***Coming Soon***
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Harvest of Gold by Tessa Afshar
***Coming Soon***
Sunday, July 14, 2013
In Golden Splendor by Michael Reynolds
Wilderness of the Southern Rocky Mountain Range September 1849
His sunken face windburned and forested by an icicle-encrusted mustache and beard, Seamus Hanley exhaled a steamy billow through his cracked lips into the frosty mountain air. Then the Irishman held his breath and lowered his rusted Brown Bess musket, his hands numbed by the frigidness breaching his torn and frayed bearskin gauntlets.
The pain of hunger in his stomach had long subsided, and now only the trembling of his grip and weariness of his soul impressed upon him the urgency of this unpleasant task.
He closed one of his lake-blue eyes, the last remnant of the promise of his youth, and sighted the muzzle of the weapon at the unsuspecting, rummaging elk.
Even at a distance, the ribs of the great beast showed through its patchy and scarred chestnut fur. Through the barrel’s eye, Seamus tracked the young bull as it limped its way over to an aspen tree. The elk raised its head, crowned in mockery by horns uneven and fractured.
Did it catch his scent?
Then the animal relaxed, bared its teeth, and tugged on a low-lying branch, releasing a powdery mist of fresh snowfall and uncovering autumnal leaves of maroon, amber, and burnt orange. Brilliant watercolor splashes on a white canvas.
In the deadly stillness of a finger poised on a trigger, Seamus shared a kinship of loneliness and futility with his prey, whose ear flapped and jaw bulged as it chewed.
This wasn’t the way it should be. For both were trailing the herd at this time of season.
This was when both mountain men and wildlife should be well fattened by summer’s gracious hands. For the fall offered only last provisions, the final stones in the fortress. Because, like shadows in the distant horizon, the bitter enemies of winter were approaching.
Seamus tried to steady his focus as the wind shrilled. “It’s me or you, my friend.”
The frizzen was closed, the powder set, and his very last musket ball was loaded. This would be his only shot.
For it had been another disappointing trade season amidst the dwindling market of beaver, otter, and marmot pelts. The fashion shifts in faraway places like New York and Europe were flushing out trappers like Seamus throughout the Western out- lands of this sprouting nation.
But he expected as much. Seamus’s past was rife with disappointing harvests.
With a pang of regret, his numb finger squeezed ever so gently and spark and flame breached the touchhole, igniting the gunpowder and sending a lead ball, laced with hope and desperation, through the icy air. Sounds, though dampened by the snow, ricocheted through the woods.
The creature leapt into the air, thighs and legs flailing in a moment of frenzy. Then it gathered itself, turned, and bobbed its white tail up through the embankment into the sheltering embrace of the frozen forest.
A flash here. A speck of brown again. Then it was gone.
And Seamus was alone. Completely alone.
Seamus lumbered over to a tree stump mushroomed by snow, and with the back of his glove he gave it a firm sweep to dust it clean before sitting down on the iced, jagged surface.
“Arrgh!” He flung his musket in the air, watching it spiral before being enveloped into a bank of snow. Then he lowered his face into his moist, fur-covered hands and sobbed.
No one would see him cry. No one ever did. Here, in the high country, emotions were shielded by solitude.
Though just two years had passed, it seemed forever ago when he chose self-exile. When he tried to hide from the memories.
Seamus could barely recall the laughter of his youth and his passion for whimsy. Growing up in the green-rich fields of Ireland, he would feast off the sparkle of cheer that echoed through the farmlands of his people back home.
But that was many tragedies ago. Now that all looked like someone else’s life.
He dwelled in the blackness of despair for a while, but even- tually the chilling lashes of the winds pried him from the depths of his misery. Survival still lorded over the emptiness.
Seamus retrieved his musket from its snowy grave. It was useless without ammunition, but he couldn’t part with one of his only friends.
With slumping shoulders, he headed home. Home. His misshapen cabin in the hollow of the woods. Despite his best efforts to acclimate to the wilderness, he was still merely trespassing. And where was home when your spirit wandered?
Yet there was a more pressing question. Would he even make it back to the cabin? The moment the hobbled elk escaped, it became Seamus who was hunted. He had risked the chase and strayed far. Now his hunger grew fangs and eyed its prey.
The weariness. The throbbing of his temples.
Every step mattered.
Seamus popped the top of his canteen, lifted it, and poured water down his dry, aching throat. Then he surveyed this unfamiliar terrain.
He rarely traversed this patch of backcountry and for good reason. Civilization had encroached following the opening of a United States Army outpost not far away. It intersected with the Oregon Trail, the main pathway for travelers to the West, who of late were drawn in droves to the resonating whispers of gold in California.
The army fort was tasked to free the flow of commerce from the growing hindrance of the Indian population. Seamus had no quarrels with the brown-skinned natives of this territory. In fact, he coveted their ability to thrive in this cruel environment, which had buckled him to his knees.
But he was terrified of the American soldiers.
At the thought, he reached up to the scar on his left cheek, hidden beneath his scraggly facial hair. The image haunted of that branding iron growing in size as it was pressed down on him, the burning flesh both his punishment and permanent
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Grounded by Neta and Dave Jackson
The last note of her signature song hung in the cavernous space like the echo of a songbird . . . and Grace Meredith knew she’d “stuck it.” Like those agile Olympic gym- nasts on their flying dismounts from the uneven bars or balance beam. The final moment, a breathless hush . . . and then beyond the lights, applause thundering from the front-row seats clear up to the balcony.
In spite of the sore throat she’d been battling all week.
“Thank you,” she called out over the applause. “Thank you so much. I love you! God loves you! And remember, you’re worth the wait!”
With a smile, a wave, and a few kisses thrown to her excited fans, Grace backed off the stage of the huge Nashville auditorium, her royal-blue chiffon dress fluttering after her until the heavy, red stage curtains hid the audience from sight.
“Grace! That was awesome! They love ‘You Are Special to Me.’” A young African American woman, clipboard and water bottle in hand, was the first to meet her backstage. “Here’s your water . . . Do you want to go back to your dressing room before the meet and greet? . . . You should rest first . . . Here, this way.”
Grace nodded, grateful for her assistant’s firm grip on her elbow as they threaded their way over electrical cords, around ladders and props, and down the stairs to the dressing rooms. “Thanks, Sam,” she breathed, sinking into the padded lounge chair. “I just need a few minutes.” Hopefully, merchandise sales in the lobby were going well. It was going to be tight meeting all the expenses from this New
Year, New You tour—her first independent tour—but sales of her new CD always seemed to skyrocket after that last song.
Sam poured a cup of hot tea from a thermos into a mug and handed it to her. Grace had been drinking honey-lemon tea and sucking Slippery Elm Lozenges like an addict just to keep her throat from giving out. She sipped the hot, sweet liquid, sighed, and closed her eyes.
Behind closed lids, she heard Sam—Samantha Curtis, five years her junior, recent graduate of Fisk University’s music program, and Grace’s personal assistant for the past three tours—answer a knock and send whoever it was away. Thank God for Sam. The adrenaline rush of the concert was quickly seeping out the bottom of her feet. If she stayed in the lounge chair much longer, she’d lose whatever energy she had left. But she couldn’t stop yet. The meet and greet was important. She’d promised to be there . . .
Swinging her feet off the lounge chair, Grace sat up. “Uhhh, let’s do it. Spritz me up, will you?”
Samantha frowned. “You don’t need to rush. They can wait another five minutes . . . okay, okay.” Grumbling under her breath, her assistant grabbed a hairbrush, gave Grace’s long dark hair a quick brushing, and spritzed it with a styling gel. “Just one more sec,” she murmured, freshening Grace’s cheeks with a flick of pow- dered blush. “Okay, you’re good to go.”
Grace caught a glimpse of the two of them in the dressing room mirror as Sam ushered her out the door and smiled at the contrasts. Her own pale face and amber eyes, perked up with artfully applied eyeliner and peachy makeup, were framed by layered lengths of rich brunette hair creating a casual shag that hung past her shoulders. Samantha had honey-brown skin, large dark eyes, and tiny black twists all over her head. She looked “cute as a button,” as Grace’s mother would say.
But looks weren’t the only differences between them. Samantha had the more outgoing personality, the chutzpah Grace wished she could muster in everyday life. Only when she walked onto the stage did Grace feel the certainty, the boldness, that enabled her to “sing her guts out”—as one reviewer had described her performance— and speak confidently to her thousands of young fans about the virtues of waiting till marriage for physical intimacy.
She was at home on the stage—and at the meet and greet time she always scheduled afterward. Like now, as twenty randomly selected fans gathered in a lounge to meet their favorite contempo- rary Christian music artist. Grace took time to speak to each one, asking about school or friends or favorite activities. And answering the inevitable question asked by her female fans, usually accompanied by self-conscious giggles: “Miss Grace, do you have a picture of your fiancé?” To which she happily showed a little “brag book” of photos of Roger Baldwin, the love of her life, including pictures of the two of them, laughing, holding hands—one of which also included Oreo, her black-and-white cat, cuddled in her arms. Prodded by starry-eyed teenagers, she would then make a show of modeling the silver princess-cut diamond engagement ring with tiny rubies Roger had slipped on her finger the previous year.
“I love your song!” . . . “Can my friend take our picture?” . . . “Are you going to sing at your own wedding?” Grace laughed at the fun questions, ready with easy banter.
But sometimes the comments got personal. “I want to be just like you,” one teary girl whispered. “I’m going to wait to have sex until I get married too. Thank you.”
Grace cleared her throat. That “just like you” thing always made her uncomfortable. She opened her mouth to say, “Oh, sweet- heart, don’t be like anybody else, just be yourself ”—but the girl had already scurried away. Grace swallowed the words and turned to the next fan eagerly waving a CD for her to sign.
As the room emptied, Grace realized just how tired she was. It had been a particularly grueling tour—nearly four weeks through six southern states. Many of the concerts had been scheduled back to back, which meant traveling at night in a chartered tour bus with her small band of dedicated musicians, singing to packed houses four or five times a week—and that wasn’t counting the Sunday morning performances in various churches. Touring had always been exhausting, but without the support of a record label, she was doing twice the work, and feeling every bit of it at the end of the day.
Hopefully the band had already broken down the set and was loading the tour bus so they could get on the road soon. They were heading for Memphis tonight, where she and Sam would be able to stay in a hotel. Just two more concerts left in her New Year, New You January tour, and then home to Chicago for a much-needed break.
And to see Roger. She could hardly wait.
Half an hour later, Grace collapsed on the queen-size bed in the private compartment at the back of the tour bus and took out her cell phone. Roger usually waited up for her call, though sometimes it went to voice mail and she had to wait till the next day for his return call. Like last night. There’d been no answer, and she hadn’t heard from him today either. He must’ve had a busy day at work . . . though she wasn’t sure why a financial consultant with a prestigious Chicago firm couldn’t find ten minutes to return her call.
She tried to ignore the laughter and joking going on in the rest of the tour bus as the phone rang in her ear. The band was letting off some steam. They’d settle down as soon as the bus got on the highway—
“Hey there, Grace.” Roger!
“Hi, honey! I’m so glad I got you tonight. Missed you last night.” “I know. Sorry about that. I had some international calls . . .” Yeah, yeah. She knew the song and dance. It had to do with time
differences in China and India and the Middle East or somewhere else on the other side of the world.
“I was hoping you’d return my call today.” The moment she said it, Grace wished she could take it back. She didn’t want to sound like a nag.
“Figured you’d be busy getting ready for tonight’s concert, and I had back-to-back meetings today.” He sounded matter-of-fact. “So how’d tonight’s concert go? This was Nashville, right?”
Her tone softened as she told him about the wonderful audi- torium the sponsoring churches had rented. “Some of the great Opryland stars have sung there,” she said with a laugh. “I thought that would make me nervous, but it . . . I don’t know, it inspired me. One of my best concerts, I think.”
No response. “Roger? Are you still there?”
“Yes . . . sorry. Uh, that’s great. Glad it was a good one.”
Was she talking to the wall? Guess you had to be there. Which gave her an idea . . .
“Roger? I’d really like you to hear one of my concerts from this tour. I think it’s my best tour yet—which is saying something, since it’s the first one I’ve done on my own. Is there any chance you could fly to Memphis for the final concert on Saturday? I know it’s short notice, but it’s the weekend. If you came, we could fly back to Chicago together on Sunday. Memphis is Sam’s hometown—she’d probably love the chance to stay a few extra days once the tour is done. It’d be just us—”
Beeping in her ear cut her off.
“Grace? Grace, I’m sorry. I’m getting a call from Beijing. I need to take it. Uh, look, we’ll talk tomorrow night, okay? Sorry, darling, gotta go.”
The line went dead. Grace held the phone out in front of her and just stared at it. Argh. Good thing she was going home this weekend. She and Roger needed some real time together, not these frustrating long-distance calls.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Widow of Gettysburg by Jocelyn Green
***Coming Soon****
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