Sneak Peek: The Watchman

Last but not least in the Anthology is The Watchman, inspired by Ezekiel 33. It's been a fun ride for me; I hope you've enjoyed these little previews as well. As I mentioned, this one makes the turn toward fantasy; so don't be thrown by the weird names all of the sudden.

THE WATCHMAN

The only life saved by retreating would be his own.

Sneak Peek: The Butterfly in Brazil

Today's story has a bit more complex inspiration. Tom Clancy's Hunt for Red October contains a scene wherein a Russian mail-clerk delays an important letter from the captain of the titular submarine to one of his superiors. Clancy spent a good deal of time on this very incidental character, all for the purpose of showing the letter was delayed. I wondered: "Would it be possible to write a story from the point of view of everyone around the main character?" Well, I don't think a novel would work, but a short story seems to. See if you agree.

THE BUTTERFLY IN BRAZIL

Chaos theory says a butterfly may flap its wings and cause a hurricane across the world. I wonder if the butterfly ever knows that.

Sneak Peek: Casualties of Wars

Good Monday! Continuing the series of Sneak Peeks for my anthology now at a new price of only $0.99. This excerpt is from Casualties of Wars, story #5 in the anthology, and looks at those who suffer a different kind of wounding. The inspiration for this one was a little more odd: a song by Natalie Walker called "Empty Road." I began imagining 'hearing the sounds of an empty road' and why someone would be doing it, and eventually this popped out. I hope you enjoy it.

CASUALTIES OF WARS

Sacrificing your life does not always mean dying.

I sat alone in the window seat, in the chill air trapped between the glass and the drapes as I gazed toward the quiet road in front of the house. The sounds of the family of ten, of which I was the eldest, were beginning to die down, warm cider and cheese calming toddlers eager for the arrival of St. Nick. My mother was herding the last few, shushing them and ordering them to their beds, when she caught sight of me.

“Jane, shouldn’t you be in bed?” she asked.

I didn’t turn immediately. “Am I a child?” I asked quietly.

There was only silence, and I pulled the drapes aside to look at her. Mother took a few creaking steps toward me, wiping her hands on her apron. “Which means you should be leading the example, Jane.”

 “I just want to wait…John wrote that he might make it tonight. I just thought…”

I knew that my eyes – always shutter-less windows – emanated the quiet and too-frequent fear that clogged my throat and parched my tongue. My mother’s eyes, like tarnished mirrors, faintly reflected back that worry, stirred also with drops of concern for me which occasionally pooled in the corners. We shared the gaze, frozen as the fire cracked, for several moments before she turned and left. It may have been a nod she parted with, or the acceptance she conveyed only made me perceive it. I turned back to the chill window, drawing up my legs and settling bare feet against prickling-cold wood. I remembered John’s letter of companies marching without shoes; I prayed his march back home this December would not be as cold as the pins that pricked my soles.

Snow was falling lightly, the flakes ticking against the window pane, faintly above the cracking and popping of the fire in the hearth. It was a night for tea and buttered biscuits, not for being away from home. Yet he was out there, somewhere. It’s funny how it happens; a year or two ago neither of us heard much of King George, except the rare occasions when I was allowed to go to town and I would hear when his name was appended to “Long Live…!” Those calls seemed gradually less frequent, certainly, and garnered more and more angry looks, and fewer and fewer mugs raised in agreement. But father seemed hesitant to treat me as an adult even then, which went fine until mother and I were the oldest family members still at home. I suppose my brother Nathan was doing alright, but he was too young to replace such a man as father.

I set my feet back on the floor to try to rid them of the chill, but the warmth of the fire reached barely farther than its glow. My legs cast wavering shadows against the soft brown paneling below the window. I paused to gaze at it, remembering the shadows John and I learned to cast against that very spot as children, long before amorous thoughts entered our minds…

The snow was falling thickly outside, promising a pillowy blanket by morning. A carriage with swinging lanterns on its roof went slowly by outside, travelers coming late from a to-do somewhere nearer town. Though a full moon struggled to pierce the clouds, it was enough to see a dark-complexioned face below the tall hat of the driver whose head bent into the light wind. I could not see it without remembering John – but then, he never truly left my mind.

He had always kept a clearer eye on events in the world. I knew several of our neighbors who had Negro servants, and that seemed fine; but John always told me that trouble was coming, down south. Sometimes it troubled me, how much he had changed; as the snow slackened for a moment, I remembered a night just like this barely seven years ago. I had been upstairs, attempting to sleep, when something came tap! against my window. I blinked and rolled over, and it came again. I got up and went to the window; there was John in our yard below, digging through the snow to find another pebble. He cocked his arm back before he saw me, flashing me a grin as the stone fell from his hand. I raised the window as quietly as I could.

“Want to go sledding on Blind Man’s Hill?” he whispered loudly, gesturing to the sled behind him.


As always, if you want to keep reading, head over here to pick up the full copy. Next up: "The Butterfly in Brazil", the story of one man whose self-absorbed actions ripple outward to everyone he sees, and a few he doesn't see. See you then!

Sneak Peek: No One Heard Her

Sneak Peek Part III: No One Heard Her. This story was inspired by (and answers the question of) the Casting Crowns' song: "Does Anybody Hear Her?" I hope you enjoy it.

NO ONE HEARD HER

The dead tell no tales only because we close our ears to their cries.

Sneak Peek: Not in the Whirlwind

Sneak Peek Part II: Not in the Whirlwind. I wrote this for Creative Writing class, taking a bit of inspiration from my alma mater (the college setting is identical, I've excerpted one of the lectures I've heard, and his professor is a modification of one of my professor's names). I hope you enjoy it.

NOT IN THE WHIRLWIND

If a tree falls down on your room and you’re not there to hear it, does it still affect your life?

Sneak Peek

Hey all, we both know I've been gone a long time. Rather than use this post to catch up on everything that's happened, let's just continue and we'll pick things up as we go (hint: I was working a lot). So what's in the Sneak Peek? My anthology, If They Keep Silent.

Rhetoric: The Small Stuff

I’m starting a two-part series with this post – two part; so, blink and you might miss it. But I want to talk to you about rhetoric – you know, that stuff you hear on the news all the time that’s keeping politicians from actually getting anything done? Fortunately, I’m kidding: today’s political rhetoric is about as juvenile as college humor compared to what it actually means. It is, technically, using words to convince the listener of the rightness of the speaker. In its highest form, though, it’s supposed to convince the opposition of the rightness of the speaker – not convince those who already agree, like political rhetoric tends to do.