy with confusion, he was drenched with sweat and tears, and a spattering of blood. The blood of his friend.

At last he gave a barely audible reply.

“Forehead.”

Wobbly Stilettos and Swag

faithwriters.com Weekly Challenge
750 Word Max
TOPIC: (see at bottom after reading story!)

 

This is a story about wobbly stilettos and swag … among other things. It all began on a day like any other. I was going about my business with a pep in my step and a move in my groove. Up until the moment I finally flipped over the page on my Soar to Success Daily Flip Calendar and saw the great big 18 ogling me … laughing at me, actually.

No!

It’s 4:56 p.m. on my husband’s birthday and I completely forgot. AGAIN.

I flopped onto the couch and glared at the ceiling. Then I proceeded to flail about like a fish out of water.

Oh, he is so loving this right now. My husband actually relishes in the annual amusement of it all. Will she remember? How long will it take? I rarely do remember, of course, and then I feel like the most unworthy wretched worm of a woman ever betrothed.

Clearly he knows I didn’t remember this morning. He kissed me on the cheek and slyly left for work like any other day. But this time my Soar to Success Daily Flip Calendar ogled me. This time I had … what … forty-minutes to work up something stupendous!

And then it came to me. An idea so extraordinary it would surely redeem me from all the forgotten birthdays of yesteryear. Tommy had always said if I “really” loved him … nudge, nudge … I would sing for him. In front of other people. Like Karaoke style.

Well, a singer I am not. This he knows, of course. All the more reason this would be the perfectly unexpected display of love and devotion … a ludicrous, yet priceless gift for him. This would be the best birthday I ever forgot!

Before I could talk myself out of it, I got all gussied up. Slithering into Tommy’s favorite dress and strapping on killer stilettos, I was spritzing on my Britney Spears perfume when his truck rumbled into the driveway. Shuffling into the living room attempting not to break an ankle, I stood all seductive like with one hand stretched high against the wall and the other on my hip.

Tommy stepped in, took a gander at me, raised his eyebrows and smothered a chuckle.

Sauntering over, I grabbed his shirt and yanked him toward me. I gave him a passionate kiss, plastering red lipstick on his mouth.

“Come on, Baby Cakes. We’re goin’ out.”

*     *     *     *

I drug my blindfolded husband into the Karaoke club and plopped him down at a table. A trio of middle-aged folk were on stage shamelessly blaring out YMCA, complete with choreography.

I pulled off his blindfold. “Not one word”, I said in an effort to avert his wisecracks. “Order me something sugary, like you”, I instructed as I walked away, leaving him to deduce his whereabouts.

I sought out a songbook and perused the list. Handing my song info to the D.J., I slipped him a twenty endeavoring to bribe him into bumping me to the top of the list. Let’s get this humiliation over with.

Sitting back down with hubby, I gulped down a Shirley Temple.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for Christina Santos!”

My pulse spiked. My mouth went dry. Something was stuck in my throat. Oh yeah, my pride.

The music started as I wobbled up to the stage in my stilettos. Clutching the microphone with sweaty hands, I opened my mouth … and nothing came out.

Shouts came from the crowd, cheering me on.

Thoughts of atrocious karaoke singers, those who had paved the way, proudly belching out songs flashed through my mind.

From somewhere deep within, audacity sprang forth. My voice started to come alive. I was loud. I was confident … sort of. And I was totally off pitch.

“And I—–ee–I—— will always love yooooouuuuuuu …,“ I bellowed with the best Whitney Houston swag I could muster.

It was mortifying. It was exhilarating. And it was finally over.

I finished my song to the roar of the crowd and a handful of standing ovations. I peered at my husband, who had tears in his eyes from the gut wrenching laughter I had unleashed upon him. Speaking into the mic, I said, “Happy Birthday, Baby Cakes. That was for you.”

I ambled back, bent over and gave Tommy a kiss and then flopped down in my chair.

“Honey?” Tommy said, wiping a tear from his eye and stifling a laugh.

“Yes, Baby Cakes?”

“It’s not my birthday.”

 
TOPIC: Much Ado About Nothing

A Miracle Indeed

faithwriters.com weekly challenge / 750 Word Max

Topic: THIS SIDE OF PARADISE

 

Poland
1939

“I hate this stupid yellow star”, Halina said looking down at her brown coat. “It makes me feel like an insignificant dog.”

“Oh Halina,” Lillian replied as they walked arm in arm toward the ice cream shop. “You’re one of the smartest, most beautiful girls I know. Besides, you always liked yellow. I kind of like your star.”

“You wanna wear it, then?

“No silly. Only the smartest and prettiest girls get to wear them.”

“Prettier than you, Lillian Sadowski?” Halina nudged her best friend. “Well, you do have a way of changing the way I see things. I suppose I can pretend to like my star.”

“Wonderful! Now if I could just get you to read this – “

“Oh stop it, Lillian,” shoving away the small black Bible Lillian held out. “Accepting a yellow star is one thing, but I will never accept that your Jesus is my Messiah.”

“Won’t you even read it and see for yourself what it says?”

“I don’t have to. My Messiah has not yet come. Reading that book won’t change anything.”

Lillian sighed. After her third failed attempt at getting her friend to take the Bible, she decided to employ another approach. Distracting Halina with discourse, she slipped the Bible into her friend’s coat pocket, praying curiosity would drive Halina to it.

Upon approach to the ice cream shop, Lillian reached for the door, but was jerked back by Halina, who pointed solemnly toward the sign.

NO JEWS!

Before Lillian could say a word, Halina tore away from her and ran toward home.

“Halina!”

Lillian darted after her, finally catching up when Halina slowed to collect her breath. Lillian didn’t say a word. She just grabbed her friend’s hand and walked with her.

Things were about to get worse, however. Much worse.

Rounding the corner to Halina’s house, they came upon a dreadful scene. Rifle bearing SS soldiers were spewing commands and corralling people into the back of a large truck.  Halina looked on in horror as she realized her family was among the people being herded like cattle … Mama, Papa and her brother, Stefan.

“Papa!” Halina screamed, letting go of her friend and surging toward him.

Slamming headlong into the arms of a soldier, the blunt end of a rifle escorted her into the line of Jews being forced onto the truck.

Completely powerless, Lillian stood frozen, tears streaming down her face.

The truck lunged forward. Halina’s eyes blazed with fear as she stretched out her hand toward Lillian. Lillian reached back with gut wrenching agony while the movable cage hauled her best friend away.

*    *    *    *

Chicago
1963

Strolling down Milwaukee Avenue, Lillian’s mind raced. Scanning her shopping list … a prescription for her husband, birthday present for their youngest son, ingredients for polish galumpkis and potato pancakes, and  –

“Lillian? … Lillian Sadowski?”

Jarred from her thoughts, Lillian looked up to find a woman with a large scar on her face. She was staring at Lillian with wide-eyed anticipation. Lillian’s mouth dropped open and her heart skipped a beat.

“Halina? Oh my goodness, is it really you?”

They reached for each other and clung tightly, having both dreamt of this moment for twenty-four years.

“I can’t believe it’s you!” Lillian said, as she pulled back grabbing both her friend’s hands, her mind flooding with questions. “I thought you were dead. I tried to find out where you, but nobody would tell me anything.“

“After the ghetto, they deported us to Auschwitz.”

“Auschwitz?” Lillian’s hand went to her chest. “But you survived … and your family?”

Halina’s face turned somber. She shook her head.

“Oh, my dear Halina. What a dreadful experience you must have had.” Lillian gently touched the scar on Halina’s face. “How did you endure?”

Halina’s eyes lit up.

“I found the Bible.”

Lillian grinned.

“I discovered it in the ghetto and only by a miracle did that Bible make it into Auschwitz. It kept me going through unspeakable horrors. Jesus revealed himself to me, Lillian. He is my Messiah!

Lillian squealed with delight and hugged her friend again.

“You found Jesus! Oh, how I prayed for you. It’s so good to know He was with you through all of your trials.”

“I never thought I’d see you again this side of paradise, Lillian. Yet there you were, walking right toward me on Milwaukee Avenue … It’s a miracle!”

“A miracle indeed.”

The two friends began walking arm in arm.

Lillian snickered. “You want some ice cream?”

 

 

 

 

 

The Mysterious Silver-Haired Woman

I have revised my story, The Silver-Haired Woman, which is now titled The Mysterious Silver-Haired Woman, and have “officially” submitted it to the Wordstock Short Story Contest. Whew! I did it! 🙂  I got a wonderfully elaborate critique from an advanced writer on faithwriters.com, James Brown. He loves my story and even called it a “gem”. Ooo!  And then he gave me a lot of input on how to make it even better. I believe there is more I could have done to improve it, but I have run out of time.

Melanie Hedd was the only person who said the ending was predictable … darn you Mel! … but in an effort to surprise all of the Melanie’s of the world, I made some changes that will hopefully help with that.

So if you are interested, scroll down and read the final draft of The Mysterious Silver-Haired Woman.

I’ll post the contest results when I find out, of course.

But for now, I’m off to my anniversary vacation.

HAPPY 20TH ANNIVERSARY TO ALEX AND JEN!!!

Angels Are Watching

faithwriters.com weekly challenge. Topic: War and Peace

It was almost midnight as David drove down Freemont Boulevard. He hoped the transmission on his ’85 sedan wouldn’t fail him as he headed straight into the heart of gang territory on the opposite side of town.

“God, I sure hope I’m hearing you correctly. Please guide me, because I really don’t know what the heck I’m doing.”

David had been getting ready for bed an hour earlier when he felt a strong sense that he was to drive to the east side of town. There was an urgency in the otherwise familiar voice of the Holy Spirit.

Get in your car and drive.

*     *     *     *

A little after midnight Annette was awakened from her sleep with a pressing need to pray.

“What about, Lord?”

A vision came to her. She saw David driving his car. Above him, there was an angel … a very large, very strong angel hovering protectively over the car.

“Guard him, Father”. Annette interceded on David’s behalf for the next hour.

*     *     *     *

Blood rushed through David’s body.

“Lord, show me the way”. 

Turn right.

“Okay, Lord. Turning right.”

Graffiti laden buildings lined the street. A bar about a quarter mile down the road on the right caught David’s eye. He slowed down. As he rolled closer, he saw three guys coming out of the building with a blond girl, who was clearly struggling with them. They shoved her into an SUV and sped away.

David hit the gas and followed. His heart, which had already been pounding, now wanted to explode out of his chest.

“God, what am I doing? I’m only one man!”

Drive.

“Yes, Lord. You know I’m scared out of my mind, though, right?”

Steadily, pieces of scripture poured in.

Though we live in the world, we do not wage war as the world does. 

Our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers … authorities … powers of this dark world … and the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.

Do not be anxious …  present your requests to God … the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

David meditated on these verses as he followed the van. A handful of turns lead them into a run down neighborhood before David realized his heart was no longer pounding. There was an unexplainable peace … a peace, which truly does transcend all understanding.

The van slowed and parked in front of a house on the left. David came to a stop across the street, having no clue what he was going to do next. He simply trusted God and kept praying.

“I come against the powers of darkness in the name of Jesus.”

*     *     *     *

The moment David parked, the angel above his car flew in a swift assault toward two demons, which were just coming out of the van with the three men and the girl.

The angel expanded his huge wingspan and hurled into both of the demons at once, sending them tumbling backward on top of the van. They were completely stunned and unprepared for this assault. As they attempted to pick themselves up and fight back, the angel came at them again with another blow, this time sending them flailing onto the ground. The angel had struck them with such powerful force that they knew this was not a battle they could win. It was obvious that Christians were praying, which meant the demons had no choice but to flee.

*     *     *     *

The only weapon David could find was the baseball bat in his backseat.

David, when you are weak, I am strong.

Shaking his head at what he was about to do, he grabbed the bat and marched toward the men as they exited the van with the girl.

“Let her go!” he yelled.

“You’re kidding me, right?” one of the men scoffed, pulling out his knife. “What are you gonna do? Take us out with your bat? Mind your own business, freak!”

“I said, let her go!” David said with authority. He proceeded to swing the bat right at the man’s head with unbelievable strength, knocking him to the ground and rendering him unconscious. Completely shocked, David stared at his victim not even realizing the other two guys had run off. David looked up and saw the girl standing there alone, arms crossed in front of her, shaking. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around her.

“You’re okay, Sweetie. You’ve got angels watching over you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daddy’s Shoulder’s

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     Natalie couldn’t believe this was happening. For thirteen years she had wondered where her dad was, “who” her dad was, and why he had left. Her mom never wanted to talk about it and only said he wasn’t worth thinking about. All Natalie knew about her dad was that his name was Robert Miller, he had gotten into trouble with the law and left when she was four years old.

     “He’s probably in prison where he belongs,” her mother had said. “It doesn’t really matter, Natty. You don’t need someone in your life who doesn’t love you.”

     But it did matter. Natalie tried to ignore the hole that seemed to grow deeper and deeper inside of her, but couldn’t let go of the thoughts she had about him. Why didn’t he love me? What did I do? She longed to be loved by him, and yet she hated him.

     Yesterday there was a knock at the door and she found herself face to face with a man claiming to be her dad. Her deepest longing was mixed with conflicting feelings of pain and anger. Only it wasn’t true. It wasn’t her dad. It couldn’t be. And if somehow that man actually was her father, he was a liar and even more horrible than her mother had painted him to be!

     “I know this is hard for you to hear,” he had said, “but your mother has been lying to you. My name isn’t Robert Miller. It’s Jim Buchanan. Your name is Elizabeth and you were born in Chicago at Children’s Memorial Hospital. Your mother and I had a lot of problems. She would get violently angry with me over the smallest thing. You and I had a special bond and I was very worried about you living in that environment. She was afraid of losing you to me, so she took you and left. She changed your name and moved here to Oregon. You have to believe that I am telling you the truth. I didn’t leave you. She took you away from me and I have been looking for you ever since.”

     No! Natalie did NOT have to believe him and she refused to. She finally convinced him to leave, but before he did he gave her a piece of paper with his “real” name and contact information. The moment he left she tore it up and flushed it down the toilet.

     She hardly slept that night. The next morning she called her best friend, Olivia, and told her everything.

     “Can you even believe it? Either he’s some strange lunatic claiming to be my father, or he IS my father, but a total liar! What am I supposed to believe?”

     “Natalie,” Olivia said hesitantly.

     “What?”

     “Do you remember that movie we watched about the missing girl? Remember the photo they put up of that real live missing girl?” Natalie’s face went pale.

     “Oh my gosh.”

     They had laughed about how much the picture looked like Natalie and joked about her being abducted.

     “Her name was Elizabeth. I remember because it’s the same as my cousin. And her last name started with a B. Buckner or …..

     “Buchanan”, said Natalie.

     “That’s it! Buchanan!”

     Natalie grabbed the keys and rushed to the hotel the man had said he was staying at. Why didn’t she realize it before?! Her mom was the liar, not him. What if he’s gone when she gets there? She had made it clear she didn’t want anything to do with him and she had flushed his contact information down the toilet. She may never see him again!

     Anxiously, she walked up to the counter in the hotel lobby.

     “It looks like he checked out this morning.”

     What? No! This couldn’t be happening. She had finally found her dad, or rather he had found her, and she had blown it!

     She walked across the lobby in a daze and sank down into a leather chair.

     “Beth?” she heard from a strangely familiar voice. “I mean, Natalie?”

     She looked up and there he was. She flung herself into his arms and cried.

     “I thought you had left. They said you checked out.”

     “I would never leave you. I rented a house in town. I came back to get the picture I left in the room. I take it with me everywhere.”

     She looked at the photo frame he held in his hands. It was a picture of her as a little girl sitting on her daddy’s shoulders.