Saturday, August 9, 2014

My Short Story, Part 1

I am going to post a short story I wrote, scene by scene. While there are truths woven in it from my own life experience, it is fiction. It got an honorable mention in a recent contest...was hoping for more, but that is how this writing journey has been...lots of 2nd, 3rd, and 4th best.


I may have doubted God. Maybe I did. I was the one who saw the blood. I was the one who carried the lifeless babe. Truth and horror pressed in on me at a crossroads, promising a tempest greater than I'd ever imagined. Though, I chose the path to the King, leaving behind the fairytale of a happily ever after on my terms.
It was His ever after that would bring the most joy anyway.
Steve and I had tried to process the ever after as we sat in his truck the morning when more than one dream had died.
“What did the doctor say?” he spoke with a sympathetic hush.
My words were trapped by a net of agony. Heavy and unbearable. I shook my head and squeezed my eyes to fortify the flood.
“Oh. I am so sorry, Lisa.” His voice cracked just as big globs of rain plopped on the windshield. I leaned into his body, cradling my torso and the flitting life within it.
Over those days and months, I cried to God and clung to knowing that He is a God Who Sees. It was He who watched as I mourned the loss. Within me, He gathered my spirit from every corner, every crevice, and pulled it toward my heart. In that quiet huddle, it was He who whispered,
“Comfort and peace, my love.”
Yet, Steve did not cope well. And it wasn't long after that, when he spoke the venom my soul could hardly bear, dousing the match and striking it to set of a wild fire on whatever remained of my dreams.
“He ain't real.” He flung the Bible across the room. “What God would allow for that baby to die? We are good people, Lisa. And we trusted Him. He ain't worth it.”
It's often that the flowers in my windowsill fade to a deadly brown. Yet with some care, their color returns and life is okay. Steve's deadly brown caused no fear in me at first. Mourning tempts us to ludicrous bouts. But my love was not enough. God's heart was hidden by Steve's scales which grew from his grief. Soon, he crumpled to a brittle soul with no scent of God to promise life.

 His soul was dust.  

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