tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84414544374358455682024-03-05T02:37:48.504-05:00......................................All FIRST AlliancesM. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-63578005722885710012008-12-17T00:05:00.000-05:002008-12-17T19:11:45.591-05:00The Sword and the Flute (Matterhorn the Brave Series #1) by Mike Hamel<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s1600-h/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg"><a href="http://teenfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178594274707613778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s200/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg" border="0" /></a></a><br />It's the 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour! This is the very last Teen FIRST tour as Teen FIRST has merged with FIRST Wild Card Tours. If you wish to learn more about FIRST Wild Card, please go <a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">HERE</a>.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.matterhornthebrave.com/">Mike Hamel</a></font></strong><br /><p></p><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="160"><font color="#009900" size="4"></font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"><font size="2"><font color="#009900">and his book:</font> </font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"></strong></div></font><p></p><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="7"><font size="3"></font></strong></div></font><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0899578330/">The Sword and the Flute (Matterhorn the Brave Series #1) </a></font></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Amg Publishers (January 22, 2007) </p><br /><p align="center"></p><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><font color="#ff6600"></font></font></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><p></p><font color="#ff6600">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</font> </font></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLDYARwHLQVxFSos6al_spUHto3cKihx4d8esosH6OEUaeqCFKHJfHZLq-lvI1PEOFcDRtuTAY6Pwlj_za4D5wXOKq8We12NHLXFp3Y3JAdrZKwThK8tYeQYCZDntVuGeRUEZuFdH2d08/s1600-h/Mike+and+Susan"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLDYARwHLQVxFSos6al_spUHto3cKihx4d8esosH6OEUaeqCFKHJfHZLq-lvI1PEOFcDRtuTAY6Pwlj_za4D5wXOKq8We12NHLXFp3Y3JAdrZKwThK8tYeQYCZDntVuGeRUEZuFdH2d08/s200/Mike+and+Susan" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280575406705509282" /></a>Mike Hamel is a seasoned storyteller who has honed his skill over theyears by telling tall tales to his four children. He is the author of several non-fiction books and numerous magazine articles. <br /><br /> Mike and his wife, Susan, live in Colorado Springs, CO. Their four children are now grown and their two grand children will soon be old enough for stories of their own.<br /><br />From His Blog's About Me:<br /><br /><blockquote>I am a professional writer with sixteen books to my credit, including a trilogy of titles dealing with faith and business: The Entrepreneur’s Creed (Broadman, 2001), Executive Influence (NavPress, 2003), and Giving Back (NavPress, 2003). I also edited Serving Two Masters: Reflections on God and Profit, by Bill Pollard (Collins, 2006). <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-t-FW77lW64xRSUluWjtYX8uBiWOZhLIUUrIP8GeNlFK9dp139dAzaIO2V5J_qrr0n53D4vR-PJDawvYPaD-OgS3YsvUYHQH1QBd9x1km9MoVVKzO2nV3WfAnmjL0UBpreHFzrImg-vA/s1600-h/series"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 72px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-t-FW77lW64xRSUluWjtYX8uBiWOZhLIUUrIP8GeNlFK9dp139dAzaIO2V5J_qrr0n53D4vR-PJDawvYPaD-OgS3YsvUYHQH1QBd9x1km9MoVVKzO2nV3WfAnmjL0UBpreHFzrImg-vA/s400/series" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280576950518727714" /></a><br />My most enjoyable project to date has been an eight-volume juvenile fiction series called <a href="http://www.matterhornthebrave.com/index.html">Matterhorn the Brave</a>. It’s based on variegated yarns I used to spin for my four children. They are now grown and my two grandchildren will soon be old enough for stories of their own.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXcRvVxe8UD0xnZ9EoqMk_x2COHhT-0bCoWTlO2Hfh0mNExBH-8-0Mau4Pg8dVR6CIfo973qGOrwbMu57Ejy5SKccsbwm8pQSU0XeNmMhkgoSHxzMAS9bcHbodU36Ek5JlOOxgdP8YD44/s1600-h/Mike+and+Susan2"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXcRvVxe8UD0xnZ9EoqMk_x2COHhT-0bCoWTlO2Hfh0mNExBH-8-0Mau4Pg8dVR6CIfo973qGOrwbMu57Ejy5SKccsbwm8pQSU0XeNmMhkgoSHxzMAS9bcHbodU36Ek5JlOOxgdP8YD44/s200/Mike+and+Susan2" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280576442704620722" /></a><br />I live in Colorado Springs, Colorado with my bride of 34 years, Susan.<br /><br />As you read this blog, remember that I’m a professional. Don’t try this level of writing at home. You might suffer a dangling participle or accidentally split an infinitive and the grammarians will be all over you like shoe salesmen on a centipede.<br /><br />BTW – I have been diagnosed with Diffuse Large B-Cell Lymphoma, an aggressive but treatable form of cancer.</blockquote><br /><br />Mike's Blog, <a href="http://mikehamel.wordpress.com/">Cells Behaving Badly</a>, is an online diary about Wrestling with Lymphoma Cancer.<br /><br />To order a signed edition of any of the 6 Matterhorn the Brave books, please visit the <a href="http://www.matterhornthebrave.com/">Matterhorn the Brave Website</a>!<br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: 9.99 <br />Reading level: Ages 9-12<br />Paperback: 181 pages <br />Publisher: Amg Publishers (January 22, 2007) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0899578330 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0899578330 <br /><br /><br /><font color="#ffcc00"><strong><font size="5">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</font> </strong><br /></font><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTr3QC3eVJiAALNV7fmaOXYgP7nR7cd_7LjlQ3izzvshOQk6WmdrjtLX_sDKSLgnsfllfGuzKUFP4gEhy5Q6QR29XduCO2FJbPVWa8-pPN2VwPxKTyVWCMvAlnYEy2U9Df4q-X1GcwWYc/s1600-h/the+sword+and+the+flute"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTr3QC3eVJiAALNV7fmaOXYgP7nR7cd_7LjlQ3izzvshOQk6WmdrjtLX_sDKSLgnsfllfGuzKUFP4gEhy5Q6QR29XduCO2FJbPVWa8-pPN2VwPxKTyVWCMvAlnYEy2U9Df4q-X1GcwWYc/s200/the+sword+and+the+flute" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280574677773902610" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;">Emerald Isle <br /><br /><br />Aaron the Baron hit the ground like a paratrooper, bending his knees, keeping his balance. <br /><br /> Matterhorn landed like a 210-pound sack of dirt. <br /><br /> His stomach arrived a few seconds later.<br /><br /> He straightened his six-foot-four frame into a sitting position. In the noonday sun he saw they were near the edge of a sloping meadow. The velvet grass was dotted with purple and yellow flowers. Azaleas bloomed in rainbows around the green expanse. The black-faced sheep mowing the far end of the field paid no attention to the new arrivals.<br /><br /> “Are you okay?” the Baron asked. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of a Marines’ recruiting poster. “We’ll have to work on your landing technique.”<br /><br /> “How about warning me when we’re going somewhere,” Matterhorn grumbled.<br /><br /> The Baron helped him up and checked his pack to make sure nothing was damaged. He scanned the landscape in all directions from beneath the brim of his red corduroy baseball cap. “It makes no difference which way we go,” he said at last. “The horses will find us.”<br /><br /> “What horses?”<br /><br /> “The horses that will take us to the one we came to see,” the Baron answered.<br /><br /> “Are you always this vague or do you just not know what you’re doing?”<br /><br /> “I don’t know much, but I suspect this is somebody’s field. We don’t want to be caught trespassing. Let’s go.”<br /><br /> They left the meadow, walking single file through the tall azaleas up a narrow valley. Thorny bushes with loud yellow blossoms crowded the trail next to a clear brook. Pushing one of the prickly plants away, Matterhorn asked, “Do you know what these are?”<br /><br /> “Gorse, of course,” the Baron said without turning.<br /><br /> “Never heard of it.”<br /><br /> “Then I guess you haven’t been to Ireland before.”<br /><br /> “Ireland,” Matterhorn repeated. “My great-grandfather came from Ireland.”<br /><br /> “Your great-grandfather won’t be born for centuries yet.”<br /><br /> Matterhorn stepped over a tangle of exposed roots and said, “What do you mean?”<br /><br /> “I mean we’re in medieval Ireland, not modern Ireland.”<br /><br /> “How can that be!” Matterhorn cried, stopping in his tracks. “How can I be alive before my great-grandfather?”<br /><br /> The Baron shrugged. “That’s one of the paradoxes of time travel. No one’s been able to figure them all out. You’re welcome to try, but while you’re at it, keep a lookout for the horses.”<br /><br /> Matterhorn soon gave up on paradoxes and became absorbed in the paradise around him. The colors were so alive they hurt his eyes. He wished for a pair of sunglasses. Above the garish gorse he saw broom bushes and pine trees growing to the ridge where spectacular golden oaks crowned the slopes. Birdsongs whistled from their massive branches into the warm air. Small animals whispered in the underbrush while larger game watched the strangers from a distance. <br /><br /> The country flattened out and, at times, they glimpsed stone houses over the tops of hedgerows. They steered clear of these and any other signs of civilization. In a few hours, they reached the spring that fed the brook they had been following. They stopped to rest and wash up.<br /><br /> That’s where the horses found them. <br /><br /> There were five strikingly handsome animals. The leader of the pack was from ancient and noble stock. He stood a proud seventeen hands high—five-foot-eight-inches—at the shoulders. He had a classic Roman face with a white star on his wide forehead that matched the white socks on his forelegs. His straight back, sturdy body, and broad hindquarters suggested both power and speed. A rich coppery mane and tail complemented his sleek, chestnut coat.<br /><br /> The Baron held out an apple to the magnificent animal, but the horse showed no interest in the fruit or the man. Neither did the second horse. The third, a dappled stallion, took the apple and let the Baron pet his nose. <br /><br /> “These horses are free,” the Baron said as he stroked the stallion’s neck. “They choose their riders, which is as it should be. Grab an apple and find your mount.”<br /><br /> While Matterhorn searched for some fruit, the leader sauntered over and tried to stick his big nose into Matterhorn’s pack. When Matterhorn produced an apple, the horse pushed it aside and kept sniffing. <br /><br /> Did he want carrots, Matterhorn wondered? How about the peanut butter sandwich? Not until he produced a pocket-size Snickers bar did the horse whinny and nod his approval. <br /><br /> The Baron chuckled as Matterhorn peeled the bar and watched it disappear in a loud slurp. “That one’s got a sweet tooth,” he said.<br /><br /> The three other horses wandered off while the Baron and Matterhorn figured out how to secure their packs to the two that remained. “I take it we’re riding without saddles or bridles,” Matterhorn said. This made him nervous, as he had been on horseback only once before.<br /><br /> “Bridles aren’t necessary,” Aaron the Baron explained. “Just hold on to his mane and stay centered.” He boosted Matterhorn onto his mount. “The horses have been sent for us. They’ll make sure we get where we need to go.” <br /><br /> As they set off, Matterhorn grabbed two handfuls of long mane from the crest of the horse’s neck. He relaxed when he realized the horse was carrying him as carefully as if a carton of eggs was balanced on his back. Sitting upright, he patted the animal’s neck. “Hey, Baron; check out this birthmark.” He rubbed a dark knot of tufted hair on the chestnut’s right shoulder. “It looks like a piece of broccoli. I’m going to call him Broc.”<br /><br /> “Call him what you want,” the Baron said, “but you can’t name him. The Maker gives the animals their names. A name is like a label; it tells you what’s on the inside. Only the Maker knows that.”<br /><br /> Much later, and miles farther into the gentle hills, they made camp in a lea near a tangle of beech trees. “You get some wood,” Aaron the Baron said, “while I make a fire pit.” He loosened a piece of hollow tubing from the side of his pack and gave it a sharp twirl. Two flanges unrolled outward and clicked into place to form the blade of a short spade. Next, he pulled off the top section and stuck it back on at a ninety-degree angle to make a handle.<br /><br /> Matterhorn whistled. “Cool!”<br /><br /> “Cool is what we’ll be if you don’t get going.”<br /><br /> Matterhorn hurried into the forest. He was thankful to be alone for the first time since becoming an adult, something that happened in an instant earlier that day. Seizing a branch, he did a dozen chin-ups; then dropped and did fifty push-ups and a hundred sit-ups. <br /><br /> Afterward he rested against a tree trunk and encircled his right thigh with both hands. His fingertips didn’t touch. Reaching farther down, he squeezed a rock-hard calf muscle.<br /><br /> All this bulk was new to him, yet it didn’t feel strange. This was his body, grown up and fully developed. Flesh of his flesh; bone of his bone. Even hair of his hair, he thought, as he combed his fingers through the thick red ponytail. <br /><br /> He took the Sword hilt from his hip. The diamond blade extended and caught the late afternoon sun in a dazzling flash. This mysterious weapon was the reason he was looking for firewood in an Irish forest instead of sitting in the library at David R. Sanford Middle School.<br /><br /> <br /></div></textarea><br /></div><br /><br />*****************************************************************************<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s1600-h/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg"><a href="http://teenfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178594274707613778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s200/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg" border="0" /></a></a><br />It's the 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour! This is the very last Teen FIRST tour as Teen FIRST has merged with FIRST Wild Card Tours. If you wish to learn more about FIRST Wild Card, please go <a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">HERE</a>.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.matterhornthebrave.com/">Mike Hamel</a></font></strong><br /><p></p><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="160"><font color="#009900" size="4"></font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"><font size="2"><font color="#009900">and his book:</font> </font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"></strong></div></font><p></p><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="7"><font size="3"></font></strong></div></font><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0899578330/">The Sword and the Flute (Matterhorn the Brave Series #1) </a></font></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Amg Publishers (January 22, 2007) </p><br /><p align="center"></p><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><font color="#ff6600"></font></font></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><p></p><font color="#ff6600">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</font> </font></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLDYARwHLQVxFSos6al_spUHto3cKihx4d8esosH6OEUaeqCFKHJfHZLq-lvI1PEOFcDRtuTAY6Pwlj_za4D5wXOKq8We12NHLXFp3Y3JAdrZKwThK8tYeQYCZDntVuGeRUEZuFdH2d08/s1600-h/Mike+and+Susan"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLDYARwHLQVxFSos6al_spUHto3cKihx4d8esosH6OEUaeqCFKHJfHZLq-lvI1PEOFcDRtuTAY6Pwlj_za4D5wXOKq8We12NHLXFp3Y3JAdrZKwThK8tYeQYCZDntVuGeRUEZuFdH2d08/s200/Mike+and+Susan" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280575406705509282" /></a>Mike Hamel is a seasoned storyteller who has honed his skill over theyears by telling tall tales to his four children. He is the author of several non-fiction books and numerous magazine articles. <br /><br /> Mike and his wife, Susan, live in Colorado Springs, CO. Their four children are now grown and their two grand children will soon be old enough for stories of their own.<br /><br />From His Blog's About Me:<br /><br /><blockquote>I am a professional writer with sixteen books to my credit, including a trilogy of titles dealing with faith and business: The Entrepreneur’s Creed (Broadman, 2001), Executive Influence (NavPress, 2003), and Giving Back (NavPress, 2003). I also edited Serving Two Masters: Reflections on God and Profit, by Bill Pollard (Collins, 2006). <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-t-FW77lW64xRSUluWjtYX8uBiWOZhLIUUrIP8GeNlFK9dp139dAzaIO2V5J_qrr0n53D4vR-PJDawvYPaD-OgS3YsvUYHQH1QBd9x1km9MoVVKzO2nV3WfAnmjL0UBpreHFzrImg-vA/s1600-h/series"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 72px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-t-FW77lW64xRSUluWjtYX8uBiWOZhLIUUrIP8GeNlFK9dp139dAzaIO2V5J_qrr0n53D4vR-PJDawvYPaD-OgS3YsvUYHQH1QBd9x1km9MoVVKzO2nV3WfAnmjL0UBpreHFzrImg-vA/s400/series" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280576950518727714" /></a><br />My most enjoyable project to date has been an eight-volume juvenile fiction series called <a href="http://www.matterhornthebrave.com/index.html">Matterhorn the Brave</a>. It’s based on variegated yarns I used to spin for my four children. They are now grown and my two grandchildren will soon be old enough for stories of their own.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXcRvVxe8UD0xnZ9EoqMk_x2COHhT-0bCoWTlO2Hfh0mNExBH-8-0Mau4Pg8dVR6CIfo973qGOrwbMu57Ejy5SKccsbwm8pQSU0XeNmMhkgoSHxzMAS9bcHbodU36Ek5JlOOxgdP8YD44/s1600-h/Mike+and+Susan2"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXcRvVxe8UD0xnZ9EoqMk_x2COHhT-0bCoWTlO2Hfh0mNExBH-8-0Mau4Pg8dVR6CIfo973qGOrwbMu57Ejy5SKccsbwm8pQSU0XeNmMhkgoSHxzMAS9bcHbodU36Ek5JlOOxgdP8YD44/s200/Mike+and+Susan2" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280576442704620722" /></a><br />I live in Colorado Springs, Colorado with my bride of 34 years, Susan.<br /><br />As you read this blog, remember that I’m a professional. Don’t try this level of writing at home. You might suffer a dangling participle or accidentally split an infinitive and the grammarians will be all over you like shoe salesmen on a centipede.<br /><br />BTW – I have been diagnosed with Diffuse Large B-Cell Lymphoma, an aggressive but treatable form of cancer.</blockquote><br /><br />Mike's Blog, <a href="http://mikehamel.wordpress.com/">Cells Behaving Badly</a>, is an online diary about Wrestling with Lymphoma Cancer.<br /><br />To order a signed edition of any of the 6 Matterhorn the Brave books, please visit the <a href="http://www.matterhornthebrave.com/">Matterhorn the Brave Website</a>!<br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: 9.99 <br />Reading level: Ages 9-12<br />Paperback: 181 pages <br />Publisher: Amg Publishers (January 22, 2007) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0899578330 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0899578330 <br /><br /><br /><font color="#ffcc00"><strong><font size="5">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</font> </strong><br /></font><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTr3QC3eVJiAALNV7fmaOXYgP7nR7cd_7LjlQ3izzvshOQk6WmdrjtLX_sDKSLgnsfllfGuzKUFP4gEhy5Q6QR29XduCO2FJbPVWa8-pPN2VwPxKTyVWCMvAlnYEy2U9Df4q-X1GcwWYc/s1600-h/the+sword+and+the+flute"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTr3QC3eVJiAALNV7fmaOXYgP7nR7cd_7LjlQ3izzvshOQk6WmdrjtLX_sDKSLgnsfllfGuzKUFP4gEhy5Q6QR29XduCO2FJbPVWa8-pPN2VwPxKTyVWCMvAlnYEy2U9Df4q-X1GcwWYc/s200/the+sword+and+the+flute" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280574677773902610" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;">Emerald Isle <br /><br /><br />Aaron the Baron hit the ground like a paratrooper, bending his knees, keeping his balance. <br /><br /> Matterhorn landed like a 210-pound sack of dirt. <br /><br /> His stomach arrived a few seconds later.<br /><br /> He straightened his six-foot-four frame into a sitting position. In the noonday sun he saw they were near the edge of a sloping meadow. The velvet grass was dotted with purple and yellow flowers. Azaleas bloomed in rainbows around the green expanse. The black-faced sheep mowing the far end of the field paid no attention to the new arrivals.<br /><br /> “Are you okay?” the Baron asked. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of a Marines’ recruiting poster. “We’ll have to work on your landing technique.”<br /><br /> “How about warning me when we’re going somewhere,” Matterhorn grumbled.<br /><br /> The Baron helped him up and checked his pack to make sure nothing was damaged. He scanned the landscape in all directions from beneath the brim of his red corduroy baseball cap. “It makes no difference which way we go,” he said at last. “The horses will find us.”<br /><br /> “What horses?”<br /><br /> “The horses that will take us to the one we came to see,” the Baron answered.<br /><br /> “Are you always this vague or do you just not know what you’re doing?”<br /><br /> “I don’t know much, but I suspect this is somebody’s field. We don’t want to be caught trespassing. Let’s go.”<br /><br /> They left the meadow, walking single file through the tall azaleas up a narrow valley. Thorny bushes with loud yellow blossoms crowded the trail next to a clear brook. Pushing one of the prickly plants away, Matterhorn asked, “Do you know what these are?”<br /><br /> “Gorse, of course,” the Baron said without turning.<br /><br /> “Never heard of it.”<br /><br /> “Then I guess you haven’t been to Ireland before.”<br /><br /> “Ireland,” Matterhorn repeated. “My great-grandfather came from Ireland.”<br /><br /> “Your great-grandfather won’t be born for centuries yet.”<br /><br /> Matterhorn stepped over a tangle of exposed roots and said, “What do you mean?”<br /><br /> “I mean we’re in medieval Ireland, not modern Ireland.”<br /><br /> “How can that be!” Matterhorn cried, stopping in his tracks. “How can I be alive before my great-grandfather?”<br /><br /> The Baron shrugged. “That’s one of the paradoxes of time travel. No one’s been able to figure them all out. You’re welcome to try, but while you’re at it, keep a lookout for the horses.”<br /><br /> Matterhorn soon gave up on paradoxes and became absorbed in the paradise around him. The colors were so alive they hurt his eyes. He wished for a pair of sunglasses. Above the garish gorse he saw broom bushes and pine trees growing to the ridge where spectacular golden oaks crowned the slopes. Birdsongs whistled from their massive branches into the warm air. Small animals whispered in the underbrush while larger game watched the strangers from a distance. <br /><br /> The country flattened out and, at times, they glimpsed stone houses over the tops of hedgerows. They steered clear of these and any other signs of civilization. In a few hours, they reached the spring that fed the brook they had been following. They stopped to rest and wash up.<br /><br /> That’s where the horses found them. <br /><br /> There were five strikingly handsome animals. The leader of the pack was from ancient and noble stock. He stood a proud seventeen hands high—five-foot-eight-inches—at the shoulders. He had a classic Roman face with a white star on his wide forehead that matched the white socks on his forelegs. His straight back, sturdy body, and broad hindquarters suggested both power and speed. A rich coppery mane and tail complemented his sleek, chestnut coat.<br /><br /> The Baron held out an apple to the magnificent animal, but the horse showed no interest in the fruit or the man. Neither did the second horse. The third, a dappled stallion, took the apple and let the Baron pet his nose. <br /><br /> “These horses are free,” the Baron said as he stroked the stallion’s neck. “They choose their riders, which is as it should be. Grab an apple and find your mount.”<br /><br /> While Matterhorn searched for some fruit, the leader sauntered over and tried to stick his big nose into Matterhorn’s pack. When Matterhorn produced an apple, the horse pushed it aside and kept sniffing. <br /><br /> Did he want carrots, Matterhorn wondered? How about the peanut butter sandwich? Not until he produced a pocket-size Snickers bar did the horse whinny and nod his approval. <br /><br /> The Baron chuckled as Matterhorn peeled the bar and watched it disappear in a loud slurp. “That one’s got a sweet tooth,” he said.<br /><br /> The three other horses wandered off while the Baron and Matterhorn figured out how to secure their packs to the two that remained. “I take it we’re riding without saddles or bridles,” Matterhorn said. This made him nervous, as he had been on horseback only once before.<br /><br /> “Bridles aren’t necessary,” Aaron the Baron explained. “Just hold on to his mane and stay centered.” He boosted Matterhorn onto his mount. “The horses have been sent for us. They’ll make sure we get where we need to go.” <br /><br /> As they set off, Matterhorn grabbed two handfuls of long mane from the crest of the horse’s neck. He relaxed when he realized the horse was carrying him as carefully as if a carton of eggs was balanced on his back. Sitting upright, he patted the animal’s neck. “Hey, Baron; check out this birthmark.” He rubbed a dark knot of tufted hair on the chestnut’s right shoulder. “It looks like a piece of broccoli. I’m going to call him Broc.”<br /><br /> “Call him what you want,” the Baron said, “but you can’t name him. The Maker gives the animals their names. A name is like a label; it tells you what’s on the inside. Only the Maker knows that.”<br /><br /> Much later, and miles farther into the gentle hills, they made camp in a lea near a tangle of beech trees. “You get some wood,” Aaron the Baron said, “while I make a fire pit.” He loosened a piece of hollow tubing from the side of his pack and gave it a sharp twirl. Two flanges unrolled outward and clicked into place to form the blade of a short spade. Next, he pulled off the top section and stuck it back on at a ninety-degree angle to make a handle.<br /><br /> Matterhorn whistled. “Cool!”<br /><br /> “Cool is what we’ll be if you don’t get going.”<br /><br /> Matterhorn hurried into the forest. He was thankful to be alone for the first time since becoming an adult, something that happened in an instant earlier that day. Seizing a branch, he did a dozen chin-ups; then dropped and did fifty push-ups and a hundred sit-ups. <br /><br /> Afterward he rested against a tree trunk and encircled his right thigh with both hands. His fingertips didn’t touch. Reaching farther down, he squeezed a rock-hard calf muscle.<br /><br /> All this bulk was new to him, yet it didn’t feel strange. This was his body, grown up and fully developed. Flesh of his flesh; bone of his bone. Even hair of his hair, he thought, as he combed his fingers through the thick red ponytail. <br /><br /> He took the Sword hilt from his hip. The diamond blade extended and caught the late afternoon sun in a dazzling flash. This mysterious weapon was the reason he was looking for firewood in an Irish forest instead of sitting in the library at David R. Sanford Middle School.<br /><br /> <br /></div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-30765183336326484182008-12-11T22:47:00.003-05:002008-12-11T22:48:56.950-05:00The Jesus Who Never Lived: Exposing False Christs and Finding the Real Jesus by H. Wayne House<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s1600-h/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg"></a><a href="http://nonfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179647009365145890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s200/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg" border="0" /></a><br />It's the 15th, time for the Non~FIRST blog tour!(Non~FIRST will be merging with FIRST Wild Card Tours on January 1, 2009...if interested in joining, click <a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">HERE</a>!)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><br /><a href="http://www.hwhouse.com/">H. Wayne House</a></span></strong><br /><p></p><br /><strong><span style="font-size:160;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#009900;">and his book:</span> </span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"></strong></div></span><p></p><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:7;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></strong></div></span><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0736923217/">The Jesus Who Never Lived: Exposing False Christs and Finding the Real Jesus</a></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Harvest House Publishers (August 1, 2008)<br /></p><br /><p align="center"></p><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><br /><p></p><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2mG8ISAcJxPdzdyEqDc5tiu3rN0aVaBrUNvDvj8PPPkDDNs4UjS6_waPSxy1dR_cyA6yYRo_CWS8aK-YLdxwXupCdM-Fi8PVCoXCgqsMkYzp3su1Zic9oFxPSNFvZKNv-0UDCfO1h/s1600-h/dr-house.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 161px; height: 176px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2mG8ISAcJxPdzdyEqDc5tiu3rN0aVaBrUNvDvj8PPPkDDNs4UjS6_waPSxy1dR_cyA6yYRo_CWS8aK-YLdxwXupCdM-Fi8PVCoXCgqsMkYzp3su1Zic9oFxPSNFvZKNv-0UDCfO1h/s200/dr-house.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278743584213246450" /></a><strong>H. Wayne House (ThD, JD) </strong>is a Distinguished Research Professor of Biblical and Theological Studies at Faith Evangelical Seminary (Tacoma, WA). and Adjunct Professor of Law, Trinity Law School of Trinity International University. He is the New Testament editor of the Nelson Study Bible and Nelson Illustrated Bible Commentary, and the General Editor of Nelson Exegetical Commentary (42 vols), Israel: the Land and the People, and Charts of Bible Prophecy, among the 30 books that he has authored, co-authored, or edited.<br /><br />Dr. House has been a professor of biblical studies, theology or law for more than thirty years at such places as Western Seminary in Portland, Oregon; Dallas Theological Seminary, Dallas, Texas; Simon Greenleaf School of Law, Anaheim, California; Michigan Theological Seminary, Plymouth, Michigan, and Trinity Graduate School and Trinity Law School, Santa Ana, California, California campus of Trinity International University, Deerfield, IL. Through this internet office we hope to help those who are interested in several topics within apologetics, including Christianity and culture, law, science, cultism, philosophy, theology, and biblical studies. Dr. House also leads Bible study tours to Israel, Jordan, Egypt, Rome, Greece, and Turkey.<br /><br />Visit his <a href="http://www.hwhouse.com/ ">Website</a>:<br /><br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: 13.99<br />Paperback: 320 pages <br />Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (August 1, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0736923217 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0736923217 <br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></div></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmV-LImKd3u0HHHlq-ZJ4ytqjT9NKiG79N5mcylnVL2_KFgqLGdmohCXqfrCi2kkBhsPQHGAMTOTT9afSvBxA67JDYqtw31fv1PEOXrWlPRr9LiryvTEfoppcHEUCQtdvSKWr9Esk/s1600-h/jesus+who+never+lived"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmV-LImKd3u0HHHlq-ZJ4ytqjT9NKiG79N5mcylnVL2_KFgqLGdmohCXqfrCi2kkBhsPQHGAMTOTT9afSvBxA67JDYqtw31fv1PEOXrWlPRr9LiryvTEfoppcHEUCQtdvSKWr9Esk/s200/jesus+who+never+lived" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278743953093724834" /></a><div style="OVERFLOW: auto; HEIGHT: 307px">What’s It All About?<br /><br /> In the Broadway play and later film Jesus Christ Superstar, Mary Magdalene asks, “What’s it all about?” as she tries to figure out who this man called Jesus really is. Certainly there are aspects about the song she sings, and suggestions made in the play, contrary to what we know from the canonical Gospels about the relationship of Mary and Jesus. But she does pose some important issues. She is puzzled about how to relate to Jesus as she has with other men, and this association with Him has made major changes in her emotions, actions, and thoughts. The reason she struggles is her perception that “he’s just a man.” If Jesus is just a man, then why does He captivate her so and cause her to evaluate herself to the depths of her soul? Such questions about Jesus and the impact of His ministry, death, and resurrection have been asked for two millennia.<br /><br /> Every year around Christmas and Easter the news media show an interest in Jesus. Rarely do they speak to people who believe in the Jesus who has been worshipped by the church since its earliest period until now. Rather, the fascination is with a Jesus re-imaged by people who have little interest in the historical record preserved in the New Testament.<br /><br /> This interest in Jesus, unconnected to the earliest tradition and history we have of Him, is not a new phenomenon. Toward the end of the first century of the Christian era, perceptions of Jesus began to arise that were different from what He said about Himself as recorded in Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John and proclaimed by the apostle Paul. Jesus has become the favorite of ancient heretics, founders of various world religions, modern novelists, Hollywood and documentary filmmakers, New Age teachers, adherents of popular religion, and over-the-edge liberal scholars. He is by far the most popular, and possibly most distorted, figure of history.<br /><br /> When Christianity was less than a hundred years old, we find two groups at different ends of the spectrum in their views of Jesus. One Jewish group, known as the Ebionites (late first century), accepted Jesus as the Messiah from God, acknowledged His humanity, but rejected His deity. On the other side were the Gnostics (early second century), who accepted Jesus as a divine figure but denied His true humanity. This rise of Gnosticism coincides with the demise, though not extinction, of Jewish Christianity, toward the end of the first century and beginning of the second century. Such views of the Christ were rejected by the apostolic church, and the view supported by the New Testament was finally put in creedal form, in a number of creeds, by the end of the fifth century.<br /><br /> Since those early centuries various religions have been enamored of Jesus. Eastern religions see Jesus as one of the avatars, or manifestations of God, and Islam considers Him a prophet (see chapter 8 for both topics). In the former, Jesus is an Eastern mystic, sometimes even viewed as having been trained in India, and in the latter as one who promoted Islam.<br /><br /> Muhammad was a pagan who had contact with Jews and Christians from Arabia and finally became monotheistic, in the first quarter of the seventh century after Christ embracing one of the over 300 Arabian deities: Allah, the moon god. In his limited investigation into Christianity, he came to believe, as is recorded in the Qur’an, that Jesus was born of a virgin, was sinless throughout His life, performed miracles, ascended to God, and will come again in judgment. He acknowledged all of these things about Jesus, considering none of these to be true of himself. Nonetheless, Jesus is never considered more than one of the prophets of Islam; He is not God in the flesh. Inside the Dome of the Rock on the Temple Mount, the walls are inscribed with statements that God does not have a Son, specifically addressed against the Christian doctrines of the divinity of Jesus and the Trinity. As we shall see in a later chapter, Muhammad and his followers misunderstood the Christian doctrine of God.<br /><br /> In the eighteenth century, with the Enlightenment came skepticism about Christianity and absolute truth in religion. Biblical scholars and philosophers began to scrutinize claims that Jesus was more than human, and for over 200 years a search, or “quest,” for the historical Jesus has been pursued. We have now entered the third quest. While many within the second quest remain skeptical, there is growing support among some in the third quest for the credibility of the Jesus portrayed in the New Testament. In contrast to those who have little regard for biblical and extrabiblical history, scholars of both liberal and conservative persuasion now agree that within a couple of years following the death of Christ, the church preached a consistent message about His death and resurrection. Christ’s followers considered Him both God and man, Lord and Savior. And those who became believers in the latter part of the first century and early second century continued to accept Jesus as portrayed in the Gospels. The church’s belief in Jesus’ deity and humanity did not begin with the Council of Nicaea in AD 325, as encouraged by the Emperor Constantine; that belief was present from the church’s very beginning.<br /><br />The Importance of Jesus<br /><br /> Though contemporary novelists and media sensationalists never tire of trying to find some new angle on Jesus to attract an audience, most serious historians and biblical scholars are impressed with the evidence in the Gospels for the Jesus who lived, taught, performed miracles, died, was buried, and rose again from the dead. An early twentieth-century composition by a devoted believer captures the wonder of Jesus:<br /><br /> He was born in an obscure village, the child of a peasant woman. He grew up in another village, where he worked in a carpenter shop until He was thirty. Then for three years He was an itinerant preacher. He never wrote a book. He never held an office. He never had a family or owned a home. He didn’t go to college. He never visited a big city. He never traveled two hundred miles from the place where He was born. He did none of the things that usually accompany greatness. He had no credentials but Himself.<br /><br /> He was only thirty-three when the tide of public opinion turned against Him. His friends ran away. One of them denied Him. He was turned over to His enemies and went through the mockery of a trial. He was nailed to a cross between two thieves.<br /><br /> While He was dying, His executioners gambled for His garments, the only property He had on earth. When He was dead, He was laid in a borrowed grave through the pity of a friend.<br /><br /> Nineteen centuries have come and gone, and today He is the central figure of the human race. All the armies that ever marched, all the navies that ever sailed, all the parliaments that ever sat, all the kings that ever reigned, put together, have not affected the life of man on this earth as much as that one solitary life.<br /><br /> But believers in the divine Jesus aren’t the only ones who admire Him. Marcus Borg, a member of the Jesus Seminar and distinguished professor emeritus of philosophy and religion at Oregon State University, speaks as a skeptical historian about the significance and uniqueness of Jesus:<br /><br /> The historical Jesus is of interest for many reasons. Not least of these is his towering cultural significance in the nearly two thousand years since his death. No other figure in the history of the West has ever been accorded such extraordinary status. Within a few decades of his death, stories were told about his miraculous birth. By the end of the first century, he was extolled with the most exalted titles known within the religious tradition out of which he came: Son of God, one with the Father, the Word become flesh, the bread of life, the light of the world, the one who would come again as cosmic judge and Lord. Within a few centuries he had become Lord of the empire that had crucified him.<br /><br /> For over a thousand years, thereafter, he dominated the culture of the West: its religion and devotion, its art, music, and architecture, its intellectual thought and ethical norms, even its politics. Our calendar affirms his life as a dividing point in world history. On historical grounds alone, with no convictions of faith shaping the verdict, Jesus is the most important figure in Western (and perhaps human) history.<br /><br /> These words of exuberant praise from a historian who does not accept Jesus as God in the flesh further indicates the amazing manner in which a human being was able to draw devoted followers by the magnetism of His life and teachings. Jaroslav Pelikan, noted historian of Yale University, has said of Jesus,<br /><br /> Regardless of what anyone may personally think or believe about him, Jesus of Nazareth has been the dominant figure in the history of Western culture for almost twenty centuries. If it were possible, with some sort of supermagnet, to pull up of that history every scrap of metal bearing at least a trace of his name, how much would be left? It is from his birth that most of the human race dates its calendars, it is by his name that millions curse and in his name that millions pray.<br /><br /> The world would be a considerably different place, with far less progress, peace, and hope than we possess today, had He not lived.<br /><br />Liking Jesus Without Knowing Him<br /><br /> Just about everyone likes Jesus. How could they not, in view of the outstanding reception He has received throughout history, right? Not really. Much of the fascination with Jesus comes from those who really don’t know much about Him. Were He to confront them with His teachings and call them to a life of obedience to His will, they might be part of the recalcitrant crowd crying out, “Crucify, crucify him!” (Luke 23:21).<br /><br /> Today a large number of people say they are attracted to Jesus but dislike His church. They see within the church people who are inconsistent in their practice of Christian ethics and fail to follow what they understand to be the teachings of Jesus. The church is viewed as judgmental, whereas Jesus said not to judge. The church speaks against sins such as homosexual relationships, whereas Jesus loved all people regardless of their sin, such as the woman caught in adultery. The church has interest in political matters, but Jesus did not involve Himself in politics and worked only to ease people’s burdens. (Whether these notions are true or not will be briefly discussed in chapter 12.)<br /><br /> This attempt to understand Jesus is often done without any reference to what we really know about Him. We simply guess who He is and how He acted—most often, how we think He ought to be and act to be acceptable to the twenty-first-century mind. Apart from the appeal to divine revelation, this is the manner in which He has been viewed over the centuries, including the century in which He lived on earth.<br /><br />“Who Do People Say That I Am?”<br /><br /> As Jesus traveled with His disciples to Caesarea Philippi, He posed an important question: “Who do people say that I am?” (Mark 8:27). The response to this question divides light and darkness, death and life. The disciples said that some believed Him to be an important prophet, but the apostles—specifically Peter—proclaimed His deity, a truth revealed to him by the Father. It is this authentic Christ, based on credible biblical and extrabiblical sources, whom we must encounter.<br /><br /> Each of us is confronted with important questions and priorities in this life. Some are of minor importance, but others have lasting, even eternal significance. The most important issue we must squarely confront is our relationship with God and, consequently, our final destiny. This is true not only for people today, it was also important in the first century when Jesus the Messiah came to earth. This is evident in the words of Christ that if people did not believe that He was “from above” (heaven), they would die in their sins (John 8:21-24).<br /><br />Jesus the Prophet of God<br /><br /> In general, people liked Jesus Christ, as is true even today. The Scripture says that “the common people heard him gladly” (Mark 12:37). Saying this, however, does not mean they always understood His message (Matthew 13:10-17) or understood who He was:<br /><br /> When Jesus came into the district of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” And they said, “Some say John the Baptist, others say Elijah, and others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.” He said to them, “But who do you say that I am?” Simon Peter replied, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” And Jesus answered him, “Blessed are you, Simon Bar-Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father who is in heaven” (Matthew 16:13-17).<br /><br /> The people during that time enjoyed what so many of us greatly desire—personal communication with the Son of God—yet they failed to understand Him. Many of them were miraculously fed and healed by Him. They heard His word with their own ears and saw Him with their own eyes. No doubt many also touched Him with their hands. To have the opportunity these people enjoyed seems too wonderful to imagine.<br /><br /> But when Jesus asked the disciples who the people thought He was, they cited many important figures of Jewish history, from John the Baptist (apparently thought to have been raised from the dead) to Elijah, who was to be forerunner of the Messiah (Malachi 4:5), to Jeremiah, who confronted the Northern Kingdom of Israel for its sins, or to some other prophet, as seen below:<br /><br /> John the Baptist. John the Baptist would have been a natural choice for the identification of Jesus, particularly by those who had not encountered John personally and maybe hadn’t heard the news of his death. John spent his ministry in the desert, baptizing in Bethabara beyond the Jordan, whereas the people in view here are in Galilee or maybe the Golan. Otherwise it seems unlikely they would have made such a connection, unless they believed that Jesus was the resurrected John, which is what Herod Antipas thought: “At that time Herod the tetrarch heard the report about Jesus and said to his servants, ‘This is John the Baptist; he is risen from the dead, and therefore these powers are at work in him’” (Matthew 14:1-2). In the words of D.A. Carson:<br /><br /> His conclusion, that this was John the Baptist, risen from the dead (v. 2), is of great interest. It reflects an eclectic set of beliefs, one of them the Pharisaic understanding of resurrection. During his ministry John had performed no miracles (John 10:41); therefore Herod ascribes the miracles in Jesus’ ministry, not to John, but to John “risen from the dead.” Herod’s guilty conscience apparently combined with a superstitious view of miracles to generate this theory.<br /><br /> Though Herod’s superstition may be the cause for his comments, such a view is not unheard of in literature that precedes the New Testament. Albright and Mann say, “)The reappearance of dead heroes was a well-known theme in contemporary Jewish thought…[Second Maccabees 15:12-16] speaks of Jeremiah and Onias appearing to Judas Maccabaeus, and [2 Esdras 2:18-19] refers to the coming of Isaiah and Jeremiah.”<br /><br /> Elijah. Identifying Jesus as Elijah may appear surprising, except that Jesus’ ability to do miracles and the expectation of Messiah’s coming might have caused the people to believe He was preparing the way for the Messiah in agreement with Malachi’s prophecy:<br /><br /> Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet <br /><br /> Before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord. <br /><br /> —Malachi 4:5 nkjv<br /><br /> The disciples had similar expectations about Elijah, whom Jesus connected to John the Baptist as His forerunner (Matthew 17:10-12).<br /><br /> There are indeed many similarities between Elijah and Jesus. Elijah exercised control over the forces of nature, telling Ahab his land would have no precipitation for several years (1 Kings 17:1-2).<br /><br /> In the midst of this judgment against Israel, God sent Elijah to the Phoenician city of Zarephath of Sidon, to a widow and her son who were facing starvation. To test her faith, Elijah asked her to make him some bread from the handful of flour and the little oil she had left. After she complied with Elijah’s request, the jar of flour and the jug of oil did not become empty until the famine ended (17:14-16).<br /><br /> Later, the woman’s son died, and the prophet of God brought him back to life (17:17-24). These spectacular miracles performed for a non-Israelite mother and her son reveal not only the power of God but also the love of God for all people.<br /><br /> Those people who saw the ministry and attitude of Jesus no doubt considered Him to be like Elijah because He also controlled the forces of nature. On the mountain near the shore of the Lake of Galilee He multiplied bread and fish (Matthew 15:29-38), and He raised a widow’s son who had died (Luke 7:11-17).<br /><br /> Jeremiah. The last prophet to whom Jesus is likened is Jeremiah. What in the life and character of Jeremiah served as a basis for comparison with Jesus?<br /><br /> Donald Hagner says there are a “number of obvious parallels between Jesus and Jeremiah, such as the preaching of judgment against the people and the temple, and especially in suffering and martyrdom.” The message of Jeremiah was God’s judgment against an unfaithful people (Jeremiah 1:16). Jesus presented a similar kind of message when He pronounced woe against Chorazin and Bethsaida (Matthew 11:20-24).<br /><br /> Jesus offered healing and solace to the sick and downtrodden, but to the proud and rebellious, the words of this “prophet from Nazareth” (Matthew 21:11) were sharp and powerful. Another point of similarity may be Jesus’ cleansing of the temple and His indictment of those there (Matthew 21:10-13), and Jeremiah’s rebuke in his famous temple sermon (Jeremiah 7:1-15). Both texts even accuse the unfaithful of making God’s house a “den of robbers.”<br /><br /> One of the prophets. Even if there was disagreement among the people about Jesus’ identity, one thing is certain: They knew He was special, for He was viewed at minimum as a prophet. Just listening and watching Jesus revealed that He was powerful and insightful. This testimony—that the people identified Jesus with the prophets—demonstrates they held diverse eschatological expectations but there was no mass acknowledgment of Him as Messiah. The occasional reference to Jesus as the Son of David, found several times before Matthew 16, does not contradict the lack of recognition of Him as Messiah.<br /><br /> Fortunately, we also see among some non-Jews a different response. The Samaritan woman at the well first viewed Jesus as a Jewish man, then a prophet, then the Messiah, and finally the Savior (John 4:4-42).<br /><br /> Whether they believed He was God’s Messiah or one of the great prophets of Israel, all thought He was a person of great importance with divine authority and a powerful presence and message.<br /><br />Messiah, Son of God<br /><br /> After the disciples responded to Jesus’ question about how the people viewed Him, He asked, “But who do you say that I am?” (Mark 8:29). Would the disciples have a more accurate perception of their master than the general populace? You would think that their intimate relationship with Jesus would have made His identity clear in their minds. Yet this is not what we find. Though Peter correctly says that Jesus is the Messiah (christos, Greek translation of Hebrew mashiach, “anointed one”), the Son of the living God (16:16), Jesus says that the knowledge that gave rise to this confession came from heaven rather than from human insight (Matthew 16:13-17).<br /><br /> Is this confession true? Or is Jesus no more than a man, as the character of Mary sings in Jesus Christ Superstar? The Jesus who came to earth 2000 years ago has spawned a myriad of ideas about who He was and is. No more important subject than this confronts us today. Even among those who do not embrace the bodily resurrection of the crucified Messiah and His claims to deity, there is considerable praise. As Borg said of Him, “On historical grounds alone, with no convictions of faith shaping the verdict, Jesus is the most important figure in Western (and perhaps human) history.”<br /><br /> But is He only this—or is He, as Peter confessed, the Messiah, the Son of the living God? Our crucial quest in this book is to discover the true Jesus among the various visions of Him that have been constructed since His death and resurrection.<br /></div></textarea><br /></div><br /><br />**************************************************<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s1600-h/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg"></a><a href="http://nonfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179647009365145890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s200/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg" border="0" /></a><br />It's the 15th, time for the Non~FIRST blog tour!(Non~FIRST will be merging with FIRST Wild Card Tours on January 1, 2009...if interested in joining, click <a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">HERE</a>!)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><br /><a href="http://www.hwhouse.com/">H. Wayne House</a></span></strong><br /><p></p><br /><strong><span style="font-size:160;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#009900;">and his book:</span> </span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"></strong></div></span><p></p><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:7;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></strong></div></span><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0736923217/">The Jesus Who Never Lived: Exposing False Christs and Finding the Real Jesus</a></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Harvest House Publishers (August 1, 2008)<br /></p><br /><p align="center"></p><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><br /><p></p><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2mG8ISAcJxPdzdyEqDc5tiu3rN0aVaBrUNvDvj8PPPkDDNs4UjS6_waPSxy1dR_cyA6yYRo_CWS8aK-YLdxwXupCdM-Fi8PVCoXCgqsMkYzp3su1Zic9oFxPSNFvZKNv-0UDCfO1h/s1600-h/dr-house.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 161px; height: 176px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2mG8ISAcJxPdzdyEqDc5tiu3rN0aVaBrUNvDvj8PPPkDDNs4UjS6_waPSxy1dR_cyA6yYRo_CWS8aK-YLdxwXupCdM-Fi8PVCoXCgqsMkYzp3su1Zic9oFxPSNFvZKNv-0UDCfO1h/s200/dr-house.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278743584213246450" /></a><strong>H. Wayne House (ThD, JD) </strong>is a Distinguished Research Professor of Biblical and Theological Studies at Faith Evangelical Seminary (Tacoma, WA). and Adjunct Professor of Law, Trinity Law School of Trinity International University. He is the New Testament editor of the Nelson Study Bible and Nelson Illustrated Bible Commentary, and the General Editor of Nelson Exegetical Commentary (42 vols), Israel: the Land and the People, and Charts of Bible Prophecy, among the 30 books that he has authored, co-authored, or edited.<br /><br />Dr. House has been a professor of biblical studies, theology or law for more than thirty years at such places as Western Seminary in Portland, Oregon; Dallas Theological Seminary, Dallas, Texas; Simon Greenleaf School of Law, Anaheim, California; Michigan Theological Seminary, Plymouth, Michigan, and Trinity Graduate School and Trinity Law School, Santa Ana, California, California campus of Trinity International University, Deerfield, IL. Through this internet office we hope to help those who are interested in several topics within apologetics, including Christianity and culture, law, science, cultism, philosophy, theology, and biblical studies. Dr. House also leads Bible study tours to Israel, Jordan, Egypt, Rome, Greece, and Turkey.<br /><br />Visit his <a href="http://www.hwhouse.com/ ">Website</a>:<br /><br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: 13.99<br />Paperback: 320 pages <br />Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (August 1, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0736923217 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0736923217 <br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></div></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmV-LImKd3u0HHHlq-ZJ4ytqjT9NKiG79N5mcylnVL2_KFgqLGdmohCXqfrCi2kkBhsPQHGAMTOTT9afSvBxA67JDYqtw31fv1PEOXrWlPRr9LiryvTEfoppcHEUCQtdvSKWr9Esk/s1600-h/jesus+who+never+lived"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmV-LImKd3u0HHHlq-ZJ4ytqjT9NKiG79N5mcylnVL2_KFgqLGdmohCXqfrCi2kkBhsPQHGAMTOTT9afSvBxA67JDYqtw31fv1PEOXrWlPRr9LiryvTEfoppcHEUCQtdvSKWr9Esk/s200/jesus+who+never+lived" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278743953093724834" /></a><div style="OVERFLOW: auto; HEIGHT: 307px">What’s It All About?<br /><br /> In the Broadway play and later film Jesus Christ Superstar, Mary Magdalene asks, “What’s it all about?” as she tries to figure out who this man called Jesus really is. Certainly there are aspects about the song she sings, and suggestions made in the play, contrary to what we know from the canonical Gospels about the relationship of Mary and Jesus. But she does pose some important issues. She is puzzled about how to relate to Jesus as she has with other men, and this association with Him has made major changes in her emotions, actions, and thoughts. The reason she struggles is her perception that “he’s just a man.” If Jesus is just a man, then why does He captivate her so and cause her to evaluate herself to the depths of her soul? Such questions about Jesus and the impact of His ministry, death, and resurrection have been asked for two millennia.<br /><br /> Every year around Christmas and Easter the news media show an interest in Jesus. Rarely do they speak to people who believe in the Jesus who has been worshipped by the church since its earliest period until now. Rather, the fascination is with a Jesus re-imaged by people who have little interest in the historical record preserved in the New Testament.<br /><br /> This interest in Jesus, unconnected to the earliest tradition and history we have of Him, is not a new phenomenon. Toward the end of the first century of the Christian era, perceptions of Jesus began to arise that were different from what He said about Himself as recorded in Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John and proclaimed by the apostle Paul. Jesus has become the favorite of ancient heretics, founders of various world religions, modern novelists, Hollywood and documentary filmmakers, New Age teachers, adherents of popular religion, and over-the-edge liberal scholars. He is by far the most popular, and possibly most distorted, figure of history.<br /><br /> When Christianity was less than a hundred years old, we find two groups at different ends of the spectrum in their views of Jesus. One Jewish group, known as the Ebionites (late first century), accepted Jesus as the Messiah from God, acknowledged His humanity, but rejected His deity. On the other side were the Gnostics (early second century), who accepted Jesus as a divine figure but denied His true humanity. This rise of Gnosticism coincides with the demise, though not extinction, of Jewish Christianity, toward the end of the first century and beginning of the second century. Such views of the Christ were rejected by the apostolic church, and the view supported by the New Testament was finally put in creedal form, in a number of creeds, by the end of the fifth century.<br /><br /> Since those early centuries various religions have been enamored of Jesus. Eastern religions see Jesus as one of the avatars, or manifestations of God, and Islam considers Him a prophet (see chapter 8 for both topics). In the former, Jesus is an Eastern mystic, sometimes even viewed as having been trained in India, and in the latter as one who promoted Islam.<br /><br /> Muhammad was a pagan who had contact with Jews and Christians from Arabia and finally became monotheistic, in the first quarter of the seventh century after Christ embracing one of the over 300 Arabian deities: Allah, the moon god. In his limited investigation into Christianity, he came to believe, as is recorded in the Qur’an, that Jesus was born of a virgin, was sinless throughout His life, performed miracles, ascended to God, and will come again in judgment. He acknowledged all of these things about Jesus, considering none of these to be true of himself. Nonetheless, Jesus is never considered more than one of the prophets of Islam; He is not God in the flesh. Inside the Dome of the Rock on the Temple Mount, the walls are inscribed with statements that God does not have a Son, specifically addressed against the Christian doctrines of the divinity of Jesus and the Trinity. As we shall see in a later chapter, Muhammad and his followers misunderstood the Christian doctrine of God.<br /><br /> In the eighteenth century, with the Enlightenment came skepticism about Christianity and absolute truth in religion. Biblical scholars and philosophers began to scrutinize claims that Jesus was more than human, and for over 200 years a search, or “quest,” for the historical Jesus has been pursued. We have now entered the third quest. While many within the second quest remain skeptical, there is growing support among some in the third quest for the credibility of the Jesus portrayed in the New Testament. In contrast to those who have little regard for biblical and extrabiblical history, scholars of both liberal and conservative persuasion now agree that within a couple of years following the death of Christ, the church preached a consistent message about His death and resurrection. Christ’s followers considered Him both God and man, Lord and Savior. And those who became believers in the latter part of the first century and early second century continued to accept Jesus as portrayed in the Gospels. The church’s belief in Jesus’ deity and humanity did not begin with the Council of Nicaea in AD 325, as encouraged by the Emperor Constantine; that belief was present from the church’s very beginning.<br /><br />The Importance of Jesus<br /><br /> Though contemporary novelists and media sensationalists never tire of trying to find some new angle on Jesus to attract an audience, most serious historians and biblical scholars are impressed with the evidence in the Gospels for the Jesus who lived, taught, performed miracles, died, was buried, and rose again from the dead. An early twentieth-century composition by a devoted believer captures the wonder of Jesus:<br /><br /> He was born in an obscure village, the child of a peasant woman. He grew up in another village, where he worked in a carpenter shop until He was thirty. Then for three years He was an itinerant preacher. He never wrote a book. He never held an office. He never had a family or owned a home. He didn’t go to college. He never visited a big city. He never traveled two hundred miles from the place where He was born. He did none of the things that usually accompany greatness. He had no credentials but Himself.<br /><br /> He was only thirty-three when the tide of public opinion turned against Him. His friends ran away. One of them denied Him. He was turned over to His enemies and went through the mockery of a trial. He was nailed to a cross between two thieves.<br /><br /> While He was dying, His executioners gambled for His garments, the only property He had on earth. When He was dead, He was laid in a borrowed grave through the pity of a friend.<br /><br /> Nineteen centuries have come and gone, and today He is the central figure of the human race. All the armies that ever marched, all the navies that ever sailed, all the parliaments that ever sat, all the kings that ever reigned, put together, have not affected the life of man on this earth as much as that one solitary life.<br /><br /> But believers in the divine Jesus aren’t the only ones who admire Him. Marcus Borg, a member of the Jesus Seminar and distinguished professor emeritus of philosophy and religion at Oregon State University, speaks as a skeptical historian about the significance and uniqueness of Jesus:<br /><br /> The historical Jesus is of interest for many reasons. Not least of these is his towering cultural significance in the nearly two thousand years since his death. No other figure in the history of the West has ever been accorded such extraordinary status. Within a few decades of his death, stories were told about his miraculous birth. By the end of the first century, he was extolled with the most exalted titles known within the religious tradition out of which he came: Son of God, one with the Father, the Word become flesh, the bread of life, the light of the world, the one who would come again as cosmic judge and Lord. Within a few centuries he had become Lord of the empire that had crucified him.<br /><br /> For over a thousand years, thereafter, he dominated the culture of the West: its religion and devotion, its art, music, and architecture, its intellectual thought and ethical norms, even its politics. Our calendar affirms his life as a dividing point in world history. On historical grounds alone, with no convictions of faith shaping the verdict, Jesus is the most important figure in Western (and perhaps human) history.<br /><br /> These words of exuberant praise from a historian who does not accept Jesus as God in the flesh further indicates the amazing manner in which a human being was able to draw devoted followers by the magnetism of His life and teachings. Jaroslav Pelikan, noted historian of Yale University, has said of Jesus,<br /><br /> Regardless of what anyone may personally think or believe about him, Jesus of Nazareth has been the dominant figure in the history of Western culture for almost twenty centuries. If it were possible, with some sort of supermagnet, to pull up of that history every scrap of metal bearing at least a trace of his name, how much would be left? It is from his birth that most of the human race dates its calendars, it is by his name that millions curse and in his name that millions pray.<br /><br /> The world would be a considerably different place, with far less progress, peace, and hope than we possess today, had He not lived.<br /><br />Liking Jesus Without Knowing Him<br /><br /> Just about everyone likes Jesus. How could they not, in view of the outstanding reception He has received throughout history, right? Not really. Much of the fascination with Jesus comes from those who really don’t know much about Him. Were He to confront them with His teachings and call them to a life of obedience to His will, they might be part of the recalcitrant crowd crying out, “Crucify, crucify him!” (Luke 23:21).<br /><br /> Today a large number of people say they are attracted to Jesus but dislike His church. They see within the church people who are inconsistent in their practice of Christian ethics and fail to follow what they understand to be the teachings of Jesus. The church is viewed as judgmental, whereas Jesus said not to judge. The church speaks against sins such as homosexual relationships, whereas Jesus loved all people regardless of their sin, such as the woman caught in adultery. The church has interest in political matters, but Jesus did not involve Himself in politics and worked only to ease people’s burdens. (Whether these notions are true or not will be briefly discussed in chapter 12.)<br /><br /> This attempt to understand Jesus is often done without any reference to what we really know about Him. We simply guess who He is and how He acted—most often, how we think He ought to be and act to be acceptable to the twenty-first-century mind. Apart from the appeal to divine revelation, this is the manner in which He has been viewed over the centuries, including the century in which He lived on earth.<br /><br />“Who Do People Say That I Am?”<br /><br /> As Jesus traveled with His disciples to Caesarea Philippi, He posed an important question: “Who do people say that I am?” (Mark 8:27). The response to this question divides light and darkness, death and life. The disciples said that some believed Him to be an important prophet, but the apostles—specifically Peter—proclaimed His deity, a truth revealed to him by the Father. It is this authentic Christ, based on credible biblical and extrabiblical sources, whom we must encounter.<br /><br /> Each of us is confronted with important questions and priorities in this life. Some are of minor importance, but others have lasting, even eternal significance. The most important issue we must squarely confront is our relationship with God and, consequently, our final destiny. This is true not only for people today, it was also important in the first century when Jesus the Messiah came to earth. This is evident in the words of Christ that if people did not believe that He was “from above” (heaven), they would die in their sins (John 8:21-24).<br /><br />Jesus the Prophet of God<br /><br /> In general, people liked Jesus Christ, as is true even today. The Scripture says that “the common people heard him gladly” (Mark 12:37). Saying this, however, does not mean they always understood His message (Matthew 13:10-17) or understood who He was:<br /><br /> When Jesus came into the district of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” And they said, “Some say John the Baptist, others say Elijah, and others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.” He said to them, “But who do you say that I am?” Simon Peter replied, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” And Jesus answered him, “Blessed are you, Simon Bar-Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father who is in heaven” (Matthew 16:13-17).<br /><br /> The people during that time enjoyed what so many of us greatly desire—personal communication with the Son of God—yet they failed to understand Him. Many of them were miraculously fed and healed by Him. They heard His word with their own ears and saw Him with their own eyes. No doubt many also touched Him with their hands. To have the opportunity these people enjoyed seems too wonderful to imagine.<br /><br /> But when Jesus asked the disciples who the people thought He was, they cited many important figures of Jewish history, from John the Baptist (apparently thought to have been raised from the dead) to Elijah, who was to be forerunner of the Messiah (Malachi 4:5), to Jeremiah, who confronted the Northern Kingdom of Israel for its sins, or to some other prophet, as seen below:<br /><br /> John the Baptist. John the Baptist would have been a natural choice for the identification of Jesus, particularly by those who had not encountered John personally and maybe hadn’t heard the news of his death. John spent his ministry in the desert, baptizing in Bethabara beyond the Jordan, whereas the people in view here are in Galilee or maybe the Golan. Otherwise it seems unlikely they would have made such a connection, unless they believed that Jesus was the resurrected John, which is what Herod Antipas thought: “At that time Herod the tetrarch heard the report about Jesus and said to his servants, ‘This is John the Baptist; he is risen from the dead, and therefore these powers are at work in him’” (Matthew 14:1-2). In the words of D.A. Carson:<br /><br /> His conclusion, that this was John the Baptist, risen from the dead (v. 2), is of great interest. It reflects an eclectic set of beliefs, one of them the Pharisaic understanding of resurrection. During his ministry John had performed no miracles (John 10:41); therefore Herod ascribes the miracles in Jesus’ ministry, not to John, but to John “risen from the dead.” Herod’s guilty conscience apparently combined with a superstitious view of miracles to generate this theory.<br /><br /> Though Herod’s superstition may be the cause for his comments, such a view is not unheard of in literature that precedes the New Testament. Albright and Mann say, “)The reappearance of dead heroes was a well-known theme in contemporary Jewish thought…[Second Maccabees 15:12-16] speaks of Jeremiah and Onias appearing to Judas Maccabaeus, and [2 Esdras 2:18-19] refers to the coming of Isaiah and Jeremiah.”<br /><br /> Elijah. Identifying Jesus as Elijah may appear surprising, except that Jesus’ ability to do miracles and the expectation of Messiah’s coming might have caused the people to believe He was preparing the way for the Messiah in agreement with Malachi’s prophecy:<br /><br /> Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet <br /><br /> Before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord. <br /><br /> —Malachi 4:5 nkjv<br /><br /> The disciples had similar expectations about Elijah, whom Jesus connected to John the Baptist as His forerunner (Matthew 17:10-12).<br /><br /> There are indeed many similarities between Elijah and Jesus. Elijah exercised control over the forces of nature, telling Ahab his land would have no precipitation for several years (1 Kings 17:1-2).<br /><br /> In the midst of this judgment against Israel, God sent Elijah to the Phoenician city of Zarephath of Sidon, to a widow and her son who were facing starvation. To test her faith, Elijah asked her to make him some bread from the handful of flour and the little oil she had left. After she complied with Elijah’s request, the jar of flour and the jug of oil did not become empty until the famine ended (17:14-16).<br /><br /> Later, the woman’s son died, and the prophet of God brought him back to life (17:17-24). These spectacular miracles performed for a non-Israelite mother and her son reveal not only the power of God but also the love of God for all people.<br /><br /> Those people who saw the ministry and attitude of Jesus no doubt considered Him to be like Elijah because He also controlled the forces of nature. On the mountain near the shore of the Lake of Galilee He multiplied bread and fish (Matthew 15:29-38), and He raised a widow’s son who had died (Luke 7:11-17).<br /><br /> Jeremiah. The last prophet to whom Jesus is likened is Jeremiah. What in the life and character of Jeremiah served as a basis for comparison with Jesus?<br /><br /> Donald Hagner says there are a “number of obvious parallels between Jesus and Jeremiah, such as the preaching of judgment against the people and the temple, and especially in suffering and martyrdom.” The message of Jeremiah was God’s judgment against an unfaithful people (Jeremiah 1:16). Jesus presented a similar kind of message when He pronounced woe against Chorazin and Bethsaida (Matthew 11:20-24).<br /><br /> Jesus offered healing and solace to the sick and downtrodden, but to the proud and rebellious, the words of this “prophet from Nazareth” (Matthew 21:11) were sharp and powerful. Another point of similarity may be Jesus’ cleansing of the temple and His indictment of those there (Matthew 21:10-13), and Jeremiah’s rebuke in his famous temple sermon (Jeremiah 7:1-15). Both texts even accuse the unfaithful of making God’s house a “den of robbers.”<br /><br /> One of the prophets. Even if there was disagreement among the people about Jesus’ identity, one thing is certain: They knew He was special, for He was viewed at minimum as a prophet. Just listening and watching Jesus revealed that He was powerful and insightful. This testimony—that the people identified Jesus with the prophets—demonstrates they held diverse eschatological expectations but there was no mass acknowledgment of Him as Messiah. The occasional reference to Jesus as the Son of David, found several times before Matthew 16, does not contradict the lack of recognition of Him as Messiah.<br /><br /> Fortunately, we also see among some non-Jews a different response. The Samaritan woman at the well first viewed Jesus as a Jewish man, then a prophet, then the Messiah, and finally the Savior (John 4:4-42).<br /><br /> Whether they believed He was God’s Messiah or one of the great prophets of Israel, all thought He was a person of great importance with divine authority and a powerful presence and message.<br /><br />Messiah, Son of God<br /><br /> After the disciples responded to Jesus’ question about how the people viewed Him, He asked, “But who do you say that I am?” (Mark 8:29). Would the disciples have a more accurate perception of their master than the general populace? You would think that their intimate relationship with Jesus would have made His identity clear in their minds. Yet this is not what we find. Though Peter correctly says that Jesus is the Messiah (christos, Greek translation of Hebrew mashiach, “anointed one”), the Son of the living God (16:16), Jesus says that the knowledge that gave rise to this confession came from heaven rather than from human insight (Matthew 16:13-17).<br /><br /> Is this confession true? Or is Jesus no more than a man, as the character of Mary sings in Jesus Christ Superstar? The Jesus who came to earth 2000 years ago has spawned a myriad of ideas about who He was and is. No more important subject than this confronts us today. Even among those who do not embrace the bodily resurrection of the crucified Messiah and His claims to deity, there is considerable praise. As Borg said of Him, “On historical grounds alone, with no convictions of faith shaping the verdict, Jesus is the most important figure in Western (and perhaps human) history.”<br /><br /> But is He only this—or is He, as Peter confessed, the Messiah, the Son of the living God? Our crucial quest in this book is to discover the true Jesus among the various visions of Him that have been constructed since His death and resurrection.<br /></div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-10893990682033337742008-11-28T00:30:00.000-05:002008-11-28T00:30:00.346-05:00Leave it to Chance by Sherri Sand<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 84px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" height="204" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" width="126" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is time for the FIRST Blog Tour! On the FIRST day of every month we feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.sherrisand.com/">Sherri Sand</a></span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;">and his/her book:</span> </span></strong></p><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1434799883/">Leave it to Chance</a></span></strong><br />David C. Cook (May 2008) </p><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUpV0QvRTuhlwhqot1yZhFVZ00XOFMafD-3s_dS6mDMaC9w0hSGIKDfhn1HQ6oweTHQgjNS9I-1UO-NIM2yWwWH0ozKrgVRJ_Nk0TYqnOrYQNVYwh9UOvqeiwEftExbxLUOZbOwcxZCa_v/s1600-h/Sherri+Sand.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 181px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUpV0QvRTuhlwhqot1yZhFVZ00XOFMafD-3s_dS6mDMaC9w0hSGIKDfhn1HQ6oweTHQgjNS9I-1UO-NIM2yWwWH0ozKrgVRJ_Nk0TYqnOrYQNVYwh9UOvqeiwEftExbxLUOZbOwcxZCa_v/s200/Sherri+Sand.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272447506284729186" /></a>Sherri Sand is a wife and mother of four young children who keep her scrambling to stay ahead of the spilled milk. When she needs stress relief from wearing all the hats required to clothe, feed and ferry her rambunctious brood, you may find her sitting in a quiet corner of a bistro reading a book (surrounded by chocolate), or running on one of the many trails near her home. Sherri is a member of The Writer’s View and American Christian Fiction Writers. She finds the most joy in writing when the characters take on a life of their own and she becomes the recorder of their stories. She holds a degree in psychology from the University of Oregon where she graduated cum laude. Sherri and her family live in the beautiful Pacific Northwest. <br /><br />She's also a blogger! So stop by and say hi to Sherri at <a href="http://sherrisand.blogspot.com/">Creations in the Sand</a>!<br /><br />Product Details:<br /><br />List Price: $13.99 <br />Paperback: 353 pages <br />Publisher: David C. Cook (May 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 1434799883 <br />ISBN-13: 978-1434799883 <br /><br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /><br /></span></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8LL-4Th0shSuuBHznzNlz7qJIl6PwfacGdadzMGG5lbZvDQijvPTLpdXPLMKM9RX8xAZwK3gBst3kNRB1sG-cvq0-QdBUNzIOx2_RDH5g6W3fqO0L-GTjXecHBxcCaIUFQPG21mFXyNoC/s1600-h/leave+it+to+chance.bmp"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 140px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8LL-4Th0shSuuBHznzNlz7qJIl6PwfacGdadzMGG5lbZvDQijvPTLpdXPLMKM9RX8xAZwK3gBst3kNRB1sG-cvq0-QdBUNzIOx2_RDH5g6W3fqO0L-GTjXecHBxcCaIUFQPG21mFXyNoC/s200/leave+it+to+chance.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272449264410764210" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;"> “A horse? Mom, what am I going to do with a horse?” Just what she and the kids did not need. Sierra Montgomery sagged back against her old kitchen counter, where afternoon sunlight dappled the white metal cabinets across from her. She pressed the phone tight against her ear, hoping she’d heard wrong, as her four-year-old son, Trevor, ate grapes at the kitchen table.<br /><br /> “Miss Libby wanted you to have it. I’d think you’d be delighted, what with the kids and all. You remember Sally, Miss Libby’s daughter? Well, she just called and said it was all laid out in the will. None of their family could figure out who Sierra Lassiter Montgomery was until Sally remembered me from her mom’s church. So she called and sure enough, you were my daughter.” Sierra’s mom tsked into the phone. “Well, you know how Sally is.”<br /><br /> Sierra hadn’t the foggiest how Sally was, or even who she was. She barely remembered Miss Libby from her Sunday school class eons ago.<br /><br /> “She acted pleased that her mother gave you the horse, but I could tell she was miffed. Though what Sally Owens would do with a horse, I’d like to know.” Her mom’s voice was tight and controlled as if they were discussing how to deal with black spot on her Old English roses.<br /><br /> “But I don’t want a horse. You, of all people, should know that after what happened when—” How could her mom even suggest she get a horse? Painful pictures of her childhood friend Molly floated through her mind. <br /><br /> “Honey, accidents like that don’t happen more than once in a lifetime. Besides, Miss Libby wouldn’t have owned a crazy horse.”<br /><br /> Sierra stared out the window where the school bus would soon release her most precious treasures. Her mom never had understood the resounding impact that summer day had made in her life. <br /><br /> “You really need to think of the kids and how much fun they’d have. It’s not like you’d ever be able to afford to buy them one.”<br /><br /> Sierra wished she were having this conversation with Elise rather than her mother. Her best friend would understand the danger she feared in horses, and in her humorous way come up with a sensible plan that would include not keeping the animal.<br /><br /> Her mom, on the other hand, lived life as if she were on one of those moving conveyors at the airport that people can step on to rest their feet yet keep moving toward their destination. As long as everyone kept traveling forward, she could ignore the emotional baggage dragging behind.<br /><br /> “I don’t understand why Miss Libby would give the horse to me.”<br /><br /> “You know how my bingo club visited the Somerset rest home every week? Well, Miss Libby’s been there for years and she always did comment on how horse crazy you were when she taught your Sunday school class.” <br /><br /> “Mom, that was a phase I went through when I was ten and found National Velvet and Black Beauty at the library. I haven’t seen Miss Libby since middle school.”<br /><br /> “Obviously you were special to Miss Libby. I’d think you might be a little more grateful.”<br /><br /> Deep breath, Sierra told herself. “I am grateful.” An errant grape rolled next to her toe. Trevor’s blond head was bent, intent on arranging the fruit like green soldiers around the edge of his plate. Sierra tossed the grape into the sink and considered how to respond to her mom. She was a dear, but sometimes the woman was like dry kindling on a hot day, and one little spark…. “I’m just not sure that owning a horse would be a wise move at this point in our lives.”<br /><br /> The front door slammed and Sierra felt the walls shudder with the thud. The 3:00 p.m. stampede through the house meant it was time to get off the phone and determine how to get rid of a horse before the kids found out about it.<br /><br /> Her mom sighed. “It’s too bad Sally won’t keep the horse at her place for you, but she said her husband wants the horse gone. He wants to fill the pasture with sheep.”<br /><br /> Sheep? A kitchen chair scraped over the linoleum as Trevor scooted back from the table and dashed for the living room. “Mommy’s got a horse! Mommy’s got a horse!” Wonderful. Little ears, big mouth. <br /><br /> Braden and Emory shot into the kitchen, bright eyes dancing in tandem. Their words tangled together in fevered excitement despite the fact that she was on the phone.<br /><br /> “Where is it?” Braden’s eleven-year-old grin split his face, and his dark hair was rumpled and sweat streaked, likely from a fevered game of basketball during last recess.<br /><br /> She held a hand up to still the questions as her mom went on about the sheep that Sally’s husband probably did not need. <br /><br /> “We have a horse?” Nine-year-old Emory, her blonde hair still neat in its purple headband, fluttered in front of her mom, delight and hope blooming on her face.<br /><br /> Despite the fear of horses building deep in Sierra’s gut, her children’s excitement was a little contagious. She wished Miss Libby had willed her a cat.<br /><br /> Sierra ran her hand down Emory’s soft cheek and whispered. “I’ll be off the phone in a minute, sweetie.” <br /><br /> “Can we ride it?” Em looked at her with elated eyes.<br /><br /> Braden tossed his backpack on the table. “Where are we going to keep it?”<br /><br /> The kids circled her, jabbering with excited questions. Sierra rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers. “I gotta go, Mom. I’ve got to break some cowboy hearts.”<br /><br /> The kids clamored around her, Braden taking the lead with an arm draped across her shoulder. When had he gotten so big? “Do we have a horse, Mom?” He asked the question with a lopsided grin, a foreshadow of the adolescence that had been peeking through lately. The preteen in him didn’t truly believe they had a horse—he was old enough to realize the odds—but little-boy eagerness clung to his smile. <br /><br /> “That would be yes and a no.”<br /><br /> “What? Mom!” he complained.<br /><br /> “I was given a horse, but we’re not going to keep him.” Braden’s arm slid off her shoulder, a scowl replacing his smile. “Why not?”<br /><br /> “Someone gave you a horse?” Emory ignored her brother’s attitude and flashed her most persuasive grin. “Can we keep him? Please!” <br /><br /> Sierra smoothed her hand over the silky hair and leaned close to her daughter’s face as Emory went on. “I think we should get four horses so we each have one. We could go trail riding. Cameron’s mom has horses, and they go riding all the time as a family.”<br /><br /> “We’re not a family anymore,” Braden cut in. “We stopped being a family when mom divorced dad.”<br /><br /> A shard of pain drove into Sierra’s gut. She hadn’t had time to brace for that one. Braden’s anger at the divorce had been building like an old steam engine lately.<br /><br /> “That’s not fair!” Outrage darkened Emory’s features. “It’s not Mom’s fault!”<br /><br /> Sarcasm colored Braden’s voice. “Oh, so it’s all Dad’s fault?” <br /><br /> Sierra saw the confusion that swept over her daughter’s face. She was fiercely loyal to both parents and didn’t know how to defend them against each other.<br /><br /> Sierra spoke in a firm tone. “Braden, that’s enough!”<br /><br /> He scowled at her again. “Whatever.”<br /><br /> Sierra held his gaze until he glanced away.<br /><br /> “Guys, we’re not going to play the blame game. We have plenty to be thankful for, and that’s what is important.”<br /><br /> Braden’s attitude kept pouring it on. “Boy, and we have so much. Spaghetti for dinner every other night.”<br /><br /> “So what, Braden-Maden!” Emory made a face and stuck her tongue out at him.<br /><br /> “No more fighting or you two can go to your rooms.” Her kids were not perfect, but they used to like each other. Something had changed. Her gut said it was her ex-husband, Michael, but what if she was falling into the whole “blame the dad” thing herself? What if she was really the problem? Two weeks without a job had added stress and worry. Had she stopped hugging them as often in between scouring the want ads and trying to manage a home and bills?<br /><br /> “Mom?” There was a quaver in Trevor’s soft voice.<br /><br /> “Yes, honey?” Sierra gave him a gentle smile.<br /><br /> “Can we keep the horse?”<br /><br /> Emory’s blue gaze darted to meet hers, a plea in them. Braden sat with his arms crossed over his chest, but his ears had pricked up. <br /><br /> Sierra looked at them, wanting them to understand and knowing they wouldn’t. “None of us know how to handle or care for a horse, so it wouldn’t be safe to keep him.”<br /><br /> Emory’s face lit up. “Cameron’s mom could teach us.”<br /><br /> “Honey, it’s not that simple. We can’t afford an animal that big. He probably eats as much in groceries as we do, and it would be very expensive to rent a place for him to live.”<br /><br /> “I could mow yards.” Anger at his sister forgotten, Braden turned a hopeful face to her. “We could help out.”<br /><br /> Emory jumped onto the working bandwagon. “Yeah. I could do laundry or something for the neighbors.”<br /><br /> Braden drilled his sister a look that said idiot idea but didn’t say anything.<br /><br /> Trevor bounced in his chair, eager to be a part of keeping the horse. “I could wash cars.”<br /><br /> “Those are great ideas, but they won’t bring in quite enough, especially since it’s getting too cold to mow lawns or wash cars.”<br /><br /> “You just don’t want to keep the horse, Mom,” Braden said. “I get it. End of story.”<br /><br /> “Honey, I’d love for you to have a horse, but when I was young I had a friend—”<br /><br /> Emory spoke in a helpful tone. “We know. Grandma told us about the accident.”<br /><br /> They knew? Wasn’t the story hers to share? “When did Grandma tell you?”<br /><br /> Braden’s voice took on a breezy air. “I don’t know. A while ago. Come on, Mom. We’re not going to do something dumb like your friend did.”<br /><br /> Defensiveness rose inside. “She didn’t do anything dumb. It was the horse that—”<br /><br /> “So because something bad happened to one person, your kids can never do anything fun for the rest of their lives.”<br /><br /> Sierra gave him a look. “Or you learn from your mistakes and help your kids to do the same.”<br /><br /> Braden rolled his eyes at her. <br /><br /> Worry drew lines across her daughter’s forehead. “Are you going to sell him?”<br /><br /> “Yes, Em. So we’re not going to discuss this anymore. You and Braden have homework to do.” At the chorus of groans she held her hands up. “Okay, I guess I’ll have to eat Grandma’s apple pie all by myself.”<br /><br /> Braden grabbed his backpack and slowly dragged it across the floor toward the stairs, annoyance in his voice. “We’re going.” Emory trotted past him up the stairs. <br /><br /> Trevor remained behind, one arm wrapped around her thigh. “I don’t have any homework.” <br /><br /> She squatted and pulled him in for a hug. “Nope, you sure don’t, bud.”<br /><br /> He leaned back. “Do I get a horse?”<br /><br /> Sierra distracted him by inching her fingers up his ribs. “What, Trev?”<br /><br /> He tried to talk around his giggles. “Do I get—Mom!” Her fingers found the tickle spots under his arms and he laughed, his eyes squinted shut and mouth opened wide. She found all his giggle spots, then turned on Sesame Street as the second distraction. Good old Bert and Ernie.<br /><br /> Now what? She had roughly forty-five minutes to figure out how she was going to get rid of a horse and not be a complete zero in her kids’ eyes. <br /><br /> She eyed the phone and made her next move. Five minutes later a white Mazda whipped into her driveway. Sierra hurried out the front door waving her arms to stop Elise before she could start her ritual honking for the kids.<br /><br /> Wide eyed, her platinum blonde friend stared, one long plum-colored nail hovering above the “ooga” horn on the dash. “What?”<br /><br /> “I don’t want the kids to know you’re here.”<br /><br /> Wicked delight spread across her perfectly made-up face. Light plum shadow matched her nails. Tomorrow, both eye shadow and nails could be green. “Let me guess! Mr. Pellum asked you out!” <br /><br /> “Nooooo!” Mr. Pellum was a teacher Sierra and Elise had had a crush on in seventh grade.<br /><br /> “Ummm … you robbed a bank and need me to watch the kids while you fly to Tahiti?”<br /><br /> Sierra gave her a mock-serious look. “Done?”<br /><br /> Elise tilted her head. “Can I get out of the car?”<br /><br /> Sierra glanced toward the house. All was still silent. “Yes, you may.”<br /><br /> Deadpan, Elise nodded and opened the door. “Then I’m done for now.” Her plump body, swathed in a creamy suit with a purple scarf draped across one shoulder, rose gracefully from the small two-seater.<br /><br /> Sierra closed the door for her, then leaned against it. Elise had a way of removing the extraneous and reducing a problem down to the bare essentials. “Elise, I’m in a predicament.”<br /><br /> “Hon, I’ve been trying to tell you that for years.”<br /><br /> Sierra shook her head. “I don’t think you could have seen this one coming even with your crystal ball.”<br /><br /> Elise gave her the spinster teacher look through narrowed eyes. “I don’t think I like the implications of that.” <br /><br /> Sierra held her hands out. “You are the queen of mind-reading, according to my children.”<br /><br /> Elise chuckled. “It’s a good thing I was just headed out for a latte break when you called. Now what’s the big emergency?” She owned a high-end clothing store for plus-sized women in downtown Eugene.<br /><br /> “A horse.”<br /><br /> Elise glanced around as if one or two might be lurking behind a tree.<br /><br /> “A herd of them or just one?”<br /><br /> “One. Full-sized. Living and breathing.”<br /><br /> “I believe I’m missing some pieces here. Is it moving in with you? Holding one of the children hostage? What?”<br /><br /> Sierra breathed out a slight chuckle and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “You’re not going to believe this, but I inherited it.”<br /><br /> Her friend’s eyes grew wide, emphasizing the lushly mascaraed lashes. “Like someone died and gave you their horse?”<br /><br /> Sierra nodded, raising her brows. “And the kids want to keep him.”<br /><br /> Furrows emerged across Elise’s forehead. “Who is the idiot that told them about the horse?”<br /><br /> Sierra tilted her head with a look that only best friends could give each other.<br /><br /> Elise’s perfectly painted lips smirked. “Moving along, then. Why don’t you keep it? The kids would love it. Heaven knows they deserve it.” She clapped her hands together. “Oh, oh! They could get into 4-H, and Braden could learn to barrel race. That kid would think he’d won the jackpot. Emory and Trevor could get a pig or some of those show roosters.”<br /><br /> Sierra let the idea machine wind down. “I don’t think so.”<br /><br /> “Angora rabbits?”<br /><br /> “No farm animals.”<br /><br /> Elise’s mouth perked into humorous pout. “Sierra, you’re such a spoilsport. Those kids need a pet.”<br /><br /> “A hamster is a pet. A horse is not.” <br /><br /> Diva Elise took the stage, hands on her ample hips. “Don’t tell me you didn’t want a horse growing up. Remember, I was the one who had to sit and watch National Velvet with you time ad nauseam. You’ve said yourself that Braden needs something to take his mind off the problems he’s having at school and with his dad.”<br /><br /> Guilt, a wheelbarrow load of it, dumped on Sierra. “You are supposed to be helping me, Elise, not making it worse. I want to get rid of this horse and …” her eyes dodged away from her friend, “… you know.”<br /><br /> “Mmm-hmm. And still look like Super Mom in your children’s eyes.”<br /><br /> Sierra nodded, but couldn’t find the nerve to say yes.<br /><br /> “Sierra Montgomery, those children have been to heck and back in the last couple years and you’re willing to deny them the pleasure of owning their own free horse because … because of what?”<br /><br /> Sierra stared at the ground for a moment, feeling a tangle of emotions rise within. She let her eyes rest on Elise’s and said quietly, “Fear? Terror? Hysteria?”<br /><br /> A look of puzzlement, then understanding settled on Elise’s face, smoothing away the annoyance. “Molly.” <br /><br /> Sierra nodded. “I won’t put my children in that kind of danger.”<br /><br /> Elise leaned forward and grabbed Sierra’s hands, holding them tight. “Oh, hon. That was a long time ago. Don’t let your life be ruled by the what-ifs. There’s a lot of living left to do. And your kids need to see you taking life by storm, taking chances, not hiding in the shadows.”<br /><br /> “That’s easy for you to say. You were voted most likely to parachute off the Empire State Building.”<br /><br /> Elise gave her a cheeky grin, both dimples winking at her. “We could do it tandem!”<br /><br /> “If you see me jump off the Empire State Building you’ll know my lobotomy was successful, because there is no way in this lifetime you’ll catch this body leaving good sense behind!” Sierra heard the words come from her own mouth and stared at her friend in wonder. “Oh, my gosh. That was so my mom.”<br /><br /> “It was bound to happen, hon.”<br /><br /> Was she serious? “You think I’m turning into her?” Sierra brought a hand to her throat and quickly dropped it. How many times had she seen her mom use the same gesture?<br /><br /> Elise laughed. “You need to stop fretting and just live. We all turn out like our mothers in some respect.”<br /><br /> “All except you. You’re nothing like Vivian.”<br /><br /> “Other than the drinking, smoking, and carousing, I’m exactly like her.”<br /><br /> Sierra lifted a brow. Her mom had rarely let her go to Elise’s house when they were growing up—and for good reason. Elise struck a pose like a fashion model. “Okay, I’m the anti-Vivian.” She gave Sierra a soft smile. “All funnin’ aside, I really think you should keep the horse.”<br /><br /> “I’m not keeping the horse. And even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.” Sierra took a settling breath and stared at the tree over Elise’s shoulder.<br /><br /> “Michael still hasn’t paid?”<br /><br /> Elise knew more about her finances than her mom did. “He paid, but the check bounced again. So now he’s two months behind in child support.”<br /><br /> “Have you heard if Pollan’s is rehiring?”<br /><br /> “They’re not.” Jarrett’s, the local grocery store where she worked for the three years since the divorce had been recently bought out by Pollan’s. They had laid off the majority of the checkers with the possibility of rehiring some. <br /><br /> Elise cringed as if she was bracing herself for a blow. “And the unemployment fiasco?”<br /><br /> Sierra shut her eyes. “Mr. Jarrett did not pay into our unemployment insurance, so there is no benefit for us to draw from. Yes, it was illegal, and yes he will pay, but it may take months, if not years, for various lawyers and judges to beat it out of him.” She gave Elise a tired smile. “That’s the version minus all the legalese.”<br /><br /> “So the layoffs are final, no unemployment bennies, and you’re out of a job.”<br /><br /> “Momentarily. The résumé has been dusted off and polished.” She gave a wry grin.<br /><br /> “I wish I could hire you at Deluxe Couture, but I promised Nora fulltime work. And besides, your cute little buns would drive my clientele away.”<br /><br /> Sierra waved a hand over her jeans and sweatshirt. “Your clientele would outshine me any day.”<br /><br /> “You sell yourself far too short.” Elise glanced at the hefty rhinestone encrusted watch on her wrist. “Anything else I can do for you? Help the kids with their homework? Babysit while you sweep some tall, dark, handsome man off his feet?”<br /><br /> Sierra laughed. “And where is this dream man going to come from?” <br /><br /> Elise gave a breezy wave of her hand and opened the car door. “Oh, he’ll turn up. You’re too cute to stay single. I actually have someone in mind. Pavo Marcello. He’s a new sales rep from one of my favorite lines. I’ll see if he’s free Friday night. You aren’t doing anything, are you?” <br /><br /> “Hold on!” Sierra stepped in front of the car door to keep her friend from leaving. “First, I’m not looking. Second, given my history, I’m not the best judge of character. I’ve already struck out once in the man department.” She pointed to her face with both index fingers. “Not anxious to try again. Third, you just told me I’m turning into my mom, which makes me definitely not dating material.”<br /><br /> A twist of Elise’s lips signaled a thought. “You know, now that I think about it, I believe he has a boyfriend.” She shook her head and lowered herself into the car. “We’ll keep looking. I’m sure Sir Knight will turn up.” <br /><br /> Sierra shut the car door and grinned down at her friend. “And what about finding your knight?”<br /><br /> Elise gave her a bright smile. “Mr. Pellum is already taken. You really need to find a way to keep that horse; it’ll be your first noble sacrifice.”<br /><br /> “First?”<br /><br /> The little car backed up, and Elise spoke over the windshield. “The others don’t count.”<br /><br /> Sierra stared at the retreating car. There was no way she was keeping that horse. <br /> <br /><br /><br /> After dinner, Sierra crept into Braden’s room. He sat on the bed intent on the Game Boy in his lap, the tinny sound of hard rock bleeding out of his earphones. She waved a hand and he glanced up. She waited and with a look of preteen exasperation he finally pulled the headphones to his shoulders.<br /><br /> “What, Mom?”<br /><br /> “I just wanted to say good night.”<br /><br /> “Good night.” His hands started to readjust the music back into position.<br /><br /> “I looked at your homework.”<br /><br /> “You got into my backpack? Isn’t that like against the law or something? You’re always telling us not to get into your stuff.”<br /><br /> She crossed her arms. Frustration and worry gnawed at her. “You lied to me about doing your assignment. Why, honey?”<br /><br /> He ignored her and started playing his Game Boy.<br /><br /> She took one step and snatched the game from his hands.<br /><br /> “Hey!”<br /><br /> “I want some respect when I talk to you, Braden.”<br /><br /> His chin sank toward his chest, his gaze fixed on his bed, his voice low. “I didn’t want to do it.”<br /><br /> She sat next to him, her voice soft. “Is it too hard?”<br /><br /> He shrugged. “It gives me a headache when I work on it.”<br /><br /> “Braden, if you need help, I’d be happy to work with you after school.”<br /><br /> He stared at his knees and picked at a loose string of cotton on his pajama bottoms.<br /><br /> “I got a phone call from Mrs. Hamison today.”<br /><br /> His body came alert, though he didn’t look at her. <br /><br /> “She said you’re flunking most of your subjects, and she hasn’t seen any homework from you since school started a month ago.”<br /><br /> He glanced up, his jaw belligerent, but with fear in his eyes.<br /><br /> “What’s going on? I know school isn’t easy, but you’ve never given up before.”<br /><br /> “Middle school’s harder.”<br /><br /> She wanted to touch him, to brush the hair off his forehead and snuggle him close the way she used to when he was small. Back when a hug and a treat shared over the kitchen table was enough to bring the sparkle back to her son. “She thinks we should have your vision tested.”<br /><br /> “Why?”<br /><br /> “She’s noticed some things in class and thinks it might be helpful.”<br /><br /> He shrugged again. “Can I have my game back?”<br /><br /> “You lied to me, son. Again.”<br /><br /> “Sor-ry.”<br /><br /> “You break trust every time you choose to be dishonest. Is that what you want?”<br /><br /> His voice was sullen and he stared at his comforter. “No.”<br /><br /> She touched his leg. “What’s bothering you, honey?”<br /><br /> “I dunno. Can I have my game back?”<br /><br /> She stood up. There was a time for talking and this obviously wasn’t it. “You can have it tomorrow.”<br /><br /> But would tomorrow be any different?<br /></div></textarea><br /></div><br /><br />**************************************************************<br /><br /><a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 84px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" height="204" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" width="126" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is time for the FIRST Blog Tour! On the FIRST day of every month we feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.sherrisand.com/">Sherri Sand</a></span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;">and his/her book:</span> </span></strong></p><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1434799883/">Leave it to Chance</a></span></strong><br />David C. Cook (May 2008) </p><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUpV0QvRTuhlwhqot1yZhFVZ00XOFMafD-3s_dS6mDMaC9w0hSGIKDfhn1HQ6oweTHQgjNS9I-1UO-NIM2yWwWH0ozKrgVRJ_Nk0TYqnOrYQNVYwh9UOvqeiwEftExbxLUOZbOwcxZCa_v/s1600-h/Sherri+Sand.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 181px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUpV0QvRTuhlwhqot1yZhFVZ00XOFMafD-3s_dS6mDMaC9w0hSGIKDfhn1HQ6oweTHQgjNS9I-1UO-NIM2yWwWH0ozKrgVRJ_Nk0TYqnOrYQNVYwh9UOvqeiwEftExbxLUOZbOwcxZCa_v/s200/Sherri+Sand.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272447506284729186" /></a>Sherri Sand is a wife and mother of four young children who keep her scrambling to stay ahead of the spilled milk. When she needs stress relief from wearing all the hats required to clothe, feed and ferry her rambunctious brood, you may find her sitting in a quiet corner of a bistro reading a book (surrounded by chocolate), or running on one of the many trails near her home. Sherri is a member of The Writer’s View and American Christian Fiction Writers. She finds the most joy in writing when the characters take on a life of their own and she becomes the recorder of their stories. She holds a degree in psychology from the University of Oregon where she graduated cum laude. Sherri and her family live in the beautiful Pacific Northwest. <br /><br />She's also a blogger! So stop by and say hi to Sherri at <a href="http://sherrisand.blogspot.com/">Creations in the Sand</a>!<br /><br />Product Details:<br /><br />List Price: $13.99 <br />Paperback: 353 pages <br />Publisher: David C. Cook (May 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 1434799883 <br />ISBN-13: 978-1434799883 <br /><br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /><br /></span></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8LL-4Th0shSuuBHznzNlz7qJIl6PwfacGdadzMGG5lbZvDQijvPTLpdXPLMKM9RX8xAZwK3gBst3kNRB1sG-cvq0-QdBUNzIOx2_RDH5g6W3fqO0L-GTjXecHBxcCaIUFQPG21mFXyNoC/s1600-h/leave+it+to+chance.bmp"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 140px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8LL-4Th0shSuuBHznzNlz7qJIl6PwfacGdadzMGG5lbZvDQijvPTLpdXPLMKM9RX8xAZwK3gBst3kNRB1sG-cvq0-QdBUNzIOx2_RDH5g6W3fqO0L-GTjXecHBxcCaIUFQPG21mFXyNoC/s200/leave+it+to+chance.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272449264410764210" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;"> “A horse? Mom, what am I going to do with a horse?” Just what she and the kids did not need. Sierra Montgomery sagged back against her old kitchen counter, where afternoon sunlight dappled the white metal cabinets across from her. She pressed the phone tight against her ear, hoping she’d heard wrong, as her four-year-old son, Trevor, ate grapes at the kitchen table.<br /><br /> “Miss Libby wanted you to have it. I’d think you’d be delighted, what with the kids and all. You remember Sally, Miss Libby’s daughter? Well, she just called and said it was all laid out in the will. None of their family could figure out who Sierra Lassiter Montgomery was until Sally remembered me from her mom’s church. So she called and sure enough, you were my daughter.” Sierra’s mom tsked into the phone. “Well, you know how Sally is.”<br /><br /> Sierra hadn’t the foggiest how Sally was, or even who she was. She barely remembered Miss Libby from her Sunday school class eons ago.<br /><br /> “She acted pleased that her mother gave you the horse, but I could tell she was miffed. Though what Sally Owens would do with a horse, I’d like to know.” Her mom’s voice was tight and controlled as if they were discussing how to deal with black spot on her Old English roses.<br /><br /> “But I don’t want a horse. You, of all people, should know that after what happened when—” How could her mom even suggest she get a horse? Painful pictures of her childhood friend Molly floated through her mind. <br /><br /> “Honey, accidents like that don’t happen more than once in a lifetime. Besides, Miss Libby wouldn’t have owned a crazy horse.”<br /><br /> Sierra stared out the window where the school bus would soon release her most precious treasures. Her mom never had understood the resounding impact that summer day had made in her life. <br /><br /> “You really need to think of the kids and how much fun they’d have. It’s not like you’d ever be able to afford to buy them one.”<br /><br /> Sierra wished she were having this conversation with Elise rather than her mother. Her best friend would understand the danger she feared in horses, and in her humorous way come up with a sensible plan that would include not keeping the animal.<br /><br /> Her mom, on the other hand, lived life as if she were on one of those moving conveyors at the airport that people can step on to rest their feet yet keep moving toward their destination. As long as everyone kept traveling forward, she could ignore the emotional baggage dragging behind.<br /><br /> “I don’t understand why Miss Libby would give the horse to me.”<br /><br /> “You know how my bingo club visited the Somerset rest home every week? Well, Miss Libby’s been there for years and she always did comment on how horse crazy you were when she taught your Sunday school class.” <br /><br /> “Mom, that was a phase I went through when I was ten and found National Velvet and Black Beauty at the library. I haven’t seen Miss Libby since middle school.”<br /><br /> “Obviously you were special to Miss Libby. I’d think you might be a little more grateful.”<br /><br /> Deep breath, Sierra told herself. “I am grateful.” An errant grape rolled next to her toe. Trevor’s blond head was bent, intent on arranging the fruit like green soldiers around the edge of his plate. Sierra tossed the grape into the sink and considered how to respond to her mom. She was a dear, but sometimes the woman was like dry kindling on a hot day, and one little spark…. “I’m just not sure that owning a horse would be a wise move at this point in our lives.”<br /><br /> The front door slammed and Sierra felt the walls shudder with the thud. The 3:00 p.m. stampede through the house meant it was time to get off the phone and determine how to get rid of a horse before the kids found out about it.<br /><br /> Her mom sighed. “It’s too bad Sally won’t keep the horse at her place for you, but she said her husband wants the horse gone. He wants to fill the pasture with sheep.”<br /><br /> Sheep? A kitchen chair scraped over the linoleum as Trevor scooted back from the table and dashed for the living room. “Mommy’s got a horse! Mommy’s got a horse!” Wonderful. Little ears, big mouth. <br /><br /> Braden and Emory shot into the kitchen, bright eyes dancing in tandem. Their words tangled together in fevered excitement despite the fact that she was on the phone.<br /><br /> “Where is it?” Braden’s eleven-year-old grin split his face, and his dark hair was rumpled and sweat streaked, likely from a fevered game of basketball during last recess.<br /><br /> She held a hand up to still the questions as her mom went on about the sheep that Sally’s husband probably did not need. <br /><br /> “We have a horse?” Nine-year-old Emory, her blonde hair still neat in its purple headband, fluttered in front of her mom, delight and hope blooming on her face.<br /><br /> Despite the fear of horses building deep in Sierra’s gut, her children’s excitement was a little contagious. She wished Miss Libby had willed her a cat.<br /><br /> Sierra ran her hand down Emory’s soft cheek and whispered. “I’ll be off the phone in a minute, sweetie.” <br /><br /> “Can we ride it?” Em looked at her with elated eyes.<br /><br /> Braden tossed his backpack on the table. “Where are we going to keep it?”<br /><br /> The kids circled her, jabbering with excited questions. Sierra rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers. “I gotta go, Mom. I’ve got to break some cowboy hearts.”<br /><br /> The kids clamored around her, Braden taking the lead with an arm draped across her shoulder. When had he gotten so big? “Do we have a horse, Mom?” He asked the question with a lopsided grin, a foreshadow of the adolescence that had been peeking through lately. The preteen in him didn’t truly believe they had a horse—he was old enough to realize the odds—but little-boy eagerness clung to his smile. <br /><br /> “That would be yes and a no.”<br /><br /> “What? Mom!” he complained.<br /><br /> “I was given a horse, but we’re not going to keep him.” Braden’s arm slid off her shoulder, a scowl replacing his smile. “Why not?”<br /><br /> “Someone gave you a horse?” Emory ignored her brother’s attitude and flashed her most persuasive grin. “Can we keep him? Please!” <br /><br /> Sierra smoothed her hand over the silky hair and leaned close to her daughter’s face as Emory went on. “I think we should get four horses so we each have one. We could go trail riding. Cameron’s mom has horses, and they go riding all the time as a family.”<br /><br /> “We’re not a family anymore,” Braden cut in. “We stopped being a family when mom divorced dad.”<br /><br /> A shard of pain drove into Sierra’s gut. She hadn’t had time to brace for that one. Braden’s anger at the divorce had been building like an old steam engine lately.<br /><br /> “That’s not fair!” Outrage darkened Emory’s features. “It’s not Mom’s fault!”<br /><br /> Sarcasm colored Braden’s voice. “Oh, so it’s all Dad’s fault?” <br /><br /> Sierra saw the confusion that swept over her daughter’s face. She was fiercely loyal to both parents and didn’t know how to defend them against each other.<br /><br /> Sierra spoke in a firm tone. “Braden, that’s enough!”<br /><br /> He scowled at her again. “Whatever.”<br /><br /> Sierra held his gaze until he glanced away.<br /><br /> “Guys, we’re not going to play the blame game. We have plenty to be thankful for, and that’s what is important.”<br /><br /> Braden’s attitude kept pouring it on. “Boy, and we have so much. Spaghetti for dinner every other night.”<br /><br /> “So what, Braden-Maden!” Emory made a face and stuck her tongue out at him.<br /><br /> “No more fighting or you two can go to your rooms.” Her kids were not perfect, but they used to like each other. Something had changed. Her gut said it was her ex-husband, Michael, but what if she was falling into the whole “blame the dad” thing herself? What if she was really the problem? Two weeks without a job had added stress and worry. Had she stopped hugging them as often in between scouring the want ads and trying to manage a home and bills?<br /><br /> “Mom?” There was a quaver in Trevor’s soft voice.<br /><br /> “Yes, honey?” Sierra gave him a gentle smile.<br /><br /> “Can we keep the horse?”<br /><br /> Emory’s blue gaze darted to meet hers, a plea in them. Braden sat with his arms crossed over his chest, but his ears had pricked up. <br /><br /> Sierra looked at them, wanting them to understand and knowing they wouldn’t. “None of us know how to handle or care for a horse, so it wouldn’t be safe to keep him.”<br /><br /> Emory’s face lit up. “Cameron’s mom could teach us.”<br /><br /> “Honey, it’s not that simple. We can’t afford an animal that big. He probably eats as much in groceries as we do, and it would be very expensive to rent a place for him to live.”<br /><br /> “I could mow yards.” Anger at his sister forgotten, Braden turned a hopeful face to her. “We could help out.”<br /><br /> Emory jumped onto the working bandwagon. “Yeah. I could do laundry or something for the neighbors.”<br /><br /> Braden drilled his sister a look that said idiot idea but didn’t say anything.<br /><br /> Trevor bounced in his chair, eager to be a part of keeping the horse. “I could wash cars.”<br /><br /> “Those are great ideas, but they won’t bring in quite enough, especially since it’s getting too cold to mow lawns or wash cars.”<br /><br /> “You just don’t want to keep the horse, Mom,” Braden said. “I get it. End of story.”<br /><br /> “Honey, I’d love for you to have a horse, but when I was young I had a friend—”<br /><br /> Emory spoke in a helpful tone. “We know. Grandma told us about the accident.”<br /><br /> They knew? Wasn’t the story hers to share? “When did Grandma tell you?”<br /><br /> Braden’s voice took on a breezy air. “I don’t know. A while ago. Come on, Mom. We’re not going to do something dumb like your friend did.”<br /><br /> Defensiveness rose inside. “She didn’t do anything dumb. It was the horse that—”<br /><br /> “So because something bad happened to one person, your kids can never do anything fun for the rest of their lives.”<br /><br /> Sierra gave him a look. “Or you learn from your mistakes and help your kids to do the same.”<br /><br /> Braden rolled his eyes at her. <br /><br /> Worry drew lines across her daughter’s forehead. “Are you going to sell him?”<br /><br /> “Yes, Em. So we’re not going to discuss this anymore. You and Braden have homework to do.” At the chorus of groans she held her hands up. “Okay, I guess I’ll have to eat Grandma’s apple pie all by myself.”<br /><br /> Braden grabbed his backpack and slowly dragged it across the floor toward the stairs, annoyance in his voice. “We’re going.” Emory trotted past him up the stairs. <br /><br /> Trevor remained behind, one arm wrapped around her thigh. “I don’t have any homework.” <br /><br /> She squatted and pulled him in for a hug. “Nope, you sure don’t, bud.”<br /><br /> He leaned back. “Do I get a horse?”<br /><br /> Sierra distracted him by inching her fingers up his ribs. “What, Trev?”<br /><br /> He tried to talk around his giggles. “Do I get—Mom!” Her fingers found the tickle spots under his arms and he laughed, his eyes squinted shut and mouth opened wide. She found all his giggle spots, then turned on Sesame Street as the second distraction. Good old Bert and Ernie.<br /><br /> Now what? She had roughly forty-five minutes to figure out how she was going to get rid of a horse and not be a complete zero in her kids’ eyes. <br /><br /> She eyed the phone and made her next move. Five minutes later a white Mazda whipped into her driveway. Sierra hurried out the front door waving her arms to stop Elise before she could start her ritual honking for the kids.<br /><br /> Wide eyed, her platinum blonde friend stared, one long plum-colored nail hovering above the “ooga” horn on the dash. “What?”<br /><br /> “I don’t want the kids to know you’re here.”<br /><br /> Wicked delight spread across her perfectly made-up face. Light plum shadow matched her nails. Tomorrow, both eye shadow and nails could be green. “Let me guess! Mr. Pellum asked you out!” <br /><br /> “Nooooo!” Mr. Pellum was a teacher Sierra and Elise had had a crush on in seventh grade.<br /><br /> “Ummm … you robbed a bank and need me to watch the kids while you fly to Tahiti?”<br /><br /> Sierra gave her a mock-serious look. “Done?”<br /><br /> Elise tilted her head. “Can I get out of the car?”<br /><br /> Sierra glanced toward the house. All was still silent. “Yes, you may.”<br /><br /> Deadpan, Elise nodded and opened the door. “Then I’m done for now.” Her plump body, swathed in a creamy suit with a purple scarf draped across one shoulder, rose gracefully from the small two-seater.<br /><br /> Sierra closed the door for her, then leaned against it. Elise had a way of removing the extraneous and reducing a problem down to the bare essentials. “Elise, I’m in a predicament.”<br /><br /> “Hon, I’ve been trying to tell you that for years.”<br /><br /> Sierra shook her head. “I don’t think you could have seen this one coming even with your crystal ball.”<br /><br /> Elise gave her the spinster teacher look through narrowed eyes. “I don’t think I like the implications of that.” <br /><br /> Sierra held her hands out. “You are the queen of mind-reading, according to my children.”<br /><br /> Elise chuckled. “It’s a good thing I was just headed out for a latte break when you called. Now what’s the big emergency?” She owned a high-end clothing store for plus-sized women in downtown Eugene.<br /><br /> “A horse.”<br /><br /> Elise glanced around as if one or two might be lurking behind a tree.<br /><br /> “A herd of them or just one?”<br /><br /> “One. Full-sized. Living and breathing.”<br /><br /> “I believe I’m missing some pieces here. Is it moving in with you? Holding one of the children hostage? What?”<br /><br /> Sierra breathed out a slight chuckle and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “You’re not going to believe this, but I inherited it.”<br /><br /> Her friend’s eyes grew wide, emphasizing the lushly mascaraed lashes. “Like someone died and gave you their horse?”<br /><br /> Sierra nodded, raising her brows. “And the kids want to keep him.”<br /><br /> Furrows emerged across Elise’s forehead. “Who is the idiot that told them about the horse?”<br /><br /> Sierra tilted her head with a look that only best friends could give each other.<br /><br /> Elise’s perfectly painted lips smirked. “Moving along, then. Why don’t you keep it? The kids would love it. Heaven knows they deserve it.” She clapped her hands together. “Oh, oh! They could get into 4-H, and Braden could learn to barrel race. That kid would think he’d won the jackpot. Emory and Trevor could get a pig or some of those show roosters.”<br /><br /> Sierra let the idea machine wind down. “I don’t think so.”<br /><br /> “Angora rabbits?”<br /><br /> “No farm animals.”<br /><br /> Elise’s mouth perked into humorous pout. “Sierra, you’re such a spoilsport. Those kids need a pet.”<br /><br /> “A hamster is a pet. A horse is not.” <br /><br /> Diva Elise took the stage, hands on her ample hips. “Don’t tell me you didn’t want a horse growing up. Remember, I was the one who had to sit and watch National Velvet with you time ad nauseam. You’ve said yourself that Braden needs something to take his mind off the problems he’s having at school and with his dad.”<br /><br /> Guilt, a wheelbarrow load of it, dumped on Sierra. “You are supposed to be helping me, Elise, not making it worse. I want to get rid of this horse and …” her eyes dodged away from her friend, “… you know.”<br /><br /> “Mmm-hmm. And still look like Super Mom in your children’s eyes.”<br /><br /> Sierra nodded, but couldn’t find the nerve to say yes.<br /><br /> “Sierra Montgomery, those children have been to heck and back in the last couple years and you’re willing to deny them the pleasure of owning their own free horse because … because of what?”<br /><br /> Sierra stared at the ground for a moment, feeling a tangle of emotions rise within. She let her eyes rest on Elise’s and said quietly, “Fear? Terror? Hysteria?”<br /><br /> A look of puzzlement, then understanding settled on Elise’s face, smoothing away the annoyance. “Molly.” <br /><br /> Sierra nodded. “I won’t put my children in that kind of danger.”<br /><br /> Elise leaned forward and grabbed Sierra’s hands, holding them tight. “Oh, hon. That was a long time ago. Don’t let your life be ruled by the what-ifs. There’s a lot of living left to do. And your kids need to see you taking life by storm, taking chances, not hiding in the shadows.”<br /><br /> “That’s easy for you to say. You were voted most likely to parachute off the Empire State Building.”<br /><br /> Elise gave her a cheeky grin, both dimples winking at her. “We could do it tandem!”<br /><br /> “If you see me jump off the Empire State Building you’ll know my lobotomy was successful, because there is no way in this lifetime you’ll catch this body leaving good sense behind!” Sierra heard the words come from her own mouth and stared at her friend in wonder. “Oh, my gosh. That was so my mom.”<br /><br /> “It was bound to happen, hon.”<br /><br /> Was she serious? “You think I’m turning into her?” Sierra brought a hand to her throat and quickly dropped it. How many times had she seen her mom use the same gesture?<br /><br /> Elise laughed. “You need to stop fretting and just live. We all turn out like our mothers in some respect.”<br /><br /> “All except you. You’re nothing like Vivian.”<br /><br /> “Other than the drinking, smoking, and carousing, I’m exactly like her.”<br /><br /> Sierra lifted a brow. Her mom had rarely let her go to Elise’s house when they were growing up—and for good reason. Elise struck a pose like a fashion model. “Okay, I’m the anti-Vivian.” She gave Sierra a soft smile. “All funnin’ aside, I really think you should keep the horse.”<br /><br /> “I’m not keeping the horse. And even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.” Sierra took a settling breath and stared at the tree over Elise’s shoulder.<br /><br /> “Michael still hasn’t paid?”<br /><br /> Elise knew more about her finances than her mom did. “He paid, but the check bounced again. So now he’s two months behind in child support.”<br /><br /> “Have you heard if Pollan’s is rehiring?”<br /><br /> “They’re not.” Jarrett’s, the local grocery store where she worked for the three years since the divorce had been recently bought out by Pollan’s. They had laid off the majority of the checkers with the possibility of rehiring some. <br /><br /> Elise cringed as if she was bracing herself for a blow. “And the unemployment fiasco?”<br /><br /> Sierra shut her eyes. “Mr. Jarrett did not pay into our unemployment insurance, so there is no benefit for us to draw from. Yes, it was illegal, and yes he will pay, but it may take months, if not years, for various lawyers and judges to beat it out of him.” She gave Elise a tired smile. “That’s the version minus all the legalese.”<br /><br /> “So the layoffs are final, no unemployment bennies, and you’re out of a job.”<br /><br /> “Momentarily. The résumé has been dusted off and polished.” She gave a wry grin.<br /><br /> “I wish I could hire you at Deluxe Couture, but I promised Nora fulltime work. And besides, your cute little buns would drive my clientele away.”<br /><br /> Sierra waved a hand over her jeans and sweatshirt. “Your clientele would outshine me any day.”<br /><br /> “You sell yourself far too short.” Elise glanced at the hefty rhinestone encrusted watch on her wrist. “Anything else I can do for you? Help the kids with their homework? Babysit while you sweep some tall, dark, handsome man off his feet?”<br /><br /> Sierra laughed. “And where is this dream man going to come from?” <br /><br /> Elise gave a breezy wave of her hand and opened the car door. “Oh, he’ll turn up. You’re too cute to stay single. I actually have someone in mind. Pavo Marcello. He’s a new sales rep from one of my favorite lines. I’ll see if he’s free Friday night. You aren’t doing anything, are you?” <br /><br /> “Hold on!” Sierra stepped in front of the car door to keep her friend from leaving. “First, I’m not looking. Second, given my history, I’m not the best judge of character. I’ve already struck out once in the man department.” She pointed to her face with both index fingers. “Not anxious to try again. Third, you just told me I’m turning into my mom, which makes me definitely not dating material.”<br /><br /> A twist of Elise’s lips signaled a thought. “You know, now that I think about it, I believe he has a boyfriend.” She shook her head and lowered herself into the car. “We’ll keep looking. I’m sure Sir Knight will turn up.” <br /><br /> Sierra shut the car door and grinned down at her friend. “And what about finding your knight?”<br /><br /> Elise gave her a bright smile. “Mr. Pellum is already taken. You really need to find a way to keep that horse; it’ll be your first noble sacrifice.”<br /><br /> “First?”<br /><br /> The little car backed up, and Elise spoke over the windshield. “The others don’t count.”<br /><br /> Sierra stared at the retreating car. There was no way she was keeping that horse. <br /> <br /><br /><br /> After dinner, Sierra crept into Braden’s room. He sat on the bed intent on the Game Boy in his lap, the tinny sound of hard rock bleeding out of his earphones. She waved a hand and he glanced up. She waited and with a look of preteen exasperation he finally pulled the headphones to his shoulders.<br /><br /> “What, Mom?”<br /><br /> “I just wanted to say good night.”<br /><br /> “Good night.” His hands started to readjust the music back into position.<br /><br /> “I looked at your homework.”<br /><br /> “You got into my backpack? Isn’t that like against the law or something? You’re always telling us not to get into your stuff.”<br /><br /> She crossed her arms. Frustration and worry gnawed at her. “You lied to me about doing your assignment. Why, honey?”<br /><br /> He ignored her and started playing his Game Boy.<br /><br /> She took one step and snatched the game from his hands.<br /><br /> “Hey!”<br /><br /> “I want some respect when I talk to you, Braden.”<br /><br /> His chin sank toward his chest, his gaze fixed on his bed, his voice low. “I didn’t want to do it.”<br /><br /> She sat next to him, her voice soft. “Is it too hard?”<br /><br /> He shrugged. “It gives me a headache when I work on it.”<br /><br /> “Braden, if you need help, I’d be happy to work with you after school.”<br /><br /> He stared at his knees and picked at a loose string of cotton on his pajama bottoms.<br /><br /> “I got a phone call from Mrs. Hamison today.”<br /><br /> His body came alert, though he didn’t look at her. <br /><br /> “She said you’re flunking most of your subjects, and she hasn’t seen any homework from you since school started a month ago.”<br /><br /> He glanced up, his jaw belligerent, but with fear in his eyes.<br /><br /> “What’s going on? I know school isn’t easy, but you’ve never given up before.”<br /><br /> “Middle school’s harder.”<br /><br /> She wanted to touch him, to brush the hair off his forehead and snuggle him close the way she used to when he was small. Back when a hug and a treat shared over the kitchen table was enough to bring the sparkle back to her son. “She thinks we should have your vision tested.”<br /><br /> “Why?”<br /><br /> “She’s noticed some things in class and thinks it might be helpful.”<br /><br /> He shrugged again. “Can I have my game back?”<br /><br /> “You lied to me, son. Again.”<br /><br /> “Sor-ry.”<br /><br /> “You break trust every time you choose to be dishonest. Is that what you want?”<br /><br /> His voice was sullen and he stared at his comforter. “No.”<br /><br /> She touched his leg. “What’s bothering you, honey?”<br /><br /> “I dunno. Can I have my game back?”<br /><br /> She stood up. There was a time for talking and this obviously wasn’t it. “You can have it tomorrow.”<br /><br /> But would tomorrow be any different?<br /></div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-52987531844791424572008-11-17T23:21:00.000-05:002008-12-10T11:49:50.554-05:00Infidel--Graphic Novel: The Lost Books Series by Ted Dekker<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s1600-h/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg"><a href="http://teenfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178594274707613778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s200/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg" border="0" /></a></a><br /><br />It's the 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.teddekker.com/site.php">Ted Dekker</a></font></strong><br /><p></p><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="160"><font color="#009900" size="4"></font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"><font size="2"><font color="#009900">and his book:</font> </font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"></strong></div></font><p></p><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="7"><font size="3"></font></strong></div></font><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595546049/">Infidel--Graphic Novel: The Lost Books Series</a></font></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Thomas Nelson (November 11, 2008) </p><br /><p align="center"></p><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><font color="#ff6600"></font></font></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><p></p><font color="#ff6600">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</font> </font></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuVsJRwrcVVsFxxrgt7pQLLMRIxXf2U2zZ6qI78gtjtN0BSXowJTvO_c-T9wB3Mj__YYuuWLQ5EG9LWb7QB7BttRUDmc2J7t92cz7z_o0Hcs1hfMk7kIYUXDqtWgvJZMVEh86VKSA4/s1600-h/gjackson.jpeg"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvVOLJFOm7RgwfGj_mHje7g7xh1-X33otpHE_WtkRd3NjkwYdWz2kBQ_yOCddHPHhh2A_20QqwGGFlKuT2lJCcFY3EQ6F6sgsS-ew_ertay6AZWxWEzf0EpwmabUHHi2-aw1JVLD7gBgo/s1600-h/ted_dekker.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190437266134896770" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvVOLJFOm7RgwfGj_mHje7g7xh1-X33otpHE_WtkRd3NjkwYdWz2kBQ_yOCddHPHhh2A_20QqwGGFlKuT2lJCcFY3EQ6F6sgsS-ew_ertay6AZWxWEzf0EpwmabUHHi2-aw1JVLD7gBgo/s320/ted_dekker.jpg" border="0" /></a>Ted is the son of missionaries John and Helen Dekker, whose incredible story of life among headhunters in Indonesia has been told in several books. Surrounded by the vivid colors of the jungle and a myriad of cultures, each steeped in their own interpretation of life and faith, Dekker received a first-class education on human nature and behavior. This, he believes, is the foundation of his writing.<br /><br />After graduating from a multi-cultural high school, he took up permanent residence in the United States to study Religion and Philosophy. After earning his Bachelor's Degree, Dekker entered the corporate world in management for a large healthcare company in California. Dekker was quickly recognized as a talent in the field of marketing and was soon promoted to Director of Marketing. This experience gave him a background which enabled him to eventually form his own company and steadily climb the corporate ladder.<br /><br />Since 1997, Dekker has written full-time. He states that each time he writes, he finds his understanding of life and love just a little clearer and his expression of that understanding a little more vivid. To see a complete list of Dekker's work, visit The Works section of TedDekker.com.<br /><br />Here are some of his latest titles:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595543597/">Chosen (The Lost Books, Book 1) (The Books of History Chronicles) </a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595540075/">Adam</a><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0979590000/"><br />Black: The Birth of Evil (The Circle Trilogy Graphic Novels, Book 1)<br /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595543678"><br />Saint<br /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dwi9HOUwpgawSHkDHMbEm18mHDhxjuq4yfD1bquM6kkwyHErzpGi6Bcq4X7CNtfdeCv_cVPXF0tOBmaMKJAcZaR8DNIotYpevM01oT7FhK1r9TqHCLHVetusxZbgGCKsj6dxyf6jmsc/s1600-h/infidel+cover.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dwi9HOUwpgawSHkDHMbEm18mHDhxjuq4yfD1bquM6kkwyHErzpGi6Bcq4X7CNtfdeCv_cVPXF0tOBmaMKJAcZaR8DNIotYpevM01oT7FhK1r9TqHCLHVetusxZbgGCKsj6dxyf6jmsc/s200/infidel+cover.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269844605176170594" /></a>Product Details<br /><br />List Price:$15.99 <br />Reading level: Young Adult<br />Paperback: 136 pages <br />Publisher: Thomas Nelson (November 11, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 1595546049 <br />ISBN-13: 978-1595546043 <br /><br /><br /><font color="#ffcc00"><strong><font size="5">AND NOW...THE FIRST TWO PAGES:</font> </strong><br /></font><br />(Click Pictures to Zoom!)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvSDcFwU0ro7AYbXqWFVfaQQ75GFo7hLrxaA9OI4IH5J15K6lNZhkA2_KixeyGCLFgVQ8L8rbiYs-VtqFN2b4G40jrH5MyrFJtcBrOXKuwZ_P61Syf_COfFrxj3jyZbfbm3ad-37Jqe0/s1600-h/Infidel+1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvSDcFwU0ro7AYbXqWFVfaQQ75GFo7hLrxaA9OI4IH5J15K6lNZhkA2_KixeyGCLFgVQ8L8rbiYs-VtqFN2b4G40jrH5MyrFJtcBrOXKuwZ_P61Syf_COfFrxj3jyZbfbm3ad-37Jqe0/s320/Infidel+1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269845790634911650" /></a><br /><br /><p></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhngY7Sv5fzwIC3hoMgGBb-BCLMzxvGMjUEioKIfYB_e52ZsZ2bBjZ8otjnDLiCpWzX-9z4PmYRCmFJLN9L2etQEKkOXRGxHZgVx-PEdrBa_g3vDV0Fxu_LGK_0naBamvkMC2hlJbjHyrE/s1600-h/Infidel+2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhngY7Sv5fzwIC3hoMgGBb-BCLMzxvGMjUEioKIfYB_e52ZsZ2bBjZ8otjnDLiCpWzX-9z4PmYRCmFJLN9L2etQEKkOXRGxHZgVx-PEdrBa_g3vDV0Fxu_LGK_0naBamvkMC2hlJbjHyrE/s320/Infidel+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269845894632576994" /></a></textarea><br /></div><br /><br />*****************************************************************************<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s1600-h/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg"><a href="http://teenfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178594274707613778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s200/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg" border="0" /></a></a><br /><br />It's the 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.teddekker.com/site.php">Ted Dekker</a></font></strong><br /><p></p><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="160"><font color="#009900" size="4"></font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"><font size="2"><font color="#009900">and his book:</font> </font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"></strong></div></font><p></p><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="7"><font size="3"></font></strong></div></font><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595546049/">Infidel--Graphic Novel: The Lost Books Series</a></font></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Thomas Nelson (November 11, 2008) </p><br /><p align="center"></p><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><font color="#ff6600"></font></font></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><p></p><font color="#ff6600">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</font> </font></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuVsJRwrcVVsFxxrgt7pQLLMRIxXf2U2zZ6qI78gtjtN0BSXowJTvO_c-T9wB3Mj__YYuuWLQ5EG9LWb7QB7BttRUDmc2J7t92cz7z_o0Hcs1hfMk7kIYUXDqtWgvJZMVEh86VKSA4/s1600-h/gjackson.jpeg"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvVOLJFOm7RgwfGj_mHje7g7xh1-X33otpHE_WtkRd3NjkwYdWz2kBQ_yOCddHPHhh2A_20QqwGGFlKuT2lJCcFY3EQ6F6sgsS-ew_ertay6AZWxWEzf0EpwmabUHHi2-aw1JVLD7gBgo/s1600-h/ted_dekker.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190437266134896770" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvVOLJFOm7RgwfGj_mHje7g7xh1-X33otpHE_WtkRd3NjkwYdWz2kBQ_yOCddHPHhh2A_20QqwGGFlKuT2lJCcFY3EQ6F6sgsS-ew_ertay6AZWxWEzf0EpwmabUHHi2-aw1JVLD7gBgo/s320/ted_dekker.jpg" border="0" /></a>Ted is the son of missionaries John and Helen Dekker, whose incredible story of life among headhunters in Indonesia has been told in several books. Surrounded by the vivid colors of the jungle and a myriad of cultures, each steeped in their own interpretation of life and faith, Dekker received a first-class education on human nature and behavior. This, he believes, is the foundation of his writing.<br /><br />After graduating from a multi-cultural high school, he took up permanent residence in the United States to study Religion and Philosophy. After earning his Bachelor's Degree, Dekker entered the corporate world in management for a large healthcare company in California. Dekker was quickly recognized as a talent in the field of marketing and was soon promoted to Director of Marketing. This experience gave him a background which enabled him to eventually form his own company and steadily climb the corporate ladder.<br /><br />Since 1997, Dekker has written full-time. He states that each time he writes, he finds his understanding of life and love just a little clearer and his expression of that understanding a little more vivid. To see a complete list of Dekker's work, visit The Works section of TedDekker.com.<br /><br />Here are some of his latest titles:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595543597/">Chosen (The Lost Books, Book 1) (The Books of History Chronicles) </a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595540075/">Adam</a><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0979590000/"><br />Black: The Birth of Evil (The Circle Trilogy Graphic Novels, Book 1)<br /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595543678"><br />Saint<br /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dwi9HOUwpgawSHkDHMbEm18mHDhxjuq4yfD1bquM6kkwyHErzpGi6Bcq4X7CNtfdeCv_cVPXF0tOBmaMKJAcZaR8DNIotYpevM01oT7FhK1r9TqHCLHVetusxZbgGCKsj6dxyf6jmsc/s1600-h/infidel+cover.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dwi9HOUwpgawSHkDHMbEm18mHDhxjuq4yfD1bquM6kkwyHErzpGi6Bcq4X7CNtfdeCv_cVPXF0tOBmaMKJAcZaR8DNIotYpevM01oT7FhK1r9TqHCLHVetusxZbgGCKsj6dxyf6jmsc/s200/infidel+cover.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269844605176170594" /></a>Product Details<br /><br />List Price:$15.99 <br />Reading level: Young Adult<br />Paperback: 136 pages <br />Publisher: Thomas Nelson (November 11, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 1595546049 <br />ISBN-13: 978-1595546043 <br /><br /><br /><font color="#ffcc00"><strong><font size="5">AND NOW...THE FIRST TWO PAGES:</font> </strong><br /></font><br />(Click Pictures to Zoom!)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvSDcFwU0ro7AYbXqWFVfaQQ75GFo7hLrxaA9OI4IH5J15K6lNZhkA2_KixeyGCLFgVQ8L8rbiYs-VtqFN2b4G40jrH5MyrFJtcBrOXKuwZ_P61Syf_COfFrxj3jyZbfbm3ad-37Jqe0/s1600-h/Infidel+1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvSDcFwU0ro7AYbXqWFVfaQQ75GFo7hLrxaA9OI4IH5J15K6lNZhkA2_KixeyGCLFgVQ8L8rbiYs-VtqFN2b4G40jrH5MyrFJtcBrOXKuwZ_P61Syf_COfFrxj3jyZbfbm3ad-37Jqe0/s320/Infidel+1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269845790634911650" /></a><br /><br /><p></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhngY7Sv5fzwIC3hoMgGBb-BCLMzxvGMjUEioKIfYB_e52ZsZ2bBjZ8otjnDLiCpWzX-9z4PmYRCmFJLN9L2etQEKkOXRGxHZgVx-PEdrBa_g3vDV0Fxu_LGK_0naBamvkMC2hlJbjHyrE/s1600-h/Infidel+2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhngY7Sv5fzwIC3hoMgGBb-BCLMzxvGMjUEioKIfYB_e52ZsZ2bBjZ8otjnDLiCpWzX-9z4PmYRCmFJLN9L2etQEKkOXRGxHZgVx-PEdrBa_g3vDV0Fxu_LGK_0naBamvkMC2hlJbjHyrE/s320/Infidel+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269845894632576994" /></a>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-69848888965913043712008-11-13T00:16:00.001-05:002008-12-10T11:49:51.162-05:00Godly Love: A Rose Planted in the Desert of our Hearts by Stephen G. Post<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s1600-h/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg"></a><a href="http://nonfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179647009365145890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s200/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg" border="0" /></a><br />It's the 15th, time for the Non~FIRST blog tour!(Non~FIRST will be merging with FIRST Wild Card Tours on January 1, 2009...if interested in joining, click <a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">HERE</a>!)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><br /><a href="http://www.stephengpost.com/">Stephen G. Post </a></span></strong><br /><p></p><br /><strong><span style="font-size:160;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#009900;">and his book:</span> </span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"></strong></div></span><p></p><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:7;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></strong></div></span><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1599471515/">Godly Love: A Rose Planted in the Desert of our Hearts</a></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Templeton Foundation Press (September 26, 2008)<br /></p><br /><p align="center"></p><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><br /><p></p><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWG3IsJDmHW5BR0PgxL4YSAf8ZUj11HRLFX9cmaJ8MaV9LzPSEo9Ug_PufJIzsFGH8RcMAXLqFykt25_yL_MbTCKXjKjoLIqeZL3cvJzAH15gdEGp7FhLAfeJek2bFkM3zNOBjr51o/s1600-h/stephen_post.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 120px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWG3IsJDmHW5BR0PgxL4YSAf8ZUj11HRLFX9cmaJ8MaV9LzPSEo9Ug_PufJIzsFGH8RcMAXLqFykt25_yL_MbTCKXjKjoLIqeZL3cvJzAH15gdEGp7FhLAfeJek2bFkM3zNOBjr51o/s200/stephen_post.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268006340323352866" /></a><strong><a href="http://www.stephengpost.com/">Stephen G. Post</a></strong> has spent a lifetime studying love in its theological, scientific, and practical dimensions. He is president of the Institute for Research on Unlimited Love (IRUL) and professor of bioethics and family medicine in the School of Medicine, Case Western Reserve University. Dr. Post has published one hundred thirty articles in peerreviewed journals and has written or edited fifteen scholarly books on subjects relating to the dynamic of love in our lives. His most recent book is Why Good Things Happen to Good People, coauthored with Jill Neimark. Dr. Post has chaired nine national conferences in his field and has received the Distinguished Service Award from the National Board of the Alzheimers Association. He lives in Shaker Heights, Ohio, with his wife, Mitsuko, and their two children, Emma and Andrew. <br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: $12.95<br />Paperback: 128 pages <br />Publisher: Templeton Foundation Press (September 26, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 1599471515 <br />ISBN-13: 978-1599471518 <br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></div></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3KxRnpjaoreUq7mo7yfs1VRX_P1lar85pznN2jzpynE8IWG48eVDXFeYDlPbPQsz23fEhT2jTX57kNBSx6eYxyhlN2wjuOUS5_CLM4xSORDFHcME2JoawCdkChZDvfAy8Oew3VL9x/s1600-h/godly+love.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3KxRnpjaoreUq7mo7yfs1VRX_P1lar85pznN2jzpynE8IWG48eVDXFeYDlPbPQsz23fEhT2jTX57kNBSx6eYxyhlN2wjuOUS5_CLM4xSORDFHcME2JoawCdkChZDvfAy8Oew3VL9x/s200/godly+love.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268005788192874354" /></a><div style="OVERFLOW: auto; HEIGHT: 307px">Godly Love and Human Hatreds <br /><br /><br /> In March 2007 I had the honor of spending several days north of Paris with the great Jean Vanier, then in his early eighties. Jean had founded L’Arche (“The Ark”) some four decades earlier, when he was inspired by an experience of Godly love to invite two men with cognitive developmental disabilities into his home. Over the years, L’Arche homes have flourished worldwide as volunteers dwell with the disabled in communities of faith, prayer, and Godly love. I had attended meals in L’Arche homes in Cleveland on a number of occasions, and I had heard the grace said before eating, the hymns sung, and the energy of love that was palpable in the lives of those caregivers and in the experience of those they cared for and lived with. <br /><br /> Jean struck me as one of the most loving, Godly, and humble men I had ever met. He spoke quietly and brilliantly, and he exuded an infectious sense of fun. On one Sunday evening there was a Catholic Mass in an old renovated chapel from the fourteenth century. About one hundred people had gathered there, mostly L’Arche volunteers and people with disabilities. I saw a volunteer wheel one older man named David up to the priest for communion. That night, at dinner, I asked Jean what he thought David had gotten from receiving communion, for David was probably the most severely disabled and agitated person I had encountered there. Jean said, “Whenever David receives communion, he becomes more peaceful, and that is the power of God’s love. Remember, Stephen, we do not know much about the mystery of God’s love and presence.” Jean’s pure, enduring, and expansive love clearly encompassed such a severely disabled man, and counted him among God’s blessed. <br /><br /><br />Evil in God’s Name <br /><br /><br /> When I encounter a man like Jean Vanier, I feel that we must all stop thinking of God as the epitome of awesome power and strength in the conventional sense. This convention may be partly true, but we need to set it aside; otherwise, we begin to think of God primarily in terms of might, and human arrogance propels us into thinking that because my God is stronger than your God, violence is justified in God’s name. If we think about God in terms of power, then religions become tainted with human arrogance. Far too many prayerful people are carrying rifles in the spirit of pure hatred and pretending that their hatred is somehow divinely sanctioned. This amounts to shallow religiosity, which only causes pain and undermines Godly love. The Lord of power and might is first and foremost the author and giver of all good things, the Divine Entity who nourishes us in love and brings forth from us good works. <br /><br /> We need to stop thinking that our definitions of God are finite and that our knowledge of God’s will is total. Our definitions, even if divinely inspired, are still products of the human mind, and we can never fully understand the Divine. Religious doctrines, if adhered to arrogantly, tend to separate us from one another and shatter the unifying spirit of Godly love that all spirituality seeks to cultivate. When religions place doctrine and force above love, they foment massive evil—from torture to terror, from coercion to conflict. Religious wars exemplify human tribalism and arrogance, both of which bring out the worst in us. <br /><br /> Hatred, hostility, and revenge are such strong emotions that they can crush our fragile sense of Godly love. The pseudospirituality of hatred runs counter to all genuine spirituality, which is always an adventure in love, an expression of love’s deepest desires. <br /><br /><br />Countering Hatred with Godly Love <br /><br /><br /> The love of power can sometimes overwhelm the power of love, so we must remain humble and guard against this. No matter how little we know about God, we can still experience Godly love. Only by taking Godly love much more seriously than we do now—even inculcating a profound love for one another among ancient, sworn enemies—can we expect to head off a spiral of widespread destruction. <br /><br /> Most of religion and spirituality is rooted in healing emotions, grounded in love. We will never achieve sustained peace in the twenty-first century unless all religions live up to those intrinsic ideals of Godly love, applying those ideals to all of humankind without exception. <br /><br /> The world shows no signs of becoming any less religious; we as humans will always have a passion for Ultimate Truth that provides safe haven and emotional security in times of distress. Yet we will only have a human future if we infuse universal Godly love into the rituals that religions create, and express through our actions spiritual emotions such as forgiveness and compassion. If our religions fail to promote universal Godly love, violence will sweep us all away in a cataclysmic firestorm. <br /><br /><br />Promoting Harmony and Peace <br /><br /><br /> Godly love alone can realign the world in harmony and peace. Too many kill in God’s name, claiming that they alone know the destiny God intends for humankind. Our limited human knowledge of any divinely inspired destiny to be played out on the human stage belies this specious—and dangerous—claim.<br /><br /> Love is the source of our greatest happiness and security; therefore love is the Ultimate Good, the Supreme Good. Nothing else comes close, for love underlies the creative energy that propels us from birth to death. The withholding of love drives to destruction those deprived of love’s nurturing, its compassion, and its life-giving blessings. This occurs most notably in critical developmental periods during childhood. And it holds just as true for a child in a nursery as it does for an older adult in a hospice. <br /><br /> Our religions, which offer models of righteous living, must put into practice their visions of Godly love, or they risk becoming sidelined, or, worse, irrelevant. <br /></div></textarea><br /></div><br /><br />**********************************************************<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s1600-h/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg"></a><a href="http://nonfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179647009365145890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s200/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg" border="0" /></a><br />It's the 15th, time for the Non~FIRST blog tour!(Non~FIRST will be merging with FIRST Wild Card Tours on January 1, 2009...if interested in joining, click <a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">HERE</a>!)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><br /><a href="http://www.stephengpost.com/">Stephen G. Post </a></span></strong><br /><p></p><br /><strong><span style="font-size:160;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#009900;">and his book:</span> </span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"></strong></div></span><p></p><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:7;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></strong></div></span><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1599471515/">Godly Love: A Rose Planted in the Desert of our Hearts</a></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Templeton Foundation Press (September 26, 2008)<br /></p><br /><p align="center"></p><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><br /><p></p><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWG3IsJDmHW5BR0PgxL4YSAf8ZUj11HRLFX9cmaJ8MaV9LzPSEo9Ug_PufJIzsFGH8RcMAXLqFykt25_yL_MbTCKXjKjoLIqeZL3cvJzAH15gdEGp7FhLAfeJek2bFkM3zNOBjr51o/s1600-h/stephen_post.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 120px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWG3IsJDmHW5BR0PgxL4YSAf8ZUj11HRLFX9cmaJ8MaV9LzPSEo9Ug_PufJIzsFGH8RcMAXLqFykt25_yL_MbTCKXjKjoLIqeZL3cvJzAH15gdEGp7FhLAfeJek2bFkM3zNOBjr51o/s200/stephen_post.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268006340323352866" /></a><strong><a href="http://www.stephengpost.com/">Stephen G. Post</a></strong> has spent a lifetime studying love in its theological, scientific, and practical dimensions. He is president of the Institute for Research on Unlimited Love (IRUL) and professor of bioethics and family medicine in the School of Medicine, Case Western Reserve University. Dr. Post has published one hundred thirty articles in peerreviewed journals and has written or edited fifteen scholarly books on subjects relating to the dynamic of love in our lives. His most recent book is Why Good Things Happen to Good People, coauthored with Jill Neimark. Dr. Post has chaired nine national conferences in his field and has received the Distinguished Service Award from the National Board of the Alzheimers Association. He lives in Shaker Heights, Ohio, with his wife, Mitsuko, and their two children, Emma and Andrew. <br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: $12.95<br />Paperback: 128 pages <br />Publisher: Templeton Foundation Press (September 26, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 1599471515 <br />ISBN-13: 978-1599471518 <br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></div></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3KxRnpjaoreUq7mo7yfs1VRX_P1lar85pznN2jzpynE8IWG48eVDXFeYDlPbPQsz23fEhT2jTX57kNBSx6eYxyhlN2wjuOUS5_CLM4xSORDFHcME2JoawCdkChZDvfAy8Oew3VL9x/s1600-h/godly+love.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3KxRnpjaoreUq7mo7yfs1VRX_P1lar85pznN2jzpynE8IWG48eVDXFeYDlPbPQsz23fEhT2jTX57kNBSx6eYxyhlN2wjuOUS5_CLM4xSORDFHcME2JoawCdkChZDvfAy8Oew3VL9x/s200/godly+love.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268005788192874354" /></a><div style="OVERFLOW: auto; HEIGHT: 307px">Godly Love and Human Hatreds <br /><br /><br /> In March 2007 I had the honor of spending several days north of Paris with the great Jean Vanier, then in his early eighties. Jean had founded L’Arche (“The Ark”) some four decades earlier, when he was inspired by an experience of Godly love to invite two men with cognitive developmental disabilities into his home. Over the years, L’Arche homes have flourished worldwide as volunteers dwell with the disabled in communities of faith, prayer, and Godly love. I had attended meals in L’Arche homes in Cleveland on a number of occasions, and I had heard the grace said before eating, the hymns sung, and the energy of love that was palpable in the lives of those caregivers and in the experience of those they cared for and lived with. <br /><br /> Jean struck me as one of the most loving, Godly, and humble men I had ever met. He spoke quietly and brilliantly, and he exuded an infectious sense of fun. On one Sunday evening there was a Catholic Mass in an old renovated chapel from the fourteenth century. About one hundred people had gathered there, mostly L’Arche volunteers and people with disabilities. I saw a volunteer wheel one older man named David up to the priest for communion. That night, at dinner, I asked Jean what he thought David had gotten from receiving communion, for David was probably the most severely disabled and agitated person I had encountered there. Jean said, “Whenever David receives communion, he becomes more peaceful, and that is the power of God’s love. Remember, Stephen, we do not know much about the mystery of God’s love and presence.” Jean’s pure, enduring, and expansive love clearly encompassed such a severely disabled man, and counted him among God’s blessed. <br /><br /><br />Evil in God’s Name <br /><br /><br /> When I encounter a man like Jean Vanier, I feel that we must all stop thinking of God as the epitome of awesome power and strength in the conventional sense. This convention may be partly true, but we need to set it aside; otherwise, we begin to think of God primarily in terms of might, and human arrogance propels us into thinking that because my God is stronger than your God, violence is justified in God’s name. If we think about God in terms of power, then religions become tainted with human arrogance. Far too many prayerful people are carrying rifles in the spirit of pure hatred and pretending that their hatred is somehow divinely sanctioned. This amounts to shallow religiosity, which only causes pain and undermines Godly love. The Lord of power and might is first and foremost the author and giver of all good things, the Divine Entity who nourishes us in love and brings forth from us good works. <br /><br /> We need to stop thinking that our definitions of God are finite and that our knowledge of God’s will is total. Our definitions, even if divinely inspired, are still products of the human mind, and we can never fully understand the Divine. Religious doctrines, if adhered to arrogantly, tend to separate us from one another and shatter the unifying spirit of Godly love that all spirituality seeks to cultivate. When religions place doctrine and force above love, they foment massive evil—from torture to terror, from coercion to conflict. Religious wars exemplify human tribalism and arrogance, both of which bring out the worst in us. <br /><br /> Hatred, hostility, and revenge are such strong emotions that they can crush our fragile sense of Godly love. The pseudospirituality of hatred runs counter to all genuine spirituality, which is always an adventure in love, an expression of love’s deepest desires. <br /><br /><br />Countering Hatred with Godly Love <br /><br /><br /> The love of power can sometimes overwhelm the power of love, so we must remain humble and guard against this. No matter how little we know about God, we can still experience Godly love. Only by taking Godly love much more seriously than we do now—even inculcating a profound love for one another among ancient, sworn enemies—can we expect to head off a spiral of widespread destruction. <br /><br /> Most of religion and spirituality is rooted in healing emotions, grounded in love. We will never achieve sustained peace in the twenty-first century unless all religions live up to those intrinsic ideals of Godly love, applying those ideals to all of humankind without exception. <br /><br /> The world shows no signs of becoming any less religious; we as humans will always have a passion for Ultimate Truth that provides safe haven and emotional security in times of distress. Yet we will only have a human future if we infuse universal Godly love into the rituals that religions create, and express through our actions spiritual emotions such as forgiveness and compassion. If our religions fail to promote universal Godly love, violence will sweep us all away in a cataclysmic firestorm. <br /><br /><br />Promoting Harmony and Peace <br /><br /><br /> Godly love alone can realign the world in harmony and peace. Too many kill in God’s name, claiming that they alone know the destiny God intends for humankind. Our limited human knowledge of any divinely inspired destiny to be played out on the human stage belies this specious—and dangerous—claim.<br /><br /> Love is the source of our greatest happiness and security; therefore love is the Ultimate Good, the Supreme Good. Nothing else comes close, for love underlies the creative energy that propels us from birth to death. The withholding of love drives to destruction those deprived of love’s nurturing, its compassion, and its life-giving blessings. This occurs most notably in critical developmental periods during childhood. And it holds just as true for a child in a nursery as it does for an older adult in a hospice. <br /><br /> Our religions, which offer models of righteous living, must put into practice their visions of Godly love, or they risk becoming sidelined, or, worse, irrelevant. <br /></div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-7592109362519482572008-10-30T02:04:00.000-04:002008-10-30T02:05:08.185-04:00Forsaken by James David Jordan<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 84px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" height="204" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" width="126" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is time for the FIRST Blog Tour! On the FIRST day of every month we feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.jamesdavidjordan.com/">James David Jordan</a></span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;">and his book:</span> </span></strong></p><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0805447490">Forsaken </a></span></strong><br />B&H Fiction (October 1, 2008)</p><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJ4q6Ypc3hV_5YN_wZndRZrXqvZbYKVxxbBx3hNEig0Sik_xHAORgS046B9RGgMg1G5gP4s74HdYLxUxo6_L33P6yO4XXpZ-oAkqd1kTgc-NW5p9gZ8M7zxwgdNgoeG6z7VIuSBcSb1Y3/s1600-h/james.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 143px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJ4q6Ypc3hV_5YN_wZndRZrXqvZbYKVxxbBx3hNEig0Sik_xHAORgS046B9RGgMg1G5gP4s74HdYLxUxo6_L33P6yO4XXpZ-oAkqd1kTgc-NW5p9gZ8M7zxwgdNgoeG6z7VIuSBcSb1Y3/s200/james.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262822674610749730" /></a>James David Jordan is a business litigation attorney with the prominent Texas law firm of Munsch Hardt Kopf & Harr, P.C. From 1998 through 2005, he served as the firm's Chairman and CEO. The Dallas Business Journal has named him one of the most influential leaders in the Dallas/Fort Worth legal community and one of the top fifteen business defense attorneys in Dallas/Fort Worth. His peers have voted him one of the Best Lawyers in America in commercial litigation.<br /><br />A minister's son who grew up in the Mississippi River town of Alton, Illinois, Jim has a law degree and MBA from the University of Illinois, and a journalism degree from the University of Missouri. He lives with his wife and two teenage children in the Dallas suburbs.<br /><br />Jim grew up playing sports and loves athletics of all kinds. But he especially loves baseball, the sport that is a little bit closer to God than all the others.<br /><br />His first novel was <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/159145428X/">Something that Lasts</a> . <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0805447490">Forsaken </a> is his second novel.<br /><br />Product Details:<br /><br />List Price: $14.99 <br />Paperback: 400 pages <br />Publisher: B&H Fiction (October 1, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0805447490 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0805447491 <br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /><br /></span></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtf0tEUdyaptmHak5PRATS7fh3p62GAY1ImeXZf2tPsSPt-a67pZBrGzUWYxok2bxjk51e283SMMKPpYJsKzqcOJ-OaWusbWaZGyNRN7INkVST6sYzZ0BT_TzVSNgOJs0DDwuBjiFAXUHF/s1600-h/forsaken.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtf0tEUdyaptmHak5PRATS7fh3p62GAY1ImeXZf2tPsSPt-a67pZBrGzUWYxok2bxjk51e283SMMKPpYJsKzqcOJ-OaWusbWaZGyNRN7INkVST6sYzZ0BT_TzVSNgOJs0DDwuBjiFAXUHF/s200/forsaken.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262822823448329570" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;">Even in high school I didn’t mind sleeping on the ground. When your father is a retired Special Forces officer, you pick up things that most girls don’t learn. As the years passed I slept in lots of places a good girl shouldn’t sleep. It’s a part of my past I don’t brag about, like ugly wallpaper that won’t come unstuck. No matter how hard I scrape, it just hangs on in big, obscene blotches. I’m twenty-nine years old now, and I’ve done my best to paint over it. But it’s still there under the surface, making everything rougher, less presentable than it should be. Though I want more than anything to be smooth and fresh and clean. <br /><br /><br />Sometimes I wonder what will happen if the paint begins to fade. Will the wallpaper show? I thought so for a long time. But I have hope now that it won’t. Simon Mason helped me find that hope. That’s why it’s important for me to tell our story. There must be others who need hope, too. There must be others who are afraid that their ugly wallpaper might bleed through. <br /><br /><br />What does sleeping on the ground have to do with a world-famous preacher like Simon Mason? The story begins twelve years ago—eleven years before I met Simon. My dad and I packed our camping gear and went fishing. It was mid-May, and the trip was a present for my seventeenth birthday. Not exactly every high school girl’s dream, but my dad wasn’t like most dads. He taught me to camp and fish and, particularly, to shoot. He had trained me in self-defense since I was nine, the year Mom fell apart and left for good. With my long legs, long arms, and Dad’s athletic genes, I could handle myself even back then. I suppose I wasn’t like most other girls. <br /><br /><br />After what happened on that fishing trip, I know I wasn’t. <br /><br /><br />Fishing with my dad didn’t mean renting a cane pole and buying bait pellets out of a dispenser at some catfish tank near an RV park. It generally meant tramping miles across a field to a glassy pond on some war buddy’s ranch, or winding through dense woods, pitching a tent, and fly fishing an icy stream far from the nearest telephone. The trips were rough, but they were the bright times of my life—and his, too. They let him forget the things that haunted him and remember how to be happy. <br /><br /><br />This particular outing was to a ranch in the Texas Panhandle, owned by a former Defense Department bigwig. The ranch bordered one of the few sizeable lakes in a corner of Texas that is brown and rocky and dry. We loaded Dad’s new Chevy pickup with cheese puffs and soft drinks—healthy eating wouldn’t begin until the first fish hit the skillet—and left Dallas just before noon with the bass boat in tow. The drive was long, but we had leather interior, plenty of tunes, and time to talk. Dad and I could always talk. <br /><br /><br />The heat rose early that year, and the temperature hung in the nineties. Two hours after we left Dallas, the brand-new air conditioner in the brand-new truck rattled and clicked and dropped dead. We drove the rest of the way with the windows down while the high Texas sun tried to burn a hole through the roof. <br /><br /><br />Around five-thirty we stopped to use the bathroom at a rundown gas station somewhere southeast of Amarillo. The station was nothing but a twisted gray shack dropped in the middle of a hundred square miles of blistering hard pan. It hadn’t rained for a month in that part of Texas, and the place was so baked that even the brittle weeds rolled over on their bellies, as if preparing a last-ditch effort to drag themselves to shade. <br /><br /><br />The restroom door was on the outside of the station, isolated from the rest of the building. There was no hope of cooling off until I finished my business and got around to the little store in the front, where a rusty air conditioner chugged in the window. When I walked into the bathroom, I had to cover my nose and mouth with my hand. A mound of rotting trash leaned like a grimy snow drift against a metal garbage can in the corner. Thick, black flies zipped and bounced from floor to wall and ceiling to floor, occasionally smacking my arms and legs as if I were a bumper in a buzzing pinball machine. It was the filthiest place I’d ever been. <br /><br /><br />Looking back, it was an apt spot to begin the filthiest night of my life. <br /><br /><br />I had just leaned over the rust-ringed sink to inspect my teeth in the sole remaining corner of a shattered mirror when someone pounded on the door. <br /><br /><br />“Just a minute!” I turned on the faucet. A soupy liquid dribbled out, followed by the steamy smell of rotten eggs. I turned off the faucet, pulled my sport bottle from the holster on my hip, and squirted water on my face and in my mouth. I wiped my face on the sleeve of my T-shirt. <br /><br /><br />My blue-jean cutoffs were short and tight, and I pried free a tube of lotion that was wedged into my front pocket. I raised one foot at a time to the edge of the toilet seat and did my best to brush the dust from my legs. Then I spread the lotion over them. The ride may have turned me into a dust ball, but I was determined at least to be a soft dust ball with a coconut scent. Before leaving I took one last look in my little corner of mirror. The hair was auburn, the dust was beige. I gave the hair a shake, sending tiny flecks floating through a slash of light that cut the room diagonally from a hole in the roof. Someone pounded on the door again. I turned away from the mirror. <br /><br /><br />“Okay, okay, I’m coming!” <br /><br /><br />When I pulled open the door and stepped into the light, I shaded my eyes and blinked to clear away the spots. All that I could think about was the little air conditioner in the front window and how great it would feel when I got inside. That’s probably why I was completely unprepared when a man’s hand reached from beside the door and clamped hard onto my wrist.<br /></div></textarea><br /></div><br /><br />**************************************************************<br /><br /><a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 84px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" height="204" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" width="126" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is time for the FIRST Blog Tour! On the FIRST day of every month we feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.jamesdavidjordan.com/">James David Jordan</a></span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;">and his book:</span> </span></strong></p><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0805447490">Forsaken </a></span></strong><br />B&H Fiction (October 1, 2008)</p><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJ4q6Ypc3hV_5YN_wZndRZrXqvZbYKVxxbBx3hNEig0Sik_xHAORgS046B9RGgMg1G5gP4s74HdYLxUxo6_L33P6yO4XXpZ-oAkqd1kTgc-NW5p9gZ8M7zxwgdNgoeG6z7VIuSBcSb1Y3/s1600-h/james.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 143px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJ4q6Ypc3hV_5YN_wZndRZrXqvZbYKVxxbBx3hNEig0Sik_xHAORgS046B9RGgMg1G5gP4s74HdYLxUxo6_L33P6yO4XXpZ-oAkqd1kTgc-NW5p9gZ8M7zxwgdNgoeG6z7VIuSBcSb1Y3/s200/james.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262822674610749730" /></a>James David Jordan is a business litigation attorney with the prominent Texas law firm of Munsch Hardt Kopf & Harr, P.C. From 1998 through 2005, he served as the firm's Chairman and CEO. The Dallas Business Journal has named him one of the most influential leaders in the Dallas/Fort Worth legal community and one of the top fifteen business defense attorneys in Dallas/Fort Worth. His peers have voted him one of the Best Lawyers in America in commercial litigation.<br /><br />A minister's son who grew up in the Mississippi River town of Alton, Illinois, Jim has a law degree and MBA from the University of Illinois, and a journalism degree from the University of Missouri. He lives with his wife and two teenage children in the Dallas suburbs.<br /><br />Jim grew up playing sports and loves athletics of all kinds. But he especially loves baseball, the sport that is a little bit closer to God than all the others.<br /><br />His first novel was <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/159145428X/">Something that Lasts</a> . <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0805447490">Forsaken </a> is his second novel.<br /><br />Product Details:<br /><br />List Price: $14.99 <br />Paperback: 400 pages <br />Publisher: B&H Fiction (October 1, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0805447490 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0805447491 <br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /><br /></span></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtf0tEUdyaptmHak5PRATS7fh3p62GAY1ImeXZf2tPsSPt-a67pZBrGzUWYxok2bxjk51e283SMMKPpYJsKzqcOJ-OaWusbWaZGyNRN7INkVST6sYzZ0BT_TzVSNgOJs0DDwuBjiFAXUHF/s1600-h/forsaken.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtf0tEUdyaptmHak5PRATS7fh3p62GAY1ImeXZf2tPsSPt-a67pZBrGzUWYxok2bxjk51e283SMMKPpYJsKzqcOJ-OaWusbWaZGyNRN7INkVST6sYzZ0BT_TzVSNgOJs0DDwuBjiFAXUHF/s200/forsaken.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262822823448329570" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;">Even in high school I didn’t mind sleeping on the ground. When your father is a retired Special Forces officer, you pick up things that most girls don’t learn. As the years passed I slept in lots of places a good girl shouldn’t sleep. It’s a part of my past I don’t brag about, like ugly wallpaper that won’t come unstuck. No matter how hard I scrape, it just hangs on in big, obscene blotches. I’m twenty-nine years old now, and I’ve done my best to paint over it. But it’s still there under the surface, making everything rougher, less presentable than it should be. Though I want more than anything to be smooth and fresh and clean. <br /><br /><br />Sometimes I wonder what will happen if the paint begins to fade. Will the wallpaper show? I thought so for a long time. But I have hope now that it won’t. Simon Mason helped me find that hope. That’s why it’s important for me to tell our story. There must be others who need hope, too. There must be others who are afraid that their ugly wallpaper might bleed through. <br /><br /><br />What does sleeping on the ground have to do with a world-famous preacher like Simon Mason? The story begins twelve years ago—eleven years before I met Simon. My dad and I packed our camping gear and went fishing. It was mid-May, and the trip was a present for my seventeenth birthday. Not exactly every high school girl’s dream, but my dad wasn’t like most dads. He taught me to camp and fish and, particularly, to shoot. He had trained me in self-defense since I was nine, the year Mom fell apart and left for good. With my long legs, long arms, and Dad’s athletic genes, I could handle myself even back then. I suppose I wasn’t like most other girls. <br /><br /><br />After what happened on that fishing trip, I know I wasn’t. <br /><br /><br />Fishing with my dad didn’t mean renting a cane pole and buying bait pellets out of a dispenser at some catfish tank near an RV park. It generally meant tramping miles across a field to a glassy pond on some war buddy’s ranch, or winding through dense woods, pitching a tent, and fly fishing an icy stream far from the nearest telephone. The trips were rough, but they were the bright times of my life—and his, too. They let him forget the things that haunted him and remember how to be happy. <br /><br /><br />This particular outing was to a ranch in the Texas Panhandle, owned by a former Defense Department bigwig. The ranch bordered one of the few sizeable lakes in a corner of Texas that is brown and rocky and dry. We loaded Dad’s new Chevy pickup with cheese puffs and soft drinks—healthy eating wouldn’t begin until the first fish hit the skillet—and left Dallas just before noon with the bass boat in tow. The drive was long, but we had leather interior, plenty of tunes, and time to talk. Dad and I could always talk. <br /><br /><br />The heat rose early that year, and the temperature hung in the nineties. Two hours after we left Dallas, the brand-new air conditioner in the brand-new truck rattled and clicked and dropped dead. We drove the rest of the way with the windows down while the high Texas sun tried to burn a hole through the roof. <br /><br /><br />Around five-thirty we stopped to use the bathroom at a rundown gas station somewhere southeast of Amarillo. The station was nothing but a twisted gray shack dropped in the middle of a hundred square miles of blistering hard pan. It hadn’t rained for a month in that part of Texas, and the place was so baked that even the brittle weeds rolled over on their bellies, as if preparing a last-ditch effort to drag themselves to shade. <br /><br /><br />The restroom door was on the outside of the station, isolated from the rest of the building. There was no hope of cooling off until I finished my business and got around to the little store in the front, where a rusty air conditioner chugged in the window. When I walked into the bathroom, I had to cover my nose and mouth with my hand. A mound of rotting trash leaned like a grimy snow drift against a metal garbage can in the corner. Thick, black flies zipped and bounced from floor to wall and ceiling to floor, occasionally smacking my arms and legs as if I were a bumper in a buzzing pinball machine. It was the filthiest place I’d ever been. <br /><br /><br />Looking back, it was an apt spot to begin the filthiest night of my life. <br /><br /><br />I had just leaned over the rust-ringed sink to inspect my teeth in the sole remaining corner of a shattered mirror when someone pounded on the door. <br /><br /><br />“Just a minute!” I turned on the faucet. A soupy liquid dribbled out, followed by the steamy smell of rotten eggs. I turned off the faucet, pulled my sport bottle from the holster on my hip, and squirted water on my face and in my mouth. I wiped my face on the sleeve of my T-shirt. <br /><br /><br />My blue-jean cutoffs were short and tight, and I pried free a tube of lotion that was wedged into my front pocket. I raised one foot at a time to the edge of the toilet seat and did my best to brush the dust from my legs. Then I spread the lotion over them. The ride may have turned me into a dust ball, but I was determined at least to be a soft dust ball with a coconut scent. Before leaving I took one last look in my little corner of mirror. The hair was auburn, the dust was beige. I gave the hair a shake, sending tiny flecks floating through a slash of light that cut the room diagonally from a hole in the roof. Someone pounded on the door again. I turned away from the mirror. <br /><br /><br />“Okay, okay, I’m coming!” <br /><br /><br />When I pulled open the door and stepped into the light, I shaded my eyes and blinked to clear away the spots. All that I could think about was the little air conditioner in the front window and how great it would feel when I got inside. That’s probably why I was completely unprepared when a man’s hand reached from beside the door and clamped hard onto my wrist.<br /></div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-4505948622115553302008-10-19T19:15:00.000-04:002008-12-10T11:49:51.406-05:00Ripple Effect (Time Thriller Trilogy, Book 1) by Paul McCuskerGrab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below):<br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s1600-h/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg"><a href="http://teenfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178594274707613778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s200/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg" border="0" /></a></a><br /><br />It's the 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.paulmccusker.com/">Paul McCusker</a></span></strong><br /><p></p><strong><span style="font-size:160;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#009900;">and his book:</span> </span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"></strong></div></span><p></p><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:7;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></strong></div></span><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310714362/">Ripple Effect (Time Thriller Trilogy, Book 1) </a></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Zondervan (October 1, 2008) </p><br /><p align="center"></p><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></span></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><p></p><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1e5_JGl7aM0kL2AGeXAQNQglui2Dw4ZqmAFJhrBkowgHmK1frLJOgGWZHpMFl33AzmNVWQYBpLtl7ow9DyZEgI0umuZpsPggOi9hSvagqHO_ZbADLtU0So_tmIL-OV7VuHYTkHwQd0qo/s1600-h/mccuskerp.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1e5_JGl7aM0kL2AGeXAQNQglui2Dw4ZqmAFJhrBkowgHmK1frLJOgGWZHpMFl33AzmNVWQYBpLtl7ow9DyZEgI0umuZpsPggOi9hSvagqHO_ZbADLtU0So_tmIL-OV7VuHYTkHwQd0qo/s200/mccuskerp.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259006648048721442" /></a>Paul McCusker is the author of The Mill House, Epiphany, The Faded Flower and several Adventures in Odyssey programs. Winner of the Peabody Award for his radio drama on the life of Dietrich Bonhoeffer for Focus on the Family, he lives in Colorado Springs with his wife and two children. <br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: $9.99<br />Reading level: Young Adult<br />Paperback: 224 pages <br />Publisher: Zondervan (October 1, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0310714362 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0310714361 <br /><br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVv1J2AdoWCJlUnn_M2RiVoyQ0vLn9lGz11oB2Oeg7WoF2H3ovmpIFzOhqSKDmXfcIET49GGfG04Dtc0px3u_3nmjDn_yIpWSssHyXz8AWA2TZSrWfb96p2fNTRAWXjJCzUV6SGfkTlsg/s1600-h/ripple"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVv1J2AdoWCJlUnn_M2RiVoyQ0vLn9lGz11oB2Oeg7WoF2H3ovmpIFzOhqSKDmXfcIET49GGfG04Dtc0px3u_3nmjDn_yIpWSssHyXz8AWA2TZSrWfb96p2fNTRAWXjJCzUV6SGfkTlsg/s200/ripple" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259005456308880850" /></a><div style="OVERFLOW: auto; HEIGHT: 307px">“I’m running away,” Elizabeth announced defiantly. She chomped a french fry in half.<br /><br /> Jeff looked up at her. He’d been absentmindedly swirling his straw in his malted milkshake while she complained about her parents, which she had been doing for the past half hour. “You’re what?”<br /><br /> “You weren’t listening, were you?”<br /><br /> “I was too.”<br /><br /> “Then what did I say?” Elizabeth tucked a loose strand of her long brown hair behind her ear so it wouldn’t fall into the puddle of ketchup next to her fries.<br /><br /> “You were complaining about how your mom and dad drive you crazy because your dad embarrassed you last night while you and Melissa Morgan were doing your history homework. And your dad lectured you for twenty minutes about . . . about . . .” He was stumped.<br /><br /> “Chris-tian symbolism in the King Arthur legends,” Elizabeth said.<br /><br /> “Yeah, except that you and Melissa were supposed to be studying the . . . um — ”<br /><br /> “French Revolution.”<br /><br /> “Right, and Melissa finally made up an excuse to go home, and you were embarrassed and mad at your dad — ”<br /><br /> “As usual,” she said and savaged another french fry.<br /><br /> Jeff gave a sigh of relief. Elizabeth’s pop quizzes were a lot tougher than anything they gave him at school. But it was hard for him to listen when she griped about her parents. Not having any parents of his own, Jeff didn’t connect when Elizabeth went on and on about hers.<br /><br /> “Then what did I say?” she asked.<br /><br /> He was mid-suck on his straw and nearly blew the contents back into the glass. “Huh?”<br /><br /> “What did I say after that?”<br /><br /> “You said . . . uh . . .” He coughed, then glanced around the Fawlt Line Diner, hoping for inspiration or a way to change the subject. His eye was dazzled by the endless chrome, beveled mirrors, worn red upholstery, and checkered floor tiles. And it boasted Alice Dempsey, the world’s oldest living waitress, dressed in her paper cap and red-striped uniform with white apron.<br /><br /> She had seen Jeff look up and now hustled over to their booth. She arrived smelling like burnt hamburgers and chewed her gum loudly. “You kids want anything else?”<br /><br /> Rescued, Jeff thought. “No, thank you,” he said.<br /><br /> She cracked an internal bubble on her gum and dropped the check on the edge of the table. “See you tomorrow,” Alice said.<br /><br /> “No, you won’t,” Elizabeth said under her breath. “I won’t be here.”<br /><br /> As she walked off, Alice shot a curious look back at Elizabeth. She was old, but she wasn’t deaf.<br /><br /> “Take it easy,” Jeff said to Elizabeth.<br /><br /> “I’m going to run away,” she said, heavy rebuke in her tone. “If you’d been listening — ”<br /><br /> “Aw, c’mon, Bits — ” Jeff began. He’d called her “Bits” for as long as either of them could remember, all the way back to first grade. “It’s not that bad.”<br /><br /> “You try living with my mom and dad, and tell me it’s not that bad.”<br /><br /> “I know your folks,” Jeff said. “They’re a little quirky, that’s all.”<br /><br /> “Quirky! They’re just plain weird. They’re clueless about life in the real world. Did you know that my dad went to church last Sunday with his shirt on inside out?”<br /><br /> “It happens.”<br /><br /> “And wearing his bedroom slippers?”<br /><br /> Jeff smiled. Yeah, that’s Alan Forde, all right, he thought.<br /><br /> “Don’t you dare smile,” Elizabeth threatened, pointing a french fry at him. “It’s not funny. His slippers are grass stained. Do you know why?”<br /><br /> “Because he does his gardening in his bedroom slippers.”<br /><br /> Elizabeth threw up her hands. “That’s right! He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care how he looks, what -people think of him, or anything! And my mom doesn’t even have the decency to be embarrassed for him. She thinks he’s adorable! They’re weird.”<br /><br /> “They’re just . . . themselves. They’re — ”<br /><br /> Elizabeth threw herself against the back of the red vinyl bench and groaned. “You don’t understand.”<br /><br /> “Sure I do!” Jeff said. “Your parents are no worse than Malcolm.” Malcolm Dubbs was Jeff’s father’s cousin, on the English side of the family, and had been Jeff’s guardian since his parents had died five years ago in a plane crash. As the last adult of the Dubbs family line, he came from England to take over the family fortune and estate. “He’s quirky.”<br /><br /> “But that’s different. Malcolm is nice and sensitive and has that wonderful English accent,” Elizabeth said, nearly swooning. Jeff’s cousin was a heartthrob among some of the girls.<br /><br /> “Don’t get yourself all worked up,” Jeff said.<br /><br /> “My parents just go on and on about things I don’t care about,” she continued. “And if I hear the life-can’t-be-taken-too-seriously-because-it’s-just-a-small-part-of-a-bigger-picture lecture one more time, I’ll go out of my mind.”<br /><br /> Again Jeff restrained his smile. He knew that lecture well. Except his cousin Malcolm summarized the same idea in the phrase “the eternal perspective.” All it meant was that there was a lot more to life than what we can see or experience with our senses. This world is a temporary stop on a journey to a truer, more real reality, he’d say — an eternal reality. “Look, your parents see things differently from most -people. That’s all,” Jeff said, determined not to turn this gripe session into an Olympic event.<br /><br /> “They’re from another planet,” Elizabeth said. “Sometimes I think this whole town is. Haven’t you figured it out yet?”<br /><br /> “I like Fawlt Line,” Jeff said softly, afraid Elizabeth’s complaints might offend some of the other regulars at the diner.<br /><br /> “Everybody’s so . . . so oblivious! Nobody even seems to notice how strange this place is.”<br /><br /> Jeff shrugged. “It’s just a town, Bits. Every town has its quirks.”<br /><br /> “Is that your word of the day?” Elizabeth snapped. “These aren’t just quirks, Jeffrey.”<br /><br /> Jeff rolled his eyes. When she resorted to calling him Jeffrey, there was no reasoning with her. He rubbed the side of his face and absentmindedly pushed his fingers through his wavy black hair.<br /><br /> “What about Helen?” Elizabeth challenged him.<br /><br /> “Which Helen? You mean the volunteer at the information booth in the mall? That Helen?”<br /><br /> “I mean Helen the volunteer at the information booth in the mall who thinks she’s psychic. That’s who I mean.” Elizabeth leaned over the Formica tabletop. Jeff moved her plate of fries and ketchup to one side. “She won’t let you speak until she guesses what you’re going to ask. And she’s never right!”<br /><br /> Jeff shrugged.<br /><br /> “Our only life insurance agent has been dead for six years.”<br /><br /> “Yeah, but — ”<br /><br /> “And there’s Walter Keenan. He’s a professional proofreader for park bench ads! He wanders around, making -people move out of the way so he can do his job.” Her voice was a shrill whisper.<br /><br /> “Ben Hearn only pays him to do that because he feels sorry for him. You know old Walter hasn’t been the same since that shaving accident.”<br /><br /> “But I heard he just got a job doing the same thing at a tattoo parlor!”<br /><br /> “I’m sure tattooists want to make sure their spelling is correct.”<br /><br /> Elizabeth groaned and shook her head. “It’s like Mayberry trapped in the Twilight Zone. I thought you’d understand. I thought you knew how nuts this town is.” Elizabeth locked her gaze onto Jeff’s.<br /><br /> He gazed back at her and, suddenly, the image of her large brown eyes, the faint freckles on her upturned nose, her full lips, made him want to kiss her. He wasn’t sure why — they’d been friends for so long that she’d probably laugh at him if he ever actually did it — but the urge was still there.<br /><br /> “It’s not such a bad place,” he managed to say.<br /><br /> “I’ve had enough of this town,” she said. “Of my parents. Of all the weirdness. I’m fifteen years old and I wanna be a normal kid with normal problems. Are you coming with me or not?”<br /><br /> Jeff cocked an eyebrow. “To where?”<br /><br /> “To wherever I run away to,” she replied. “I’m serious about this, Jeff. I’m getting all my money together and going somewhere normal. We can take your Volkswagen and — ”<br /><br /> “Listen, Bits,” Jeff interrupted, “I know how you feel. But we can’t just run away. Where would we go? What would we do?”<br /><br /> “And who are you all of a sudden: Mr. Responsibility? You never know where you’re going or what you’re doing. You’re our very own Huck Finn.”<br /><br /> “That’s ridiculous.”<br /><br /> “Not according to Mr. Vidler.”<br /><br /> “Mr. Vidler said that?” Jeff asked defensively, wondering why their English teacher would be talking about him to Elizabeth.<br /><br /> “He says it’s because you don’t have parents, and Malcolm doesn’t care what you do.”<br /><br /> Jeff grunted. He didn’t like the idea of Mr. Vidler discussing him like that. And Malcolm certainly cared a great deal about what he did.<br /><br /> Elizabeth continued. “So why should you care where we go or what we do? Let’s just get out of here.”<br /><br /> “But, Bits, it’s stupid and — ”<br /><br /> “No! I’m not listening to you,” Elizabeth shouted and hit the tabletop with the palms of her hands. Silence washed over the diner like a wave as everyone turned to look.<br /><br /> “Keep it down, will you?” Jeff whispered fiercely.<br /><br /> “Either you go with me, or stay here and rot in this town. It’s up to you.”<br /><br /> Jeff looked away. It was unusual for them to argue. And when they did, it was usually Jeff who gave in. Like now. “I don’t know,” he said quietly.<br /><br /> Elizabeth also softened her tone. “If you’re going, then meet me at the Old Saw Mill by the edge of the river tonight at ten.” She paused, then added, “I’m going whether you come with me or not.”<br /></div></textarea><br /><br /><br /><br />*****************************************************************************<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s1600-h/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg"><a href="http://teenfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178594274707613778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s200/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg" border="0" /></a></a><br /><br />It's the 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.paulmccusker.com/">Paul McCusker</a></span></strong><br /><p></p><strong><span style="font-size:160;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#009900;">and his book:</span> </span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"></strong></div></span><p></p><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:7;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></strong></div></span><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310714362/">Ripple Effect (Time Thriller Trilogy, Book 1) </a></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Zondervan (October 1, 2008) </p><br /><p align="center"></p><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></span></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><p></p><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1e5_JGl7aM0kL2AGeXAQNQglui2Dw4ZqmAFJhrBkowgHmK1frLJOgGWZHpMFl33AzmNVWQYBpLtl7ow9DyZEgI0umuZpsPggOi9hSvagqHO_ZbADLtU0So_tmIL-OV7VuHYTkHwQd0qo/s1600-h/mccuskerp.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1e5_JGl7aM0kL2AGeXAQNQglui2Dw4ZqmAFJhrBkowgHmK1frLJOgGWZHpMFl33AzmNVWQYBpLtl7ow9DyZEgI0umuZpsPggOi9hSvagqHO_ZbADLtU0So_tmIL-OV7VuHYTkHwQd0qo/s200/mccuskerp.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259006648048721442" /></a>Paul McCusker is the author of The Mill House, Epiphany, The Faded Flower and several Adventures in Odyssey programs. Winner of the Peabody Award for his radio drama on the life of Dietrich Bonhoeffer for Focus on the Family, he lives in Colorado Springs with his wife and two children. <br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: $9.99<br />Reading level: Young Adult<br />Paperback: 224 pages <br />Publisher: Zondervan (October 1, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0310714362 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0310714361 <br /><br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVv1J2AdoWCJlUnn_M2RiVoyQ0vLn9lGz11oB2Oeg7WoF2H3ovmpIFzOhqSKDmXfcIET49GGfG04Dtc0px3u_3nmjDn_yIpWSssHyXz8AWA2TZSrWfb96p2fNTRAWXjJCzUV6SGfkTlsg/s1600-h/ripple"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVv1J2AdoWCJlUnn_M2RiVoyQ0vLn9lGz11oB2Oeg7WoF2H3ovmpIFzOhqSKDmXfcIET49GGfG04Dtc0px3u_3nmjDn_yIpWSssHyXz8AWA2TZSrWfb96p2fNTRAWXjJCzUV6SGfkTlsg/s200/ripple" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259005456308880850" /></a><div style="OVERFLOW: auto; HEIGHT: 307px">“I’m running away,” Elizabeth announced defiantly. She chomped a french fry in half.<br /><br /> Jeff looked up at her. He’d been absentmindedly swirling his straw in his malted milkshake while she complained about her parents, which she had been doing for the past half hour. “You’re what?”<br /><br /> “You weren’t listening, were you?”<br /><br /> “I was too.”<br /><br /> “Then what did I say?” Elizabeth tucked a loose strand of her long brown hair behind her ear so it wouldn’t fall into the puddle of ketchup next to her fries.<br /><br /> “You were complaining about how your mom and dad drive you crazy because your dad embarrassed you last night while you and Melissa Morgan were doing your history homework. And your dad lectured you for twenty minutes about . . . about . . .” He was stumped.<br /><br /> “Chris-tian symbolism in the King Arthur legends,” Elizabeth said.<br /><br /> “Yeah, except that you and Melissa were supposed to be studying the . . . um — ”<br /><br /> “French Revolution.”<br /><br /> “Right, and Melissa finally made up an excuse to go home, and you were embarrassed and mad at your dad — ”<br /><br /> “As usual,” she said and savaged another french fry.<br /><br /> Jeff gave a sigh of relief. Elizabeth’s pop quizzes were a lot tougher than anything they gave him at school. But it was hard for him to listen when she griped about her parents. Not having any parents of his own, Jeff didn’t connect when Elizabeth went on and on about hers.<br /><br /> “Then what did I say?” she asked.<br /><br /> He was mid-suck on his straw and nearly blew the contents back into the glass. “Huh?”<br /><br /> “What did I say after that?”<br /><br /> “You said . . . uh . . .” He coughed, then glanced around the Fawlt Line Diner, hoping for inspiration or a way to change the subject. His eye was dazzled by the endless chrome, beveled mirrors, worn red upholstery, and checkered floor tiles. And it boasted Alice Dempsey, the world’s oldest living waitress, dressed in her paper cap and red-striped uniform with white apron.<br /><br /> She had seen Jeff look up and now hustled over to their booth. She arrived smelling like burnt hamburgers and chewed her gum loudly. “You kids want anything else?”<br /><br /> Rescued, Jeff thought. “No, thank you,” he said.<br /><br /> She cracked an internal bubble on her gum and dropped the check on the edge of the table. “See you tomorrow,” Alice said.<br /><br /> “No, you won’t,” Elizabeth said under her breath. “I won’t be here.”<br /><br /> As she walked off, Alice shot a curious look back at Elizabeth. She was old, but she wasn’t deaf.<br /><br /> “Take it easy,” Jeff said to Elizabeth.<br /><br /> “I’m going to run away,” she said, heavy rebuke in her tone. “If you’d been listening — ”<br /><br /> “Aw, c’mon, Bits — ” Jeff began. He’d called her “Bits” for as long as either of them could remember, all the way back to first grade. “It’s not that bad.”<br /><br /> “You try living with my mom and dad, and tell me it’s not that bad.”<br /><br /> “I know your folks,” Jeff said. “They’re a little quirky, that’s all.”<br /><br /> “Quirky! They’re just plain weird. They’re clueless about life in the real world. Did you know that my dad went to church last Sunday with his shirt on inside out?”<br /><br /> “It happens.”<br /><br /> “And wearing his bedroom slippers?”<br /><br /> Jeff smiled. Yeah, that’s Alan Forde, all right, he thought.<br /><br /> “Don’t you dare smile,” Elizabeth threatened, pointing a french fry at him. “It’s not funny. His slippers are grass stained. Do you know why?”<br /><br /> “Because he does his gardening in his bedroom slippers.”<br /><br /> Elizabeth threw up her hands. “That’s right! He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care how he looks, what -people think of him, or anything! And my mom doesn’t even have the decency to be embarrassed for him. She thinks he’s adorable! They’re weird.”<br /><br /> “They’re just . . . themselves. They’re — ”<br /><br /> Elizabeth threw herself against the back of the red vinyl bench and groaned. “You don’t understand.”<br /><br /> “Sure I do!” Jeff said. “Your parents are no worse than Malcolm.” Malcolm Dubbs was Jeff’s father’s cousin, on the English side of the family, and had been Jeff’s guardian since his parents had died five years ago in a plane crash. As the last adult of the Dubbs family line, he came from England to take over the family fortune and estate. “He’s quirky.”<br /><br /> “But that’s different. Malcolm is nice and sensitive and has that wonderful English accent,” Elizabeth said, nearly swooning. Jeff’s cousin was a heartthrob among some of the girls.<br /><br /> “Don’t get yourself all worked up,” Jeff said.<br /><br /> “My parents just go on and on about things I don’t care about,” she continued. “And if I hear the life-can’t-be-taken-too-seriously-because-it’s-just-a-small-part-of-a-bigger-picture lecture one more time, I’ll go out of my mind.”<br /><br /> Again Jeff restrained his smile. He knew that lecture well. Except his cousin Malcolm summarized the same idea in the phrase “the eternal perspective.” All it meant was that there was a lot more to life than what we can see or experience with our senses. This world is a temporary stop on a journey to a truer, more real reality, he’d say — an eternal reality. “Look, your parents see things differently from most -people. That’s all,” Jeff said, determined not to turn this gripe session into an Olympic event.<br /><br /> “They’re from another planet,” Elizabeth said. “Sometimes I think this whole town is. Haven’t you figured it out yet?”<br /><br /> “I like Fawlt Line,” Jeff said softly, afraid Elizabeth’s complaints might offend some of the other regulars at the diner.<br /><br /> “Everybody’s so . . . so oblivious! Nobody even seems to notice how strange this place is.”<br /><br /> Jeff shrugged. “It’s just a town, Bits. Every town has its quirks.”<br /><br /> “Is that your word of the day?” Elizabeth snapped. “These aren’t just quirks, Jeffrey.”<br /><br /> Jeff rolled his eyes. When she resorted to calling him Jeffrey, there was no reasoning with her. He rubbed the side of his face and absentmindedly pushed his fingers through his wavy black hair.<br /><br /> “What about Helen?” Elizabeth challenged him.<br /><br /> “Which Helen? You mean the volunteer at the information booth in the mall? That Helen?”<br /><br /> “I mean Helen the volunteer at the information booth in the mall who thinks she’s psychic. That’s who I mean.” Elizabeth leaned over the Formica tabletop. Jeff moved her plate of fries and ketchup to one side. “She won’t let you speak until she guesses what you’re going to ask. And she’s never right!”<br /><br /> Jeff shrugged.<br /><br /> “Our only life insurance agent has been dead for six years.”<br /><br /> “Yeah, but — ”<br /><br /> “And there’s Walter Keenan. He’s a professional proofreader for park bench ads! He wanders around, making -people move out of the way so he can do his job.” Her voice was a shrill whisper.<br /><br /> “Ben Hearn only pays him to do that because he feels sorry for him. You know old Walter hasn’t been the same since that shaving accident.”<br /><br /> “But I heard he just got a job doing the same thing at a tattoo parlor!”<br /><br /> “I’m sure tattooists want to make sure their spelling is correct.”<br /><br /> Elizabeth groaned and shook her head. “It’s like Mayberry trapped in the Twilight Zone. I thought you’d understand. I thought you knew how nuts this town is.” Elizabeth locked her gaze onto Jeff’s.<br /><br /> He gazed back at her and, suddenly, the image of her large brown eyes, the faint freckles on her upturned nose, her full lips, made him want to kiss her. He wasn’t sure why — they’d been friends for so long that she’d probably laugh at him if he ever actually did it — but the urge was still there.<br /><br /> “It’s not such a bad place,” he managed to say.<br /><br /> “I’ve had enough of this town,” she said. “Of my parents. Of all the weirdness. I’m fifteen years old and I wanna be a normal kid with normal problems. Are you coming with me or not?”<br /><br /> Jeff cocked an eyebrow. “To where?”<br /><br /> “To wherever I run away to,” she replied. “I’m serious about this, Jeff. I’m getting all my money together and going somewhere normal. We can take your Volkswagen and — ”<br /><br /> “Listen, Bits,” Jeff interrupted, “I know how you feel. But we can’t just run away. Where would we go? What would we do?”<br /><br /> “And who are you all of a sudden: Mr. Responsibility? You never know where you’re going or what you’re doing. You’re our very own Huck Finn.”<br /><br /> “That’s ridiculous.”<br /><br /> “Not according to Mr. Vidler.”<br /><br /> “Mr. Vidler said that?” Jeff asked defensively, wondering why their English teacher would be talking about him to Elizabeth.<br /><br /> “He says it’s because you don’t have parents, and Malcolm doesn’t care what you do.”<br /><br /> Jeff grunted. He didn’t like the idea of Mr. Vidler discussing him like that. And Malcolm certainly cared a great deal about what he did.<br /><br /> Elizabeth continued. “So why should you care where we go or what we do? Let’s just get out of here.”<br /><br /> “But, Bits, it’s stupid and — ”<br /><br /> “No! I’m not listening to you,” Elizabeth shouted and hit the tabletop with the palms of her hands. Silence washed over the diner like a wave as everyone turned to look.<br /><br /> “Keep it down, will you?” Jeff whispered fiercely.<br /><br /> “Either you go with me, or stay here and rot in this town. It’s up to you.”<br /><br /> Jeff looked away. It was unusual for them to argue. And when they did, it was usually Jeff who gave in. Like now. “I don’t know,” he said quietly.<br /><br /> Elizabeth also softened her tone. “If you’re going, then meet me at the Old Saw Mill by the edge of the river tonight at ten.” She paused, then added, “I’m going whether you come with me or not.”<br /></div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-75080755560254487502008-10-13T21:47:00.001-04:002008-12-10T11:49:51.600-05:00A Purple State of Mind: Finding Middle Ground in a Divided Culture by Craig Detweiler<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s1600-h/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg"></a><a href="http://nonfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179647009365145890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s200/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg" border="0" /></a><br />It's the 15th, time for the Non~FIRST blog tour!(Non~FIRST will be merging with FIRST Wild Card Tours on January 1, 2009...if interested in joining, click <a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">HERE</a>!)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><br /><a href="http://craig.purplestateofmind.com/">Craig Detweiler </a></span></strong><br /><p></p><br /><strong><span style="font-size:160;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#009900;">and his/her book:</span> </span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"></strong></div></span><p></p><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:7;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></strong></div></span><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0736924604/">A Purple State of Mind: Finding Middle Ground in a Divided Culture</a></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Harvest House Publishers (July 1, 2008) <br /></p><br /><p align="center"></p><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><br /><p></p><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyqxuxurW5iNI1MjaphHwteS53phdmHzKHPWXAzLuJvaKfHwkp32wgN-CDr8QnRw13jITIh2-zxN6Fy7rrNyB39ee5WmymEd37tvdMNpjBcFvUVznlNy3qlQ1GJeCR_yYzjgL0aXWY/s1600-h/CraigDHeadshot.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyqxuxurW5iNI1MjaphHwteS53phdmHzKHPWXAzLuJvaKfHwkp32wgN-CDr8QnRw13jITIh2-zxN6Fy7rrNyB39ee5WmymEd37tvdMNpjBcFvUVznlNy3qlQ1GJeCR_yYzjgL0aXWY/s200/CraigDHeadshot.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256815168698675154" /></a>Craig Detweiler (PhD, Fuller Theological Seminary) is codirector of the Reel Spirituality Institute and associate professor of theology and culture at Fuller Theological Seminary. He has written scripts for numerous Hollywood films, and his comedic documentary, Purple State of Mind (www.purplestateofmind.com), debuted in 2008. He has been featured in the New York Times, on CNN, and on NPR and is the coauthor of A Matrix of Meanings. Barry Taylor (PhD, Fuller Theological Seminary), adjunct professor of popular culture and theology at Fuller, is a professional musician, painter, and the leader of New Ground, an alternative worship gathering in Los Angeles.<br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: 13.99<br />Paperback: 240 pages <br />Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (July 1, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0736924604 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0736924603 <br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/cC3D0LY79Jg&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/cC3D0LY79Jg&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></div></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi_WfRvMlxIied-6vF8U7iRm_M4E8c_31a-Lgml9Icswaw4BRbnxnd-0kkTGVxvG6kXRYykAoLvXT8wgNG5yc52ED76jBGVKItl_TSLiuYd3rBRXd9yxz6aOzGPdwFbZNYkFvMt-rb/s1600-h/Purple_State.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi_WfRvMlxIied-6vF8U7iRm_M4E8c_31a-Lgml9Icswaw4BRbnxnd-0kkTGVxvG6kXRYykAoLvXT8wgNG5yc52ED76jBGVKItl_TSLiuYd3rBRXd9yxz6aOzGPdwFbZNYkFvMt-rb/s200/Purple_State.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256815259516482050" /></a><div style="OVERFLOW: auto; HEIGHT: 307px"> <center>Freedom <br /><br /> and <br /><br /> Responsibility </center><br /> <br /><br /><br /> How did the culture war begin? Was there a clear winner? Or did it devolve into a long, costly stalemate? What can we learn from the battle? Perhaps we are not as polarized as we presume. Political parties and pundits strive to distinguish themselves from the competition in the starkest possible terms. We use rhetoric to rail against one another while our core positions may involve only a slight divergence. We may be hardly separated rather than deeply divided. Can we move from an adolescent mind-set, shouting across the religious and political divide, into something more thoughtful, productive, and mature?<br /><br /> As a witness to the sixties and seventies, I’ve seen how destructive we can be—even toward ourselves. I’ve also lived through the comparative comfort of the Reagan era in the eighties. He turned back the clock to a prosperous vision of America before the social upheavals of the sixties. Can we uphold the vigorous freedom of the sixties alongside the rigorous responsibility of the fifties?<br /><br /> A purple state of mind pushes past the either/or squabbles of an earlier era. It adopts a both/and approach to following God and interacting with the world. It builds bridges rather than burning them. It seeks common ground rather than points of division. A purple state of mind attains maturity by knowing when and where to apply biblical truths to our blind spots.<br /><br />John: I think this should be a candid discussion.<br /><br />Craig: I want it to be first and foremost an honest conversation. Straightforward. Tell the truth. Nothing held back.<br /><br /> Were you alive when President John F. Kennedy was shot? While the world wailed, I was warm in my mother’s womb. She was in the doctor’s office, awaiting a checkup on my status. I was born two months after Kennedy was assassinated. I arrived after the initial shockwave, the outpouring of grief, and the confusion as to why such tragedy happens. But we all continue to wrestle with the conflicts that erupted in the wake of Kennedy’s death.<br /><br /> I entered a world on fire. Throughout my childhood, there were riots in the streets, protests on campuses, scenes from Vietnam in the news. My parents attempted to shield me from much of the conflict, turning me on to Mr. Rogers rather than Walter Cronkite. Yet the palpable conflicts over civil rights, free speech, and the war draft spilled into newspapers, televisions, and casual conversations. The struggle for civil rights was more than a century in the making. Leaders like Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King were as patient as possible, given their long walk to freedom. Yet the positive steps created by the Civil Rights Act still moved too slowly for those trapped in the inner city. Riots in Watts and Detroit set cities ablaze. The mistakes of the Vietnam War constitute their own painful book. As images of the war filtered into our living rooms, resentment toward our leaders grew. Chaos reigned among protestors inside and outside the 1968 Democratic National Convention.<br /><br /> I knew my dad hated the protestors, but I didn’t know why. Something about their appearance bugged him. It may have been their long hair, their scanty clothes, and their flagrant disregard of authority. The hippies seemed equally frustrated by people like my father. They were complaining about the man, the system, anyone over 30. Why were the protestors so angry? What was all the shouting about? A generation gap emerged over the war in Vietnam. The students were ostensibly resisting the draft. They did not want to serve in an endless, misguided war in Southeast Asia.<br /><br /> Behind the political policies were distinct lifestyle choices. The hippies were celebrating free love, plentiful drugs, and raucous rock music. My father was wondering what happened to hard work, paying taxes, and civic responsibility. Teenagers embraced freedom while adults trumpeted responsibility. These dueling notions of the American identity exploded into a full-blown culture war that has been raging ever since. Reporter Ronald Brownstein calls this second civil war “the great sorting out.”<br /><br /> A purple state of mind appreciates the competing ideals that launched the culture war. It recognizes the patriotism that resides behind both visions. It remembers how much capital was created by responsible citizenship in the fifties. It also celebrates the ingenuity unleashed in the freedom-loving sixties. We learned valuable lessons from both eras. A purple state of mind borrows from both, combining freedom and responsibility.<br /><br />The Fifties Versus the Sixties<br /><br /> I have lived my entire life in the shadow of the 1960s. I’ve heard the stirring speeches of Martin Luther King and Malcolm X. I’ve mourned the assassination of Bobby Kennedy in Dion’s song, “Abraham, Martin, and John.” I’ve been taken to the Vietnam War in Apocalypse Now. How many television specials have I seen that retrace the upheavals of 1968? Rolling Stone magazine commemorates Woodstock or the Summer of Love every single year! Was it the best of times or the worst of times? Forty years on, we’re still locked in an adolescent debate. We see it in the childish name-calling of Bill O’Reilly and Ann Coulter on the right or MoveOn.org and Daily Kos on the left.<br /><br /> Every American presidential election since the sixties has essentially been a referendum on that painful era. There were no clear winners in Vietnam. Like Rambo, we’re still fighting. It is a dark era in American history most of us would rather not review (even though we must learn those lessons so we stop repeating them). The fissure generated in Vietnam lies behind our conflicted feelings over the war in Iraq. We can’t talk rationally as a nation about important issues because of deep-seated, unresolved family dynamics. If you prefer the comparative calm of the fifties, then you know how to vote. If you uphold the progressive hopes of the sixties, then it is clear which candidate represents you. The only problem with this pattern is that many of us missed the fifties and the sixties. We’re ready to move on, to live in this moment, to meet today’s challenges rather than to relive yesterday’s news.<br /><br /> Living with this conflict is comparable to listening to our parents argue. We’ve heard all the lines, all the rhetoric, and all the old grudges. We can recite them from memory, and we’ve been exhausted by the gridlock. We haven’t bothered to speak up because we know our parents were too busy arguing to listen. The shouting match showed no signs of abating, so we let the circus pass us by. Instead of joining the conversation, we elected to start our own companies, clubs, and churches. The creative brain drain from civic activities has been well documented. Those who were turned off by the partisan rancor eventually turned off the pundits on TV. We are on the Internet instead, arguing about the minutia that remains distinctly ours—music, movies, television, shopping. We don’t want to be superficial. But with no creative political options, we opt out. If we hope to engage the next generation in public life, then this culture war, rooted in bitter recriminations, must stop. For the sake of our children and grandchildren, we must call a cease-fire.<br /><br /> Those of us who’ve inherited this war have seen enough casualties. John Marks and I were born at the end of the baby boom and the beginning of Generation X. We understand the majority position and empathize with the minorities who’ve been sidelined by the sheer size of the opposition. Consider this book an effort to bridge the generation gap. I’m here to help those over fifty understand what is coming. I stand between the baby boomers and their children, brokering a truce. As a professor, I’ve invested heavily in Generation Y, hoping that they will enact enough changes to make room for my children—Generation Z!<br /><br />Seeking Wisdom<br /><br />Seek wisdom, not knowledge.<br /><br />Knowledge is of the past; wisdom is of the future.<br /><br />Native American PROVERB<br /><br /> I recount our recent history in an effort to fill in gaps in our understanding. We must comprehend where we’ve been if we hope to figure out where we’re going. I’ve seen the abuses of power represented by Watergate. The special prosecutor’s hearings interrupted hours of my favorite TV cartoons. (Did you realize that Hillary Clinton was part of the legal team investigating Nixon’s White House? Republicans have struggled with her for a looooong time!) I watched Nixon’s sad wave goodbye on the White House lawn. I also understand the faith embodied by the first “born again” president, Jimmy Carter. His Southern Baptist beliefs led him to broker peace in the Middle East. Yet I also endured the 444 days of the Iranian hostage crisis that accompanied his peaceful negotiations. After such international embarrassment, Americans desperately wanted to return to the fifties era of strength and power. Ronald Reagan played the part of forceful leader resisting the Soviet Union. The fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of Communism was a victory for freedom around the world.<br /><br /> Unresolved tensions about Vietnam, drugs, and the sixties fueled the vitriol hurled at the Clintons and the Bushes. Bill Clinton strapped on the mantle of President Kennedy, declaring himself “A Man from Hope.” His appearance playing saxophone on The Arsenio Hall Show sent a clear signal that he embraced civil rights. As “entertainer in chief,” Clinton demonstrated a mastery of the electronic medium. His obfuscations about inhaling marijuana and dalliances with White House intern Monica Lewinsky also sparked latent fears of sex, drugs, and rock & roll. (Did you realize that Monica’s famous blue dress was found in her mother’s apartment—in the Watergate complex?) To his detractors, Clinton represented too much freedom and not enough presidential responsibility. The impeachment proceedings against him were a recapitulation and payback for the embarrassment borne by the Nixon administration.<br /><br /> George W. Bush represented a return to the fifties. He may have engaged in alcohol abuse or cocaine use, but Bush confessed his sins and seemed genuinely contrite. He experienced the dangers of too much personal freedom and welcomed the responsibility he found in his newfound faith. While Clinton parsed verbs, Bush offered plain-spoken surety. He distanced himself from his patrician upbringing, adopting a Texas rancher lifestyle as a populist alternative. To those tired of Clinton’s libertinism and excess, Bush offered a down-home throwback: cowboy boots and pickup trucks.<br /><br /> Yet all the tough talk in the world seemed insufficient in dealing with a nearly unseen enemy. How could a band of terrorists bring down the World Trade Center? They used our strengths against us, hijacking our own planes. They crashed into our most impressive symbols of financial prowess and military might. September 11, 2001, humbled and angered us. We marched into the Middle East with unprecedented firepower. Afghanistan fell almost without resistance. We submitted Iraq to “shock and awe.” Unfortunately, Osama bin Laden and Al Qaeda proved they could not only run but also hide. We attacked nations, but our enemies were individuals. American technology ended up undermined by insurgents with homemade bombs. We terrorized others with torture at Guantanamo Bay and Abu Ghraib. We operated like a powerful empire but proved incapable of ferreting out an ideology. We desperately need leaders who can protect freedoms while serving as responsible world citizens. Such nuance has been lost in our prolonged and pointless culture war.<br /><br /> The next generation admires the civic responsibility of the fifties and the progressive art and music of the sixties. They have embraced a both/and view but have been alienated by either/or debates. A purple state of mind embraces freedom and responsibility. It takes the best of history but leaves the worst excesses (on both sides) behind. It blows away the purple haze hanging over our past. This chapter highlights key moments that got us into this mess. It will offer tangible proposals for moving on with maturity.<br /><br />Nixon Versus Kennedy<br /><br /> For almost 50 years, we have been sorting out the choices represented by the first televised presidential debate, Republican Richard M. Nixon versus Democrat John F. Kennedy. On September 26, 1960, Vice President Nixon and Senator Kennedy squared off under the moderation of ABC’s Howard K. Smith. Over 80 million viewers tuned into the debate, which pitted Nixon’s experience (eight years as Eisenhower’s vice-president) against Kennedy’s comparative youth (one term as a U.S. senator). Both candidates offered hawkish opposition to the Communist threat represented by the Soviet Union. They debated issues of national debt, farm subsidies, welfare, and health care that continue to be unresolved. They drew distinctions about the role of government to stimulate economic growth. But Nixon and Kennedy diverged most significantly in style rather than substance.<br /><br /> Kennedy arrived at the debates looking tan, rested, and energetic. Nixon looked haggard, having recently fought off the flu. He refused to don makeup, figuring his forceful words would rule the day. Those who listened to the debate on the radio found Nixon the victor. Yet those watching the debate on tiny black-and-white televisions saw something else. They saw Nixon sweat while Kennedy smiled. Although Nixon was only five years older than Kennedy, his demeanor seemed comparatively ancient in outlook and energy. Nixon’s noticeable five-o’clock shadow didn’t help either.<br /><br /> Nixon learned the connections between style and substance too late in the campaign. Makeup covered his beard in three subsequent television debates. But Kennedy gained just enough confidence and votes to capture the closest general election of the twentieth century. Just one-tenth of 1 percent of votes separated Kennedy from Nixon. Americans have remained almost equally divided ever since.<br /><br /> The legacy of John F. Kennedy remains remarkably hopeful and progressive. Consider the optimism behind his war on poverty. Having watched the Russians beat Americans into orbit, Kennedy redefined the terms of the space race. How much chutzpah did it take to engage in a race to the moon? His version of American government looks almost absurdly hopeful in hindsight.<br /><br /> When Richard Nixon campaigned for president in 1968 (and for reelection in 1972), he promised an alternative to the vexing Vietnam War. Nixon expanded the Cold War efforts to include Cambodia and Laos. He presented a stronger America that refused to be intimidated. At the same time, Nixon engaged in a remarkable array of diplomatic missions to China and the Soviet Union. He met his adversaries face-to-face, winning surprising concessions and forging unexpected alliances.<br /><br /> Behind their policies, presidents Kennedy and Nixon represented divergent attitudes toward profound social change within America. The Kennedy years brought glamour to the White House. Entertainers like Marilyn Monroe sang sultry birthday greetings to President Kennedy. An air of celebration could also be read as a reign of permissiveness. A Democratic administration presided over the explosion of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Progressive politics coincided with experimentation and unrest. The Nixon presidency offered a return to law and order. Freedom took a backseat to responsibility. In 1971, President Nixon identified drug abuse as public enemy number one in the United States. He created the Special Action Office for Drug Abuse Prevention (it became the Drug Enforcement Administration in 1973). We’ve been fighting America’s longest war, the war on drugs, ever since.<br /><br />Purple Haze<br /><br /> Jimi Hendrix’ song “Purple Haze” epitomizes the fuzzy grasp of reality that accompanied drug experimentation in the sixties. The title allegedly arose from a powerful batch of LSD served to Hendrix by Owsley Stanley. Some have also attributed it to a strain of purple marijuana. Hendrix said the inspiration arrived in a dream. Whatever the derivation, “Purple Haze” is rooted in altered states of consciousness. Released in 1967, “Purple Haze” served as the psychedelic anthem for San Francisco’s summer of love. The key to the song’s eerie sound is harmonic dissonance. Jimi’s guitar is tuned in B-flat, while Noel Redding’s bass plays E octaves. Such discordant sounds matched the era perfectly. A clash of cultures resulted in something jarring and new. Jimi didn’t just play rock music, he offered the Jimi Hendrix Experience.<br /><br /> Consider the transcendent promises contained in his phrase, “’Scuse me while I kiss the sky.” Some heard it as a sexual provocation, a pledge to kiss a guy. But the sound made it clear that his sights were set in the great beyond. At his seminal appearance at the Monterey Pop Festival, Jimi transported the crowd to a higher state of consciousness. He demonstrated the otherworldly power of raw feedback, playing his guitar behind, above, and beyond himself. Hendrix stepped into the role of sexual shaman, licking, caressing, and stroking guttural sounds from his Stratocaster. In setting his guitar on fire during “Wild Thing,” Hendrix offered his gifts to the rock gods. It is an incantation, sacrificing his most precious possessions to the altar of altered states.<br /><br /> Unfortunately, Jimi’s life ended up in a similar state of self-immolation, falling to pieces just as suddenly and tragically. The Experience Music Project in Seattle serves as a permanent archive for all things Hendrix. EMP founder Paul Allen spent part of his Microsoft millions acquiring Hendrix memorabilia, bringing it back to Jimi’s hometown of Seattle. It is a memorial to a musical messiah. The hall dedicated to Jimi is fittingly called “Sky Church.”<br /><br /> To others, “Purple Haze” demonstrated a world utterly adrift. The idyllic visions of Woodstock were undercut by the horrific murder at Altamont. With Hell’s Angels serving as security, 1969’s other free concert (at Altamont Speedway in Northern California) ended in death rather than musical bliss. Every time Rolling Stone magazine presents another rosy retrospective of the sixties, I wonder why it refuses to acknowledge the dark side of psychedelia. How can it hold up Hendrix, Joplin, and Jim Morrison as departed saints, when they are also exhibits A, B, and C in the perils of drug abuse? They were amazing and stupid at the same time. Great talents squandered by excess. So when parents who lived through the worst of the sixties attempt to spare their children the same amount of destructive experimentation, I applaud. “Just say no” arose from painful, lived experience. It may have been simplistic, but it was preferable to self-destruction.<br /><br /> Recent films like Drugstore Cowboy, Trainspotting, and Requiem for a Dream capture both the allure and the demolition of drugs. They provide an audio-visual approximation of a drug trip. Their images are intoxicating and attractive—the ultimate music videos. Yet their message is clear: Despite the attraction, do not be deceived—drugs will kill you. They serve as cautionary tales for a stylish era. Today’s students have largely learned from the painful past. Rates of teenage pregnancies, drug use, and violence have hit 40-year lows. The parents from a turbulent era raised remarkably respectful, well-behaved kids. Demographers Neil Howe and William Strauss noted the surprising generational shift:<br /><br />Boomers started out as the objects of loosening child standards in an era of conformist adults. Millennials are starting out as the objects of tightening child standards in an era of non-conformists adults. By the time the last Millennials come of age, they could become…the cleanest-cut young adults in living memory.<br /><br />To a large degree, Generation Y has embraced the family values of the 1950s. But its rebellion remains wrapped in the profane packages of the 1960s.<br /><br /> Consider the violent, R-rated film Fight Club (1999). It is a scathing critique of consumer culture and middle-class values. We follow Jack, the bored protagonist, on a brutal slide into an underworld of macho self-abuse. Jack longs for genuine feeling, even if he must shed blood to achieve it. So while Jack may be a mild-mannered bureaucrat by day, he rallies his friends for bare-knuckled bar fights at night. Fight Club unleashes the fragile postmodern male id with frightening results. What begins as an invigorating alternative devolves into Project Mayhem, a prescient precursor to the terrorist attacks of 9/11. Schizophrenia leads to destructive nihilism.<br /><br /> This is contrasted by the diagnosis offered by the toughest puncher in the club, Tyler Durden. He summarizes the isolation of a generation raised in affluence rather than upheaval:<br /><br />Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy s— we don’t need. We’re the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War’s a spiritual war…our Great Depression is our lives. We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires and movie gods and rock stars. But we won’t. And we’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re very, very p— off.<br /><br /> When I showed Fight Club to a class of undergraduate students, they nodded in recognition. They connected with Tyler’s frustration. During a class discussion afterward, a student announced, “We’re rebels.” When I asked what they were rebelling against, he said, “Our parents.” is all sounded more than vaguely familiar, so I pushed further. “What does that look like?” The students answered, “We don’t want to be like our parents. Drinking. Doing drugs. Getting lots of divorces…we’re rebels!” e most rebellious behavior imaginable? Abstinence!<br /><br /> While baby boomers harrumph about presidential candidates’ ancient drug use, their children are begging for them to grow up. Parents complain to MTV about Britney Spears’ kiss with Madonna. Switchboards light up from viewers shocked by Janet Jackson’s nipple slip during the Super Bowl halftime show. Yet the next generation lets out a collective yawn. They’ve already seen it, done it, or dismissed it. They identify with the band Weezer, which recorded a song titled “Tired of Sex.” They are ready to move on, past the provocation to more substantive issues. Rivers Cuomo of Weezer asks, “Oh, why can’t I be making love come true?”<br /><br />A New Conversation<br /><br />Craig: My introduction to what it meant to follow Jesus was to be a laughingstock. It meant bad hair, bad makeup, and bad TV. Is this what I signed up for? This whole tension of red state and blue state, this is the tension that I live with—how do I own my own people who so make me cringe on a regular basis? This nomenclature of left and right, red and blue is not helpful right now.<br /><br />John: It’s not meant to be helpful. It’s meant to do exactly what it does. I’m not happy with what people on the traditional left, or Democrats, say is their worldview. I honestly don’t know if they have one. I’m as weary as anybody in this country of the politically correct dialogue, which basically says, “I’m a victim and you’re not. No, I’m a victim and you’re not.” It’s useless. It’s done. It’s dead. Postmodernism is dead. All those answers on the secular side are basically dead.<br /><br /> John Marks and I stand between generations. We are old enough to understand the boomers’ intra-generational issues, yet we’re still young enough to identify with the discontent of those who followed. We embarked on a purple state of mind because we’re desperate for a new paradigm, hungering for a different set of talking points. We each risked alienating our constituencies. Coming from evangelical Christianity, I am part of the fifties tribe, which is struggling to protect home and hearth. As a journalist, John Marks identifies with the political left and their tattered ideals. We both find ourselves embarrassed by those we represent. I ask how God’s people could have turned Jesus into a hater. John questions why allegedly free-thinking people are so close-minded when it comes to religion. A purple state of mind tries the patience of both sides. It runs the risk of disloyalty for the sake of a larger goal.<br /><br /> We must put the past behind us. We can no longer afford to be divided over issues of sexuality and drug use when global crises demand our attention. To lead the world, we must get past our adolescent fixation on who did what to whom. The rumor mills that trumped up charges against the Clintons in Whitewater or George W. Bush with evasion of the Vietnam War have done nothing but distract us. How much negative energy has been expended on investigations that went nowhere? We’ve been busy digging up dirt when we should have been building roads and schools. We tore down a government in Iraq rather than solidifying our own ability to lead by example. Shame on us for obsessing over the past instead of investing in the future. No wonder voters in 2008 longed for change.<br /><br />The Gospel According to Austin Powers<br /><br /> Our desperate need for freedom and responsibility rests in the seemingly contradictory letters of the apostle Paul. He applied his godly advice in a unique way for the audience he was addressing. To Corinthian Christians navigating a libertine culture, he preached caution. Corinth was noted for temples dedicated to Apollo and Aphrodite. Worship at these temples often included sex with temple prostitutes. They were thought to serve as conduits for the divine. An intimate sexual encounter on temple grounds was comparable to an experience with the gods. So imagine how confused early Corinthian Christians may have been about what constituted proper worship of Christ. Their understanding of Christian freedom knew no bounds. Paul urged the Corinthian church to exercise spiritual discipline, to get their house in order. He insisted they “flee from sexual immorality” (1 Corinthians 6:18). To those who claimed, “Everything is permissible,” Paul responded with a chastening, “Everything is not beneficial” (1 Corinthians 10:23).<br /><br /> In Corinth, even eating meat could involve idolatrous activity. The local cults of Apollo and Aphrodite controlled so much of the public consciousness and economy that new believers were encouraged to examine the sources of their food supply. Food sacrificed to idols may not be contaminated physically, but Paul challenged the Corinthian to demonstrate sensitivity toward those who may have confused or conflated eating with idolatry. Paul urges the Corinthian believers to take responsibility for their Christian brothers and sisters. To a chaotic church, he preaches order, propriety, and maturity.<br /><br /> Yet to the uptight church in Galatia, Paul preaches freedom. The new believers clung too closely to their Jewish roots. Perhaps out of fear of persecution, the local church leaders insisted that new Christians adopt the rigorous (old) rules of Hebraic law. Gentile converts were expected to get circumcised according to Jewish ritual. Paul considers such attempts to bind people to ancient purity laws as a threat to the gospel of grace. He insists, “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery” (Galatians 5:1). He begged the Galatian Christians to loosen up, to relax their standards in the name of Christ.<br /><br /> Was Paul contradicting himself? By no means! In each letter, he concludes with an appeal to love. To the legally minded Galatians, Paul summarizes the law in a single command, “Love your neighbor as yourself” (Galatians 5:14). To the battling Corinthians who confused sex with love, Paul spells out the attitudes and actions that constitute love. “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud” (1 Corinthians 13:4). He preaches freedom to Galatia and responsibility to Corinth because they each need to apply the message in a unique way.<br /><br /> Unfortunately, we often fail to identify our particular blind spots. Legalistic churches will often reiterate the call to purity given to the Corinthians. Lax churches will return to Paul’s letter to the Galatians to justify more license. Those who need freedom cling to responsibility. Christians who need to learn responsibility insist upon the freedom Paul grants to Galatia. Those who have ears to hear, let them hear.<br /><br /> Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery urges us toward maturity. In the comedic conclusion, Austin gets the drop on a surprised Dr. Evil. But Evil remains unflappable and punches Austin’s buttons: “We’re not so different, you and I. However, isn’t it ironic that the very things that you stand for—free love, swinging parties—are all now, in the nineties, considered to be evil?” Austin retorts, “No, man, what we swingers were rebelling against is uptight squares like you whose bag was money and world domination. We were innocent, man. If we’d known the consequences of our sexual liberation we would have done things differently, but the spirit would have remained the same. It’s freedom, baby, yeah!” Austin Powers connects wisdom, experience, and the spirit all in one interrelated package. Dr. Evil offers a challenge: “Face it—freedom failed.” With the sounds of the sixties anthem “What the World Needs Now Is Love” playing in the background, Austin concludes, “No man, freedom didn’t fail. Right now we’ve got freedom and responsibility. It’s a very groovy time.” Even sassy movie stars can capture profound truths.<br /><br /> It is not freedom versus responsibility. It is not the law and order of the Republican Party or the liberal policies of the Democratic Party. We need a strong military to defend our freedoms. We need unregulated markets to encourage innovation. We need social agencies to check our greed and support “the least of these.” We must find freedom and responsibility between the parties. We must learn to listen to Paul’s competing calls. Christian maturity incorporates the whole of scripture and applies it to an integrated life. We must be aware of our history. We must recognize how we’ve become so divided. We must grow up as a nation, moving on to freedom and responsibility rather than dragging each other into ancient history. The radical claims of Paul continue to challenge us. Libertines may need to give up some freedoms for the health of others. Conservatives may need to unwind enough for the Spirit to enter in.<br /><br /> Adolescence is an experiment in self-governance. It is about identifying your own strengths and weaknesses, learning to moderate. Sometimes we fall on our faces from too much excess. At other times, we shrink back from opportunities we should have seized. Highly responsible people may sprint to early success and wake up 20 years later, wondering what all the compliance wrought. They will long for freedom. Those raised in a borderless environment will have to find a roadmap that shows where the blind curves and dangerous precipices are located. Maturity arises when those maps have been internalized, when familiarity with biblical wisdom coincides with personal experience. We appreciate the gift of freedom, but we also recognize when enough is enough. Only with our house in order can we begin to focus outwardly. We do not merely play thought police, checking and correcting others. Rather, we take on the deeper challenge of walking beside others, inviting them to join us on the journey. It’s a very groovy time.<br /><br /></div></textarea><br /></div><br /><br />**********************<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s1600-h/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg"></a><a href="http://nonfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179647009365145890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s200/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg" border="0" /></a><br />It's the 15th, time for the Non~FIRST blog tour!(Non~FIRST will be merging with FIRST Wild Card Tours on January 1, 2009...if interested in joining, click <a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">HERE</a>!)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><br /><a href="http://craig.purplestateofmind.com/">Craig Detweiler </a></span></strong><br /><p></p><br /><strong><span style="font-size:160;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#009900;">and his/her book:</span> </span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"></strong></div></span><p></p><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:7;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></strong></div></span><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0736924604/">A Purple State of Mind: Finding Middle Ground in a Divided Culture</a></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Harvest House Publishers (July 1, 2008) <br /></p><br /><p align="center"></p><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><br /><p></p><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyqxuxurW5iNI1MjaphHwteS53phdmHzKHPWXAzLuJvaKfHwkp32wgN-CDr8QnRw13jITIh2-zxN6Fy7rrNyB39ee5WmymEd37tvdMNpjBcFvUVznlNy3qlQ1GJeCR_yYzjgL0aXWY/s1600-h/CraigDHeadshot.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyqxuxurW5iNI1MjaphHwteS53phdmHzKHPWXAzLuJvaKfHwkp32wgN-CDr8QnRw13jITIh2-zxN6Fy7rrNyB39ee5WmymEd37tvdMNpjBcFvUVznlNy3qlQ1GJeCR_yYzjgL0aXWY/s200/CraigDHeadshot.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256815168698675154" /></a>Craig Detweiler (PhD, Fuller Theological Seminary) is codirector of the Reel Spirituality Institute and associate professor of theology and culture at Fuller Theological Seminary. He has written scripts for numerous Hollywood films, and his comedic documentary, Purple State of Mind (www.purplestateofmind.com), debuted in 2008. He has been featured in the New York Times, on CNN, and on NPR and is the coauthor of A Matrix of Meanings. Barry Taylor (PhD, Fuller Theological Seminary), adjunct professor of popular culture and theology at Fuller, is a professional musician, painter, and the leader of New Ground, an alternative worship gathering in Los Angeles.<br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: 13.99<br />Paperback: 240 pages <br />Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (July 1, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0736924604 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0736924603 <br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/cC3D0LY79Jg&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/cC3D0LY79Jg&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></div></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi_WfRvMlxIied-6vF8U7iRm_M4E8c_31a-Lgml9Icswaw4BRbnxnd-0kkTGVxvG6kXRYykAoLvXT8wgNG5yc52ED76jBGVKItl_TSLiuYd3rBRXd9yxz6aOzGPdwFbZNYkFvMt-rb/s1600-h/Purple_State.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi_WfRvMlxIied-6vF8U7iRm_M4E8c_31a-Lgml9Icswaw4BRbnxnd-0kkTGVxvG6kXRYykAoLvXT8wgNG5yc52ED76jBGVKItl_TSLiuYd3rBRXd9yxz6aOzGPdwFbZNYkFvMt-rb/s200/Purple_State.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256815259516482050" /></a><div style="OVERFLOW: auto; HEIGHT: 307px"> <center>Freedom <br /><br /> and <br /><br /> Responsibility </center><br /> <br /><br /><br /> How did the culture war begin? Was there a clear winner? Or did it devolve into a long, costly stalemate? What can we learn from the battle? Perhaps we are not as polarized as we presume. Political parties and pundits strive to distinguish themselves from the competition in the starkest possible terms. We use rhetoric to rail against one another while our core positions may involve only a slight divergence. We may be hardly separated rather than deeply divided. Can we move from an adolescent mind-set, shouting across the religious and political divide, into something more thoughtful, productive, and mature?<br /><br /> As a witness to the sixties and seventies, I’ve seen how destructive we can be—even toward ourselves. I’ve also lived through the comparative comfort of the Reagan era in the eighties. He turned back the clock to a prosperous vision of America before the social upheavals of the sixties. Can we uphold the vigorous freedom of the sixties alongside the rigorous responsibility of the fifties?<br /><br /> A purple state of mind pushes past the either/or squabbles of an earlier era. It adopts a both/and approach to following God and interacting with the world. It builds bridges rather than burning them. It seeks common ground rather than points of division. A purple state of mind attains maturity by knowing when and where to apply biblical truths to our blind spots.<br /><br />John: I think this should be a candid discussion.<br /><br />Craig: I want it to be first and foremost an honest conversation. Straightforward. Tell the truth. Nothing held back.<br /><br /> Were you alive when President John F. Kennedy was shot? While the world wailed, I was warm in my mother’s womb. She was in the doctor’s office, awaiting a checkup on my status. I was born two months after Kennedy was assassinated. I arrived after the initial shockwave, the outpouring of grief, and the confusion as to why such tragedy happens. But we all continue to wrestle with the conflicts that erupted in the wake of Kennedy’s death.<br /><br /> I entered a world on fire. Throughout my childhood, there were riots in the streets, protests on campuses, scenes from Vietnam in the news. My parents attempted to shield me from much of the conflict, turning me on to Mr. Rogers rather than Walter Cronkite. Yet the palpable conflicts over civil rights, free speech, and the war draft spilled into newspapers, televisions, and casual conversations. The struggle for civil rights was more than a century in the making. Leaders like Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King were as patient as possible, given their long walk to freedom. Yet the positive steps created by the Civil Rights Act still moved too slowly for those trapped in the inner city. Riots in Watts and Detroit set cities ablaze. The mistakes of the Vietnam War constitute their own painful book. As images of the war filtered into our living rooms, resentment toward our leaders grew. Chaos reigned among protestors inside and outside the 1968 Democratic National Convention.<br /><br /> I knew my dad hated the protestors, but I didn’t know why. Something about their appearance bugged him. It may have been their long hair, their scanty clothes, and their flagrant disregard of authority. The hippies seemed equally frustrated by people like my father. They were complaining about the man, the system, anyone over 30. Why were the protestors so angry? What was all the shouting about? A generation gap emerged over the war in Vietnam. The students were ostensibly resisting the draft. They did not want to serve in an endless, misguided war in Southeast Asia.<br /><br /> Behind the political policies were distinct lifestyle choices. The hippies were celebrating free love, plentiful drugs, and raucous rock music. My father was wondering what happened to hard work, paying taxes, and civic responsibility. Teenagers embraced freedom while adults trumpeted responsibility. These dueling notions of the American identity exploded into a full-blown culture war that has been raging ever since. Reporter Ronald Brownstein calls this second civil war “the great sorting out.”<br /><br /> A purple state of mind appreciates the competing ideals that launched the culture war. It recognizes the patriotism that resides behind both visions. It remembers how much capital was created by responsible citizenship in the fifties. It also celebrates the ingenuity unleashed in the freedom-loving sixties. We learned valuable lessons from both eras. A purple state of mind borrows from both, combining freedom and responsibility.<br /><br />The Fifties Versus the Sixties<br /><br /> I have lived my entire life in the shadow of the 1960s. I’ve heard the stirring speeches of Martin Luther King and Malcolm X. I’ve mourned the assassination of Bobby Kennedy in Dion’s song, “Abraham, Martin, and John.” I’ve been taken to the Vietnam War in Apocalypse Now. How many television specials have I seen that retrace the upheavals of 1968? Rolling Stone magazine commemorates Woodstock or the Summer of Love every single year! Was it the best of times or the worst of times? Forty years on, we’re still locked in an adolescent debate. We see it in the childish name-calling of Bill O’Reilly and Ann Coulter on the right or MoveOn.org and Daily Kos on the left.<br /><br /> Every American presidential election since the sixties has essentially been a referendum on that painful era. There were no clear winners in Vietnam. Like Rambo, we’re still fighting. It is a dark era in American history most of us would rather not review (even though we must learn those lessons so we stop repeating them). The fissure generated in Vietnam lies behind our conflicted feelings over the war in Iraq. We can’t talk rationally as a nation about important issues because of deep-seated, unresolved family dynamics. If you prefer the comparative calm of the fifties, then you know how to vote. If you uphold the progressive hopes of the sixties, then it is clear which candidate represents you. The only problem with this pattern is that many of us missed the fifties and the sixties. We’re ready to move on, to live in this moment, to meet today’s challenges rather than to relive yesterday’s news.<br /><br /> Living with this conflict is comparable to listening to our parents argue. We’ve heard all the lines, all the rhetoric, and all the old grudges. We can recite them from memory, and we’ve been exhausted by the gridlock. We haven’t bothered to speak up because we know our parents were too busy arguing to listen. The shouting match showed no signs of abating, so we let the circus pass us by. Instead of joining the conversation, we elected to start our own companies, clubs, and churches. The creative brain drain from civic activities has been well documented. Those who were turned off by the partisan rancor eventually turned off the pundits on TV. We are on the Internet instead, arguing about the minutia that remains distinctly ours—music, movies, television, shopping. We don’t want to be superficial. But with no creative political options, we opt out. If we hope to engage the next generation in public life, then this culture war, rooted in bitter recriminations, must stop. For the sake of our children and grandchildren, we must call a cease-fire.<br /><br /> Those of us who’ve inherited this war have seen enough casualties. John Marks and I were born at the end of the baby boom and the beginning of Generation X. We understand the majority position and empathize with the minorities who’ve been sidelined by the sheer size of the opposition. Consider this book an effort to bridge the generation gap. I’m here to help those over fifty understand what is coming. I stand between the baby boomers and their children, brokering a truce. As a professor, I’ve invested heavily in Generation Y, hoping that they will enact enough changes to make room for my children—Generation Z!<br /><br />Seeking Wisdom<br /><br />Seek wisdom, not knowledge.<br /><br />Knowledge is of the past; wisdom is of the future.<br /><br />Native American PROVERB<br /><br /> I recount our recent history in an effort to fill in gaps in our understanding. We must comprehend where we’ve been if we hope to figure out where we’re going. I’ve seen the abuses of power represented by Watergate. The special prosecutor’s hearings interrupted hours of my favorite TV cartoons. (Did you realize that Hillary Clinton was part of the legal team investigating Nixon’s White House? Republicans have struggled with her for a looooong time!) I watched Nixon’s sad wave goodbye on the White House lawn. I also understand the faith embodied by the first “born again” president, Jimmy Carter. His Southern Baptist beliefs led him to broker peace in the Middle East. Yet I also endured the 444 days of the Iranian hostage crisis that accompanied his peaceful negotiations. After such international embarrassment, Americans desperately wanted to return to the fifties era of strength and power. Ronald Reagan played the part of forceful leader resisting the Soviet Union. The fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of Communism was a victory for freedom around the world.<br /><br /> Unresolved tensions about Vietnam, drugs, and the sixties fueled the vitriol hurled at the Clintons and the Bushes. Bill Clinton strapped on the mantle of President Kennedy, declaring himself “A Man from Hope.” His appearance playing saxophone on The Arsenio Hall Show sent a clear signal that he embraced civil rights. As “entertainer in chief,” Clinton demonstrated a mastery of the electronic medium. His obfuscations about inhaling marijuana and dalliances with White House intern Monica Lewinsky also sparked latent fears of sex, drugs, and rock & roll. (Did you realize that Monica’s famous blue dress was found in her mother’s apartment—in the Watergate complex?) To his detractors, Clinton represented too much freedom and not enough presidential responsibility. The impeachment proceedings against him were a recapitulation and payback for the embarrassment borne by the Nixon administration.<br /><br /> George W. Bush represented a return to the fifties. He may have engaged in alcohol abuse or cocaine use, but Bush confessed his sins and seemed genuinely contrite. He experienced the dangers of too much personal freedom and welcomed the responsibility he found in his newfound faith. While Clinton parsed verbs, Bush offered plain-spoken surety. He distanced himself from his patrician upbringing, adopting a Texas rancher lifestyle as a populist alternative. To those tired of Clinton’s libertinism and excess, Bush offered a down-home throwback: cowboy boots and pickup trucks.<br /><br /> Yet all the tough talk in the world seemed insufficient in dealing with a nearly unseen enemy. How could a band of terrorists bring down the World Trade Center? They used our strengths against us, hijacking our own planes. They crashed into our most impressive symbols of financial prowess and military might. September 11, 2001, humbled and angered us. We marched into the Middle East with unprecedented firepower. Afghanistan fell almost without resistance. We submitted Iraq to “shock and awe.” Unfortunately, Osama bin Laden and Al Qaeda proved they could not only run but also hide. We attacked nations, but our enemies were individuals. American technology ended up undermined by insurgents with homemade bombs. We terrorized others with torture at Guantanamo Bay and Abu Ghraib. We operated like a powerful empire but proved incapable of ferreting out an ideology. We desperately need leaders who can protect freedoms while serving as responsible world citizens. Such nuance has been lost in our prolonged and pointless culture war.<br /><br /> The next generation admires the civic responsibility of the fifties and the progressive art and music of the sixties. They have embraced a both/and view but have been alienated by either/or debates. A purple state of mind embraces freedom and responsibility. It takes the best of history but leaves the worst excesses (on both sides) behind. It blows away the purple haze hanging over our past. This chapter highlights key moments that got us into this mess. It will offer tangible proposals for moving on with maturity.<br /><br />Nixon Versus Kennedy<br /><br /> For almost 50 years, we have been sorting out the choices represented by the first televised presidential debate, Republican Richard M. Nixon versus Democrat John F. Kennedy. On September 26, 1960, Vice President Nixon and Senator Kennedy squared off under the moderation of ABC’s Howard K. Smith. Over 80 million viewers tuned into the debate, which pitted Nixon’s experience (eight years as Eisenhower’s vice-president) against Kennedy’s comparative youth (one term as a U.S. senator). Both candidates offered hawkish opposition to the Communist threat represented by the Soviet Union. They debated issues of national debt, farm subsidies, welfare, and health care that continue to be unresolved. They drew distinctions about the role of government to stimulate economic growth. But Nixon and Kennedy diverged most significantly in style rather than substance.<br /><br /> Kennedy arrived at the debates looking tan, rested, and energetic. Nixon looked haggard, having recently fought off the flu. He refused to don makeup, figuring his forceful words would rule the day. Those who listened to the debate on the radio found Nixon the victor. Yet those watching the debate on tiny black-and-white televisions saw something else. They saw Nixon sweat while Kennedy smiled. Although Nixon was only five years older than Kennedy, his demeanor seemed comparatively ancient in outlook and energy. Nixon’s noticeable five-o’clock shadow didn’t help either.<br /><br /> Nixon learned the connections between style and substance too late in the campaign. Makeup covered his beard in three subsequent television debates. But Kennedy gained just enough confidence and votes to capture the closest general election of the twentieth century. Just one-tenth of 1 percent of votes separated Kennedy from Nixon. Americans have remained almost equally divided ever since.<br /><br /> The legacy of John F. Kennedy remains remarkably hopeful and progressive. Consider the optimism behind his war on poverty. Having watched the Russians beat Americans into orbit, Kennedy redefined the terms of the space race. How much chutzpah did it take to engage in a race to the moon? His version of American government looks almost absurdly hopeful in hindsight.<br /><br /> When Richard Nixon campaigned for president in 1968 (and for reelection in 1972), he promised an alternative to the vexing Vietnam War. Nixon expanded the Cold War efforts to include Cambodia and Laos. He presented a stronger America that refused to be intimidated. At the same time, Nixon engaged in a remarkable array of diplomatic missions to China and the Soviet Union. He met his adversaries face-to-face, winning surprising concessions and forging unexpected alliances.<br /><br /> Behind their policies, presidents Kennedy and Nixon represented divergent attitudes toward profound social change within America. The Kennedy years brought glamour to the White House. Entertainers like Marilyn Monroe sang sultry birthday greetings to President Kennedy. An air of celebration could also be read as a reign of permissiveness. A Democratic administration presided over the explosion of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Progressive politics coincided with experimentation and unrest. The Nixon presidency offered a return to law and order. Freedom took a backseat to responsibility. In 1971, President Nixon identified drug abuse as public enemy number one in the United States. He created the Special Action Office for Drug Abuse Prevention (it became the Drug Enforcement Administration in 1973). We’ve been fighting America’s longest war, the war on drugs, ever since.<br /><br />Purple Haze<br /><br /> Jimi Hendrix’ song “Purple Haze” epitomizes the fuzzy grasp of reality that accompanied drug experimentation in the sixties. The title allegedly arose from a powerful batch of LSD served to Hendrix by Owsley Stanley. Some have also attributed it to a strain of purple marijuana. Hendrix said the inspiration arrived in a dream. Whatever the derivation, “Purple Haze” is rooted in altered states of consciousness. Released in 1967, “Purple Haze” served as the psychedelic anthem for San Francisco’s summer of love. The key to the song’s eerie sound is harmonic dissonance. Jimi’s guitar is tuned in B-flat, while Noel Redding’s bass plays E octaves. Such discordant sounds matched the era perfectly. A clash of cultures resulted in something jarring and new. Jimi didn’t just play rock music, he offered the Jimi Hendrix Experience.<br /><br /> Consider the transcendent promises contained in his phrase, “’Scuse me while I kiss the sky.” Some heard it as a sexual provocation, a pledge to kiss a guy. But the sound made it clear that his sights were set in the great beyond. At his seminal appearance at the Monterey Pop Festival, Jimi transported the crowd to a higher state of consciousness. He demonstrated the otherworldly power of raw feedback, playing his guitar behind, above, and beyond himself. Hendrix stepped into the role of sexual shaman, licking, caressing, and stroking guttural sounds from his Stratocaster. In setting his guitar on fire during “Wild Thing,” Hendrix offered his gifts to the rock gods. It is an incantation, sacrificing his most precious possessions to the altar of altered states.<br /><br /> Unfortunately, Jimi’s life ended up in a similar state of self-immolation, falling to pieces just as suddenly and tragically. The Experience Music Project in Seattle serves as a permanent archive for all things Hendrix. EMP founder Paul Allen spent part of his Microsoft millions acquiring Hendrix memorabilia, bringing it back to Jimi’s hometown of Seattle. It is a memorial to a musical messiah. The hall dedicated to Jimi is fittingly called “Sky Church.”<br /><br /> To others, “Purple Haze” demonstrated a world utterly adrift. The idyllic visions of Woodstock were undercut by the horrific murder at Altamont. With Hell’s Angels serving as security, 1969’s other free concert (at Altamont Speedway in Northern California) ended in death rather than musical bliss. Every time Rolling Stone magazine presents another rosy retrospective of the sixties, I wonder why it refuses to acknowledge the dark side of psychedelia. How can it hold up Hendrix, Joplin, and Jim Morrison as departed saints, when they are also exhibits A, B, and C in the perils of drug abuse? They were amazing and stupid at the same time. Great talents squandered by excess. So when parents who lived through the worst of the sixties attempt to spare their children the same amount of destructive experimentation, I applaud. “Just say no” arose from painful, lived experience. It may have been simplistic, but it was preferable to self-destruction.<br /><br /> Recent films like Drugstore Cowboy, Trainspotting, and Requiem for a Dream capture both the allure and the demolition of drugs. They provide an audio-visual approximation of a drug trip. Their images are intoxicating and attractive—the ultimate music videos. Yet their message is clear: Despite the attraction, do not be deceived—drugs will kill you. They serve as cautionary tales for a stylish era. Today’s students have largely learned from the painful past. Rates of teenage pregnancies, drug use, and violence have hit 40-year lows. The parents from a turbulent era raised remarkably respectful, well-behaved kids. Demographers Neil Howe and William Strauss noted the surprising generational shift:<br /><br />Boomers started out as the objects of loosening child standards in an era of conformist adults. Millennials are starting out as the objects of tightening child standards in an era of non-conformists adults. By the time the last Millennials come of age, they could become…the cleanest-cut young adults in living memory.<br /><br />To a large degree, Generation Y has embraced the family values of the 1950s. But its rebellion remains wrapped in the profane packages of the 1960s.<br /><br /> Consider the violent, R-rated film Fight Club (1999). It is a scathing critique of consumer culture and middle-class values. We follow Jack, the bored protagonist, on a brutal slide into an underworld of macho self-abuse. Jack longs for genuine feeling, even if he must shed blood to achieve it. So while Jack may be a mild-mannered bureaucrat by day, he rallies his friends for bare-knuckled bar fights at night. Fight Club unleashes the fragile postmodern male id with frightening results. What begins as an invigorating alternative devolves into Project Mayhem, a prescient precursor to the terrorist attacks of 9/11. Schizophrenia leads to destructive nihilism.<br /><br /> This is contrasted by the diagnosis offered by the toughest puncher in the club, Tyler Durden. He summarizes the isolation of a generation raised in affluence rather than upheaval:<br /><br />Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy s— we don’t need. We’re the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War’s a spiritual war…our Great Depression is our lives. We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires and movie gods and rock stars. But we won’t. And we’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re very, very p— off.<br /><br /> When I showed Fight Club to a class of undergraduate students, they nodded in recognition. They connected with Tyler’s frustration. During a class discussion afterward, a student announced, “We’re rebels.” When I asked what they were rebelling against, he said, “Our parents.” is all sounded more than vaguely familiar, so I pushed further. “What does that look like?” The students answered, “We don’t want to be like our parents. Drinking. Doing drugs. Getting lots of divorces…we’re rebels!” e most rebellious behavior imaginable? Abstinence!<br /><br /> While baby boomers harrumph about presidential candidates’ ancient drug use, their children are begging for them to grow up. Parents complain to MTV about Britney Spears’ kiss with Madonna. Switchboards light up from viewers shocked by Janet Jackson’s nipple slip during the Super Bowl halftime show. Yet the next generation lets out a collective yawn. They’ve already seen it, done it, or dismissed it. They identify with the band Weezer, which recorded a song titled “Tired of Sex.” They are ready to move on, past the provocation to more substantive issues. Rivers Cuomo of Weezer asks, “Oh, why can’t I be making love come true?”<br /><br />A New Conversation<br /><br />Craig: My introduction to what it meant to follow Jesus was to be a laughingstock. It meant bad hair, bad makeup, and bad TV. Is this what I signed up for? This whole tension of red state and blue state, this is the tension that I live with—how do I own my own people who so make me cringe on a regular basis? This nomenclature of left and right, red and blue is not helpful right now.<br /><br />John: It’s not meant to be helpful. It’s meant to do exactly what it does. I’m not happy with what people on the traditional left, or Democrats, say is their worldview. I honestly don’t know if they have one. I’m as weary as anybody in this country of the politically correct dialogue, which basically says, “I’m a victim and you’re not. No, I’m a victim and you’re not.” It’s useless. It’s done. It’s dead. Postmodernism is dead. All those answers on the secular side are basically dead.<br /><br /> John Marks and I stand between generations. We are old enough to understand the boomers’ intra-generational issues, yet we’re still young enough to identify with the discontent of those who followed. We embarked on a purple state of mind because we’re desperate for a new paradigm, hungering for a different set of talking points. We each risked alienating our constituencies. Coming from evangelical Christianity, I am part of the fifties tribe, which is struggling to protect home and hearth. As a journalist, John Marks identifies with the political left and their tattered ideals. We both find ourselves embarrassed by those we represent. I ask how God’s people could have turned Jesus into a hater. John questions why allegedly free-thinking people are so close-minded when it comes to religion. A purple state of mind tries the patience of both sides. It runs the risk of disloyalty for the sake of a larger goal.<br /><br /> We must put the past behind us. We can no longer afford to be divided over issues of sexuality and drug use when global crises demand our attention. To lead the world, we must get past our adolescent fixation on who did what to whom. The rumor mills that trumped up charges against the Clintons in Whitewater or George W. Bush with evasion of the Vietnam War have done nothing but distract us. How much negative energy has been expended on investigations that went nowhere? We’ve been busy digging up dirt when we should have been building roads and schools. We tore down a government in Iraq rather than solidifying our own ability to lead by example. Shame on us for obsessing over the past instead of investing in the future. No wonder voters in 2008 longed for change.<br /><br />The Gospel According to Austin Powers<br /><br /> Our desperate need for freedom and responsibility rests in the seemingly contradictory letters of the apostle Paul. He applied his godly advice in a unique way for the audience he was addressing. To Corinthian Christians navigating a libertine culture, he preached caution. Corinth was noted for temples dedicated to Apollo and Aphrodite. Worship at these temples often included sex with temple prostitutes. They were thought to serve as conduits for the divine. An intimate sexual encounter on temple grounds was comparable to an experience with the gods. So imagine how confused early Corinthian Christians may have been about what constituted proper worship of Christ. Their understanding of Christian freedom knew no bounds. Paul urged the Corinthian church to exercise spiritual discipline, to get their house in order. He insisted they “flee from sexual immorality” (1 Corinthians 6:18). To those who claimed, “Everything is permissible,” Paul responded with a chastening, “Everything is not beneficial” (1 Corinthians 10:23).<br /><br /> In Corinth, even eating meat could involve idolatrous activity. The local cults of Apollo and Aphrodite controlled so much of the public consciousness and economy that new believers were encouraged to examine the sources of their food supply. Food sacrificed to idols may not be contaminated physically, but Paul challenged the Corinthian to demonstrate sensitivity toward those who may have confused or conflated eating with idolatry. Paul urges the Corinthian believers to take responsibility for their Christian brothers and sisters. To a chaotic church, he preaches order, propriety, and maturity.<br /><br /> Yet to the uptight church in Galatia, Paul preaches freedom. The new believers clung too closely to their Jewish roots. Perhaps out of fear of persecution, the local church leaders insisted that new Christians adopt the rigorous (old) rules of Hebraic law. Gentile converts were expected to get circumcised according to Jewish ritual. Paul considers such attempts to bind people to ancient purity laws as a threat to the gospel of grace. He insists, “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery” (Galatians 5:1). He begged the Galatian Christians to loosen up, to relax their standards in the name of Christ.<br /><br /> Was Paul contradicting himself? By no means! In each letter, he concludes with an appeal to love. To the legally minded Galatians, Paul summarizes the law in a single command, “Love your neighbor as yourself” (Galatians 5:14). To the battling Corinthians who confused sex with love, Paul spells out the attitudes and actions that constitute love. “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud” (1 Corinthians 13:4). He preaches freedom to Galatia and responsibility to Corinth because they each need to apply the message in a unique way.<br /><br /> Unfortunately, we often fail to identify our particular blind spots. Legalistic churches will often reiterate the call to purity given to the Corinthians. Lax churches will return to Paul’s letter to the Galatians to justify more license. Those who need freedom cling to responsibility. Christians who need to learn responsibility insist upon the freedom Paul grants to Galatia. Those who have ears to hear, let them hear.<br /><br /> Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery urges us toward maturity. In the comedic conclusion, Austin gets the drop on a surprised Dr. Evil. But Evil remains unflappable and punches Austin’s buttons: “We’re not so different, you and I. However, isn’t it ironic that the very things that you stand for—free love, swinging parties—are all now, in the nineties, considered to be evil?” Austin retorts, “No, man, what we swingers were rebelling against is uptight squares like you whose bag was money and world domination. We were innocent, man. If we’d known the consequences of our sexual liberation we would have done things differently, but the spirit would have remained the same. It’s freedom, baby, yeah!” Austin Powers connects wisdom, experience, and the spirit all in one interrelated package. Dr. Evil offers a challenge: “Face it—freedom failed.” With the sounds of the sixties anthem “What the World Needs Now Is Love” playing in the background, Austin concludes, “No man, freedom didn’t fail. Right now we’ve got freedom and responsibility. It’s a very groovy time.” Even sassy movie stars can capture profound truths.<br /><br /> It is not freedom versus responsibility. It is not the law and order of the Republican Party or the liberal policies of the Democratic Party. We need a strong military to defend our freedoms. We need unregulated markets to encourage innovation. We need social agencies to check our greed and support “the least of these.” We must find freedom and responsibility between the parties. We must learn to listen to Paul’s competing calls. Christian maturity incorporates the whole of scripture and applies it to an integrated life. We must be aware of our history. We must recognize how we’ve become so divided. We must grow up as a nation, moving on to freedom and responsibility rather than dragging each other into ancient history. The radical claims of Paul continue to challenge us. Libertines may need to give up some freedoms for the health of others. Conservatives may need to unwind enough for the Spirit to enter in.<br /><br /> Adolescence is an experiment in self-governance. It is about identifying your own strengths and weaknesses, learning to moderate. Sometimes we fall on our faces from too much excess. At other times, we shrink back from opportunities we should have seized. Highly responsible people may sprint to early success and wake up 20 years later, wondering what all the compliance wrought. They will long for freedom. Those raised in a borderless environment will have to find a roadmap that shows where the blind curves and dangerous precipices are located. Maturity arises when those maps have been internalized, when familiarity with biblical wisdom coincides with personal experience. We appreciate the gift of freedom, but we also recognize when enough is enough. Only with our house in order can we begin to focus outwardly. We do not merely play thought police, checking and correcting others. Rather, we take on the deeper challenge of walking beside others, inviting them to join us on the journey. It’s a very groovy time.<br /><br /></div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-72382671825259689262008-10-08T00:04:00.002-04:002008-12-10T11:49:51.689-05:00Goodbye Hollywood Nobody by LISA SAMSON<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 84px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" height="204" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" width="126" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is <strong><span style="color:#ffcc00;">October 11th</span></strong>, and FIRST is doing a special tour to 'Say Goodbye to Hollywood Nobody'.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>Today's feature author is: </strong><br /></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.lisasamson.com/">LISA SAMSON</a></span></strong><br /></div><br /><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#993300;">and her book:</span> </span></strong><br /></p><br /><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600062229/">Goodbye Hollywood Nobody</a></span></strong><br /></p><br /><br /><p align="center">NavPress Publishing Group (September 15, 2008) <br /></p><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/RyZHaGYZQoI/AAAAAAAAAS0/zuS-VBcoNeA/s1600-h/lisa+samson.jpg"><em></em></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZ3arVbxiSWuvYa7pOsU9hJUCSG9Ze8oUVzAB6cGIZWd-nHJykZ7I2f3wF_T4xYovuSKav8iQ3yVCQe1ZxkQ_GC2_NOOG277J-jkux5LSLZfMfcfnROgJwcA-V_ff7ajizkAbAcf2w4fA/s1600-h/lisa+samson.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194889207587266866" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 215px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 293px" height="304" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZ3arVbxiSWuvYa7pOsU9hJUCSG9Ze8oUVzAB6cGIZWd-nHJykZ7I2f3wF_T4xYovuSKav8iQ3yVCQe1ZxkQ_GC2_NOOG277J-jkux5LSLZfMfcfnROgJwcA-V_ff7ajizkAbAcf2w4fA/s320/lisa+samson.jpg" width="228" border="0" /></a>Lisa Samson is the author of twenty books, including the Christy Award-winning <em>Songbird</em>. <em>Apples of Gold</em> was her first novel for teens<br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br />These days, she's working on <em>Quaker Summer</em>, volunteering at Kentucky Refugee Ministries, raising children and trying to be supportive of a husband in seminary. (Trying . . . some days she's downright awful. It's a good thing he's such a fabulous cook!) She can tell you one thing, it's never dull around there.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/RyZLuWYZQpI/AAAAAAAAAS8/vl_DmC05Mrw/s1600-h/lisa_bio.jpg"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaMbM_nBVJUztm_BNi7182CoV3zChzSVQ85MwkAZosc376uz5WfjgqKy67Au7fzJqtbWUp9Q1DLEVHw0DNNFvwgmdlpmHp0WephxXitWWD4YxEb81pePmR7zxNAbc_BNafLriJVOnMJPn3/s1600-h/tosca+lee.jpg"></a>Other Novels by Lisa:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600060919/"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Hollywood Nobody</span></a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600062016/"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Finding Hollywood Nobody</span></a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600062210/"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Romancing Hollywood Nobody</span></a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578568862/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Straight Up</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578568854/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Club Sandwich</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446615188/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Songbird</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578565987/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Tiger Lillie</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1576737489/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">The Church Ladies</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578565960/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Women's Intuition: A Novel</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446679313/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Songbird</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578565979/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">The Living End</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;"><br /></span><br />Visit her at her <a href="http://www.lisasamson.com/">website</span></a>.<br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: $12.99 <br />Paperback: 192 pages <br />Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (September 15, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 1600062229 <br />ISBN-13: 978-1600062223 <br /><br /><span style="color:#cc0000;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#000066;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHkF9S4IrGr8aSUb_ax_DqTvvA_cosBu4J9Or27LjaG7EYfB_mtZT0o20ZO4uNGsZsDuEb6sSo9QfIej7mrfFKxJ4F01_6TWvAhlJXzUR8DUt9EODfovwuTUALhrouCgWTAAuFmpslDJJ7/s1600-h/goodbye+hollywood+nobody"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHkF9S4IrGr8aSUb_ax_DqTvvA_cosBu4J9Or27LjaG7EYfB_mtZT0o20ZO4uNGsZsDuEb6sSo9QfIej7mrfFKxJ4F01_6TWvAhlJXzUR8DUt9EODfovwuTUALhrouCgWTAAuFmpslDJJ7/s200/goodbye+hollywood+nobody" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254628055180375346" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;">Monday, July 11, 6:30 a.m.<br /><br />I awaken to a tap on my shoulder and open my eye. My right eye. See, these days it could be one of four people: Charley, Dad, Grampie, or Grammie.<br /><br /> “’Morning, dear!” <br /><br /> Grammie.<br /><br /> Oh well, might as well go for broke. I open the other eye. <br /><br /> “Did you sleep well?”<br /><br /> I shake my head and reach for my cat glasses. “Nope. I kept dreaming about Charley in Scotland.” We sent her off with her new beau, the amazing Anthony Harris, two days ago. “I imagined a road full of sheep chasing her down.”<br /><br /> “That would be silly. They would have to know she hates lamb chops.” Grammie sits on my bed. Yes, my bed. In their fabulous house. In my own wonderful room, complete with reproductions of the Barcelona chair and a platform bed of gleaming sanded mahogany. I burrow further into my white down comforter. I sweat like a pig at night, but I don’t care. A real bed, a bona fide comforter, and four pillows. Feather pillows deep enough to sink the Titanic in.<br /><br /> She pats my shoulder, her bangled wrists emitting the music of wooden jewelry. “Up and at ’em, Scotty. Your dad wants to be on the road by seven thirty.”<br /><br /> “I need a shower.”<br /><br /> “Hop to it then.”<br /><br /> Several minutes later, I revel in the glories of a real shower. Not the crazy little stall we have in the TrailMama, which Dad gassed up last night for our trip to Maine. Our trip to find Babette, my mother. Is she dead or alive? That’s what we’re going to find out.<br /><br /> It’s complicated.<br /><br /> The warm water slides over me from the top of my head on down, and I’ve found the coolest shampoo. It smells like limeade. I kid you not. It’s the greatest stuff ever.<br /><br /> Over breakfast, Grampie sits down with us and goes over the map to make certain Dad knows the best route. My father sits patiently, nodding as words like turnpike, bypass, and scenic route roll like a convoy out of Grampie’s mouth.<br /><br /> Poor Grampie. Dad is just the best at navigation and knows everything about getting from point A to point B, but I think Grampie wants to be a part of it. He hinted at us all going in the Beaver Marquis, their Luxury-with-a-capital-L RV, but Dad pretended not to get it.<br /><br /> Later, Dad said to me, “It’s got to be just us, Scotty. I love my mother and father, but some things just aren’t complete-family affairs.” <br /><br /> “I know. I think you’re right. And if it’s bad . . .”<br /><br /> He nods. “I’d just as soon they not be there while we fall apart.”<br /><br /> Right.<br /><br /> So then, I hop up into our RV, affectionately known as the TrailMama, Dad’s black pickup already hitched behind. (Charley’s kitchen trailer is sitting on a lot in storage at a nearby RV dealership, and good riddance. I’m hoping Charley never needs to use that thing again.) “Want me to drive?”<br /><br /> He laughs.<br /><br /> Yep. I still don’t have my license.<br /><br /> Man. But it’s been such a great month or so at the beach. So, okay, I don’t tan much really, but I do have a nice peachy glow.<br /><br /> I’ll take it.<br /><br /> And Grampie grilled a lot, and Grammie helped me sew a couple of vintage-looking skirts, and I’ve learned the basics of my harp. <br /><br /> I jump into the passenger’s seat, buckle in, and look over at my dad. “You really ready for this?” My heart speeds up. This is the final leg of a very long journey, and what’s at the end of the path will determine the rest of our lives. <br /><br /> He looks into my eyes. “Are you?”<br /><br /> “I don’t know,” I whisper. “But we don’t really have a choice, do we?”<br /><br /> “I can go alone.”<br /><br /> I shake my head. “No, Dad. Whatever we do, whatever happens from here on out, we do it together.”<br /><br /> “Deal.”<br /></div></textarea><br /></div><br /><br />***********************<br /><br /><a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 84px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" height="204" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" width="126" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is <strong><span style="color:#ffcc00;">October 11th</span></strong>, and FIRST is doing a special tour to 'Say Goodbye to Hollywood Nobody'.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>Today's feature author is: </strong><br /></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.lisasamson.com/">LISA SAMSON</a></span></strong><br /></div><br /><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#993300;">and her book:</span> </span></strong><br /></p><br /><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600062229/">Goodbye Hollywood Nobody</a></span></strong><br /></p><br /><br /><p align="center">NavPress Publishing Group (September 15, 2008) <br /></p><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/RyZHaGYZQoI/AAAAAAAAAS0/zuS-VBcoNeA/s1600-h/lisa+samson.jpg"><em></em></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZ3arVbxiSWuvYa7pOsU9hJUCSG9Ze8oUVzAB6cGIZWd-nHJykZ7I2f3wF_T4xYovuSKav8iQ3yVCQe1ZxkQ_GC2_NOOG277J-jkux5LSLZfMfcfnROgJwcA-V_ff7ajizkAbAcf2w4fA/s1600-h/lisa+samson.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194889207587266866" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 215px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 293px" height="304" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZ3arVbxiSWuvYa7pOsU9hJUCSG9Ze8oUVzAB6cGIZWd-nHJykZ7I2f3wF_T4xYovuSKav8iQ3yVCQe1ZxkQ_GC2_NOOG277J-jkux5LSLZfMfcfnROgJwcA-V_ff7ajizkAbAcf2w4fA/s320/lisa+samson.jpg" width="228" border="0" /></a>Lisa Samson is the author of twenty books, including the Christy Award-winning <em>Songbird</em>. <em>Apples of Gold</em> was her first novel for teens<br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br />These days, she's working on <em>Quaker Summer</em>, volunteering at Kentucky Refugee Ministries, raising children and trying to be supportive of a husband in seminary. (Trying . . . some days she's downright awful. It's a good thing he's such a fabulous cook!) She can tell you one thing, it's never dull around there.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/RyZLuWYZQpI/AAAAAAAAAS8/vl_DmC05Mrw/s1600-h/lisa_bio.jpg"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaMbM_nBVJUztm_BNi7182CoV3zChzSVQ85MwkAZosc376uz5WfjgqKy67Au7fzJqtbWUp9Q1DLEVHw0DNNFvwgmdlpmHp0WephxXitWWD4YxEb81pePmR7zxNAbc_BNafLriJVOnMJPn3/s1600-h/tosca+lee.jpg"></a>Other Novels by Lisa:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600060919/"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Hollywood Nobody</span></a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600062016/"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Finding Hollywood Nobody</span></a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600062210/"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Romancing Hollywood Nobody</span></a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578568862/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Straight Up</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578568854/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Club Sandwich</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446615188/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Songbird</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578565987/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Tiger Lillie</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1576737489/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">The Church Ladies</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578565960/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Women's Intuition: A Novel</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446679313/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Songbird</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578565979/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">The Living End</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;"><br /></span><br />Visit her at her <a href="http://www.lisasamson.com/">website</span></a>.<br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: $12.99 <br />Paperback: 192 pages <br />Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (September 15, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 1600062229 <br />ISBN-13: 978-1600062223 <br /><br /><span style="color:#cc0000;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#000066;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHkF9S4IrGr8aSUb_ax_DqTvvA_cosBu4J9Or27LjaG7EYfB_mtZT0o20ZO4uNGsZsDuEb6sSo9QfIej7mrfFKxJ4F01_6TWvAhlJXzUR8DUt9EODfovwuTUALhrouCgWTAAuFmpslDJJ7/s1600-h/goodbye+hollywood+nobody"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHkF9S4IrGr8aSUb_ax_DqTvvA_cosBu4J9Or27LjaG7EYfB_mtZT0o20ZO4uNGsZsDuEb6sSo9QfIej7mrfFKxJ4F01_6TWvAhlJXzUR8DUt9EODfovwuTUALhrouCgWTAAuFmpslDJJ7/s200/goodbye+hollywood+nobody" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254628055180375346" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;">Monday, July 11, 6:30 a.m.<br /><br />I awaken to a tap on my shoulder and open my eye. My right eye. See, these days it could be one of four people: Charley, Dad, Grampie, or Grammie.<br /><br /> “’Morning, dear!” <br /><br /> Grammie.<br /><br /> Oh well, might as well go for broke. I open the other eye. <br /><br /> “Did you sleep well?”<br /><br /> I shake my head and reach for my cat glasses. “Nope. I kept dreaming about Charley in Scotland.” We sent her off with her new beau, the amazing Anthony Harris, two days ago. “I imagined a road full of sheep chasing her down.”<br /><br /> “That would be silly. They would have to know she hates lamb chops.” Grammie sits on my bed. Yes, my bed. In their fabulous house. In my own wonderful room, complete with reproductions of the Barcelona chair and a platform bed of gleaming sanded mahogany. I burrow further into my white down comforter. I sweat like a pig at night, but I don’t care. A real bed, a bona fide comforter, and four pillows. Feather pillows deep enough to sink the Titanic in.<br /><br /> She pats my shoulder, her bangled wrists emitting the music of wooden jewelry. “Up and at ’em, Scotty. Your dad wants to be on the road by seven thirty.”<br /><br /> “I need a shower.”<br /><br /> “Hop to it then.”<br /><br /> Several minutes later, I revel in the glories of a real shower. Not the crazy little stall we have in the TrailMama, which Dad gassed up last night for our trip to Maine. Our trip to find Babette, my mother. Is she dead or alive? That’s what we’re going to find out.<br /><br /> It’s complicated.<br /><br /> The warm water slides over me from the top of my head on down, and I’ve found the coolest shampoo. It smells like limeade. I kid you not. It’s the greatest stuff ever.<br /><br /> Over breakfast, Grampie sits down with us and goes over the map to make certain Dad knows the best route. My father sits patiently, nodding as words like turnpike, bypass, and scenic route roll like a convoy out of Grampie’s mouth.<br /><br /> Poor Grampie. Dad is just the best at navigation and knows everything about getting from point A to point B, but I think Grampie wants to be a part of it. He hinted at us all going in the Beaver Marquis, their Luxury-with-a-capital-L RV, but Dad pretended not to get it.<br /><br /> Later, Dad said to me, “It’s got to be just us, Scotty. I love my mother and father, but some things just aren’t complete-family affairs.” <br /><br /> “I know. I think you’re right. And if it’s bad . . .”<br /><br /> He nods. “I’d just as soon they not be there while we fall apart.”<br /><br /> Right.<br /><br /> So then, I hop up into our RV, affectionately known as the TrailMama, Dad’s black pickup already hitched behind. (Charley’s kitchen trailer is sitting on a lot in storage at a nearby RV dealership, and good riddance. I’m hoping Charley never needs to use that thing again.) “Want me to drive?”<br /><br /> He laughs.<br /><br /> Yep. I still don’t have my license.<br /><br /> Man. But it’s been such a great month or so at the beach. So, okay, I don’t tan much really, but I do have a nice peachy glow.<br /><br /> I’ll take it.<br /><br /> And Grampie grilled a lot, and Grammie helped me sew a couple of vintage-looking skirts, and I’ve learned the basics of my harp. <br /><br /> I jump into the passenger’s seat, buckle in, and look over at my dad. “You really ready for this?” My heart speeds up. This is the final leg of a very long journey, and what’s at the end of the path will determine the rest of our lives. <br /><br /> He looks into my eyes. “Are you?”<br /><br /> “I don’t know,” I whisper. “But we don’t really have a choice, do we?”<br /><br /> “I can go alone.”<br /><br /> I shake my head. “No, Dad. Whatever we do, whatever happens from here on out, we do it together.”<br /><br /> “Deal.”<br /></div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-33395976158569172802008-09-28T12:03:00.000-04:002008-09-27T23:35:14.651-04:00Single Sashimi by Camy Tang<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 84px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" height="204" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" width="126" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is time for the FIRST Blog Tour! On the FIRST day of every month we feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.camytang.com/">Camy Tang</a></span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;">and her book:</span> </span></strong></p><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310274001">Single Sashimi</a></span></strong><br />Zondervan (September 1, 2008) </p><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWpbrCfy7J1Ja-JhlIXX_xsbx1tVkZSuEbgtL-5ebS5by5gzR8O1fwqoRXyTiN-ht3oW0ydu5Co8Sj6Mp2mslE3UO5m1BtQYDQbE6rm6mLgI2PGi-kv1wjOycqEe967yTad2Xt-I1dQgtA/s1600-h/Camy_Tang_bookshelf.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250571902403096914" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWpbrCfy7J1Ja-JhlIXX_xsbx1tVkZSuEbgtL-5ebS5by5gzR8O1fwqoRXyTiN-ht3oW0ydu5Co8Sj6Mp2mslE3UO5m1BtQYDQbE6rm6mLgI2PGi-kv1wjOycqEe967yTad2Xt-I1dQgtA/s200/Camy_Tang_bookshelf.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Camy Tang is a FIRST Family Member! She also is a moderator for <a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">FIRST Wild Card Tours</a>. She is a loud Asian chick who writes loud Asian chick-lit. She grew up in Hawaii, but now lives in San Jose, California, with her engineer husband and rambunctious poi-dog. In a previous life she was a biologist researcher, but these days she is surgically attached to her computer, writing full-time. In her spare time, she is a staff worker for her church youth group, and she leads one of the worship teams for Sunday service.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"><br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310273986/">Sushi for One? (Sushi Series, Book One)</a> was her first novel. Her second, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310273994/">Only Uni (Sushi Series, Book Two)</a> was published in March of this year. The next book in the series, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310274001/">Single Sashimi (Sushi Series, Book Three)</a> came out in September 2008!<br /><br />Visit her at her <a href="http://www.camytang.com/">website</a>.<br /><br />List Price: $12.99<br />Paperback: 336 pages<br />Publisher: Zondervan (September 1, 2008)<br />Language: English<br />ISBN-10: 0310274001<br />ISBN-13: 978-0310274001<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGpi1Ik4xN5tDOC9WBD7C38Owtv2n1IgrzDG2y0sfRk80V0prwxjwOEkYziSp-O5Azief3261mKJltpS40jVQxM2cLDlcl60fl7oy9AT29QQ4JZtu_esauiR0GOBK5b5eHuG9yN4eK1h6U/s1600-h/single"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250571971874781954" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGpi1Ik4xN5tDOC9WBD7C38Owtv2n1IgrzDG2y0sfRk80V0prwxjwOEkYziSp-O5Azief3261mKJltpS40jVQxM2cLDlcl60fl7oy9AT29QQ4JZtu_esauiR0GOBK5b5eHuG9yN4eK1h6U/s200/single" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div style="OVERFLOW: auto; HEIGHT: 307px"><b>Single Sashimi</b><br />By<br />Camy Tang<br /><br />Chapter one<br /><br />Venus Chau opened the door to her aunt's house and almost fainted. <br /><br />"What died?" She exhaled sharply, trying to get the foul air out of her body before it caused cancer or something. <br /><br />Her cousin Jennifer Lim entered the foyer with the look of an <i>oni</i> goblin about to eat someone. "She's stinking up my kitchen." <br /><br />"Who?" Venus hesitated on the threshold, breathing clean night air before she had to close the door. <br /><br />"My mother, who else?" <br /><br />The ire in Jenn's voice made Venus busy herself with kicking off her heels amongst the other shoes in the tile foyer. Hoo-boy, she'd never seen quiet Jenn this irate before. Then again, since Aunty Yuki had given her daughter the rule of the kitchen when she'd started cooking in high school, Jenn rarely had to make way for another cook. <br /><br />"What is she cooking? Beef intestines?" <br /><br />Jenn flung her arms out. "Who knows? Something Trish is supposed to eat." <br /><br />"But we don't have to eat it, right? Right?" <br /><br />"I'll never become pregnant if I have to eat stuff like that." Jenn whirled and stomped toward the kitchen. <br /><br />Venus turned right into the living room where her very pregnant cousin Trish lounged on the sofa next to her boyfriend, Spenser. "Hey, guys." Her gaze paused on their twined hands. It continued to amaze her that Spenser would date a woman pregnant with another man's child. Maybe Venus shouldn't be so cynical about the men she met. Here was at least one good guy.<br /><br />Trish's arms shot into the air like a Raiders' cheerleader, nearly clocking Spenser in the eye. "I'm officially on maternity leave!" <br /><br />Venus paused to clap. "So how did you celebrate?" <br /><br />"I babysat Matthew all day today." She smiled dreamily at Spenser at the mention of his son. <br /><br />Venus frowned and landed her hands on her hips. "In your condition?" <br /><br />Trish waved a hand. "He's not that bad. He stopped swallowing things weeks ago." <br /><br />"I'm finally not wasting money on all those emergency room visits," Spenser said. <br /><br />"Besides, I got a book about how to help toddlers expect a new baby." Trish bounced lightly on the sofa cushion in her excitement. <br /><br />"And?" It seemed kind of weird to Venus, since Trish and Spenser weren't engaged or anything. Yet. <br /><br />Trish chewed her lip. "I don't know if he totally understands, but at least it's a start." <br /><br />A sense of strangeness washed over Venus as she watched the two of them, the looks they exchanged that weren't mushy or intimate, just . . . knowing. Like mind reading. It made her feel alienated from her cousin for the first time in her life, and she didn't really like it. <br /><br />She immediately damped down the feeling. How could she begrudge Trish such a wonderful relationship? Venus was so selfish. She disgusted herself. <br /><br />She looked around the living room. "Where is -- " <br /><br />"Venus!" The childish voice rang down the short hallway. She stepped back into the foyer to see Spenser's son, Matthew, trotting down the carpet with hands reached out to her. He grabbed her at the knees, wrinkling her silk pants, but she didn't mind. His shining face looking up at her -- <i>way</i> up, since she was the tallest of the cousins -- made her feel like she was the only reason he lived and breathed. <i>"Psycho Bunny?"</i> he pleaded.<br /><br />She pretended to think about it. His hands shook her pants legs to make her decide faster. <br /><br />"Okay." <br /><br />He darted into the living room and plopped in front of the television, grabbing at the game controllers. The kid had it down pat -- in less than a minute, the music for the <i>Psycho Bunny</i> video game rolled into the room. <br /><br />Venus sank to the floor next to him. <br /><br />"Jenn is totally freaking out." Trish's eyes had popped to the size of <i>siu mai</i> dumplings. <br /><br />"What brought all this on?" Venus picked up the other controller. <br /><br />"Well, Aunty Yuki had a doctor's appointment today -- " <br /><br />"Is she doing okay?" She chose the Bunny Foo-Foo character for the game just starting. <br /><br />"Clean bill of health. Cancer's gone, as far as they can tell." <br /><br />"So that's why she's taken over Jenn's domain?" <br /><br />Trish rubbed her back and winced. "She took one look at me and decided I needed something to help the baby along." <br /><br />Jenn huffed into the living room. "She's going to make me ruin the roast chicken!" <br /><br />Venus ignored her screeching tone. "Sit down. You're not going to make her hurry by hovering." She and Matthew both jumped over the snake pit and landed in the hollow tree. <br /><br />Jenn flung herself into an overstuffed chair and dumped her feet on the battered oak coffee table. <br /><br />Venus turned to glance at the foyer. No Nikes. "Where's Lex?" <br /><br />"Late. Where else?" Jenn snapped. <br /><br />"I thought Aiden was helping her be better about that." <br /><br />"He's not a miracle worker." Spenser massaged Trish's back. <br /><br />"I have to leave early." Venus stretched her silk-clad feet out, wriggling her toes. Her new stilettos looked great but man, they hurt her arches. <br /><br />"Then you might not eat at all." Jenn crossed her arms over her chest.<br /><br />Venus speared her with a glance like a stainless steel skewer. "Chill, okay Cujo?" <br /><br />Jenn pouted and scrunched further down in the chair. <br /><br />Venus ignored her and turned back to the game. Her inattention had let Matthew pick up the treasure chest. "I have to work on a project." <br /><br />"For work?" <br /><br />"No, for me." Only the Spiderweb, the achievement of her lifetime, a new tool that would propel her to the heights of video game development stardom. Which was why she'd kept it separate from her job-related things -- she didn't even use her company computer when she worked on it, only her personal laptop. <br /><br />A new smell wafted into the room, this one rivaling the other in its stomach-roiling ability. Venus waved her hand in front of her face. <br /><br />"Pffaugh! What is she cooking?" <br /><br />Trish's face had turned the color of green tea. "You're lucky <i>you</i> don't have to eat it. Whatever it is, it ain't gonna stay down for long." <br /><br />"Just say you still have morning sickness." <br /><br />"In my ninth month?" <br /><br />Venus shrugged. <br /><br />The door slammed open. "Hey, guys -- <i>blech</i>." <br /><br />Venus twisted around to see her cousin Lex doubled over, clenching her washboard stomach (Venus wished <i>she</i> could have one of those) and looking like she'd hurled up all the shoes littering the foyer floor. <br /><br />Lex's boyfriend Aiden grabbed her waist to prevent her from nosediving into the tile. "Lex, it's not that bad." <br /><br />"The gym locker room smells better." Lex used her toes to pull off her cross-trainers without bothering to untie them. "The <i>men's</i> locker room." <br /><br />"It's not me," Jenn declared. "It's Mom, ruining all my best pots." <br /><br />"What is she doing? Killing small animals on the stovetop?" <br /><br />"Something for the baby." Trish tried to smile, but it looked more like a wince.<br /><br />"As long as we don't have to eat it." Lex dropped her slouchy purse on the floor and walked into the living room. <br /><br />Aunty Yuki appeared behind her in the doorway, bearing a steaming bowl. "Here, Trish. Drink this." The brilliant smile on her wide face eclipsed her tiny stature. <br /><br />Venus smelled something pungent, like when she walked into a Chinese medicine shop with her dad. A bolus of air erupted from her mouth, and she coughed. "What is that?" She dropped the game controller. <br /><br />"Pig's brain soup." <br /><br />Trish's smile hardened to plastic. Lex grabbed her mouth. Spenser -- who was Chinese and therefore had been raised with the weird concoctions -- sighed. Aiden looked at them all like they were funny-farm rejects. <br /><br />Venus closed her eyes, tightened her mouth, and concentrated on not gagging. Good thing her stomach was empty. <br /><br />Aunty Yuki's mouth pursed. "What's wrong? My mother-in-law made me eat pig's brain soup when I was a couple weeks from delivering Jennifer." <br /><br />"<i>That's</i> what you ruined my pots with?" Jennifer steamed hotter than the bowl of soup. <br /><br />Her mom caught the <i>yakuza</i>-about-to-hack-your-finger-off expression on Jenn's face. Aunty Yuki paused, then backtracked to the kitchen. With the soup bowl, thankfully. <br /><br />"Papa?" Matthew's voice sounded faint. <br /><br />Venus turned. <br /><br />"Don't feel good." He clutched his poochy tummy. <br /><br />"Oh, no." Spenser grabbed his son and headed out of the living room. <br /><br />Then the world exploded. <br /><br />Just as they passed into the foyer, Matthew threw up onto the tiles. <br /><br />Lex, with her weak stomach when it came to bodily fluids, took one look and turned pasty.<br /><br />A burning smell and a few cries sounded from the kitchen. <br /><br />Trish sat up straighter than a Buddha and clenched her rounded abdomen. "Oh!" <br /><br />Spenser held his crying son as he urped up the rest of his afternoon snack. Lex clapped a hand to her mouth to prevent herself from following Matthew's example. Jenn started for the kitchen, but then Matthew's mess blocking the foyer stopped her. Trish groaned and curled in on herself, clutching her tummy. <br /><br />Venus shot to her feet. She wasn't acting Game Lead at her company for nothing. <br /><br />"You." She pointed to Jenn. "Get to the kitchen and send your mom in here for Trish." Jenn leaped over Matthew's puddle and darted away. "And bring paper towels for the mess!" <br /><br />"You," she flung at Spenser. "Take Matthew to the bathroom." <br /><br />He gestured to the brand new hallway carpet. <br /><br />Oh no, Aunty Yuki would have a fit. But it couldn't be helped. "If he makes a mess on the carpet, we'll just clean it up later." <br /><br />He didn't hesitate. He hustled down the hallway with Matthew in his arms. <br /><br />Venus kicked the miniscule living room garbage basket closer to Lex. "Hang your head over that." Not that it would hold more than spittle, but it was better than letting Lex upchuck all over the plush cream carpet. Why did Lex, tomboy and jock, have to go weak every time something gross happened? <br /><br />"You." Venus stabbed a manicured finger at Aiden. "Get your car, we're taking Trish to the hospital." <br /><br />He didn't jump at her command. "After one contraction?" <br /><br />Trish moaned, and Venus had a vision of the baby flying out of her in the next minute. She pointed to the door again. "Just go!" <br /><br />Aiden shrugged and slipped out the front door, muttering to himself. <br /><br />"You." She stood in front of Trish, who'd started Lamaze breathing through her pursed lips. "Uh . . ." <br /><br />Trish peered up at her.<br /><br />"Um . . . stop having contractions." <br /><br />Trish rolled her eyes, but didn't speak through her pursed lips. <br /><br />Venus ignored her and went to kneel over Matthew's rather watery puddle, which had spread with amoeba fingers reaching down the lines of grout. Lex's purse lay nearby, so she rooted in it for a tissue or something to start blotting up the mess. <br /><br />Footsteps approaching. Before she could raise her head or shout a warning, Aunty Yuki hurried into the foyer. "What's wron -- !" <br /><br />It was like a Three Stooges episode. Aunty Yuki barreled into Venus's bent figure. She had leaned over Matthew's mess to protect anyone from stepping in it, but it also made her an obstacle in the middle of the foyer. <br /><br />"Ooomph!" The older woman's feet -- shod in cotton house slippers, luckily, and not shoes -- jammed into Venus's ribs. She couldn't see much except a pair of slippers leaving the floor at the same time, and then a body landing on the living room carpet on the other side of her. <i>Ouch.</i><br /><br />"Are you okay?" Venus twisted to kneel in front of her, but she seemed slow to rise. <br /><br />"Venus, here're the paper towels -- " <br /><br />Jenn's voice in the foyer made Venus whirl on the balls of her feet and fling her hands up. "Watch out!" <br /><br />Jenn stopped just in time. Her toes were only inches away from Matthew's mess, her body leaning forward. Her arms whirled, still clutching the towels, like a cheerleader and her pom-poms. <br /><br />"Jenn." Spenser's voice coming down the hallway toward the foyer. "Where are the -- " <br /><br />"Stop!" Venus and Jenn shouted at the same time. <br /><br />Spenser froze, his foot hovering above a finger of the puddle that had stretched toward the hallway. "Ah. Okay. Thanks." He lowered his foot on the clean tile to the side. <br /><br />Aiden opened the front door. "The car's out front -- " The sight of them all left him speechless. <br /><br />Trish had started to hyperventilate, her breath seething through her teeth. "Will somebody do something?!"<br /><br />Aunty Yuki moaned from her crumpled position on the floor. <br /><br />Smoke started pouring from the kitchen, along with the awful smell of burned . . . <i>something</i> that wasn't normal food. <br /><br />Venus snatched the paper towels from Jenn. "Kitchen!" Jenn fled before she'd finished speaking. "What do you need?" Venus barked at Spenser. <br /><br />"Extra towels." <br /><br />"Guest bedroom closet, top shelf." <br /><br />He headed back down the hall. Venus turned to Aiden and swept a hand toward Aunty Yuki on the living room floor. "Take care of her, will you?" <br /><br />"What about me?" Trish moaned through a clenched jaw. <br /><br />"Stop having contractions!" Venus swiped up the mess on the tile before something worse happened, like someone stepped in it and slid. That would just be the crowning cherry to her evening. Even when she wasn't at work, she was still working. <br /><br />"Are you okay, Aunty?" She stood with the sodden paper towels. <br /><br />Aiden had helped her to a seat next to Lex, who was ashen-faced and still leaning over the tiny trash can. Aside from a reddish spot on Aunty Yuki's elbow, she seemed fine. <br /><br />Jenn entered the living room, her hair wild and a distinctive burned smell sizzling from her clothes. "My imported French saucepan is completely blackened!" But she had enough sense not to glare at her parent as she probably wanted to. Aunty Yuki suddenly found <br />the wall hangings fascinating. <br /><br />Venus started to turn toward the kitchen to throw away the paper towels she still held. "Well, we have to take Trish to the hospital -- " <br /><br />"Actually . . ." Trish's breathing had slowed. "I think it's just a false alarm." <br /><br />Venus turned to look at her. "False alarm? Pregnant women have those?" <br /><br />"It happened a couple days ago too." <br /><br />"What?" Venus almost slammed her fist into her hip, but remembered the dirty paper towels just in time. Good thing too, because she had on a Chanel suit.<br /><br />Trish gave a long, slow sigh. "Yup, they're gone. That was fast." She smiled cheerfully. <br /><br />Venus wanted to scream. This was out of her realm. At work, she was used to grabbing a crisis at the throat and wrestling it to submission. This was somewhere Trish was heading without her, and the thought both frightened and unnerved her. She shrugged it off. "Well . . . Aunty -- " <br /><br />"I'm fine, Venus." Aunty Yuki inspected her elbow. "Jennifer, get those Japanese Salonpas patches -- " <br /><br />"Mom, they stink." Jenn's stress over her beautiful kitchen made her more belligerent than Venus had ever seen her before. Not that the camphor patches could smell any worse than the burned Chinese-old-wives'-pregnancy-food permeating the house. <br /><br />At the sound of the word Salonpas, Lex pinched her lips together but didn't say anything. <br /><br />Aunty Yuki gave Jenn a limpid look. "The Salonpas gets rid of the pain." <br /><br />"I'll get it." Aiden headed down the hallway to get the adhesive patches. <br /><br />"In the hall closet." Jenn's words slurred a bit through her tight jaw. <br /><br />Distraction time. Venus tried to smile. "Aunty, if you're okay, then let's eat." <br /><br />Jenn's eyes flared neon red. "Can't." <br /><br />"Huh?" <br /><br />"<i>Somebody</i> turned off the oven." Jenn frowned at her mother, who tactfully looked away. "Dinner won't be for another hour." She stalked back to the kitchen. <br /><br />Even with the nasty smell, Venus's stomach protested its empty state. "It's already eight o'clock." <br /><br />"Suck it up!" Jenn yelled from the kitchen. <br /><br />It was going to be a long night. <br /><br />***<br /><br />Venus needed a Reese's peanut butter cup.<br /><br />No, a Reese's was bad. Sugar, fat, preservatives, all kinds of chemicals she couldn't even pronounce. <br /><br />Oooh, but it would taste so good . . . <br /><br />No, she equated Reese's cups with her fat days. She was no longer fat. She didn't need a Reese's. <br /><br />But she sure wanted one after such a hectic evening with her cousins. <br /><br />She trudged up the steps to her condo. Home. Too small to invite people over, and that was the way she liked it. Her haven, where she could relax and let go, no one to see her when she was vulnerable -- <br /><br />Her front door was ajar. <br /><br />Her limbs froze mid-step, but her heart <i>rat-tat-tatted</i> in her chest like a machine gun. Someone. Had. Broken. Into. Her. Home. <br /><br />Her hand started to shake. She clenched it to her hip, crushing the silk of her pants. What to do? He might still be there. Pepper spray. In her purse. She searched in her bag and finally found the tiny bottle. Her hand trembled so much, she'd be more likely to spritz herself than the intruder. <br /><br />Were those sounds coming from inside? She reached out a hand, but couldn't quite bring herself to push the door open further. <br /><br /><i>Stupid, call the police!</i> She fumbled with the pepper spray so she could extract her cell phone. Dummy, don't pop yourself in the eye with that stuff! She switched the spray to her other hand while her thumb dialed 9 - 1 - 1. Her handbag's leather straps dug into her elbow. <br /><br /><i>Thump!</i> That came from her living room! Footsteps. <i>Get away from the door!</i> She stumbled backwards, but remembering the stairs right behind her, she tried to stop herself from tumbling down. Her ankle tilted on her stilettos, and she fell sideways to lean against the wall. The footsteps approached her open door. <br /><br />"9 - 1 - 1, what's your emergency?" <br /><br />She raised her hand with the bottle of pepper spray. "Someone's -- " <br /><br />The door swung open. <br /><br />"Edgar!" The cell phone dropped with a clatter, but she kept a firm grip on the pepper spray, suddenly tempted to use it. <br /><br />One of her junior programmers stood in her open doorway.<br /><br />Copyright (c) 2008 by Camy Tang <br />Requests for information should be addressed to: <br />Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530 <br /><br /></div><br /></textarea><br /></div><br /><br />***************************************************<br /><br /><a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 84px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" height="204" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" width="126" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is time for the FIRST Blog Tour! On the FIRST day of every month we feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.camytang.com/">Camy Tang</a></span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;">and her book:</span> </span></strong></p><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310274001">Single Sashimi</a></span></strong><br />Zondervan (September 1, 2008) </p><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWpbrCfy7J1Ja-JhlIXX_xsbx1tVkZSuEbgtL-5ebS5by5gzR8O1fwqoRXyTiN-ht3oW0ydu5Co8Sj6Mp2mslE3UO5m1BtQYDQbE6rm6mLgI2PGi-kv1wjOycqEe967yTad2Xt-I1dQgtA/s1600-h/Camy_Tang_bookshelf.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250571902403096914" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWpbrCfy7J1Ja-JhlIXX_xsbx1tVkZSuEbgtL-5ebS5by5gzR8O1fwqoRXyTiN-ht3oW0ydu5Co8Sj6Mp2mslE3UO5m1BtQYDQbE6rm6mLgI2PGi-kv1wjOycqEe967yTad2Xt-I1dQgtA/s200/Camy_Tang_bookshelf.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Camy Tang is a FIRST Family Member! She also is a moderator for <a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">FIRST Wild Card Tours</a>. She is a loud Asian chick who writes loud Asian chick-lit. She grew up in Hawaii, but now lives in San Jose, California, with her engineer husband and rambunctious poi-dog. In a previous life she was a biologist researcher, but these days she is surgically attached to her computer, writing full-time. In her spare time, she is a staff worker for her church youth group, and she leads one of the worship teams for Sunday service.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"><br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310273986/">Sushi for One? (Sushi Series, Book One)</a> was her first novel. Her second, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310273994/">Only Uni (Sushi Series, Book Two)</a> was published in March of this year. The next book in the series, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310274001/">Single Sashimi (Sushi Series, Book Three)</a> came out in September 2008!<br /><br />Visit her at her <a href="http://www.camytang.com/">website</a>.<br /><br />List Price: $12.99<br />Paperback: 336 pages<br />Publisher: Zondervan (September 1, 2008)<br />Language: English<br />ISBN-10: 0310274001<br />ISBN-13: 978-0310274001<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGpi1Ik4xN5tDOC9WBD7C38Owtv2n1IgrzDG2y0sfRk80V0prwxjwOEkYziSp-O5Azief3261mKJltpS40jVQxM2cLDlcl60fl7oy9AT29QQ4JZtu_esauiR0GOBK5b5eHuG9yN4eK1h6U/s1600-h/single"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250571971874781954" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGpi1Ik4xN5tDOC9WBD7C38Owtv2n1IgrzDG2y0sfRk80V0prwxjwOEkYziSp-O5Azief3261mKJltpS40jVQxM2cLDlcl60fl7oy9AT29QQ4JZtu_esauiR0GOBK5b5eHuG9yN4eK1h6U/s200/single" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div style="OVERFLOW: auto; HEIGHT: 307px"><b>Single Sashimi</b><br />By<br />Camy Tang<br /><br />Chapter one<br /><br />Venus Chau opened the door to her aunt's house and almost fainted. <br /><br />"What died?" She exhaled sharply, trying to get the foul air out of her body before it caused cancer or something. <br /><br />Her cousin Jennifer Lim entered the foyer with the look of an <i>oni</i> goblin about to eat someone. "She's stinking up my kitchen." <br /><br />"Who?" Venus hesitated on the threshold, breathing clean night air before she had to close the door. <br /><br />"My mother, who else?" <br /><br />The ire in Jenn's voice made Venus busy herself with kicking off her heels amongst the other shoes in the tile foyer. Hoo-boy, she'd never seen quiet Jenn this irate before. Then again, since Aunty Yuki had given her daughter the rule of the kitchen when she'd started cooking in high school, Jenn rarely had to make way for another cook. <br /><br />"What is she cooking? Beef intestines?" <br /><br />Jenn flung her arms out. "Who knows? Something Trish is supposed to eat." <br /><br />"But we don't have to eat it, right? Right?" <br /><br />"I'll never become pregnant if I have to eat stuff like that." Jenn whirled and stomped toward the kitchen. <br /><br />Venus turned right into the living room where her very pregnant cousin Trish lounged on the sofa next to her boyfriend, Spenser. "Hey, guys." Her gaze paused on their twined hands. It continued to amaze her that Spenser would date a woman pregnant with another man's child. Maybe Venus shouldn't be so cynical about the men she met. Here was at least one good guy.<br /><br />Trish's arms shot into the air like a Raiders' cheerleader, nearly clocking Spenser in the eye. "I'm officially on maternity leave!" <br /><br />Venus paused to clap. "So how did you celebrate?" <br /><br />"I babysat Matthew all day today." She smiled dreamily at Spenser at the mention of his son. <br /><br />Venus frowned and landed her hands on her hips. "In your condition?" <br /><br />Trish waved a hand. "He's not that bad. He stopped swallowing things weeks ago." <br /><br />"I'm finally not wasting money on all those emergency room visits," Spenser said. <br /><br />"Besides, I got a book about how to help toddlers expect a new baby." Trish bounced lightly on the sofa cushion in her excitement. <br /><br />"And?" It seemed kind of weird to Venus, since Trish and Spenser weren't engaged or anything. Yet. <br /><br />Trish chewed her lip. "I don't know if he totally understands, but at least it's a start." <br /><br />A sense of strangeness washed over Venus as she watched the two of them, the looks they exchanged that weren't mushy or intimate, just . . . knowing. Like mind reading. It made her feel alienated from her cousin for the first time in her life, and she didn't really like it. <br /><br />She immediately damped down the feeling. How could she begrudge Trish such a wonderful relationship? Venus was so selfish. She disgusted herself. <br /><br />She looked around the living room. "Where is -- " <br /><br />"Venus!" The childish voice rang down the short hallway. She stepped back into the foyer to see Spenser's son, Matthew, trotting down the carpet with hands reached out to her. He grabbed her at the knees, wrinkling her silk pants, but she didn't mind. His shining face looking up at her -- <i>way</i> up, since she was the tallest of the cousins -- made her feel like she was the only reason he lived and breathed. <i>"Psycho Bunny?"</i> he pleaded.<br /><br />She pretended to think about it. His hands shook her pants legs to make her decide faster. <br /><br />"Okay." <br /><br />He darted into the living room and plopped in front of the television, grabbing at the game controllers. The kid had it down pat -- in less than a minute, the music for the <i>Psycho Bunny</i> video game rolled into the room. <br /><br />Venus sank to the floor next to him. <br /><br />"Jenn is totally freaking out." Trish's eyes had popped to the size of <i>siu mai</i> dumplings. <br /><br />"What brought all this on?" Venus picked up the other controller. <br /><br />"Well, Aunty Yuki had a doctor's appointment today -- " <br /><br />"Is she doing okay?" She chose the Bunny Foo-Foo character for the game just starting. <br /><br />"Clean bill of health. Cancer's gone, as far as they can tell." <br /><br />"So that's why she's taken over Jenn's domain?" <br /><br />Trish rubbed her back and winced. "She took one look at me and decided I needed something to help the baby along." <br /><br />Jenn huffed into the living room. "She's going to make me ruin the roast chicken!" <br /><br />Venus ignored her screeching tone. "Sit down. You're not going to make her hurry by hovering." She and Matthew both jumped over the snake pit and landed in the hollow tree. <br /><br />Jenn flung herself into an overstuffed chair and dumped her feet on the battered oak coffee table. <br /><br />Venus turned to glance at the foyer. No Nikes. "Where's Lex?" <br /><br />"Late. Where else?" Jenn snapped. <br /><br />"I thought Aiden was helping her be better about that." <br /><br />"He's not a miracle worker." Spenser massaged Trish's back. <br /><br />"I have to leave early." Venus stretched her silk-clad feet out, wriggling her toes. Her new stilettos looked great but man, they hurt her arches. <br /><br />"Then you might not eat at all." Jenn crossed her arms over her chest.<br /><br />Venus speared her with a glance like a stainless steel skewer. "Chill, okay Cujo?" <br /><br />Jenn pouted and scrunched further down in the chair. <br /><br />Venus ignored her and turned back to the game. Her inattention had let Matthew pick up the treasure chest. "I have to work on a project." <br /><br />"For work?" <br /><br />"No, for me." Only the Spiderweb, the achievement of her lifetime, a new tool that would propel her to the heights of video game development stardom. Which was why she'd kept it separate from her job-related things -- she didn't even use her company computer when she worked on it, only her personal laptop. <br /><br />A new smell wafted into the room, this one rivaling the other in its stomach-roiling ability. Venus waved her hand in front of her face. <br /><br />"Pffaugh! What is she cooking?" <br /><br />Trish's face had turned the color of green tea. "You're lucky <i>you</i> don't have to eat it. Whatever it is, it ain't gonna stay down for long." <br /><br />"Just say you still have morning sickness." <br /><br />"In my ninth month?" <br /><br />Venus shrugged. <br /><br />The door slammed open. "Hey, guys -- <i>blech</i>." <br /><br />Venus twisted around to see her cousin Lex doubled over, clenching her washboard stomach (Venus wished <i>she</i> could have one of those) and looking like she'd hurled up all the shoes littering the foyer floor. <br /><br />Lex's boyfriend Aiden grabbed her waist to prevent her from nosediving into the tile. "Lex, it's not that bad." <br /><br />"The gym locker room smells better." Lex used her toes to pull off her cross-trainers without bothering to untie them. "The <i>men's</i> locker room." <br /><br />"It's not me," Jenn declared. "It's Mom, ruining all my best pots." <br /><br />"What is she doing? Killing small animals on the stovetop?" <br /><br />"Something for the baby." Trish tried to smile, but it looked more like a wince.<br /><br />"As long as we don't have to eat it." Lex dropped her slouchy purse on the floor and walked into the living room. <br /><br />Aunty Yuki appeared behind her in the doorway, bearing a steaming bowl. "Here, Trish. Drink this." The brilliant smile on her wide face eclipsed her tiny stature. <br /><br />Venus smelled something pungent, like when she walked into a Chinese medicine shop with her dad. A bolus of air erupted from her mouth, and she coughed. "What is that?" She dropped the game controller. <br /><br />"Pig's brain soup." <br /><br />Trish's smile hardened to plastic. Lex grabbed her mouth. Spenser -- who was Chinese and therefore had been raised with the weird concoctions -- sighed. Aiden looked at them all like they were funny-farm rejects. <br /><br />Venus closed her eyes, tightened her mouth, and concentrated on not gagging. Good thing her stomach was empty. <br /><br />Aunty Yuki's mouth pursed. "What's wrong? My mother-in-law made me eat pig's brain soup when I was a couple weeks from delivering Jennifer." <br /><br />"<i>That's</i> what you ruined my pots with?" Jennifer steamed hotter than the bowl of soup. <br /><br />Her mom caught the <i>yakuza</i>-about-to-hack-your-finger-off expression on Jenn's face. Aunty Yuki paused, then backtracked to the kitchen. With the soup bowl, thankfully. <br /><br />"Papa?" Matthew's voice sounded faint. <br /><br />Venus turned. <br /><br />"Don't feel good." He clutched his poochy tummy. <br /><br />"Oh, no." Spenser grabbed his son and headed out of the living room. <br /><br />Then the world exploded. <br /><br />Just as they passed into the foyer, Matthew threw up onto the tiles. <br /><br />Lex, with her weak stomach when it came to bodily fluids, took one look and turned pasty.<br /><br />A burning smell and a few cries sounded from the kitchen. <br /><br />Trish sat up straighter than a Buddha and clenched her rounded abdomen. "Oh!" <br /><br />Spenser held his crying son as he urped up the rest of his afternoon snack. Lex clapped a hand to her mouth to prevent herself from following Matthew's example. Jenn started for the kitchen, but then Matthew's mess blocking the foyer stopped her. Trish groaned and curled in on herself, clutching her tummy. <br /><br />Venus shot to her feet. She wasn't acting Game Lead at her company for nothing. <br /><br />"You." She pointed to Jenn. "Get to the kitchen and send your mom in here for Trish." Jenn leaped over Matthew's puddle and darted away. "And bring paper towels for the mess!" <br /><br />"You," she flung at Spenser. "Take Matthew to the bathroom." <br /><br />He gestured to the brand new hallway carpet. <br /><br />Oh no, Aunty Yuki would have a fit. But it couldn't be helped. "If he makes a mess on the carpet, we'll just clean it up later." <br /><br />He didn't hesitate. He hustled down the hallway with Matthew in his arms. <br /><br />Venus kicked the miniscule living room garbage basket closer to Lex. "Hang your head over that." Not that it would hold more than spittle, but it was better than letting Lex upchuck all over the plush cream carpet. Why did Lex, tomboy and jock, have to go weak every time something gross happened? <br /><br />"You." Venus stabbed a manicured finger at Aiden. "Get your car, we're taking Trish to the hospital." <br /><br />He didn't jump at her command. "After one contraction?" <br /><br />Trish moaned, and Venus had a vision of the baby flying out of her in the next minute. She pointed to the door again. "Just go!" <br /><br />Aiden shrugged and slipped out the front door, muttering to himself. <br /><br />"You." She stood in front of Trish, who'd started Lamaze breathing through her pursed lips. "Uh . . ." <br /><br />Trish peered up at her.<br /><br />"Um . . . stop having contractions." <br /><br />Trish rolled her eyes, but didn't speak through her pursed lips. <br /><br />Venus ignored her and went to kneel over Matthew's rather watery puddle, which had spread with amoeba fingers reaching down the lines of grout. Lex's purse lay nearby, so she rooted in it for a tissue or something to start blotting up the mess. <br /><br />Footsteps approaching. Before she could raise her head or shout a warning, Aunty Yuki hurried into the foyer. "What's wron -- !" <br /><br />It was like a Three Stooges episode. Aunty Yuki barreled into Venus's bent figure. She had leaned over Matthew's mess to protect anyone from stepping in it, but it also made her an obstacle in the middle of the foyer. <br /><br />"Ooomph!" The older woman's feet -- shod in cotton house slippers, luckily, and not shoes -- jammed into Venus's ribs. She couldn't see much except a pair of slippers leaving the floor at the same time, and then a body landing on the living room carpet on the other side of her. <i>Ouch.</i><br /><br />"Are you okay?" Venus twisted to kneel in front of her, but she seemed slow to rise. <br /><br />"Venus, here're the paper towels -- " <br /><br />Jenn's voice in the foyer made Venus whirl on the balls of her feet and fling her hands up. "Watch out!" <br /><br />Jenn stopped just in time. Her toes were only inches away from Matthew's mess, her body leaning forward. Her arms whirled, still clutching the towels, like a cheerleader and her pom-poms. <br /><br />"Jenn." Spenser's voice coming down the hallway toward the foyer. "Where are the -- " <br /><br />"Stop!" Venus and Jenn shouted at the same time. <br /><br />Spenser froze, his foot hovering above a finger of the puddle that had stretched toward the hallway. "Ah. Okay. Thanks." He lowered his foot on the clean tile to the side. <br /><br />Aiden opened the front door. "The car's out front -- " The sight of them all left him speechless. <br /><br />Trish had started to hyperventilate, her breath seething through her teeth. "Will somebody do something?!"<br /><br />Aunty Yuki moaned from her crumpled position on the floor. <br /><br />Smoke started pouring from the kitchen, along with the awful smell of burned . . . <i>something</i> that wasn't normal food. <br /><br />Venus snatched the paper towels from Jenn. "Kitchen!" Jenn fled before she'd finished speaking. "What do you need?" Venus barked at Spenser. <br /><br />"Extra towels." <br /><br />"Guest bedroom closet, top shelf." <br /><br />He headed back down the hall. Venus turned to Aiden and swept a hand toward Aunty Yuki on the living room floor. "Take care of her, will you?" <br /><br />"What about me?" Trish moaned through a clenched jaw. <br /><br />"Stop having contractions!" Venus swiped up the mess on the tile before something worse happened, like someone stepped in it and slid. That would just be the crowning cherry to her evening. Even when she wasn't at work, she was still working. <br /><br />"Are you okay, Aunty?" She stood with the sodden paper towels. <br /><br />Aiden had helped her to a seat next to Lex, who was ashen-faced and still leaning over the tiny trash can. Aside from a reddish spot on Aunty Yuki's elbow, she seemed fine. <br /><br />Jenn entered the living room, her hair wild and a distinctive burned smell sizzling from her clothes. "My imported French saucepan is completely blackened!" But she had enough sense not to glare at her parent as she probably wanted to. Aunty Yuki suddenly found <br />the wall hangings fascinating. <br /><br />Venus started to turn toward the kitchen to throw away the paper towels she still held. "Well, we have to take Trish to the hospital -- " <br /><br />"Actually . . ." Trish's breathing had slowed. "I think it's just a false alarm." <br /><br />Venus turned to look at her. "False alarm? Pregnant women have those?" <br /><br />"It happened a couple days ago too." <br /><br />"What?" Venus almost slammed her fist into her hip, but remembered the dirty paper towels just in time. Good thing too, because she had on a Chanel suit.<br /><br />Trish gave a long, slow sigh. "Yup, they're gone. That was fast." She smiled cheerfully. <br /><br />Venus wanted to scream. This was out of her realm. At work, she was used to grabbing a crisis at the throat and wrestling it to submission. This was somewhere Trish was heading without her, and the thought both frightened and unnerved her. She shrugged it off. "Well . . . Aunty -- " <br /><br />"I'm fine, Venus." Aunty Yuki inspected her elbow. "Jennifer, get those Japanese Salonpas patches -- " <br /><br />"Mom, they stink." Jenn's stress over her beautiful kitchen made her more belligerent than Venus had ever seen her before. Not that the camphor patches could smell any worse than the burned Chinese-old-wives'-pregnancy-food permeating the house. <br /><br />At the sound of the word Salonpas, Lex pinched her lips together but didn't say anything. <br /><br />Aunty Yuki gave Jenn a limpid look. "The Salonpas gets rid of the pain." <br /><br />"I'll get it." Aiden headed down the hallway to get the adhesive patches. <br /><br />"In the hall closet." Jenn's words slurred a bit through her tight jaw. <br /><br />Distraction time. Venus tried to smile. "Aunty, if you're okay, then let's eat." <br /><br />Jenn's eyes flared neon red. "Can't." <br /><br />"Huh?" <br /><br />"<i>Somebody</i> turned off the oven." Jenn frowned at her mother, who tactfully looked away. "Dinner won't be for another hour." She stalked back to the kitchen. <br /><br />Even with the nasty smell, Venus's stomach protested its empty state. "It's already eight o'clock." <br /><br />"Suck it up!" Jenn yelled from the kitchen. <br /><br />It was going to be a long night. <br /><br />***<br /><br />Venus needed a Reese's peanut butter cup.<br /><br />No, a Reese's was bad. Sugar, fat, preservatives, all kinds of chemicals she couldn't even pronounce. <br /><br />Oooh, but it would taste so good . . . <br /><br />No, she equated Reese's cups with her fat days. She was no longer fat. She didn't need a Reese's. <br /><br />But she sure wanted one after such a hectic evening with her cousins. <br /><br />She trudged up the steps to her condo. Home. Too small to invite people over, and that was the way she liked it. Her haven, where she could relax and let go, no one to see her when she was vulnerable -- <br /><br />Her front door was ajar. <br /><br />Her limbs froze mid-step, but her heart <i>rat-tat-tatted</i> in her chest like a machine gun. Someone. Had. Broken. Into. Her. Home. <br /><br />Her hand started to shake. She clenched it to her hip, crushing the silk of her pants. What to do? He might still be there. Pepper spray. In her purse. She searched in her bag and finally found the tiny bottle. Her hand trembled so much, she'd be more likely to spritz herself than the intruder. <br /><br />Were those sounds coming from inside? She reached out a hand, but couldn't quite bring herself to push the door open further. <br /><br /><i>Stupid, call the police!</i> She fumbled with the pepper spray so she could extract her cell phone. Dummy, don't pop yourself in the eye with that stuff! She switched the spray to her other hand while her thumb dialed 9 - 1 - 1. Her handbag's leather straps dug into her elbow. <br /><br /><i>Thump!</i> That came from her living room! Footsteps. <i>Get away from the door!</i> She stumbled backwards, but remembering the stairs right behind her, she tried to stop herself from tumbling down. Her ankle tilted on her stilettos, and she fell sideways to lean against the wall. The footsteps approached her open door. <br /><br />"9 - 1 - 1, what's your emergency?" <br /><br />She raised her hand with the bottle of pepper spray. "Someone's -- " <br /><br />The door swung open. <br /><br />"Edgar!" The cell phone dropped with a clatter, but she kept a firm grip on the pepper spray, suddenly tempted to use it. <br /><br />One of her junior programmers stood in her open doorway.<br /><br />Copyright (c) 2008 by Camy Tang <br />Requests for information should be addressed to: <br />Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530 <br /><br /></div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-7632542311151580202008-09-27T23:32:00.003-04:002008-09-27T23:38:32.128-04:00All FIRST Alliances Button<p></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHBIJoH9TeWQd3Le6uQ-isBZLbN4sRc7HPiZYe95lhBuSTFj164eKD375ezgS8KrtsOwj7bWoimb47izz5KPRVYOryQ2s-ccm45j7VpeEzXmhDqyGMlNNwRwgNoNd6ngPekGQ-VHYLr2k/s1600-h/allfirstalliancesbutton2.jpg"><a href="http://allfirstalliances.blogspot.com/"><img border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250908165372731730" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHBIJoH9TeWQd3Le6uQ-isBZLbN4sRc7HPiZYe95lhBuSTFj164eKD375ezgS8KrtsOwj7bWoimb47izz5KPRVYOryQ2s-ccm45j7VpeEzXmhDqyGMlNNwRwgNoNd6ngPekGQ-VHYLr2k/s200/allfirstalliancesbutton2.jpg"/></a></a><p></p><br /><br />Here is the All FIRST Alliances button html. Just copy this and paste it on your template where you put links. If you have the new template, Open the Layout, press add page element, then go to the “HTML/JavaScript Add third-party functionality or other code to your blog.” And press Add to blog. Copy and paste the following:<br /><br /><textarea name="the Body" rows="14" cols="35"><div><p></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHBIJoH9TeWQd3Le6uQ-isBZLbN4sRc7HPiZYe95lhBuSTFj164eKD375ezgS8KrtsOwj7bWoimb47izz5KPRVYOryQ2s-ccm45j7VpeEzXmhDqyGMlNNwRwgNoNd6ngPekGQ-VHYLr2k/s1600-h/allfirstalliancesbutton2.jpg"><a href="http://allfirstalliances.blogspot.com/"><img border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250908165372731730" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHBIJoH9TeWQd3Le6uQ-isBZLbN4sRc7HPiZYe95lhBuSTFj164eKD375ezgS8KrtsOwj7bWoimb47izz5KPRVYOryQ2s-ccm45j7VpeEzXmhDqyGMlNNwRwgNoNd6ngPekGQ-VHYLr2k/s200/allfirstalliancesbutton2.jpg"/></a></a><p></p></div></textarea><br /><br /><br />Having problems? <a href="mailto:4pearsonz@gmail.com">Email me</a>. We'll get it right!M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-62819750249180004012008-09-18T22:45:00.001-04:002008-12-10T11:49:52.207-05:00It's All About Us & The Fruit of My Lipstick by Shelley Adina<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s1600-h/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg"><a href="http://teenfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178594274707613778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s200/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg" border="0" /></a></a><br /><br />It's the 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.allaboutusbooks.net/site.php">Shelley Adina</a></font></strong><br /></div><br /><p align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><font color="#cc0000" size="3">and her books:</font> </font></strong><br /></p><br /><p align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446177989">It's All About Us: A Novel</a></font></strong><br /></p><p align="center"> FaithWords (May 12, 2008) <br /></p><p></p><br /><center><strong>and</strong></center><p></p><br /><p align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446177970">The Fruit of My Lipstick (All About Us Series, Book 2) </a></font></strong><br /></p><p align="center"> FaithWords (August 11, 2008) <br /></p><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#663366;">Plus a <span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>Tiffany's Bracelet Giveaway</em></span>! Go to </span><a href="http://camys-loft.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#3333ff;">Camy Tang's Blog </span></a><span style="font-size:130%;color:#663366;">and leave a comment on the Teen FIRST <em>All About Us </em>Tour and you will be placed into a drawing for a bracelet that looks similar to the picture below. But the winning FaithWords Tiffany's bracelet will be a double heart charm.<br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#993399;"></span> </div><div> </div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247552517988855442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF6J0F8xvJ0cdx6X08UefNVfWcUH5Ynls5gEpeLYChbmU7bSWoKRnojynjNlEEGU8nYJSU3uWbDELcHEQphHC6OB4yMVF46SG84ktRUM3vZkZ0g9R7dw8f3zWFfs5vcrF1HuH_UeGIn5Q/s200/Tiffanys+bracelet.jpg" border="0" /></div><br /><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><font color="#cc0000">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</font> </font></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhC-OWFy0z0BsPJM5VGC6foDsl_5RAoOrLfZP4wSj6387JTE1XT9laI3MZtwRuf46uPuuedZVdFtZIS-GeDnODe2mSyIfjNIX3DpaOPlfcWrYkfoj7Mt0zRMm5pF39Mp-FFOcrqyJS8ZjL/s1600-h/Shelly"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhC-OWFy0z0BsPJM5VGC6foDsl_5RAoOrLfZP4wSj6387JTE1XT9laI3MZtwRuf46uPuuedZVdFtZIS-GeDnODe2mSyIfjNIX3DpaOPlfcWrYkfoj7Mt0zRMm5pF39Mp-FFOcrqyJS8ZjL/s200/Shelly" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243487830803156562" /></a>Shelley Adina is a world traveler and pop culture junkie with an incurable addiction to designer handbags. She knows the value of a relationship with a gracious God and loving Christian friends, and she's inviting today's teenage girls to join her in these refreshingly honest books about real life as a Christian teen--with a little extra glitz thrown in for fun! In between books, Adina loves traveling, listening to and making music, and watching all kinds of movies. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446177989">It's All About Us</a> is Book One in the All About Us Series. Book Two, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446177970">The Fruit of my Lipstick</a> came out in August 2008, and Book Three, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446177997">Be Strong & Curvaceous</a>, comes out in January 2009.<br /><br />Visit the author's <a href="http://www.shelleyadina.com/">website</a>.<br /><br /><p align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="3"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446177989">It's All About Us: A Novel</a></font></strong><br /></p><br /><br />Product Details:<br /><br />List Price: $9.99 <br />Paperback: 256 pages <br />Publisher: FaithWords (May 12, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0446177989 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0446177986 <br /><br /><font color="#cc0000"><strong><font size="5">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</font> </strong><br /></font><br /><br />Chapter One<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyqKQ2SUxXTDOzhOWlqKe8nO8WVB8Q7_eM2JRR_3J2_tVk9_suH8s4hfQU1wbCr6PrzoNsAeiFRQJPggTdhlzAmdgQqzHAFV-JBxPCM0jM7vIvWSgU-JyBPbpwQiJSDkuEt-JrDGtgUHo3/s1600-h/All+About+Us"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyqKQ2SUxXTDOzhOWlqKe8nO8WVB8Q7_eM2JRR_3J2_tVk9_suH8s4hfQU1wbCr6PrzoNsAeiFRQJPggTdhlzAmdgQqzHAFV-JBxPCM0jM7vIvWSgU-JyBPbpwQiJSDkuEt-JrDGtgUHo3/s200/All+About+Us" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243485893527362066" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;">SOME THINGS YOU just know without being told. Like, you passed the math final (or you didn't). Your boyfriend isn't into you anymore and wants to break up. Vanessa Talbot has decided that since you're the New Girl, you have a big bull's-eye on your forehead and your junior year is going to be just as miserable as she can make it.<br /><br />Carly once told me she used to wish she were me. Ha! That first week at Spencer Academy, I wouldn't have wished my life on anyone.<br /><br />My name is Lissa Evelyn Mansfield, and since everything seemed to happen to me this quarter, we decided I'd be the one to write it all down. Maybe you'll think I'm some kind of drama queen, but I swear this is the truth. Don't listen to Gillian and Carly—they weren't there for some of it, so probably when they read this, it'll be news to them, too.<br /><br />But I'm getting ahead of myself. When it all started, I didn't even know them. All I knew was that I was starting my junior year at the Spencer Academy of San Francisco, this private boarding school for trust fund kids and the offspring of the hopelessly rich, and I totally did not want to be there.<br /><br />I mean, picture it: You go from having fun and being popular in tenth grade at Pacific High in Santa Barbara, where you can hang out on State Street or join a drumming circle or surf whenever you feel like it with all your friends, to being absolutely nobody in this massive old mansion where rich kids go because their parents don't have time to take care of them.<br /><br />Not that my parents are like that. My dad's a movie director, and he's home whenever his shooting schedule allows it. When he's not, sometimes he flies us out to cool places like Barbados or Hungary for a week so we can be on location together. You've probably heard of my dad. He directed that big pirate movie that Warner Brothers did a couple of years ago. That's how he got on the radar of some of the big A-list directors, so when George (hey, he asked me to call him that, so it's not like I'm dropping names) rang him up from Marin and suggested they do a movie together, of course he said yes. I can't imagine anybody saying no to George, but anyway, that's why we're in San Francisco for the next two years. Since Dad's going to be out at the Ranch or on location so much, and my sister, Jolie, is at UCLA (film school, what else—she's a daddy's girl and she admits it), and my mom's dividing her time among all of us, I had the choice of going to boarding school or having a live-in. Boarding school sounded fun in a Harry Potter kind of way, so I picked that.<br /><br />Sigh. That was before I realized how lonely it is being the New Girl. Before the full effect of my breakup really hit. Before I knew about Vanessa Talbot, who I swear would make the perfect girlfriend for a warlock.<br /><br />And speaking of witch . . .<br /><br />"Melissa!"<br /><br />Note: my name is not Melissa. But on the first day of classes, I'd made the mistake of correcting Vanessa, which meant that every time she saw me after that, she made a point of saying it wrong. The annoying part is that now people really think that's my name.<br /><br />Vanessa, Emily Overton, and Dani Lavigne ("Yes, that Lavigne. Did I tell you she's my cousin?") are like this triad of terror at Spencer. Their parents are all fabulously wealthy—richer than my mom's family, even—and they never let you forget it. Vanessa and Dani have the genes to go with all that money, which means they look good in everything from designer dresses to street chic.<br /><br />Vanessa's dark brown hair is cut so perfectly, it always falls into place when she moves. She has the kind of skin and dark eyes that might be from some Italian beauty somewhere in her family tree. Which, of course, means the camera loves her. It didn't take me long to figure out that there was likely to be a photographer or two somewhere on the grounds pretty much all the time, and nine times out of ten, Vanessa was the one they bagged. Her mom is minor royalty and the ex-wife of some U.N. Secretary or other, which means every time he gives a speech, a photographer shows up here. Believe me, seeing Vanessa in the halls at school and never knowing when she's going to pop out at me from the pages of Teen People or some society news Web site is just annoying. Can you say overexposed?<br /><br />Anyway. Where was I? Dani has butterscotch-colored hair that she has highlighted at Biondi once a month, and big blue eyes that make her look way more innocent than she is. Emily is shorter and chunkier and could maybe be nice if you got her on her own, but she's not the kind that functions well outside of a clique.<br /><br />Some people are born independent and some aren't. You should see Emily these days. All that money doesn't help her one bit out at the farm, where—<br /><br />Okay, Gillian just told me I have to stop doing that. She says it's messing her up, like I'm telling her the ending when I'm supposed to be telling the beginning.<br /><br />Not that it's all about her, okay? It's about us: me, Gillian, Carly, Shani, Mac . . . and God. But just to make Gillian happy, I'll skip to the part where I met her, and she (and you) can see what I really thought of her. Ha. Maybe that'll make her stop reading over my shoulder.<br /><br />So as I was saying, there they were—Vanessa, Emily, and Dani—standing between me and the dining room doors. "What's up?" I said, walking up to them when I should have turned and settled for something out of the snack machine at the other end of the hall.<br /><br />"She doesn't know." Emily poked Dani. "Maybe we shouldn't tell her."<br /><br />I did a fast mental check. Plaid skirt—okay. Oxfords—no embarrassing toilet paper. White blouse—buttoned, no stains. Slate blue cardigan—clean. Hair—freshly brushed.<br /><br />They couldn't be talking about me personally, in which case I didn't need to hear it. "Whatever." I pushed past them and took two steps down the hall.<br /><br />"Don't you want to hear about your new roommate?" Vanessa asked.<br /><br />Roommate? At that point I'd survived for five days, and the only good things about them were the crème brulée in the dining room and the blessed privacy of my own room. What fresh disaster was this?<br /><br />Oops. I'd stopped in my tracks and tipped them off that (a) I didn't know, and (b) I wanted to know. And when Vanessa knows you want something, she'll do everything she can not to let you have it.<br /><br />"I think we should tell her," Emily said. "It would be kinder to get it over with." "I'm sure I'll find out eventually." There, that sounded bored enough. "Byeee." "I hope you like Chinese!" Dani whooped at her own cleverness, and the three of them floated off down the hall. <br /><br />So I thought, Great, maybe they're having dim sum today for lunch, though what that had to do with my new roommate I had no idea. At that point it hadn't really sunk in that conversation with those three is a dangerous thing.<br /><br />That had been my first mistake the previous Wednesday, when classes had officially begun. Conversation, I mean. You know, normal civilized discourse with someone you think might be a friend. Like a total dummy, I'd actually thought this about Vanessa, who'd pulled newbie duty, walking me down the hall to show me where my first class was. It turned out to not be my first class, but the teacher was nice about steering me to the right room, where I was, of course, late.<br /><br />That should've been my first clue.<br /><br />My second clue was when Vanessa invited me to eat with them and Dani managed to spill her Coke all over my uniform skirt, which is, as I said, plaid and made of this easy-clean fake wool that people with sensitive skin can wear. She'd jumped up, all full of apologies, and handed me napkins and stuff, but the fact remained that I had to go upstairs and change and then figure out how the laundry service worked, which meant I was late for Biology, too. <br /><br />On Thursday Dani apologized again, and Vanessa loaned me some of her Bumble and bumble shampoo ("You can't use Paul Mitchell on gorgeous hair like yours—people get that stuff at the drugstore now"), and I was dumb enough to think that maybe things were looking up. Because really, the shampoo was superb. My hair is blond and I wear it long, but before you go hating me for it, it's fine and thick, and the fog we have here in San Francisco makes it go all frizzy. And it's foggy a lot. So this shampoo made it just coo with pleasure.<br /><br />You're probably asking yourself why I bothered trying to be friends with these girls. The harrowing truth was, I was used to being in the A-list group. It never occurred to me that I wouldn't fit in with the popular girls at Spencer, once I figured out who they were.<br /><br />Lucky me—Vanessa made that so easy. And I was so lonely and out of my depth that even she was looking good. Her dad had once backed one of my dad's films, so there was that minimal connection.<br /><br />Too bad it wasn't enough.<br /><br /><strong>jolie.mansfield</strong> L, don't let them bug you. Some people are <br />threatened by anything new. It's a compliment <br />really. <br /><br /><strong>LMansfield</strong> You always find the bright side. Gahh. Love you, <br />but not helping. <br /><br /><strong>jolie.mansfield </strong>What can I do? <br /><br /><strong>LMansfield</strong> I'd give absolutely anything to be back in S.B. <br /><br /><strong>jolie.mansfield</strong> :( <br /><br /><strong>LMansfield</strong> I want to hang with the kids from my youth group. <br />Not worry about anything but the SPF of my sun <br />block. <br /><br /><strong>jolie.mansfield</strong> It'll get better. Promise. Heard from Mom? <br />LMansfield No. She's doing some fundraiser with Angelina. <br />She's pretty busy. <br /><br /><strong>jolie.mansfield</strong> If you say so. Love you. <br /><br /> <br /><br />Copyright © 2008 by Shelley Adina<br /></div><br /><br />&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&<br /><br /><p align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="3"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446177970">The Fruit of My Lipstick (All About Us Series, Book 2) </a></font></strong><br /></p><br /><br />Product Details:<br /><br />List Price: $9.99 <br />Paperback: 256 pages <br />Publisher: FaithWords (August 11, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0446177970 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0446177979 <br /><br /><font color="#cc0000"><strong><font size="5">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</font> </strong><br /></font><br /><br />Chapter One<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPymSNIiKimoaKIlnKyP-bHT1IIEhlgn0Noxgz0Af7kn6oWYgxWxa2Yhq7aYrdCYEib4LHFevT6M6QMFMYlkhM0qqB1UViWPLb7VmpGBn-V2EW5z55SccFxyU0L5Kgz1V_k2rXyzeAzLFx/s1600-h/lipstick"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPymSNIiKimoaKIlnKyP-bHT1IIEhlgn0Noxgz0Af7kn6oWYgxWxa2Yhq7aYrdCYEib4LHFevT6M6QMFMYlkhM0qqB1UViWPLb7VmpGBn-V2EW5z55SccFxyU0L5Kgz1V_k2rXyzeAzLFx/s200/lipstick" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243493559013074930" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;">chapter 1 <br /><br /><br />Top Five Clues That He’s the One <br /><br />1. He’s smart, which is why he’s dating you and not the queen of the snob mob.<br /><br />2. He knows he’s hot, but he thinks you’re hotter.<br /><br />3. He’d rather listen to you than to himself.<br /><br />4. You’re in on his jokes—not the butt of them.<br /><br />5. He always gives you the last cookie in the box.<br /><br />THE NEW YEAR. . . when a young girl’s heart turns to new beginnings, weight loss, and a new term of chemistry! <br /><br />Whew! Got that little squee out of my system. But you may as well know right now that science and music are what I do, and they tend to come up a lot in conversation. Sometimes my friends think this is good, like when I’m helping them cram for an exam. Sometimes they just think I’m a geek. But that’s okay. My name is Gillian Frances Jiao-Lan Chang, and since Lissa was brave enough to fall on her sword and spill what happened last fall, I guess I can’t do anything less.<br /><br />I’m kidding about the sword. You know that, right? <br /><br />Term was set to start on the first Wednesday in January, so I flew into SFO first class from JFK on Monday. I thought I’d packed pretty efficiently, but I still exceeded the weight limit by fifty pounds. It took some doing to get me and my bags into the limo, let me tell you. But I’d found last term that I couldn’t live without certain things, so they came with me. Like my sheet music and some more of my books. And warmer clothes. <br /><br />You say California and everyone thinks L.A. The reality of San Francisco in the winter is that it’s cold, whether the sun is shining or the fog is stealing in through the Golden Gate and blanketing the bay. A perfect excuse for a trip to Barney’s to get Vera Wang’s tulip-hem black wool coat, right? <br /><br />I thought so, too.<br /><br />Dorm, sweet dorm. I staggered through the door of the room I share with Lissa Mansfield. It’s up to us to get our stuff into our rooms, so here’s where it pays to be on the rowing team, I guess. Biceps are good for hauling bulging Louis Vuittons up marble staircases. But I am so not the athletic type. I leave that to John, the youngest of my three older brothers. He’s been into gymnastics since he was, like, four, and he’s training hard to make the U.S. Olympic team. I haven’t seen him since I was fourteen—he trains with a coach out in Arizona. <br /><br />My oldest brother, Richard, is twenty-six and works for my dad at the bank, and the second oldest, Darren—the one I’m closest to—is graduating next spring from Harvard and going straight into medical school after that. <br /><br />Yeah, we’re a family of overachievers. Don’t hate me, okay? <br /><br />I heard a thump in the hall outside and got the door open just in time to come face-to-face with a huge piece of striped fiberglass with three fins.<br /><br />I stood aside to let Lissa into the room with her surfboard. She was practically bowed at the knees with the weight of the duffel slung over her shoulder, and another duffel with a big O’Neill logo waited outside. I grabbed it and swung it onto her bed.<br /><br />“Welcome back, girlfriend!”<br /><br />She stood the board against the wall, let the duffel drop to the floor with a thud that probably shook the chandelier in the room below us, and pulled me into a hug.<br /><br />“I am so glad to see you!” Her perfect Nordic face lit up with happiness. “How was your Christmas—the parts you didn’t tell me about on e-mail?”<br /><br />“The usual. Too many family parties. Mom and Nai-Nai made way too much food, two of my brothers fought over the remote like they were ten years old, my dad and oldest brother bailed to go back to work early, and, oh, Nai-Nai wanted to know at least twice a day why I didn’t have a boyfriend.” I considered the chaos we’d just made of our pristine room. “The typical Chang holiday. What about you? Did Scotland improve after the first couple of days?”<br /><br />“It was fre-e-e-e-zing.” She slipped off her coat and tam. “And I don’t just mean rainy-freezing. I mean sleet-and-icicles freezing. The first time I wore my high-heeled Louboutin boots, I nearly broke my ankle. As it was, I landed flat on my butt in the middle of the Royal Mile. Totally embarrassing.”<br /><br />“What’s a Royal Mile? Princesses by the square foot?”<br /><br />“This big broad avenue that goes through the old part of Edinburgh toward the queen’s castle. Good shopping. Restaurants. Tourists. Ice.” She unzipped the duffel and began pulling things out of it. “Dad was away a lot at the locations for this movie. Sometimes I went with him, and sometimes I hung out with this really adorable guy who was supposed to be somebody’s production assistant but who wound up being my guide the whole time.”<br /><br />“It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.”<br /><br />“I made it worth his while.” She flashed me a wicked grin, but behind it I saw something else. Pain, and memory. “So.” She spread her hands. “What’s new around here?”<br /><br />I shrugged. “I just walked in myself a few minutes ago. You probably passed the limo leaving. But if what you really want to know is whether the webcam incident is over and done with, I don’t know yet.”<br /><br />She turned away, but not before I saw her flush pink and then blink really fast, like her contacts had just been flooded. “Let’s hope so.”<br /><br />“You made it through last term.” I tried to be encouraging. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?”<br /><br />“It made one thing stronger.” She pulled a cashmere scarf out of the duffel and stroked it as though it were a kitten. “I never prayed so hard in my life. Especially during finals week, remember? When those two idiots seriously thought they could force me into that storage closet and get away with it?”<br /><br />“Before we left, I heard the short one was going to be on crutches for six weeks.” I grinned at her. Fact of the day: Surfers are pretty good athletes. Don’t mess with them. “Maybe it should be, ‘What doesn’t kill you makes your relationship with God stronger.’”<br /><br />“That I’ll agree with. Do you know if Carly’s here yet?”<br /><br />“Her dad was driving her up in time for supper, so she should be calling any second.”<br /><br />Sure enough, within a few minutes, someone knocked. “That’s gotta be her.” I jumped for the door and swung it open. <br /><br />“Hey, chicas!” Carly hugged me and then Lissa. “Did you miss me?”<br /><br />“Like chips miss guacamole.” Lissa grinned at her. “Good break?”<br /><br />She grimaced, her soft brown eyes a little sad. Clearly Christmas break isn’t what it’s cracked up to be in anybody’s world. <br /><br />“Dad had to go straighten out some computer chip thing in Singapore, so Antony and I got shipped off to Veracruz. It was great to see my mom and the grandparents, but you know . . .” Her voice trailed away.<br /><br />“What?” I asked. “Did you have a fight?” That’s what happens at our house.<br /><br />“No.” She sighed, then lifted her head to look at both of us. “I think my mom has a boyfriend.”<br /><br />“Ewww,” Lissa and I said together, with identical grimaces. <br /><br />“I always kind of hoped my mom and dad would figure it out, you know? And get back together. But it looks like that’s not going to happen.”<br /><br />I hugged her again. “I’m sorry, Carly. That stinks.”<br /><br />“Yeah.” She straightened up, and my arm slid from her shoulders. “So, enough about me. What about you guys?”<br /><br />With a quick recap, we put her in the picture. “So do you have something going with this Scottish guy?” Carly asked Lissa.<br /><br />Lissa shook her head, a curtain of blonde hair falling to partially hide her face—a trick I’ve never quite been able to master, even though my hair hangs past my shoulders. But it’s so thick and coarse, it never does what I want on the best of days. It has to be beaten into submission by a professional. <br /><br />“I think I liked his accent most of all,” she said. “I could just sit there and listen to him talk all day. In fact, I did. What he doesn’t know about murders and wars and Edinburgh Castle and Lord This and Earl That would probably fit in my lip gloss tube.”<br /><br />I contrasted walking the cold streets of Edinburgh, listening to some guy drone on about history, with fighting with my brothers. Do we girls know how to have fun, or what? “Better you than me.”<br /><br />“I’d have loved it,” Carly said. “Can you imagine walking through a castle with your own private tour guide? Especially if he’s cute. It doesn’t get better than that.”<br /><br />“Um, okay.” Lissa gave her a sideways glance. “Miss A-plus in History.”<br /><br />“Really?” I had A-pluses in AP Chem and Math, but with anything less in those subjects, I wouldn’t have been able to face my father at Christmas. As it was, he had a fit over my B in History, and the only reason I managed to achieve an A-minus in English was because of a certain person with the initials L. M. <br /><br />Carly shrugged. “I like history. I like knowing what happened where, and who it happened to, and what they were wearing. Not that I’ve ever been anywhere very much, except Texas and Mexico.”<br /><br />“You’d definitely have liked Alasdair, then,” Lissa said. “He knows all about what happened to whom. But the worst was having to go for tea at some freezing old stone castle that Dad was using for a set. I thought I’d lose my toes from frostbite.”<br /><br />“Somebody lives in the castle?” Carly looked fascinated. “Who?”<br /><br />“Some earl.” Lissa looked into the distance as she flipped through the PDA in her head. Then she blinked. “The Earl and Countess of Strathcairn.”<br /><br />“Cool!”<br /><br />“Very. Forty degrees, tops. He said he had a daughter about our age, but I never met her. She heard we were coming and took off on her horse.”<br /><br />“Mo guai nuer,” I said. “Rude much?”<br /><br />Lissa shrugged. “Alasdair knew the family. He said Lady Lindsay does what she wants, and clearly she didn’t want to meet us. Not that I cared. I was too busy having hypothermia. I’ve never been so glad to see the inside of a hotel room in my life. I’d have put my feet in my mug of tea if I could have.”<br /><br />“Well, cold or not, I still think it’s cool that you met an earl,” Carly said. “And I can’t wait to see your dad’s movie.”<br /><br />“Filming starts in February, so Dad won’t be around much. But Mom’s big charity gig for the Babies of Somalia went off just before Christmas and was a huge success, so she’ll be around a bit more.” She paused. “Until she finds something else to get involved in.”<br /><br />“Did you meet Angelina?” I asked. Lissa’s life fascinated me. To her, movie stars are her dad’s coworkers, like the brokers and venture capitalists who come to the bank are my dad’s coworkers. But Dad doesn’t work with people who look like Orlando and Angelina, that’s for sure.<br /><br />“Yes, I met her. She apologized for flaking on me for the Benefactors’ Day Ball. Not that I blame her. It all turned out okay in the end.”<br /><br />“Except for your career as Vanessa Talbot’s BFF.”<br /><br />Lissa snorted. “Yeah. Except that.”<br /><br />None of us mentioned what else had crashed and burned in flames after the infamous webcam incident—her relationship with the most popular guy in school, Callum McCloud. I had a feeling that that was a scab we just didn’t need to pick at.<br /><br />“You don’t need Vanessa Talbot,” Carly said firmly. “You have us.”<br /><br />We exchanged a grin. “She’s right,” I said. “This term, it’s totally all about us.”<br /><br />“Thank goodness for that,” she said. “Come on. Let’s go eat. I’m starving.” <br /><br /><br />RStapleton I heard from a mutual friend that you take care of people at midterm time.<br /><br />Source10 What friend?<br /><br />RStapleton Loyola.<br /><br />Source10 Been known to happen.<br /><br />RStapleton How much?<br /><br />Source10 1K. Math, sciences, geography only.<br /><br />RStapleton I hate numbers.<br /><br />Source10 IM me the day before to confirm.<br /><br />RStapleton OK. Who are you? <br /><br />RStapleton You there? <br /><br /><br />BY NOON THE next day, I’d hustled down to the student print shop in the basement and printed the notices I’d laid out on my Mac. I tacked them on the bulletin boards in the common rooms and classroom corridors on all four floors. <br /><br /><br />Christian prayer circle every Tuesday night 7:00 p.m., Room 216 Bring your Bible and a friend! <br /><br /><br />“Nice work,” Lissa told me when I found her and Carly in the dining room. “Love the salmon pink paper. But school hasn’t officially started yet. We probably won’t get a very good turnout if the first one’s tonight.”<br /><br />“Maybe not.” I bit into a succulent California roll and savored the tart, thin seaweed wrapper around the rice, avocado, and shrimp. I had to hand it to Dining Services. Their food was amazing. “But even if it’s just the three of us, I can’t think of a better way to start off the term, can you?”<br /><br />Lissa didn’t reply. The color faded from her face and she concentrated on her square ceramic plate of sushi as though it were her last meal. Carly swallowed a bite of makizushi with an audible gulp as it went down whole. Slowly, casually, I reached for the pepper shaker and glanced over my shoulder.<br /><br />“If it isn’t the holy trinity,” Vanessa drawled, plastered against Brett Loyola’s arm and standing so close behind us, neither Carly nor I could move. “Going to multiply the rice and fish for us?”<br /><br />“Nice to see you, too, Vanessa,” Lissa said coolly. “Been reading your Bible, I see.”<br /><br />“Hi, Brett,” Carly managed, her voice about six notes higher than usual as she craned to look up at him.<br /><br />He looked at her, puzzled, as if he’d seen her before somewhere but couldn’t place where, and gave her a vague smile. “Hey.”<br /><br />I rolled my eyes. Like we hadn’t spent an entire term in History together. Like Carly didn’t light up like a Christmas tree every time she passed a paper to him, or maneuvered her way into a study group that had him in it. Honestly. I don’t know how that guy got past the entrance requirements.<br /><br />Oh, wait. Silly me. Daddy probably made a nice big donation to the athletics department, and they waved Brett through Admissions with a grateful smile.<br /><br />“Have any of you seen Callum?” Vanessa inquired sweetly. “I’m dying to see him. I hear he spent Christmas skiing at their place in Vail with his sisters and his new girlfriend. No parents.”<br /><br />“He’s a day student.” I glanced at Lissa to see how she was taking this, but she’d leaned over to the table behind her to snag a bunch of napkins. “Why would he be eating here?”<br /><br />“To see all his friends, of course. I guess that’s why you haven’t seen him.”<br /><br />“Neither have you, if you’re asking where he is.” Poor Vanessa. I hope she’s never on a debating team. It could get humiliating.<br /><br />But what she lacked in logic she made up for in venom. She ignored me and gushed, “I love your outfit, Lissa. I’m sure Callum would, too. That is, if he were still speaking to you.”<br /><br />I barely restrained myself from giving Vanessa an elbow in the stomach. But Lissa had come a long way since her ugly breakup with a guy who didn’t deserve her. Vanessa had no idea who she was dealing with—Lissa with an army of angels at her back was a scary thing.<br /><br />She pinned Vanessa with a stare as cold as fresh snow.<br /><br />“You mean you haven’t told him yet that you made that video?” She shook her head. “Naughty Vanessa, lying to your friends like that.” A big smile and a meaningful glance at Brett. “But then, they’re probably used to it.”<br /><br />Vanessa opened her mouth to say something scathing, when a tall, lanky guy elbowed past her to put his sushi dishes on the table next to mine. Six feet of sheer brilliance, with blue eyes and brown hair cropped short so he didn’t have to deal with it. A mind so sharp, he put even the overachievers here in the shade—but in spite of that, a guy who’d started coming to prayer circle last term. Who could fluster me with a look, and wipe my brain completely blank with just a smile.<br /><br />Lucas Hayes. <br /><br />“Hey, Vanessa, Brett.”<br /><br />My jaw sagged in surprise, and I snapped it shut on my mouthful of rice, hoping he hadn’t seen. Since when was the king of the science geeks on speaking terms with the popular crowd?<br /><br />To add to the astonishment, the two of them stepped back, as if to give him some space. “Yo, Einstein.” Brett grinned and they shook hands.<br /><br />“Hi, Lucas.” Vanessa glanced from him to me to our dishes sitting next to each other. “I didn’t know you were friends with these people.”<br /><br />He shrugged. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”<br /><br />“That could change. Why don’t you come and sit with us?” she asked. Brett looked longingly at the sushi bar and tugged on her arm. She ignored him. “We’re much more fun. We don’t sing hymns and save souls.”<br /><br />“So I’ve heard. Did you make it into Trig?”<br /><br />“Of course.” She tossed her gleaming sheet of hair over one shoulder. “Thanks to you.”<br /><br />I couldn’t keep quiet another second. “You tutored her?” I asked him, trying not to squeak.<br /><br />He picked up a piece of California roll and popped it in his mouth, nodding. “All last term.” He glanced at Vanessa. “Contrary to popular opinion, she isn’t all looks.”<br /><br />Oh, gack. Way TMI. Vanessa smiled as though she’d won this and all other possible arguments now and in the future, world without end, amen. “Come on, Lucas. Hold our table for us while Brett and I get our food. I want to talk to you about something anyway.” <br /><br />He shrugged and picked up his dishes while she and Brett swanned away. “See you at prayer circle,” he said to me. “I saw the signs. Same time and place, right?”<br /><br />I could only nod as he headed for the table in the middle of the big window looking out on the quad. The one no one else dared to sit at, in case they risked the derision and social ostracism that would follow. <br /><br />The empty seat on my right seemed even emptier. How could he do that? How could he just dump us and then say he’d see us at prayer circle? Shouldn’t he want to eat with the people he prayed with?<br /><br />“It’s okay, Gillian,” Carly whispered. “At least he’s coming.”<br /><br />“And Vanessa isn’t,” Lissa put in with satisfaction.<br /><br />“I’m not so sure I want him to, now,” I said. I looked at my sushi and my stomach sort of lurched. Ugh. I pushed it away.<br /><br />And here I’d been feeling so superior to Carly and her unrequited yen for Brett. I was just as bad, and this proved it. What else could explain this sick feeling in my middle? <br /><br />Two hours later, while Lissa, Carly, and I shoved aside the canvases and whatnot that had accumulated in Room 216 over the break, making enough room for half a dozen people to sit, I’d almost talked myself into not caring whether Lucas came or not.<br /><br />And then he stepped through the door and I realized my body was more honest than my brain. I sucked in a breath and my heart began to pound.<br /><br />Oh, yeah. You so don’t care.<br /><br />Travis, who must have arrived during dinner, trickled in behind him, and then Shani Hanna, who moved with the confidence of an Arabian queen, arrived with a couple of sophomores I didn’t know. Her hair, tinted bronze and caught up at the crown of her head, tumbled to her shoulders in corkscrew curls. I fingered my own arrow-straight mop that wouldn’t hold a curl if you threatened it with death. <br /><br />Okay, stop feeling sorry for yourself, would you? Enough is enough. <br /><br />“Hey, everyone, thanks for coming,” I said brightly, getting to my feet. “I’m Gillian Chang. Why don’t the newbies introduce themselves, and then we’ll get started?”<br /><br />The sophomores told us their names, and I found out Travis’s last name was Fanshaw. And the dots connected. Of course he’d been assigned as Lucas’s roommate—he’s like this Chemistry genius. If it weren’t for Lucas, he’d be the king of the science geeks. Sometimes science people have a hard time reconciling scientific method with faith. If they were here at prayer circle, maybe Travis and Lucas were among the lucky few who figured science was a form of worship, of marveling at the amazement that is creation. I mean, if Lucas was one of those guys who got a kick out of arguing with the Earth Sciences prof, I wouldn’t even be able to date him.<br /><br />Not that there was any possibility of that.<br /><br />As our prayers went up one by one, quietly from people like Carly and brash and uncomfortably from people like Travis and the sophomores, I wished that dating was the kind of thing I could pray about. <br /><br />But I don’t think God has my social life on His to-do list. <br /><br /><br />This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.<br /><br />Copyright © 2008 by Shelley Adina<br /><br />This article is used with the permission of Hachette Book Group and Shelley Adina. All rights reserved.<br /></div></textarea><br /></div><br /><br />*****************************************************************************<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s1600-h/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg"><a href="http://teenfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178594274707613778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s200/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg" border="0" /></a></a><br /><br />It's the 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.allaboutusbooks.net/site.php">Shelley Adina</a></font></strong><br /></div><br /><p align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><font color="#cc0000" size="3">and her books:</font> </font></strong><br /></p><br /><p align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446177989">It's All About Us: A Novel</a></font></strong><br /></p><p align="center"> FaithWords (May 12, 2008) <br /></p><p></p><br /><center><strong>and</strong></center><p></p><br /><p align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446177970">The Fruit of My Lipstick (All About Us Series, Book 2) </a></font></strong><br /></p><p align="center"> FaithWords (August 11, 2008) <br /></p><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#663366;">Plus a <span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>Tiffany's Bracelet Giveaway</em></span>! Go to </span><a href="http://camys-loft.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#3333ff;">Camy Tang's Blog </span></a><span style="font-size:130%;color:#663366;">and leave a comment on the Teen FIRST <em>All About Us </em>Tour and you will be placed into a drawing for a bracelet that looks similar to the picture below. But the winning FaithWords Tiffany's bracelet will be a double heart charm.<br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#993399;"></span> </div><div> </div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247552517988855442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF6J0F8xvJ0cdx6X08UefNVfWcUH5Ynls5gEpeLYChbmU7bSWoKRnojynjNlEEGU8nYJSU3uWbDELcHEQphHC6OB4yMVF46SG84ktRUM3vZkZ0g9R7dw8f3zWFfs5vcrF1HuH_UeGIn5Q/s200/Tiffanys+bracelet.jpg" border="0" /></div><br /><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><font color="#cc0000">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</font> </font></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhC-OWFy0z0BsPJM5VGC6foDsl_5RAoOrLfZP4wSj6387JTE1XT9laI3MZtwRuf46uPuuedZVdFtZIS-GeDnODe2mSyIfjNIX3DpaOPlfcWrYkfoj7Mt0zRMm5pF39Mp-FFOcrqyJS8ZjL/s1600-h/Shelly"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhC-OWFy0z0BsPJM5VGC6foDsl_5RAoOrLfZP4wSj6387JTE1XT9laI3MZtwRuf46uPuuedZVdFtZIS-GeDnODe2mSyIfjNIX3DpaOPlfcWrYkfoj7Mt0zRMm5pF39Mp-FFOcrqyJS8ZjL/s200/Shelly" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243487830803156562" /></a>Shelley Adina is a world traveler and pop culture junkie with an incurable addiction to designer handbags. She knows the value of a relationship with a gracious God and loving Christian friends, and she's inviting today's teenage girls to join her in these refreshingly honest books about real life as a Christian teen--with a little extra glitz thrown in for fun! In between books, Adina loves traveling, listening to and making music, and watching all kinds of movies. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446177989">It's All About Us</a> is Book One in the All About Us Series. Book Two, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446177970">The Fruit of my Lipstick</a> came out in August 2008, and Book Three, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446177997">Be Strong & Curvaceous</a>, comes out in January 2009.<br /><br />Visit the author's <a href="http://www.shelleyadina.com/">website</a>.<br /><br /><p align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="3"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446177989">It's All About Us: A Novel</a></font></strong><br /></p><br /><br />Product Details:<br /><br />List Price: $9.99 <br />Paperback: 256 pages <br />Publisher: FaithWords (May 12, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0446177989 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0446177986 <br /><br /><font color="#cc0000"><strong><font size="5">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</font> </strong><br /></font><br /><br />Chapter One<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyqKQ2SUxXTDOzhOWlqKe8nO8WVB8Q7_eM2JRR_3J2_tVk9_suH8s4hfQU1wbCr6PrzoNsAeiFRQJPggTdhlzAmdgQqzHAFV-JBxPCM0jM7vIvWSgU-JyBPbpwQiJSDkuEt-JrDGtgUHo3/s1600-h/All+About+Us"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyqKQ2SUxXTDOzhOWlqKe8nO8WVB8Q7_eM2JRR_3J2_tVk9_suH8s4hfQU1wbCr6PrzoNsAeiFRQJPggTdhlzAmdgQqzHAFV-JBxPCM0jM7vIvWSgU-JyBPbpwQiJSDkuEt-JrDGtgUHo3/s200/All+About+Us" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243485893527362066" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;">SOME THINGS YOU just know without being told. Like, you passed the math final (or you didn't). Your boyfriend isn't into you anymore and wants to break up. Vanessa Talbot has decided that since you're the New Girl, you have a big bull's-eye on your forehead and your junior year is going to be just as miserable as she can make it.<br /><br />Carly once told me she used to wish she were me. Ha! That first week at Spencer Academy, I wouldn't have wished my life on anyone.<br /><br />My name is Lissa Evelyn Mansfield, and since everything seemed to happen to me this quarter, we decided I'd be the one to write it all down. Maybe you'll think I'm some kind of drama queen, but I swear this is the truth. Don't listen to Gillian and Carly—they weren't there for some of it, so probably when they read this, it'll be news to them, too.<br /><br />But I'm getting ahead of myself. When it all started, I didn't even know them. All I knew was that I was starting my junior year at the Spencer Academy of San Francisco, this private boarding school for trust fund kids and the offspring of the hopelessly rich, and I totally did not want to be there.<br /><br />I mean, picture it: You go from having fun and being popular in tenth grade at Pacific High in Santa Barbara, where you can hang out on State Street or join a drumming circle or surf whenever you feel like it with all your friends, to being absolutely nobody in this massive old mansion where rich kids go because their parents don't have time to take care of them.<br /><br />Not that my parents are like that. My dad's a movie director, and he's home whenever his shooting schedule allows it. When he's not, sometimes he flies us out to cool places like Barbados or Hungary for a week so we can be on location together. You've probably heard of my dad. He directed that big pirate movie that Warner Brothers did a couple of years ago. That's how he got on the radar of some of the big A-list directors, so when George (hey, he asked me to call him that, so it's not like I'm dropping names) rang him up from Marin and suggested they do a movie together, of course he said yes. I can't imagine anybody saying no to George, but anyway, that's why we're in San Francisco for the next two years. Since Dad's going to be out at the Ranch or on location so much, and my sister, Jolie, is at UCLA (film school, what else—she's a daddy's girl and she admits it), and my mom's dividing her time among all of us, I had the choice of going to boarding school or having a live-in. Boarding school sounded fun in a Harry Potter kind of way, so I picked that.<br /><br />Sigh. That was before I realized how lonely it is being the New Girl. Before the full effect of my breakup really hit. Before I knew about Vanessa Talbot, who I swear would make the perfect girlfriend for a warlock.<br /><br />And speaking of witch . . .<br /><br />"Melissa!"<br /><br />Note: my name is not Melissa. But on the first day of classes, I'd made the mistake of correcting Vanessa, which meant that every time she saw me after that, she made a point of saying it wrong. The annoying part is that now people really think that's my name.<br /><br />Vanessa, Emily Overton, and Dani Lavigne ("Yes, that Lavigne. Did I tell you she's my cousin?") are like this triad of terror at Spencer. Their parents are all fabulously wealthy—richer than my mom's family, even—and they never let you forget it. Vanessa and Dani have the genes to go with all that money, which means they look good in everything from designer dresses to street chic.<br /><br />Vanessa's dark brown hair is cut so perfectly, it always falls into place when she moves. She has the kind of skin and dark eyes that might be from some Italian beauty somewhere in her family tree. Which, of course, means the camera loves her. It didn't take me long to figure out that there was likely to be a photographer or two somewhere on the grounds pretty much all the time, and nine times out of ten, Vanessa was the one they bagged. Her mom is minor royalty and the ex-wife of some U.N. Secretary or other, which means every time he gives a speech, a photographer shows up here. Believe me, seeing Vanessa in the halls at school and never knowing when she's going to pop out at me from the pages of Teen People or some society news Web site is just annoying. Can you say overexposed?<br /><br />Anyway. Where was I? Dani has butterscotch-colored hair that she has highlighted at Biondi once a month, and big blue eyes that make her look way more innocent than she is. Emily is shorter and chunkier and could maybe be nice if you got her on her own, but she's not the kind that functions well outside of a clique.<br /><br />Some people are born independent and some aren't. You should see Emily these days. All that money doesn't help her one bit out at the farm, where—<br /><br />Okay, Gillian just told me I have to stop doing that. She says it's messing her up, like I'm telling her the ending when I'm supposed to be telling the beginning.<br /><br />Not that it's all about her, okay? It's about us: me, Gillian, Carly, Shani, Mac . . . and God. But just to make Gillian happy, I'll skip to the part where I met her, and she (and you) can see what I really thought of her. Ha. Maybe that'll make her stop reading over my shoulder.<br /><br />So as I was saying, there they were—Vanessa, Emily, and Dani—standing between me and the dining room doors. "What's up?" I said, walking up to them when I should have turned and settled for something out of the snack machine at the other end of the hall.<br /><br />"She doesn't know." Emily poked Dani. "Maybe we shouldn't tell her."<br /><br />I did a fast mental check. Plaid skirt—okay. Oxfords—no embarrassing toilet paper. White blouse—buttoned, no stains. Slate blue cardigan—clean. Hair—freshly brushed.<br /><br />They couldn't be talking about me personally, in which case I didn't need to hear it. "Whatever." I pushed past them and took two steps down the hall.<br /><br />"Don't you want to hear about your new roommate?" Vanessa asked.<br /><br />Roommate? At that point I'd survived for five days, and the only good things about them were the crème brulée in the dining room and the blessed privacy of my own room. What fresh disaster was this?<br /><br />Oops. I'd stopped in my tracks and tipped them off that (a) I didn't know, and (b) I wanted to know. And when Vanessa knows you want something, she'll do everything she can not to let you have it.<br /><br />"I think we should tell her," Emily said. "It would be kinder to get it over with." "I'm sure I'll find out eventually." There, that sounded bored enough. "Byeee." "I hope you like Chinese!" Dani whooped at her own cleverness, and the three of them floated off down the hall. <br /><br />So I thought, Great, maybe they're having dim sum today for lunch, though what that had to do with my new roommate I had no idea. At that point it hadn't really sunk in that conversation with those three is a dangerous thing.<br /><br />That had been my first mistake the previous Wednesday, when classes had officially begun. Conversation, I mean. You know, normal civilized discourse with someone you think might be a friend. Like a total dummy, I'd actually thought this about Vanessa, who'd pulled newbie duty, walking me down the hall to show me where my first class was. It turned out to not be my first class, but the teacher was nice about steering me to the right room, where I was, of course, late.<br /><br />That should've been my first clue.<br /><br />My second clue was when Vanessa invited me to eat with them and Dani managed to spill her Coke all over my uniform skirt, which is, as I said, plaid and made of this easy-clean fake wool that people with sensitive skin can wear. She'd jumped up, all full of apologies, and handed me napkins and stuff, but the fact remained that I had to go upstairs and change and then figure out how the laundry service worked, which meant I was late for Biology, too. <br /><br />On Thursday Dani apologized again, and Vanessa loaned me some of her Bumble and bumble shampoo ("You can't use Paul Mitchell on gorgeous hair like yours—people get that stuff at the drugstore now"), and I was dumb enough to think that maybe things were looking up. Because really, the shampoo was superb. My hair is blond and I wear it long, but before you go hating me for it, it's fine and thick, and the fog we have here in San Francisco makes it go all frizzy. And it's foggy a lot. So this shampoo made it just coo with pleasure.<br /><br />You're probably asking yourself why I bothered trying to be friends with these girls. The harrowing truth was, I was used to being in the A-list group. It never occurred to me that I wouldn't fit in with the popular girls at Spencer, once I figured out who they were.<br /><br />Lucky me—Vanessa made that so easy. And I was so lonely and out of my depth that even she was looking good. Her dad had once backed one of my dad's films, so there was that minimal connection.<br /><br />Too bad it wasn't enough.<br /><br /><strong>jolie.mansfield</strong> L, don't let them bug you. Some people are <br />threatened by anything new. It's a compliment <br />really. <br /><br /><strong>LMansfield</strong> You always find the bright side. Gahh. Love you, <br />but not helping. <br /><br /><strong>jolie.mansfield </strong>What can I do? <br /><br /><strong>LMansfield</strong> I'd give absolutely anything to be back in S.B. <br /><br /><strong>jolie.mansfield</strong> :( <br /><br /><strong>LMansfield</strong> I want to hang with the kids from my youth group. <br />Not worry about anything but the SPF of my sun <br />block. <br /><br /><strong>jolie.mansfield</strong> It'll get better. Promise. Heard from Mom? <br />LMansfield No. She's doing some fundraiser with Angelina. <br />She's pretty busy. <br /><br /><strong>jolie.mansfield</strong> If you say so. Love you. <br /><br /> <br /><br />Copyright © 2008 by Shelley Adina<br /></div><br /><br /><br />&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&<br /><br /><p align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="3"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446177970">The Fruit of My Lipstick (All About Us Series, Book 2) </a></font></strong><br /></p><br /><br />Product Details:<br /><br />List Price: $9.99 <br />Paperback: 256 pages <br />Publisher: FaithWords (August 11, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0446177970 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0446177979 <br /><br /><font color="#cc0000"><strong><font size="5">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</font> </strong><br /></font><br /><br />Chapter One<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPymSNIiKimoaKIlnKyP-bHT1IIEhlgn0Noxgz0Af7kn6oWYgxWxa2Yhq7aYrdCYEib4LHFevT6M6QMFMYlkhM0qqB1UViWPLb7VmpGBn-V2EW5z55SccFxyU0L5Kgz1V_k2rXyzeAzLFx/s1600-h/lipstick"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPymSNIiKimoaKIlnKyP-bHT1IIEhlgn0Noxgz0Af7kn6oWYgxWxa2Yhq7aYrdCYEib4LHFevT6M6QMFMYlkhM0qqB1UViWPLb7VmpGBn-V2EW5z55SccFxyU0L5Kgz1V_k2rXyzeAzLFx/s200/lipstick" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243493559013074930" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;">chapter 1 <br /><br /><br />Top Five Clues That He’s the One <br /><br />1. He’s smart, which is why he’s dating you and not the queen of the snob mob.<br /><br />2. He knows he’s hot, but he thinks you’re hotter.<br /><br />3. He’d rather listen to you than to himself.<br /><br />4. You’re in on his jokes—not the butt of them.<br /><br />5. He always gives you the last cookie in the box.<br /><br />THE NEW YEAR. . . when a young girl’s heart turns to new beginnings, weight loss, and a new term of chemistry! <br /><br />Whew! Got that little squee out of my system. But you may as well know right now that science and music are what I do, and they tend to come up a lot in conversation. Sometimes my friends think this is good, like when I’m helping them cram for an exam. Sometimes they just think I’m a geek. But that’s okay. My name is Gillian Frances Jiao-Lan Chang, and since Lissa was brave enough to fall on her sword and spill what happened last fall, I guess I can’t do anything less.<br /><br />I’m kidding about the sword. You know that, right? <br /><br />Term was set to start on the first Wednesday in January, so I flew into SFO first class from JFK on Monday. I thought I’d packed pretty efficiently, but I still exceeded the weight limit by fifty pounds. It took some doing to get me and my bags into the limo, let me tell you. But I’d found last term that I couldn’t live without certain things, so they came with me. Like my sheet music and some more of my books. And warmer clothes. <br /><br />You say California and everyone thinks L.A. The reality of San Francisco in the winter is that it’s cold, whether the sun is shining or the fog is stealing in through the Golden Gate and blanketing the bay. A perfect excuse for a trip to Barney’s to get Vera Wang’s tulip-hem black wool coat, right? <br /><br />I thought so, too.<br /><br />Dorm, sweet dorm. I staggered through the door of the room I share with Lissa Mansfield. It’s up to us to get our stuff into our rooms, so here’s where it pays to be on the rowing team, I guess. Biceps are good for hauling bulging Louis Vuittons up marble staircases. But I am so not the athletic type. I leave that to John, the youngest of my three older brothers. He’s been into gymnastics since he was, like, four, and he’s training hard to make the U.S. Olympic team. I haven’t seen him since I was fourteen—he trains with a coach out in Arizona. <br /><br />My oldest brother, Richard, is twenty-six and works for my dad at the bank, and the second oldest, Darren—the one I’m closest to—is graduating next spring from Harvard and going straight into medical school after that. <br /><br />Yeah, we’re a family of overachievers. Don’t hate me, okay? <br /><br />I heard a thump in the hall outside and got the door open just in time to come face-to-face with a huge piece of striped fiberglass with three fins.<br /><br />I stood aside to let Lissa into the room with her surfboard. She was practically bowed at the knees with the weight of the duffel slung over her shoulder, and another duffel with a big O’Neill logo waited outside. I grabbed it and swung it onto her bed.<br /><br />“Welcome back, girlfriend!”<br /><br />She stood the board against the wall, let the duffel drop to the floor with a thud that probably shook the chandelier in the room below us, and pulled me into a hug.<br /><br />“I am so glad to see you!” Her perfect Nordic face lit up with happiness. “How was your Christmas—the parts you didn’t tell me about on e-mail?”<br /><br />“The usual. Too many family parties. Mom and Nai-Nai made way too much food, two of my brothers fought over the remote like they were ten years old, my dad and oldest brother bailed to go back to work early, and, oh, Nai-Nai wanted to know at least twice a day why I didn’t have a boyfriend.” I considered the chaos we’d just made of our pristine room. “The typical Chang holiday. What about you? Did Scotland improve after the first couple of days?”<br /><br />“It was fre-e-e-e-zing.” She slipped off her coat and tam. “And I don’t just mean rainy-freezing. I mean sleet-and-icicles freezing. The first time I wore my high-heeled Louboutin boots, I nearly broke my ankle. As it was, I landed flat on my butt in the middle of the Royal Mile. Totally embarrassing.”<br /><br />“What’s a Royal Mile? Princesses by the square foot?”<br /><br />“This big broad avenue that goes through the old part of Edinburgh toward the queen’s castle. Good shopping. Restaurants. Tourists. Ice.” She unzipped the duffel and began pulling things out of it. “Dad was away a lot at the locations for this movie. Sometimes I went with him, and sometimes I hung out with this really adorable guy who was supposed to be somebody’s production assistant but who wound up being my guide the whole time.”<br /><br />“It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.”<br /><br />“I made it worth his while.” She flashed me a wicked grin, but behind it I saw something else. Pain, and memory. “So.” She spread her hands. “What’s new around here?”<br /><br />I shrugged. “I just walked in myself a few minutes ago. You probably passed the limo leaving. But if what you really want to know is whether the webcam incident is over and done with, I don’t know yet.”<br /><br />She turned away, but not before I saw her flush pink and then blink really fast, like her contacts had just been flooded. “Let’s hope so.”<br /><br />“You made it through last term.” I tried to be encouraging. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?”<br /><br />“It made one thing stronger.” She pulled a cashmere scarf out of the duffel and stroked it as though it were a kitten. “I never prayed so hard in my life. Especially during finals week, remember? When those two idiots seriously thought they could force me into that storage closet and get away with it?”<br /><br />“Before we left, I heard the short one was going to be on crutches for six weeks.” I grinned at her. Fact of the day: Surfers are pretty good athletes. Don’t mess with them. “Maybe it should be, ‘What doesn’t kill you makes your relationship with God stronger.’”<br /><br />“That I’ll agree with. Do you know if Carly’s here yet?”<br /><br />“Her dad was driving her up in time for supper, so she should be calling any second.”<br /><br />Sure enough, within a few minutes, someone knocked. “That’s gotta be her.” I jumped for the door and swung it open. <br /><br />“Hey, chicas!” Carly hugged me and then Lissa. “Did you miss me?”<br /><br />“Like chips miss guacamole.” Lissa grinned at her. “Good break?”<br /><br />She grimaced, her soft brown eyes a little sad. Clearly Christmas break isn’t what it’s cracked up to be in anybody’s world. <br /><br />“Dad had to go straighten out some computer chip thing in Singapore, so Antony and I got shipped off to Veracruz. It was great to see my mom and the grandparents, but you know . . .” Her voice trailed away.<br /><br />“What?” I asked. “Did you have a fight?” That’s what happens at our house.<br /><br />“No.” She sighed, then lifted her head to look at both of us. “I think my mom has a boyfriend.”<br /><br />“Ewww,” Lissa and I said together, with identical grimaces. <br /><br />“I always kind of hoped my mom and dad would figure it out, you know? And get back together. But it looks like that’s not going to happen.”<br /><br />I hugged her again. “I’m sorry, Carly. That stinks.”<br /><br />“Yeah.” She straightened up, and my arm slid from her shoulders. “So, enough about me. What about you guys?”<br /><br />With a quick recap, we put her in the picture. “So do you have something going with this Scottish guy?” Carly asked Lissa.<br /><br />Lissa shook her head, a curtain of blonde hair falling to partially hide her face—a trick I’ve never quite been able to master, even though my hair hangs past my shoulders. But it’s so thick and coarse, it never does what I want on the best of days. It has to be beaten into submission by a professional. <br /><br />“I think I liked his accent most of all,” she said. “I could just sit there and listen to him talk all day. In fact, I did. What he doesn’t know about murders and wars and Edinburgh Castle and Lord This and Earl That would probably fit in my lip gloss tube.”<br /><br />I contrasted walking the cold streets of Edinburgh, listening to some guy drone on about history, with fighting with my brothers. Do we girls know how to have fun, or what? “Better you than me.”<br /><br />“I’d have loved it,” Carly said. “Can you imagine walking through a castle with your own private tour guide? Especially if he’s cute. It doesn’t get better than that.”<br /><br />“Um, okay.” Lissa gave her a sideways glance. “Miss A-plus in History.”<br /><br />“Really?” I had A-pluses in AP Chem and Math, but with anything less in those subjects, I wouldn’t have been able to face my father at Christmas. As it was, he had a fit over my B in History, and the only reason I managed to achieve an A-minus in English was because of a certain person with the initials L. M. <br /><br />Carly shrugged. “I like history. I like knowing what happened where, and who it happened to, and what they were wearing. Not that I’ve ever been anywhere very much, except Texas and Mexico.”<br /><br />“You’d definitely have liked Alasdair, then,” Lissa said. “He knows all about what happened to whom. But the worst was having to go for tea at some freezing old stone castle that Dad was using for a set. I thought I’d lose my toes from frostbite.”<br /><br />“Somebody lives in the castle?” Carly looked fascinated. “Who?”<br /><br />“Some earl.” Lissa looked into the distance as she flipped through the PDA in her head. Then she blinked. “The Earl and Countess of Strathcairn.”<br /><br />“Cool!”<br /><br />“Very. Forty degrees, tops. He said he had a daughter about our age, but I never met her. She heard we were coming and took off on her horse.”<br /><br />“Mo guai nuer,” I said. “Rude much?”<br /><br />Lissa shrugged. “Alasdair knew the family. He said Lady Lindsay does what she wants, and clearly she didn’t want to meet us. Not that I cared. I was too busy having hypothermia. I’ve never been so glad to see the inside of a hotel room in my life. I’d have put my feet in my mug of tea if I could have.”<br /><br />“Well, cold or not, I still think it’s cool that you met an earl,” Carly said. “And I can’t wait to see your dad’s movie.”<br /><br />“Filming starts in February, so Dad won’t be around much. But Mom’s big charity gig for the Babies of Somalia went off just before Christmas and was a huge success, so she’ll be around a bit more.” She paused. “Until she finds something else to get involved in.”<br /><br />“Did you meet Angelina?” I asked. Lissa’s life fascinated me. To her, movie stars are her dad’s coworkers, like the brokers and venture capitalists who come to the bank are my dad’s coworkers. But Dad doesn’t work with people who look like Orlando and Angelina, that’s for sure.<br /><br />“Yes, I met her. She apologized for flaking on me for the Benefactors’ Day Ball. Not that I blame her. It all turned out okay in the end.”<br /><br />“Except for your career as Vanessa Talbot’s BFF.”<br /><br />Lissa snorted. “Yeah. Except that.”<br /><br />None of us mentioned what else had crashed and burned in flames after the infamous webcam incident—her relationship with the most popular guy in school, Callum McCloud. I had a feeling that that was a scab we just didn’t need to pick at.<br /><br />“You don’t need Vanessa Talbot,” Carly said firmly. “You have us.”<br /><br />We exchanged a grin. “She’s right,” I said. “This term, it’s totally all about us.”<br /><br />“Thank goodness for that,” she said. “Come on. Let’s go eat. I’m starving.” <br /><br /><br />RStapleton I heard from a mutual friend that you take care of people at midterm time.<br /><br />Source10 What friend?<br /><br />RStapleton Loyola.<br /><br />Source10 Been known to happen.<br /><br />RStapleton How much?<br /><br />Source10 1K. Math, sciences, geography only.<br /><br />RStapleton I hate numbers.<br /><br />Source10 IM me the day before to confirm.<br /><br />RStapleton OK. Who are you? <br /><br />RStapleton You there? <br /><br /><br />BY NOON THE next day, I’d hustled down to the student print shop in the basement and printed the notices I’d laid out on my Mac. I tacked them on the bulletin boards in the common rooms and classroom corridors on all four floors. <br /><br /><br />Christian prayer circle every Tuesday night 7:00 p.m., Room 216 Bring your Bible and a friend! <br /><br /><br />“Nice work,” Lissa told me when I found her and Carly in the dining room. “Love the salmon pink paper. But school hasn’t officially started yet. We probably won’t get a very good turnout if the first one’s tonight.”<br /><br />“Maybe not.” I bit into a succulent California roll and savored the tart, thin seaweed wrapper around the rice, avocado, and shrimp. I had to hand it to Dining Services. Their food was amazing. “But even if it’s just the three of us, I can’t think of a better way to start off the term, can you?”<br /><br />Lissa didn’t reply. The color faded from her face and she concentrated on her square ceramic plate of sushi as though it were her last meal. Carly swallowed a bite of makizushi with an audible gulp as it went down whole. Slowly, casually, I reached for the pepper shaker and glanced over my shoulder.<br /><br />“If it isn’t the holy trinity,” Vanessa drawled, plastered against Brett Loyola’s arm and standing so close behind us, neither Carly nor I could move. “Going to multiply the rice and fish for us?”<br /><br />“Nice to see you, too, Vanessa,” Lissa said coolly. “Been reading your Bible, I see.”<br /><br />“Hi, Brett,” Carly managed, her voice about six notes higher than usual as she craned to look up at him.<br /><br />He looked at her, puzzled, as if he’d seen her before somewhere but couldn’t place where, and gave her a vague smile. “Hey.”<br /><br />I rolled my eyes. Like we hadn’t spent an entire term in History together. Like Carly didn’t light up like a Christmas tree every time she passed a paper to him, or maneuvered her way into a study group that had him in it. Honestly. I don’t know how that guy got past the entrance requirements.<br /><br />Oh, wait. Silly me. Daddy probably made a nice big donation to the athletics department, and they waved Brett through Admissions with a grateful smile.<br /><br />“Have any of you seen Callum?” Vanessa inquired sweetly. “I’m dying to see him. I hear he spent Christmas skiing at their place in Vail with his sisters and his new girlfriend. No parents.”<br /><br />“He’s a day student.” I glanced at Lissa to see how she was taking this, but she’d leaned over to the table behind her to snag a bunch of napkins. “Why would he be eating here?”<br /><br />“To see all his friends, of course. I guess that’s why you haven’t seen him.”<br /><br />“Neither have you, if you’re asking where he is.” Poor Vanessa. I hope she’s never on a debating team. It could get humiliating.<br /><br />But what she lacked in logic she made up for in venom. She ignored me and gushed, “I love your outfit, Lissa. I’m sure Callum would, too. That is, if he were still speaking to you.”<br /><br />I barely restrained myself from giving Vanessa an elbow in the stomach. But Lissa had come a long way since her ugly breakup with a guy who didn’t deserve her. Vanessa had no idea who she was dealing with—Lissa with an army of angels at her back was a scary thing.<br /><br />She pinned Vanessa with a stare as cold as fresh snow.<br /><br />“You mean you haven’t told him yet that you made that video?” She shook her head. “Naughty Vanessa, lying to your friends like that.” A big smile and a meaningful glance at Brett. “But then, they’re probably used to it.”<br /><br />Vanessa opened her mouth to say something scathing, when a tall, lanky guy elbowed past her to put his sushi dishes on the table next to mine. Six feet of sheer brilliance, with blue eyes and brown hair cropped short so he didn’t have to deal with it. A mind so sharp, he put even the overachievers here in the shade—but in spite of that, a guy who’d started coming to prayer circle last term. Who could fluster me with a look, and wipe my brain completely blank with just a smile.<br /><br />Lucas Hayes. <br /><br />“Hey, Vanessa, Brett.”<br /><br />My jaw sagged in surprise, and I snapped it shut on my mouthful of rice, hoping he hadn’t seen. Since when was the king of the science geeks on speaking terms with the popular crowd?<br /><br />To add to the astonishment, the two of them stepped back, as if to give him some space. “Yo, Einstein.” Brett grinned and they shook hands.<br /><br />“Hi, Lucas.” Vanessa glanced from him to me to our dishes sitting next to each other. “I didn’t know you were friends with these people.”<br /><br />He shrugged. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”<br /><br />“That could change. Why don’t you come and sit with us?” she asked. Brett looked longingly at the sushi bar and tugged on her arm. She ignored him. “We’re much more fun. We don’t sing hymns and save souls.”<br /><br />“So I’ve heard. Did you make it into Trig?”<br /><br />“Of course.” She tossed her gleaming sheet of hair over one shoulder. “Thanks to you.”<br /><br />I couldn’t keep quiet another second. “You tutored her?” I asked him, trying not to squeak.<br /><br />He picked up a piece of California roll and popped it in his mouth, nodding. “All last term.” He glanced at Vanessa. “Contrary to popular opinion, she isn’t all looks.”<br /><br />Oh, gack. Way TMI. Vanessa smiled as though she’d won this and all other possible arguments now and in the future, world without end, amen. “Come on, Lucas. Hold our table for us while Brett and I get our food. I want to talk to you about something anyway.” <br /><br />He shrugged and picked up his dishes while she and Brett swanned away. “See you at prayer circle,” he said to me. “I saw the signs. Same time and place, right?”<br /><br />I could only nod as he headed for the table in the middle of the big window looking out on the quad. The one no one else dared to sit at, in case they risked the derision and social ostracism that would follow. <br /><br />The empty seat on my right seemed even emptier. How could he do that? How could he just dump us and then say he’d see us at prayer circle? Shouldn’t he want to eat with the people he prayed with?<br /><br />“It’s okay, Gillian,” Carly whispered. “At least he’s coming.”<br /><br />“And Vanessa isn’t,” Lissa put in with satisfaction.<br /><br />“I’m not so sure I want him to, now,” I said. I looked at my sushi and my stomach sort of lurched. Ugh. I pushed it away.<br /><br />And here I’d been feeling so superior to Carly and her unrequited yen for Brett. I was just as bad, and this proved it. What else could explain this sick feeling in my middle? <br /><br />Two hours later, while Lissa, Carly, and I shoved aside the canvases and whatnot that had accumulated in Room 216 over the break, making enough room for half a dozen people to sit, I’d almost talked myself into not caring whether Lucas came or not.<br /><br />And then he stepped through the door and I realized my body was more honest than my brain. I sucked in a breath and my heart began to pound.<br /><br />Oh, yeah. You so don’t care.<br /><br />Travis, who must have arrived during dinner, trickled in behind him, and then Shani Hanna, who moved with the confidence of an Arabian queen, arrived with a couple of sophomores I didn’t know. Her hair, tinted bronze and caught up at the crown of her head, tumbled to her shoulders in corkscrew curls. I fingered my own arrow-straight mop that wouldn’t hold a curl if you threatened it with death. <br /><br />Okay, stop feeling sorry for yourself, would you? Enough is enough. <br /><br />“Hey, everyone, thanks for coming,” I said brightly, getting to my feet. “I’m Gillian Chang. Why don’t the newbies introduce themselves, and then we’ll get started?”<br /><br />The sophomores told us their names, and I found out Travis’s last name was Fanshaw. And the dots connected. Of course he’d been assigned as Lucas’s roommate—he’s like this Chemistry genius. If it weren’t for Lucas, he’d be the king of the science geeks. Sometimes science people have a hard time reconciling scientific method with faith. If they were here at prayer circle, maybe Travis and Lucas were among the lucky few who figured science was a form of worship, of marveling at the amazement that is creation. I mean, if Lucas was one of those guys who got a kick out of arguing with the Earth Sciences prof, I wouldn’t even be able to date him.<br /><br />Not that there was any possibility of that.<br /><br />As our prayers went up one by one, quietly from people like Carly and brash and uncomfortably from people like Travis and the sophomores, I wished that dating was the kind of thing I could pray about. <br /><br />But I don’t think God has my social life on His to-do list. <br /><br /><br />This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.<br /><br />Copyright © 2008 by Shelley Adina<br /><br />This article is used with the permission of Hachette Book Group and Shelley Adina. All rights reserved.<br /></div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-86446948921922314352008-09-11T17:15:00.000-04:002008-12-10T11:49:52.580-05:00When Answers Aren't Enough Experiencing God as Good When Life Isn't by Matt Rogers<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s1600-h/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg"></a><a href="http://nonfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179647009365145890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s200/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg" border="0" /></a><br />It's the 15th, time for the Non~FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 15th, we will featuring an author and his/her latest non~fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><br /><a href="http://www.mattrogers.us/">Matt Rogers</a></span></strong><br /><p></p><br /><strong><span style="font-size:160;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#009900;">and his/her book:</span> </span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"></strong></div></span><p></p><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:7;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></strong></div></span><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310286816/">When Answers Aren't Enough Experiencing God as Good When Life Isn't</a></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Zondervan (April 1, 2008)</p><br /><p align="center"></p><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><br /><p></p><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4mINExqw54sXqVmTd55dHgW9ek00S_S6a4ZP23gqtD3KBorol2t2OcYqBXF_BEymBY3b1EW8CV_Ki7a2Yk3U757lkrp0P-9cnCk0E8xxld9C4tciTx7GjzWYciai4PiVuBqHjP8wb/s1600-h/matt+rogers"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4mINExqw54sXqVmTd55dHgW9ek00S_S6a4ZP23gqtD3KBorol2t2OcYqBXF_BEymBY3b1EW8CV_Ki7a2Yk3U757lkrp0P-9cnCk0E8xxld9C4tciTx7GjzWYciai4PiVuBqHjP8wb/s200/matt+rogers" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243017509914212178" /></a><strong>Matt Rogers </strong> is copastor of New Life Christian Fellowship at Virginia Tech. Eight hundred students call it home. <br /><br /><strong>FROM THE BACK COVER:</strong><br /><br />On April 16, 2007, the campus of Virginia Tech experienced a collective nightmare when thirty-three students were killed in the worst massacre in modern U.S. history. Following that horrendous event, Virginia Tech campus pastor Matt Rogers found himself asking and being asked, “Where is God in all of this?” The cliché-ridden, pat answers rang hollow.<br />In this book, Matt approaches the pain of the world with personal perspective—dealing with his hurting community as well as standing over the hospital bed of his own father—and goes beyond answers, beyond theodicy, beyond the mere intellectual. When Answers Aren’t Enough drives deeper, to the heart of our longing, in search of a God we can experience as good when life isn’t. <br /><br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: $14.99 <br />Paperback: 224 pages <br />Publisher: Zondervan (April 1, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0310286816 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0310286813 <br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></div></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQnffdu4KbdjiARwU8_EABHe7mc2Yyk6Av4SDnKbaB-nSHL9HYBEsXhW5bwhkwAEqaUWlsBIYqONOC4A-nYNgtsotoxYlMPGSFYMmsAp0zvI6dtCw2LFv6aOLnr5j9tAtAyvNcwKrY/s1600-h/Answers"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQnffdu4KbdjiARwU8_EABHe7mc2Yyk6Av4SDnKbaB-nSHL9HYBEsXhW5bwhkwAEqaUWlsBIYqONOC4A-nYNgtsotoxYlMPGSFYMmsAp0zvI6dtCw2LFv6aOLnr5j9tAtAyvNcwKrY/s200/Answers" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243016700666166626" /></a><div style="OVERFLOW: auto; HEIGHT: 307px"><center><strong>A Heavy, <br />Sinking Sadness</strong><br /><br />Embracing the World That Is<br /><br />One</center><br /><br />Lately I’ve been walking in the evenings. I tend to do that when stuck on a question. Maybe I’m trying to walk it off. On days when I have time, I drive out to Pandapas Pond in Jefferson National Forest to be in nature. Once there, I set off through the woods or slowly stroll along the water’s edge, deep in thought or prayer.<br /><br />Most days, because of time, I have to settle for the streets around my home. I can quickly climb to the top of Lee Street, turn around, and look out over Blacksburg, the Blue Ridge backlit by the setting sun. From there, I can see much of Virginia Tech. The stately bell tower of Burruss Hall rises proudly above the rest.<br /><br />On nights like tonight, when I get a late start and the sun is already down, I head for campus. At its center, separating the academic and residential sides of the school, sits the Drill Field, a wide-open grassy space named for the exercises that the Corps of Cadets practices to perfection there. After dark, old iron lampposts, painted black, blanket the ground in overlapping circles of light.<br /><br />It was here on the Drill Field, the day after the shootings, that students placed thirty-two slabs of gray limestone rock — Hokie stones, as they’re called — in a semicircle in front of Burruss Hall, to commemorate the lives of loved ones lost. Thousands of mourners descended on the place, bearing with them a flood of condolences, a mix of bouquets, balloons, and poster-board sympathies. They came sniffling, clinging to tissues and to one another, and lifting their sunglasses to wipe tears from their tired, red eyes. The world came as well, vicariously through television, watching us, kneeling with us in grief.<br /><br />I also came, revisiting the stones day after day, and sometimes at night, drawn to them by a need to connect with the dead whom I never knew. Always there was something new here, some trinket that had been added. At times the items seemed odd: a baseball for every victim, an American flag by every stone, though some of the dead were international students.<br /><br />People took their time passing by this spot. There was no need to rush; there were no classes to attend. It would be days, dark and long, before there would be any distractions from the pain. For a time, there was no world beyond this place.<br /><br />By day, soft chatter could be heard around the memorial. After sunset, no one spoke a word. During daylight, masses huddled near the stones, peering over shoulders to read the notes left there. At night, however, mourners passed by in a single-file line, waiting their turn, patient with the people in front who wished to pause at every name.<br /><br />The masses have since receded. The Drill Field now is vacant (except for these stones) and silent. The semester has ended, most of the students are gone, and only the sounds of insects disturb the stillness of the summer evening air. If I close my eyes and take in the quiet, I can almost imagine nothing happened here.<br /><br />Almost. Except for the stone reminders that lie at my feet. On one is written a simple, anguished note.<br /><br /><blockquote>Jeremy,<br /><br />We love you.<br /><br />Mom and Dad</blockquote><br /><br />These stones are more than rocks. Each is all that remains of a son, a daughter, a husband who will never come home again. I picture my mom and dad, heartbroken, kneeling by a stone for me, had I been among the dead. Moreover, I imagine myself by a stone for my dad, had he not survived his fall.<br /><br />This is a summer of mourning. I am grieving the world as it is. And I am asking, “If I embrace the world as it is, in all its sadness — if I refuse to bury my head in the sand, pretending all is well, but rather think and speak of the world as it actually is — can I, then, still know God as good? Can my experience of him be more consistent than my circumstances, which alternate between good and bad?”<br /><br />Is this too much to expect?<br /><br />Before I can know, I must face the world at its worst.<br /><br /></div></textarea><br /></div><br /><br />******************************************************************************<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s1600-h/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg"></a><a href="http://nonfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179647009365145890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s200/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg" border="0" /></a><br />It's the 15th, time for the Non~FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 15th, we will featuring an author and his/her latest non~fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><br /><a href="http://www.mattrogers.us/">Matt Rogers</a></span></strong><br /><p></p><br /><strong><span style="font-size:160;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#009900;">and his/her book:</span> </span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"></strong></div></span><p></p><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:7;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></strong></div></span><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310286816/">When Answers Aren't Enough Experiencing God as Good When Life Isn't</a></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Zondervan (April 1, 2008)</p><br /><p align="center"></p><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><br /><p></p><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4mINExqw54sXqVmTd55dHgW9ek00S_S6a4ZP23gqtD3KBorol2t2OcYqBXF_BEymBY3b1EW8CV_Ki7a2Yk3U757lkrp0P-9cnCk0E8xxld9C4tciTx7GjzWYciai4PiVuBqHjP8wb/s1600-h/matt+rogers"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4mINExqw54sXqVmTd55dHgW9ek00S_S6a4ZP23gqtD3KBorol2t2OcYqBXF_BEymBY3b1EW8CV_Ki7a2Yk3U757lkrp0P-9cnCk0E8xxld9C4tciTx7GjzWYciai4PiVuBqHjP8wb/s200/matt+rogers" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243017509914212178" /></a><strong>Matt Rogers </strong> is copastor of New Life Christian Fellowship at Virginia Tech. Eight hundred students call it home. <br /><br /><strong>FROM THE BACK COVER:</strong><br /><br />On April 16, 2007, the campus of Virginia Tech experienced a collective nightmare when thirty-three students were killed in the worst massacre in modern U.S. history. Following that horrendous event, Virginia Tech campus pastor Matt Rogers found himself asking and being asked, “Where is God in all of this?” The cliché-ridden, pat answers rang hollow.<br />In this book, Matt approaches the pain of the world with personal perspective—dealing with his hurting community as well as standing over the hospital bed of his own father—and goes beyond answers, beyond theodicy, beyond the mere intellectual. When Answers Aren’t Enough drives deeper, to the heart of our longing, in search of a God we can experience as good when life isn’t. <br /><br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: $14.99 <br />Paperback: 224 pages <br />Publisher: Zondervan (April 1, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0310286816 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0310286813 <br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></div></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQnffdu4KbdjiARwU8_EABHe7mc2Yyk6Av4SDnKbaB-nSHL9HYBEsXhW5bwhkwAEqaUWlsBIYqONOC4A-nYNgtsotoxYlMPGSFYMmsAp0zvI6dtCw2LFv6aOLnr5j9tAtAyvNcwKrY/s1600-h/Answers"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQnffdu4KbdjiARwU8_EABHe7mc2Yyk6Av4SDnKbaB-nSHL9HYBEsXhW5bwhkwAEqaUWlsBIYqONOC4A-nYNgtsotoxYlMPGSFYMmsAp0zvI6dtCw2LFv6aOLnr5j9tAtAyvNcwKrY/s200/Answers" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243016700666166626" /></a><div style="OVERFLOW: auto; HEIGHT: 307px"><center><strong>A Heavy, <br />Sinking Sadness</strong><br /><br />Embracing the World That Is<br /><br />One</center><br /><br />Lately I’ve been walking in the evenings. I tend to do that when stuck on a question. Maybe I’m trying to walk it off. On days when I have time, I drive out to Pandapas Pond in Jefferson National Forest to be in nature. Once there, I set off through the woods or slowly stroll along the water’s edge, deep in thought or prayer.<br /><br />Most days, because of time, I have to settle for the streets around my home. I can quickly climb to the top of Lee Street, turn around, and look out over Blacksburg, the Blue Ridge backlit by the setting sun. From there, I can see much of Virginia Tech. The stately bell tower of Burruss Hall rises proudly above the rest.<br /><br />On nights like tonight, when I get a late start and the sun is already down, I head for campus. At its center, separating the academic and residential sides of the school, sits the Drill Field, a wide-open grassy space named for the exercises that the Corps of Cadets practices to perfection there. After dark, old iron lampposts, painted black, blanket the ground in overlapping circles of light.<br /><br />It was here on the Drill Field, the day after the shootings, that students placed thirty-two slabs of gray limestone rock — Hokie stones, as they’re called — in a semicircle in front of Burruss Hall, to commemorate the lives of loved ones lost. Thousands of mourners descended on the place, bearing with them a flood of condolences, a mix of bouquets, balloons, and poster-board sympathies. They came sniffling, clinging to tissues and to one another, and lifting their sunglasses to wipe tears from their tired, red eyes. The world came as well, vicariously through television, watching us, kneeling with us in grief.<br /><br />I also came, revisiting the stones day after day, and sometimes at night, drawn to them by a need to connect with the dead whom I never knew. Always there was something new here, some trinket that had been added. At times the items seemed odd: a baseball for every victim, an American flag by every stone, though some of the dead were international students.<br /><br />People took their time passing by this spot. There was no need to rush; there were no classes to attend. It would be days, dark and long, before there would be any distractions from the pain. For a time, there was no world beyond this place.<br /><br />By day, soft chatter could be heard around the memorial. After sunset, no one spoke a word. During daylight, masses huddled near the stones, peering over shoulders to read the notes left there. At night, however, mourners passed by in a single-file line, waiting their turn, patient with the people in front who wished to pause at every name.<br /><br />The masses have since receded. The Drill Field now is vacant (except for these stones) and silent. The semester has ended, most of the students are gone, and only the sounds of insects disturb the stillness of the summer evening air. If I close my eyes and take in the quiet, I can almost imagine nothing happened here.<br /><br />Almost. Except for the stone reminders that lie at my feet. On one is written a simple, anguished note.<br /><br /><blockquote>Jeremy,<br /><br />We love you.<br /><br />Mom and Dad</blockquote><br /><br />These stones are more than rocks. Each is all that remains of a son, a daughter, a husband who will never come home again. I picture my mom and dad, heartbroken, kneeling by a stone for me, had I been among the dead. Moreover, I imagine myself by a stone for my dad, had he not survived his fall.<br /><br />This is a summer of mourning. I am grieving the world as it is. And I am asking, “If I embrace the world as it is, in all its sadness — if I refuse to bury my head in the sand, pretending all is well, but rather think and speak of the world as it actually is — can I, then, still know God as good? Can my experience of him be more consistent than my circumstances, which alternate between good and bad?”<br /><br />Is this too much to expect?<br /><br />Before I can know, I must face the world at its worst.<br /><br /></div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-57233052906484723372008-09-01T17:39:00.002-04:002008-09-01T23:50:06.141-04:00How to Post a Tour on Blogger1. Open up your DASHBOARD. If you have several blogs it will look like the picture below. If you only have one blog, just one title will appear.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJIL7-Q1u5rLFH1WQfl4UM6ixkzF9y2w8qkIImRiBKfRvWrq-CP1aA2aoXW1omH2qELssW0Rjrx39MfsM60-0G-i0xrt_sFz-R1rAJitNIad7qSGEXmdS4sOyzIFwKeIRXE9lvZ7GF_-tT/s1600-h/Manage+Blogs.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJIL7-Q1u5rLFH1WQfl4UM6ixkzF9y2w8qkIImRiBKfRvWrq-CP1aA2aoXW1omH2qELssW0Rjrx39MfsM60-0G-i0xrt_sFz-R1rAJitNIad7qSGEXmdS4sOyzIFwKeIRXE9lvZ7GF_-tT/s400/Manage+Blogs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241160027531619394" /></a><br /><p></p><br />2. Get the Html from the <a href="http://allfirstalliances.blogspot.com/">All FIRST Alliances </a>blog if it is one of the Alliance tours or get it at <a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">FIRST Wild Card Tours</a> blog if it is a Wild Card. Html is available for you to grab two days before the tour date. Highlight the Html by doing a left click hold and drag until all the words inside the box are highlighted in blue like the picture below. Press your Ctrl button at the same time as the 'c' key. This copies it to the computer.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiedlDqZGDmcLjlsBh0NVvaOHEvjoSxASt0c4PTztuHRqfZiRniNTUIMt26PEb4mRmhPwTZp-glbn_0B9bLY4UEM_vb-eu190lj57_oNN0KqG4j36HDZCDknPVkXod2019iBUN9lRIhnN5p/s1600-h/highlight+html.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiedlDqZGDmcLjlsBh0NVvaOHEvjoSxASt0c4PTztuHRqfZiRniNTUIMt26PEb4mRmhPwTZp-glbn_0B9bLY4UEM_vb-eu190lj57_oNN0KqG4j36HDZCDknPVkXod2019iBUN9lRIhnN5p/s400/highlight+html.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241159806931676802" /></a><br /><br />3. Press New Post on the blog in your dashboard that you wish to paste the html into.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieiaV37wbjlvuj7ILpZtxx3fJPP5gcLX2oRM1mvWgfIidN86OqrD8GeD81FixFuR6iCITW9K0oIITDIfExjrdT7jZHN__owMi7xuRzZV9FIlOtFmeN5qbyFwZBdrU9VMosG-EWteKGXqTG/s1600-h/create+post.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieiaV37wbjlvuj7ILpZtxx3fJPP5gcLX2oRM1mvWgfIidN86OqrD8GeD81FixFuR6iCITW9K0oIITDIfExjrdT7jZHN__owMi7xuRzZV9FIlOtFmeN5qbyFwZBdrU9VMosG-EWteKGXqTG/s400/create+post.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241160624238447378" /></a><br /><br />4. IF AND ONLY IF YOU WANT TO PUT YOUR REVIEW IN THE POST, DO IT NOW USING COMPOSE MODE. Be sure to switch it back to the Html mode before adding the Html!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJUer7Gf2ybuPnobZ-5tTXThvLszpuaq97_6YWdFwA3QX8i8XBXJ_wD3jj2WsXNHi7cHMz5DXBq6uozZM-w8CicntVXu5FH-gQkLjZe8CcTnNfeJH_7yVhRDZHFkOOsDTalJAg7Q-cUcWC/s1600-h/Put+in+your+review.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJUer7Gf2ybuPnobZ-5tTXThvLszpuaq97_6YWdFwA3QX8i8XBXJ_wD3jj2WsXNHi7cHMz5DXBq6uozZM-w8CicntVXu5FH-gQkLjZe8CcTnNfeJH_7yVhRDZHFkOOsDTalJAg7Q-cUcWC/s400/Put+in+your+review.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241161466158050738" /></a><br /><br />5. In the Edit Html mode, paste in the Html that is available to you on the tour blog. You can put this before or after your review...or even put your review in the middle of the post if you are so inclined. If you wish to see what it will look like, press the blue word 'Preview'...never press 'Compose' to view your post! It messes up the Html. Press your ctrl button along with your 'v' key. This pastes in the html you've copied into the memory of your computer.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqQsfi-laSpLX-4OC-bTQgIz3hUE6SHzc7tBKImBP4SdCXVQAwW0iBM7VDduQWT5HEBtOkNvIcvc7LB2Tcae6ZTaDNGc6gydFB_i0gdnPYUoUGTmsndCoI8qqWMp9Wu3zly5oloYgLa4v/s1600-h/Paste+in+HTML.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqQsfi-laSpLX-4OC-bTQgIz3hUE6SHzc7tBKImBP4SdCXVQAwW0iBM7VDduQWT5HEBtOkNvIcvc7LB2Tcae6ZTaDNGc6gydFB_i0gdnPYUoUGTmsndCoI8qqWMp9Wu3zly5oloYgLa4v/s400/Paste+in+HTML.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241161892536697282" /></a><br /><br />6. Now add your title and press the blue words 'Hide Preview'.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNRi88icsdCc_Zmh_-Wus_v2aTmOr7bLCUVmdw0KfUbuzLO612qLr7M2JFOGMf2YNxC4K2MND_aVhLdKO-gvd03g3YQ71NR3swNELts_9lRedy-3dDc4an_92RxgMqrPml6F6YuLQUhyzG/s1600-h/Preview.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNRi88icsdCc_Zmh_-Wus_v2aTmOr7bLCUVmdw0KfUbuzLO612qLr7M2JFOGMf2YNxC4K2MND_aVhLdKO-gvd03g3YQ71NR3swNELts_9lRedy-3dDc4an_92RxgMqrPml6F6YuLQUhyzG/s400/Preview.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241162887255351794" /></a><br /><br />7. You're almost there! You can now press your Post Options to change the date to post on the tour date. Change the time as well if you wish. Add a label if you want to sort your posts by topic. Press Publish and you are finished!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ7hELcwKPvxGs_iRfDPLV3ZO7S7vQYRdpRiKl9nBkJHwmQdSRV0pmceSamGdwLgh_G0X8shJUARiRlqr-BchmiqgJcwXypfbEUHChuapKwu4bB9T1bkao_FtV78nCqnih3CFz1uGMEgn7/s1600-h/Post+Options.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ7hELcwKPvxGs_iRfDPLV3ZO7S7vQYRdpRiKl9nBkJHwmQdSRV0pmceSamGdwLgh_G0X8shJUARiRlqr-BchmiqgJcwXypfbEUHChuapKwu4bB9T1bkao_FtV78nCqnih3CFz1uGMEgn7/s400/Post+Options.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241163803016362898" /></a><br /><br />8. After pressing 'Publish Post', you should see something like this:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFOGTm7wkW2j4TomaTT74JZuuTYmWoT-GOcd0j5BZvFYhxWfXk-fwhbuTn69HJXIPsJDFe3KVLF_1KzhtoER15dYldhSzatuT1_oh2xKaDVZWE_9H892Ndfs9rJpfZLGLRzzvscGuzwEuS/s1600-h/Published+successfully.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFOGTm7wkW2j4TomaTT74JZuuTYmWoT-GOcd0j5BZvFYhxWfXk-fwhbuTn69HJXIPsJDFe3KVLF_1KzhtoER15dYldhSzatuT1_oh2xKaDVZWE_9H892Ndfs9rJpfZLGLRzzvscGuzwEuS/s400/Published+successfully.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241167459408381874" /></a><br /><br />If you go into your list of blog posts called 'Edit Posts' you will see something like the picture below. You can always go back into your posts and edit them. For each tour, create a NEW POST.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMUj57JPIB9-mv1JHNVHr78oiCOIf0rMrhlx6jkJGpCOt52fHS0VlB_MVpOdceuimmeZZZjaIpV3OAAMj7cDn16kTcaok_rTj5dhz4kEy3gtBI9iPveQ54pUE4KrEQsL9Ut2AfhAPtSoi/s1600-h/Edit+Posts.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMUj57JPIB9-mv1JHNVHr78oiCOIf0rMrhlx6jkJGpCOt52fHS0VlB_MVpOdceuimmeZZZjaIpV3OAAMj7cDn16kTcaok_rTj5dhz4kEy3gtBI9iPveQ54pUE4KrEQsL9Ut2AfhAPtSoi/s400/Edit+Posts.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241166457319979730" /></a><br /><br /><a href="mailto:4pearsonz@gmail.com"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">Email me</span></strong></a> if you have any questions on how to post a tour! Always leave a comment on the correct FIRST Alliance blogpost for the book that your are touring for.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMp0xZEt6oYE7Y2MJfgw5ETg8dDTaPMyfbtcjTgr-jPmoMwT9tod_OfPdZ6f3BRGmcqHTsoSHDS6Tg4hIDf2KT9lrQZ64_TGEGHSSWwnc8RjB9lfkEROLiBsdacUXS3KJD-knI8vMrAtlZ/s1600-h/leave+a+comment.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMp0xZEt6oYE7Y2MJfgw5ETg8dDTaPMyfbtcjTgr-jPmoMwT9tod_OfPdZ6f3BRGmcqHTsoSHDS6Tg4hIDf2KT9lrQZ64_TGEGHSSWwnc8RjB9lfkEROLiBsdacUXS3KJD-knI8vMrAtlZ/s400/leave+a+comment.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241169444505238642" /></a>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-38325410165863620682008-08-28T15:21:00.000-04:002008-08-28T15:22:45.246-04:00The Summer the Wind Whispered My Name by Don Locke<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 84px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" height="204" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" width="126" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is time for the FIRST Blog Tour! On the FIRST day of every month we feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.donlocke.com/">Don Locke</a></span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;">and his book:</span> </span></strong></p><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600061532/">The Summer the Wind Whispered My Name</a></span></strong><br />NavPress Publishing Group (August 2008) </p><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHOu4RiYdVxbAtiwoxd8QbvGxVzPNcT4aeLFXjPaXVpThU2ImLfQ7t8Lkb7d2fMOm3dBnFwj2QWF8p9-kN9QCVGCHzCPyoO6T8GqIy6Ay7Ku9wODl-SBGxpKjyPoMU4Vn9OMxEpTiWqxGu/s1600-h/bio_donpict.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHOu4RiYdVxbAtiwoxd8QbvGxVzPNcT4aeLFXjPaXVpThU2ImLfQ7t8Lkb7d2fMOm3dBnFwj2QWF8p9-kN9QCVGCHzCPyoO6T8GqIy6Ay7Ku9wODl-SBGxpKjyPoMU4Vn9OMxEpTiWqxGu/s200/bio_donpict.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5239649741785923138" /></a><br />Don Locke is an illustrator and graphic artist for <em>NBC's Tonight Show with Jay Leno </em>and has worked as a freelance writer and illustrator for more than thirty years. He lives in Southern California with his wife, Susan. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600061532/">The Summer the Wind Whispered My Name</a>, prequel to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600061524/">The Reluctant Journey of David Connors</a>, is Don's second novel.<br /><br /><br /><br />Product Details:<br /><br />List Price: $12.99 <br />Paperback: 355 pages <br />Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (August 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 1600061532 <br />ISBN-13: 978-1600061530 <br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /><br /></span></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieu3icSTDhOZWF0bpFbqsdAgDNrO-u3VJNYJv4DRgpSDRam5RhzsOBwPRPXPz_nYy8Qc7Fb1AXq0fjSpTpeZjbACi3qOxFhVFHa_fP0lriZoArBzEOr1mvlOFqIE6GiJfAGa7MCsNwN_1J/s1600-h/Summer"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieu3icSTDhOZWF0bpFbqsdAgDNrO-u3VJNYJv4DRgpSDRam5RhzsOBwPRPXPz_nYy8Qc7Fb1AXq0fjSpTpeZjbACi3qOxFhVFHa_fP0lriZoArBzEOr1mvlOFqIE6GiJfAGa7MCsNwN_1J/s200/Summer" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5239648519746851762" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;">Preface<br /><br />Until recently my early childhood memories weren’t readily available for recollection. Call it a defective hard drive. They remained a mystery and a void—a midwestern landscape of never-ending pitch-blackness where I brushed up against people and objects but could never assign them faces or names, much less attach feelings to our brief encounters. <br /><br /> But through a miraculous act of divine grace, I found my way back home to discover the child I’d forgotten, the boy I’d abandoned supposedly for the good of us both. There he sat beneath an oak tree patiently awaiting my return, as if I’d simply taken a day-long fishing trip. This reunion of spirits has transformed me into someone both wiser and more innocent, leaving me to feel both old and young.<br /><br /> And with this new gift of recollection, my memories turn to that boy and to the summer of 1960, when the winds of change blew across our rooftops and through the screen doors, turning the simple, manageable world of my suburban neighborhood into something unfamiliar, something uncomfortable. Those same winds blew my father and me apart.<br /><br /><br />One<br /><br />Route 666<br /><br />With a gentle shake of my shoulders, a kiss on my cheek, and the words It’s time whispered by my mom, I woke at five thirty in the morning to prepare for my newspaper route. Careful not to wake my older brother, Bobby, snoozing across the room, I slipped out of bed and stumbled my way into the hallway and toward the bathroom, led only by the dim glow of the nightlight and a familiarity with the route.<br /><br /> There on the bathroom floor, as usual, my mother had laid my clothes out in the shape of my body, my underwear layered on top. You’re probably wondering why she did this. It could have been that she severely underestimated my intelligence and displayed my clothes in this fashion in case there was any doubt on my part as to which articles of clothing went where on my body. She didn’t want to face the public humiliation brought on by her son walking out of the house wearing his Fruit of the Loom undies over his head. Or maybe her work was simply the result of a sense of humor that I missed completely. Either way, I never asked.<br /><br /> Mine was a full-service mom whose selfless measures of accommodation put the men of Texaco to shame. The fact that she would inconvenience herself by waking me when an alarm clock would suffice, or lay out my clothes when I was capable of doing so myself, might sound a bit odd to you, but believe me, it was only the tip of the indulgent iceberg. This was a woman who would cut the crust off my PB&J sandwich at my request, set my toothbrush out every night with a wad of Colgate laying atop the bristles, and who would often put me to sleep at night with a song, a prayer, and a back scratch. In the wintertime, when the wind chill off Lake Erie made the hundred-yard trek down to the corner to catch the school bus feel like Admiral Perry’s excursion, Mom would actually lay my clothes out on top of the floor heater before I woke up so that my body would be adequately preheated before stepping outside to face the Ohio cold. From my perspective my room was self-cleaning; toys, sports equipment, and clothes discarded onto the floor all found their way back to the toy box, closet, or dresser. I never encountered a dish that I had to clean or trash I had to empty or a piece of clothing I had to wash or iron or fold or put away.<br /><br /> I finished dressing, entered the kitchen, and there on the maroon Formica table, in predictable fashion, sat my glass of milk and chocolate long john patiently waiting for me to consume them. My mother, a chocoholic long before the word was coined, had a sweet tooth that she’d handed down to her children. She believed that a heavy dusting of white processed sugar on oatmeal, cream of wheat, or grapefruit was crucial energy fuel for starting one’s day. Only earlier that year I’d been shocked to learn from my third grade teacher, Mrs. Mercer, that chocolate was not, in fact, a member of any of the four major food groups. <br /><br /> Wearing a milk mustache and buzzing from my sugar rush, I walked outside to where the stack of Tribunes—dropped off in my driveway earlier by the news truck—were waiting for me to fold them.<br /><br /> More often than I ever cared to hear it, my dad would point out, “It’s the early bird that catches the worm.” But for me it was really those early morning summer hours themselves that provided the reward. Sitting there on our cement front step beneath a forty-watt porch light, rolling a stack of Tribunes, I was keenly aware that bodies were still strewn out across beds in every house in the neighborhood, lying lost in their dreamland slumber while I was already experiencing the day. There would be time enough for the sounds of wooden screen doors slamming shut, the hissing of sprinklers on Bermuda lawns, and the songs of robins competing with those of Elvis emanating from transistor radios everywhere. But for now there was a stillness about my neighborhood that seemed to actually slow time down, where even the old willow in our front yard stood like one more giant dozing on his feet, his long arms hanging lifeless at his sides, and where the occasional shooting star streaking across the black sky was a confiding moment belonging only to the morning and me. <br /><br /> From the porch step I could detect the subtle, pale peach glow rise behind the Finnegan’s house across the street. I stretched a rubber band open across the top of my knuckles, spread my fingers apart, and slid it down over the length of the rolled paper to hold it in place. Seventy-six times I’d repeat this act almost unconsciously. There was something about the crisp, cool morning air that seemed to contain a magical element that when breathed in set me to daydreaming. So that’s just what I did . . . I sent my homemade bottle rocket blasting above the trees and watched as the red and white bobber at the end of my fishing pole suddenly got sucked down below the surface of the water at Crystal Lake, and with my Little League team’s game on the line, I could hear the crack of my bat as I smacked a liner over the third baseman’s head to drive in the go-ahead run. Granted, most kids would daydream bigger—their rockets sailed to the moon or Mars, and their fish, blue marlins at least, were hooked off Bermuda in their yachts, and their hits were certainly grand slams in the bottom of the ninth to win the World Series for the Reds—but my dad always suggested that a dream should have its feet planted firmly enough in reality to actually have a chance to come true one day, or there wasn’t much point in conjuring up the dream in the first place. Dreaming too big would only lead to a lifetime scattered with the remnants of disappointments and heartbreak.<br /><br /> And I believed him. Why not? I was young and his shadow fell across me with weight and substance and truth. He was my hero. But in some ways, I suppose, he was too much like my other heroes: Frank Robinson, Ricky Nelson, Maverick. I looked up to them because of their accomplishments or their image, not because of who they really were. I didn’t really know who they were outside of that. Such was the case with my dad. He was a great athlete in his younger years, had a drawer full of medals for track and field, swimming, baseball, basketball, and a bunch from the army to prove it. <br /><br /> It was my dad who had managed to pull the strings that allowed me to have a paper route in the first place. I remember reading the pride in his eyes earlier in the spring when he first told me I got the job. His voice rose and fell within a wider range than usual as he explained how I would now be serving a valuable purpose in society by being directly responsible for informing people of local, national, and even international events. My dad made it sound important—an act of responsibility, being this cog in the wheel of life, the great mandala. And it made me feel important, better defining my place in the universe. In a firm handshake with my dad, I promised I wouldn’t let him down.<br /><br /> Finishing up folding and banding the last paper, I knew I was running a little late because Spencer, the bullmastiff next door, had already begun to bark in anticipation of my arrival. Checking the Bulova wristwatch that my dad had given me as a gift the morning of my first route confirmed it. I proceeded to cram forty newspapers into my greasy white canvas pouch and loop the straps over my bike handles. Riding my self-painted, fluorescent green Country Road–brand bike handed down from my brother, I would deliver these papers mostly to my immediate neighborhood and swing back around to pick up the final thirty-six. <br /><br /> I picked the olive green army hat up off the step. Though most boys my age wore baseball caps, I was seldom seen without the hat my dad wore in World War II. Slapping it down onto my head, I hopped onto my bike, turned on the headlight, and was off down my driveway, turning left on the sidewalk that ran along the front of our corner property on Willowcreek Road.<br /><br /> I rode around to where our street dead-ended, curving into Briarbrook. Our eccentric young neighbors, the Springfields, lived next door in a house they’d painted black. Mr. and Mrs. Springfield chose to raise a devil dog named Spencer rather than experiencing the joy of parenthood. Approaching the corner of their white picket fence on my bike, I could see the strong, determined, shadowy figure of that demon dashing back and forth along the picket fence, snarling and barking at me loudly enough to wake the whole neighborhood. As was my custom, I didn’t dare slow down while I heaved the rolled-up newspaper over his enormous head into their yard. Spencer sprinted over to the paper and pounced on it, immediately tearing it to shreds—a daily reenactment. The couple insisted that I do this every day, as they were attempting to teach Spencer to fetch the morning paper, bring it around to the back of the house where he was supposed to enter by way of the doggy door, and gently place the newspaper in one piece on the kitchen table so it would be there to peruse when they woke for breakfast.<br /><br /> Theirs was one of only two houses in the neighborhood that were fenced in, a practice uncommon in the suburbs because it implied a lack of hospitality. Even a small hedge along a property line could be interpreted as stand-offish. The Springfields’ choice of house color wasn’t helpful in dispelling this notion. And yet it was a good thing that they chose to enclose their property because we were all quite certain that if Spencer ever escaped his yard, he would systematically devour every neighborhood kid, one by one. The strange thing was that the picket fence couldn’t have been more than three feet high, low enough for even a miniature poodle to clear—so why hadn’t Spencer taken the leap? Could it be that he was just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to jump that hurdle? So I was thankful for the Springfields’ ineptitude when it came to dog training because it allowed me to buffer Spencer’s appetite, knowing that whenever he did decide to make his move, I would most likely be the first course on the menu. <br /><br /> The neighborhood houses on my route were primarily ranch style, third-little-pig variety, and always on my left. On my left so that I could grab a paper out of my bag and heave it across my body, allowing for more mustard on my throw and more accuracy than if I had to sling it backhand off to my right side. This technique also helped build up strength in my pitching arm. I always aimed directly toward the middle of the driveway instead of anywhere near the porch, which could, as I’d learned, be treacherous territory. An irate Mrs. Messerschmitt from Sleepy Hollow Road once dropped by my house, screaming, “You’ve murdered my children! You’ve murdered my children!” Apparently I’d made an errant toss that tore the blooming heads right off her precious pansies and injured a few hapless marigolds. From that day on I shot for the middle of the driveway, making sure no neighbors’ flowers ever suffered a similar fate at my hands.<br /><br /> I passed my friend Mouse Miller’s house, crossed the street, and headed down the other side of Briarbrook, past Allison Hoffman’s house—our resident divorcée. All my friends still had their two original parents and family intact, which made Mrs. Hoffman’s status a bit of an oddity. Maybe it was the polio scare that people my parents’ age had had to live through that appeared to make them wary of any abnormality in another human being. It wasn’t just being exposed to the drug addicts or the murderers that concerned them, but contact with any fringe members of society: the divorcées and the widowers, the fifty-year-old bachelors, people with weird hairdos or who wore clothing not found in the Sears catalogue. People with facial hair were especially to be avoided.<br /><br /> You didn’t want to be a nonconformist in 1960. Though nearly a decade had passed, effects of the McCarthy hearings had left some Americans with lingering suspicions that their neighbor might be a Red or something worse. So everyone did their best to just fit in. There was an unspoken fear that whatever social dysfunction people possessed was contagious by mere association with them. I had a feeling my mom believed this to be the case with Allison Hoffman—that all my mother had to do was engage in a five-minute conversation with any divorced woman, and a week or so later, my dad would come home from work and out of the blue announce, “Honey, I want a divorce.” <br /><br /> Likely in her late twenties, Mrs. Hoffman was attractive enough to be a movie star or at least a fashion model—she was that pretty. She taught at a junior high school across town, but for extra cash would tutor kids in her spare time. Despite her discriminating attitude toward Mrs. Hoffman, my mother was forced to hire her as a tutor for my sixteen-year-old brother for two sessions a week, seeing as Bobby could never quite grasp the concept of dangling participles and such. Still, whenever she mentioned Mrs. Hoffman’s name, my mom always found a way to justify setting her Christian beliefs aside, calling her that woman, as in, “just stay away from that woman.” Mom must have skipped over the part in the Bible where Jesus healed the lepers. Anyway, Mrs. Hoffman seemed nice enough to me when I’d see her gardening in her yard or when I’d have to collect newspaper money from her; a wave and smile were guaranteed.<br /><br /> I delivered papers down Briarbrook, passed my friend Sheena’s house on the cul-de-sac, and went back down to Willowcreek, where I rolled past the Jensens’ vacant house. The For Sale sign had been stuck in the lawn out front since the beginning of spring. I’d seen few people even stop by to look at the charming, white frame house I remember as having great curb appeal. Every kid on the block was rooting for a family with at least a dozen kids to move in to provide some fresh blood.<br /><br /> A half a block later, I turned the corner and was about to toss the paper down Mr. Melzer’s drive when I spotted the old man lying under his porch light, sprawled out on the veranda, his blue overall-covered legs awkwardly dangling down the front steps of his farm house. I immediately stood up on my bike, slammed on the brakes, fish-tailed a streak of rubber on the sidewalk, dumped the bike, and rushed up to his motionless body. “Mr. Melzer! Mr. Melzer!” Certain he was dead, I kept shouting at him like he was only asleep or deaf. “Mr. Melzer!” I was afraid to touch him to see if he was alive.<br /><br /> The only dead body I had touched up till then was my great-uncle Frank’s at his wake, and it was not a particularly pleasant experience. I was five years old when my mom led me up to the big shiny casket where I peered over the top to see the man lying inside. Standing on my tiptoes, I stared at Frank’s clay-colored face, which I believed looked too grumpy, too dull. While alive and kicking, my uncle was an animated man with ruddy cheeks who spoke and reacted with passion and humor, but the expression he wore while lying in that box was one that I’d never seen on his face before. I was quite sure that if he’d been able to gaze in the mirror at his dead self with that stupid, frozen pouting mouth looking back at him, he would have been humiliated and embarrassed as all get out. And so, while no one watched, I started poking and prodding at his surprisingly pliable mouth, trying to reshape his smile into something more natural, more familiar, like the expression he’d worn recalling the time he drove up to frigid Green Bay in a blizzard to watch his beloved Browns topple Bart Starr and the Green Bay Packers. Or the one he’d displayed while telling us what a thrill it was to meet Betty Grable at a USO function during the war, or the grin that always appeared on his face right after he’d take a swig of a cold beer on a hot summer day. It was a look of satisfaction that I was after, and was pretty sure I could pull it off. Those hours of turning shapeless Play-Doh into little doggies and snowmen had prepared me for this moment.<br /><br /> After a mere twenty seconds of my molding handiwork, I had successfully managed to remove my uncle’s grim, lifeless expression. Unfortunately I had replaced it with a hideous-looking full-on smile, his teeth beaming like the Joker from the Batman comics. Before I could step back for a more objective look, my Aunt Doris let out a little shriek behind me; an older gentleman gasped, which brought my brother over, and he let out a howl of laughter, all followed by a flurry of activity that included some heated discussion among relatives, the casket’s being closed, and my mother’s hauling me out of the room by my earlobe. <br /><br /> But you probably don’t really care much about my Uncle Frank. You’re wondering about Mr. Melzer and if he’s a character who has kicked the bucket before you even got to know him or know if you like him. You will like him. I did. “Mr. Melzer!” I gave him a good poke in the arm. Nothing . . . then another one.<br /><br /> The fact is I was surprised when Mr. Melzer began to move. First his head turned . . . then his arm wiggled . . . then he rose, propping himself up onto an elbow, attempting to regain his bearings. <br /><br /> “Mr. Melzer?”<br /><br /> “What?” He looked around, glassy-eyed, still groggy. “Davy?”<br /><br /> I suddenly felt dizzy and nearly fell down beside him on the porch. “Yeah, it’s me.”<br /><br /> “I must have dozed off. Guess the farmer in me still wants to wake with the dawn, but the old man, well, he knows better.” He looked my way. “You’re white as a sheet—you okay, boy?”<br /><br /> Actually I was feeling pretty nauseated. “Yeah, I’m okay. I just thought . . .”<br /><br /> “What? You thought what?”<br /><br /> “Well, when I saw you lying there . . . I just thought . . .”<br /><br /> “That I was dead?” I nodded. “Well, no, no, I can see where that might be upsetting for you. Come to think of it, it’s a little upsetting to me. Not that I’m not prepared to meet my maker, mind you. Or to see Margaret again.” He leaned heavily on his right arm, got himself upright, and adjusted his suspenders. “The fact is . . . I do miss the old gal. The way she’d know to take my hand when it needed holdin’. Or how she could make a room feel comfortable just by her sitting in it, breathing the same air. Heck, I even miss her lousy coffee. And I hope, after these two years apart, she might have forgotten what a pain in the rear I could be, and she might have the occasion to miss me a bit, too.”<br /><br /> Until that moment, I hadn’t considered the possibility of the dead missing the living. Sometimes when he wasn’t even trying to, Mr. Melzer made me think. And it always surprised me how often he would just say anything that came into his head. He never edited himself like most adults. He was like a kid in that respect, but more interesting.<br /><br /> “You believe in heaven?” I asked Mr. Melzer.<br /><br /> “Rather counting on it. How ’bout you?”<br /><br /> “My mom says that when we go to heaven we’ll be greeted by angels with golden wings.”<br /><br /> “Really? Angels, huh?”<br /><br /> “And she says that they’ll sing a beautiful song written especially for us.”<br /><br /> “Really? Your mother’s an interesting woman, Davy. But I could go for that—I could. Long as they’re not sitting around on clouds playing harps. Don’t care for harp music one bit. Pretty sure it was the Marx Brothers that soured me on that instrument.”<br /><br /> “How so?”<br /><br /> “Well, those Marx Brothers, in every movie they made they’d be running around, being zany as the dickens, and then Harpo—the one who never spoke a lick, the one with the fuzzy blond hair—always honking his horn and chasing some skinny, pretty gal around. Anyway, in the middle of all their high jinks, Harpo would come across some giant harp just conveniently lying around somewhere, and he’d feel obliged to stop all the antics to play some sappy tune that just about put you to sleep. I could never recover. Turned me sour on the harp, he did. I’m more of a horn man, myself. Give me a saxophone or trumpet and I’m happy. And I’m not particularly opposed to a fiddle either. But harps—I say round ’em up and burn ’em all. Melt ’em down and turn them into something practical . . . something that can’t make a sound . . . that’s what I say.”<br /><br /> See, I told you he’d pretty much say anything. I don’t think that Mr. Melzer had many people to listen to him. And just having a bunch of thoughts roaming around in his head wasn’t enough. I think Mr. Melzer chattered a lot so that he wouldn’t lose himself, so he could remember who he was. <br /><br /> “Yeah, well, anyway, I figure I’ll go home when it’s my time,” he continued. “Just hope it can wait for the harvest, seeing as there’s no one else to bring in the corn when it’s time.”<br /><br /> As far back as I could remember, Mr. Melzer used to drag this little red wagon around the neighborhood on August evenings, stacked to the limit with ears of corn. And he’d go door to door and hand out corn to everybody like he was some kind of an agricultural Santa.<br /><br /> “Do you know I used to have fields of corn as far as the eye can see . . . way beyond the rooftops over there?”<br /><br /> I did know this, but I never tired of the enthusiasm with which he told it, so I didn’t stop him. About ten years before, Mr. Melzer had sold off all but a few acres of his farmland to a contractor, resulting in what became my neighborhood.<br /><br /> “I still get a thrill when I shuck that first ear of corn of the harvest, and see that ripe golden row of kernels smiling back at me. Hot, sweet corn, lightly salted with butter dripping down all over it . . . mmm. Nothing better. Don’t nearly have the teeth for it anymore. You eat yours across or up and down?”<br /><br /> “Across.”<br /><br /> “Me too. Only way to eat corn. Tastes better across. When I see somebody munching on an ear like this”—the old man rolled the imaginary ear of corn in front of his imaginary teeth chomping down—“I just want to slap him upside the head.”<br /><br /> I was starting to run very late, and he noticed me fidgeting. <br /><br /> “Oh, yeah, here I am blabbering away, and you got a job to do.”<br /><br /> “I’ll get your paper.” I ran back to my bike lying on the sidewalk. <br /><br /> “So I see nobody’s bought the Jensen place yet,” he yelled out to me.<br /><br /> I grabbed a newspaper that had spilled out of my bag onto the sidewalk, and rushed back to Mr. Melzer. “Not yet. Whoever does, hope they have kids.” I handed the old man the newspaper.<br /><br /> “Listen, I’m sorry I scared you,” he said.<br /><br /> “It’s okay.” I looked over at a pile of unopened newspapers on the porch by the door. “Mind if I ask you something?”<br /><br /> “Shoot.”<br /><br /> “How come you never read the paper?”<br /><br /> “Oh, don’t know. At some point I guess you grow tired of bad news. Besides, these days all the news I need is right here in the neighborhood.”<br /><br /> “So why do you still order the paper?”<br /><br /> The old man smiled. “Well, the way I see it, if I didn’t order the paper, I’d miss out on these splendid little chats with you, now wouldn’t I?”<br /><br /> I told you you’d like him. I grinned. “I’m glad you’re not dead, Mr. Melzer.”<br /><br /> “Likewise,” he said, shooting a wink my way. When I turned around to walk back to my bike, I heard the rolled up newspaper hit the top of the pile.<br /></div></textarea><br /></div><br /><br />**************************************************************<br /><br /><a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 84px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" height="204" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" width="126" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is time for the FIRST Blog Tour! On the FIRST day of every month we feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.donlocke.com/">Don Locke</a></span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;">and his book:</span> </span></strong></p><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600061532/">The Summer the Wind Whispered My Name</a></span></strong><br />NavPress Publishing Group (August 2008) </p><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHOu4RiYdVxbAtiwoxd8QbvGxVzPNcT4aeLFXjPaXVpThU2ImLfQ7t8Lkb7d2fMOm3dBnFwj2QWF8p9-kN9QCVGCHzCPyoO6T8GqIy6Ay7Ku9wODl-SBGxpKjyPoMU4Vn9OMxEpTiWqxGu/s1600-h/bio_donpict.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHOu4RiYdVxbAtiwoxd8QbvGxVzPNcT4aeLFXjPaXVpThU2ImLfQ7t8Lkb7d2fMOm3dBnFwj2QWF8p9-kN9QCVGCHzCPyoO6T8GqIy6Ay7Ku9wODl-SBGxpKjyPoMU4Vn9OMxEpTiWqxGu/s200/bio_donpict.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5239649741785923138" /></a><br />Don Locke is an illustrator and graphic artist for <em>NBC's Tonight Show with Jay Leno </em>and has worked as a freelance writer and illustrator for more than thirty years. He lives in Southern California with his wife, Susan. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600061532/">The Summer the Wind Whispered My Name</a>, prequel to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600061524/">The Reluctant Journey of David Connors</a>, is Don's second novel.<br /><br /><br /><br />Product Details:<br /><br />List Price: $12.99 <br />Paperback: 355 pages <br />Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (August 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 1600061532 <br />ISBN-13: 978-1600061530 <br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /><br /></span></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieu3icSTDhOZWF0bpFbqsdAgDNrO-u3VJNYJv4DRgpSDRam5RhzsOBwPRPXPz_nYy8Qc7Fb1AXq0fjSpTpeZjbACi3qOxFhVFHa_fP0lriZoArBzEOr1mvlOFqIE6GiJfAGa7MCsNwN_1J/s1600-h/Summer"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieu3icSTDhOZWF0bpFbqsdAgDNrO-u3VJNYJv4DRgpSDRam5RhzsOBwPRPXPz_nYy8Qc7Fb1AXq0fjSpTpeZjbACi3qOxFhVFHa_fP0lriZoArBzEOr1mvlOFqIE6GiJfAGa7MCsNwN_1J/s200/Summer" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5239648519746851762" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;">Preface<br /><br />Until recently my early childhood memories weren’t readily available for recollection. Call it a defective hard drive. They remained a mystery and a void—a midwestern landscape of never-ending pitch-blackness where I brushed up against people and objects but could never assign them faces or names, much less attach feelings to our brief encounters. <br /><br /> But through a miraculous act of divine grace, I found my way back home to discover the child I’d forgotten, the boy I’d abandoned supposedly for the good of us both. There he sat beneath an oak tree patiently awaiting my return, as if I’d simply taken a day-long fishing trip. This reunion of spirits has transformed me into someone both wiser and more innocent, leaving me to feel both old and young.<br /><br /> And with this new gift of recollection, my memories turn to that boy and to the summer of 1960, when the winds of change blew across our rooftops and through the screen doors, turning the simple, manageable world of my suburban neighborhood into something unfamiliar, something uncomfortable. Those same winds blew my father and me apart.<br /><br /><br />One<br /><br />Route 666<br /><br />With a gentle shake of my shoulders, a kiss on my cheek, and the words It’s time whispered by my mom, I woke at five thirty in the morning to prepare for my newspaper route. Careful not to wake my older brother, Bobby, snoozing across the room, I slipped out of bed and stumbled my way into the hallway and toward the bathroom, led only by the dim glow of the nightlight and a familiarity with the route.<br /><br /> There on the bathroom floor, as usual, my mother had laid my clothes out in the shape of my body, my underwear layered on top. You’re probably wondering why she did this. It could have been that she severely underestimated my intelligence and displayed my clothes in this fashion in case there was any doubt on my part as to which articles of clothing went where on my body. She didn’t want to face the public humiliation brought on by her son walking out of the house wearing his Fruit of the Loom undies over his head. Or maybe her work was simply the result of a sense of humor that I missed completely. Either way, I never asked.<br /><br /> Mine was a full-service mom whose selfless measures of accommodation put the men of Texaco to shame. The fact that she would inconvenience herself by waking me when an alarm clock would suffice, or lay out my clothes when I was capable of doing so myself, might sound a bit odd to you, but believe me, it was only the tip of the indulgent iceberg. This was a woman who would cut the crust off my PB&J sandwich at my request, set my toothbrush out every night with a wad of Colgate laying atop the bristles, and who would often put me to sleep at night with a song, a prayer, and a back scratch. In the wintertime, when the wind chill off Lake Erie made the hundred-yard trek down to the corner to catch the school bus feel like Admiral Perry’s excursion, Mom would actually lay my clothes out on top of the floor heater before I woke up so that my body would be adequately preheated before stepping outside to face the Ohio cold. From my perspective my room was self-cleaning; toys, sports equipment, and clothes discarded onto the floor all found their way back to the toy box, closet, or dresser. I never encountered a dish that I had to clean or trash I had to empty or a piece of clothing I had to wash or iron or fold or put away.<br /><br /> I finished dressing, entered the kitchen, and there on the maroon Formica table, in predictable fashion, sat my glass of milk and chocolate long john patiently waiting for me to consume them. My mother, a chocoholic long before the word was coined, had a sweet tooth that she’d handed down to her children. She believed that a heavy dusting of white processed sugar on oatmeal, cream of wheat, or grapefruit was crucial energy fuel for starting one’s day. Only earlier that year I’d been shocked to learn from my third grade teacher, Mrs. Mercer, that chocolate was not, in fact, a member of any of the four major food groups. <br /><br /> Wearing a milk mustache and buzzing from my sugar rush, I walked outside to where the stack of Tribunes—dropped off in my driveway earlier by the news truck—were waiting for me to fold them.<br /><br /> More often than I ever cared to hear it, my dad would point out, “It’s the early bird that catches the worm.” But for me it was really those early morning summer hours themselves that provided the reward. Sitting there on our cement front step beneath a forty-watt porch light, rolling a stack of Tribunes, I was keenly aware that bodies were still strewn out across beds in every house in the neighborhood, lying lost in their dreamland slumber while I was already experiencing the day. There would be time enough for the sounds of wooden screen doors slamming shut, the hissing of sprinklers on Bermuda lawns, and the songs of robins competing with those of Elvis emanating from transistor radios everywhere. But for now there was a stillness about my neighborhood that seemed to actually slow time down, where even the old willow in our front yard stood like one more giant dozing on his feet, his long arms hanging lifeless at his sides, and where the occasional shooting star streaking across the black sky was a confiding moment belonging only to the morning and me. <br /><br /> From the porch step I could detect the subtle, pale peach glow rise behind the Finnegan’s house across the street. I stretched a rubber band open across the top of my knuckles, spread my fingers apart, and slid it down over the length of the rolled paper to hold it in place. Seventy-six times I’d repeat this act almost unconsciously. There was something about the crisp, cool morning air that seemed to contain a magical element that when breathed in set me to daydreaming. So that’s just what I did . . . I sent my homemade bottle rocket blasting above the trees and watched as the red and white bobber at the end of my fishing pole suddenly got sucked down below the surface of the water at Crystal Lake, and with my Little League team’s game on the line, I could hear the crack of my bat as I smacked a liner over the third baseman’s head to drive in the go-ahead run. Granted, most kids would daydream bigger—their rockets sailed to the moon or Mars, and their fish, blue marlins at least, were hooked off Bermuda in their yachts, and their hits were certainly grand slams in the bottom of the ninth to win the World Series for the Reds—but my dad always suggested that a dream should have its feet planted firmly enough in reality to actually have a chance to come true one day, or there wasn’t much point in conjuring up the dream in the first place. Dreaming too big would only lead to a lifetime scattered with the remnants of disappointments and heartbreak.<br /><br /> And I believed him. Why not? I was young and his shadow fell across me with weight and substance and truth. He was my hero. But in some ways, I suppose, he was too much like my other heroes: Frank Robinson, Ricky Nelson, Maverick. I looked up to them because of their accomplishments or their image, not because of who they really were. I didn’t really know who they were outside of that. Such was the case with my dad. He was a great athlete in his younger years, had a drawer full of medals for track and field, swimming, baseball, basketball, and a bunch from the army to prove it. <br /><br /> It was my dad who had managed to pull the strings that allowed me to have a paper route in the first place. I remember reading the pride in his eyes earlier in the spring when he first told me I got the job. His voice rose and fell within a wider range than usual as he explained how I would now be serving a valuable purpose in society by being directly responsible for informing people of local, national, and even international events. My dad made it sound important—an act of responsibility, being this cog in the wheel of life, the great mandala. And it made me feel important, better defining my place in the universe. In a firm handshake with my dad, I promised I wouldn’t let him down.<br /><br /> Finishing up folding and banding the last paper, I knew I was running a little late because Spencer, the bullmastiff next door, had already begun to bark in anticipation of my arrival. Checking the Bulova wristwatch that my dad had given me as a gift the morning of my first route confirmed it. I proceeded to cram forty newspapers into my greasy white canvas pouch and loop the straps over my bike handles. Riding my self-painted, fluorescent green Country Road–brand bike handed down from my brother, I would deliver these papers mostly to my immediate neighborhood and swing back around to pick up the final thirty-six. <br /><br /> I picked the olive green army hat up off the step. Though most boys my age wore baseball caps, I was seldom seen without the hat my dad wore in World War II. Slapping it down onto my head, I hopped onto my bike, turned on the headlight, and was off down my driveway, turning left on the sidewalk that ran along the front of our corner property on Willowcreek Road.<br /><br /> I rode around to where our street dead-ended, curving into Briarbrook. Our eccentric young neighbors, the Springfields, lived next door in a house they’d painted black. Mr. and Mrs. Springfield chose to raise a devil dog named Spencer rather than experiencing the joy of parenthood. Approaching the corner of their white picket fence on my bike, I could see the strong, determined, shadowy figure of that demon dashing back and forth along the picket fence, snarling and barking at me loudly enough to wake the whole neighborhood. As was my custom, I didn’t dare slow down while I heaved the rolled-up newspaper over his enormous head into their yard. Spencer sprinted over to the paper and pounced on it, immediately tearing it to shreds—a daily reenactment. The couple insisted that I do this every day, as they were attempting to teach Spencer to fetch the morning paper, bring it around to the back of the house where he was supposed to enter by way of the doggy door, and gently place the newspaper in one piece on the kitchen table so it would be there to peruse when they woke for breakfast.<br /><br /> Theirs was one of only two houses in the neighborhood that were fenced in, a practice uncommon in the suburbs because it implied a lack of hospitality. Even a small hedge along a property line could be interpreted as stand-offish. The Springfields’ choice of house color wasn’t helpful in dispelling this notion. And yet it was a good thing that they chose to enclose their property because we were all quite certain that if Spencer ever escaped his yard, he would systematically devour every neighborhood kid, one by one. The strange thing was that the picket fence couldn’t have been more than three feet high, low enough for even a miniature poodle to clear—so why hadn’t Spencer taken the leap? Could it be that he was just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to jump that hurdle? So I was thankful for the Springfields’ ineptitude when it came to dog training because it allowed me to buffer Spencer’s appetite, knowing that whenever he did decide to make his move, I would most likely be the first course on the menu. <br /><br /> The neighborhood houses on my route were primarily ranch style, third-little-pig variety, and always on my left. On my left so that I could grab a paper out of my bag and heave it across my body, allowing for more mustard on my throw and more accuracy than if I had to sling it backhand off to my right side. This technique also helped build up strength in my pitching arm. I always aimed directly toward the middle of the driveway instead of anywhere near the porch, which could, as I’d learned, be treacherous territory. An irate Mrs. Messerschmitt from Sleepy Hollow Road once dropped by my house, screaming, “You’ve murdered my children! You’ve murdered my children!” Apparently I’d made an errant toss that tore the blooming heads right off her precious pansies and injured a few hapless marigolds. From that day on I shot for the middle of the driveway, making sure no neighbors’ flowers ever suffered a similar fate at my hands.<br /><br /> I passed my friend Mouse Miller’s house, crossed the street, and headed down the other side of Briarbrook, past Allison Hoffman’s house—our resident divorcée. All my friends still had their two original parents and family intact, which made Mrs. Hoffman’s status a bit of an oddity. Maybe it was the polio scare that people my parents’ age had had to live through that appeared to make them wary of any abnormality in another human being. It wasn’t just being exposed to the drug addicts or the murderers that concerned them, but contact with any fringe members of society: the divorcées and the widowers, the fifty-year-old bachelors, people with weird hairdos or who wore clothing not found in the Sears catalogue. People with facial hair were especially to be avoided.<br /><br /> You didn’t want to be a nonconformist in 1960. Though nearly a decade had passed, effects of the McCarthy hearings had left some Americans with lingering suspicions that their neighbor might be a Red or something worse. So everyone did their best to just fit in. There was an unspoken fear that whatever social dysfunction people possessed was contagious by mere association with them. I had a feeling my mom believed this to be the case with Allison Hoffman—that all my mother had to do was engage in a five-minute conversation with any divorced woman, and a week or so later, my dad would come home from work and out of the blue announce, “Honey, I want a divorce.” <br /><br /> Likely in her late twenties, Mrs. Hoffman was attractive enough to be a movie star or at least a fashion model—she was that pretty. She taught at a junior high school across town, but for extra cash would tutor kids in her spare time. Despite her discriminating attitude toward Mrs. Hoffman, my mother was forced to hire her as a tutor for my sixteen-year-old brother for two sessions a week, seeing as Bobby could never quite grasp the concept of dangling participles and such. Still, whenever she mentioned Mrs. Hoffman’s name, my mom always found a way to justify setting her Christian beliefs aside, calling her that woman, as in, “just stay away from that woman.” Mom must have skipped over the part in the Bible where Jesus healed the lepers. Anyway, Mrs. Hoffman seemed nice enough to me when I’d see her gardening in her yard or when I’d have to collect newspaper money from her; a wave and smile were guaranteed.<br /><br /> I delivered papers down Briarbrook, passed my friend Sheena’s house on the cul-de-sac, and went back down to Willowcreek, where I rolled past the Jensens’ vacant house. The For Sale sign had been stuck in the lawn out front since the beginning of spring. I’d seen few people even stop by to look at the charming, white frame house I remember as having great curb appeal. Every kid on the block was rooting for a family with at least a dozen kids to move in to provide some fresh blood.<br /><br /> A half a block later, I turned the corner and was about to toss the paper down Mr. Melzer’s drive when I spotted the old man lying under his porch light, sprawled out on the veranda, his blue overall-covered legs awkwardly dangling down the front steps of his farm house. I immediately stood up on my bike, slammed on the brakes, fish-tailed a streak of rubber on the sidewalk, dumped the bike, and rushed up to his motionless body. “Mr. Melzer! Mr. Melzer!” Certain he was dead, I kept shouting at him like he was only asleep or deaf. “Mr. Melzer!” I was afraid to touch him to see if he was alive.<br /><br /> The only dead body I had touched up till then was my great-uncle Frank’s at his wake, and it was not a particularly pleasant experience. I was five years old when my mom led me up to the big shiny casket where I peered over the top to see the man lying inside. Standing on my tiptoes, I stared at Frank’s clay-colored face, which I believed looked too grumpy, too dull. While alive and kicking, my uncle was an animated man with ruddy cheeks who spoke and reacted with passion and humor, but the expression he wore while lying in that box was one that I’d never seen on his face before. I was quite sure that if he’d been able to gaze in the mirror at his dead self with that stupid, frozen pouting mouth looking back at him, he would have been humiliated and embarrassed as all get out. And so, while no one watched, I started poking and prodding at his surprisingly pliable mouth, trying to reshape his smile into something more natural, more familiar, like the expression he’d worn recalling the time he drove up to frigid Green Bay in a blizzard to watch his beloved Browns topple Bart Starr and the Green Bay Packers. Or the one he’d displayed while telling us what a thrill it was to meet Betty Grable at a USO function during the war, or the grin that always appeared on his face right after he’d take a swig of a cold beer on a hot summer day. It was a look of satisfaction that I was after, and was pretty sure I could pull it off. Those hours of turning shapeless Play-Doh into little doggies and snowmen had prepared me for this moment.<br /><br /> After a mere twenty seconds of my molding handiwork, I had successfully managed to remove my uncle’s grim, lifeless expression. Unfortunately I had replaced it with a hideous-looking full-on smile, his teeth beaming like the Joker from the Batman comics. Before I could step back for a more objective look, my Aunt Doris let out a little shriek behind me; an older gentleman gasped, which brought my brother over, and he let out a howl of laughter, all followed by a flurry of activity that included some heated discussion among relatives, the casket’s being closed, and my mother’s hauling me out of the room by my earlobe. <br /><br /> But you probably don’t really care much about my Uncle Frank. You’re wondering about Mr. Melzer and if he’s a character who has kicked the bucket before you even got to know him or know if you like him. You will like him. I did. “Mr. Melzer!” I gave him a good poke in the arm. Nothing . . . then another one.<br /><br /> The fact is I was surprised when Mr. Melzer began to move. First his head turned . . . then his arm wiggled . . . then he rose, propping himself up onto an elbow, attempting to regain his bearings. <br /><br /> “Mr. Melzer?”<br /><br /> “What?” He looked around, glassy-eyed, still groggy. “Davy?”<br /><br /> I suddenly felt dizzy and nearly fell down beside him on the porch. “Yeah, it’s me.”<br /><br /> “I must have dozed off. Guess the farmer in me still wants to wake with the dawn, but the old man, well, he knows better.” He looked my way. “You’re white as a sheet—you okay, boy?”<br /><br /> Actually I was feeling pretty nauseated. “Yeah, I’m okay. I just thought . . .”<br /><br /> “What? You thought what?”<br /><br /> “Well, when I saw you lying there . . . I just thought . . .”<br /><br /> “That I was dead?” I nodded. “Well, no, no, I can see where that might be upsetting for you. Come to think of it, it’s a little upsetting to me. Not that I’m not prepared to meet my maker, mind you. Or to see Margaret again.” He leaned heavily on his right arm, got himself upright, and adjusted his suspenders. “The fact is . . . I do miss the old gal. The way she’d know to take my hand when it needed holdin’. Or how she could make a room feel comfortable just by her sitting in it, breathing the same air. Heck, I even miss her lousy coffee. And I hope, after these two years apart, she might have forgotten what a pain in the rear I could be, and she might have the occasion to miss me a bit, too.”<br /><br /> Until that moment, I hadn’t considered the possibility of the dead missing the living. Sometimes when he wasn’t even trying to, Mr. Melzer made me think. And it always surprised me how often he would just say anything that came into his head. He never edited himself like most adults. He was like a kid in that respect, but more interesting.<br /><br /> “You believe in heaven?” I asked Mr. Melzer.<br /><br /> “Rather counting on it. How ’bout you?”<br /><br /> “My mom says that when we go to heaven we’ll be greeted by angels with golden wings.”<br /><br /> “Really? Angels, huh?”<br /><br /> “And she says that they’ll sing a beautiful song written especially for us.”<br /><br /> “Really? Your mother’s an interesting woman, Davy. But I could go for that—I could. Long as they’re not sitting around on clouds playing harps. Don’t care for harp music one bit. Pretty sure it was the Marx Brothers that soured me on that instrument.”<br /><br /> “How so?”<br /><br /> “Well, those Marx Brothers, in every movie they made they’d be running around, being zany as the dickens, and then Harpo—the one who never spoke a lick, the one with the fuzzy blond hair—always honking his horn and chasing some skinny, pretty gal around. Anyway, in the middle of all their high jinks, Harpo would come across some giant harp just conveniently lying around somewhere, and he’d feel obliged to stop all the antics to play some sappy tune that just about put you to sleep. I could never recover. Turned me sour on the harp, he did. I’m more of a horn man, myself. Give me a saxophone or trumpet and I’m happy. And I’m not particularly opposed to a fiddle either. But harps—I say round ’em up and burn ’em all. Melt ’em down and turn them into something practical . . . something that can’t make a sound . . . that’s what I say.”<br /><br /> See, I told you he’d pretty much say anything. I don’t think that Mr. Melzer had many people to listen to him. And just having a bunch of thoughts roaming around in his head wasn’t enough. I think Mr. Melzer chattered a lot so that he wouldn’t lose himself, so he could remember who he was. <br /><br /> “Yeah, well, anyway, I figure I’ll go home when it’s my time,” he continued. “Just hope it can wait for the harvest, seeing as there’s no one else to bring in the corn when it’s time.”<br /><br /> As far back as I could remember, Mr. Melzer used to drag this little red wagon around the neighborhood on August evenings, stacked to the limit with ears of corn. And he’d go door to door and hand out corn to everybody like he was some kind of an agricultural Santa.<br /><br /> “Do you know I used to have fields of corn as far as the eye can see . . . way beyond the rooftops over there?”<br /><br /> I did know this, but I never tired of the enthusiasm with which he told it, so I didn’t stop him. About ten years before, Mr. Melzer had sold off all but a few acres of his farmland to a contractor, resulting in what became my neighborhood.<br /><br /> “I still get a thrill when I shuck that first ear of corn of the harvest, and see that ripe golden row of kernels smiling back at me. Hot, sweet corn, lightly salted with butter dripping down all over it . . . mmm. Nothing better. Don’t nearly have the teeth for it anymore. You eat yours across or up and down?”<br /><br /> “Across.”<br /><br /> “Me too. Only way to eat corn. Tastes better across. When I see somebody munching on an ear like this”—the old man rolled the imaginary ear of corn in front of his imaginary teeth chomping down—“I just want to slap him upside the head.”<br /><br /> I was starting to run very late, and he noticed me fidgeting. <br /><br /> “Oh, yeah, here I am blabbering away, and you got a job to do.”<br /><br /> “I’ll get your paper.” I ran back to my bike lying on the sidewalk. <br /><br /> “So I see nobody’s bought the Jensen place yet,” he yelled out to me.<br /><br /> I grabbed a newspaper that had spilled out of my bag onto the sidewalk, and rushed back to Mr. Melzer. “Not yet. Whoever does, hope they have kids.” I handed the old man the newspaper.<br /><br /> “Listen, I’m sorry I scared you,” he said.<br /><br /> “It’s okay.” I looked over at a pile of unopened newspapers on the porch by the door. “Mind if I ask you something?”<br /><br /> “Shoot.”<br /><br /> “How come you never read the paper?”<br /><br /> “Oh, don’t know. At some point I guess you grow tired of bad news. Besides, these days all the news I need is right here in the neighborhood.”<br /><br /> “So why do you still order the paper?”<br /><br /> The old man smiled. “Well, the way I see it, if I didn’t order the paper, I’d miss out on these splendid little chats with you, now wouldn’t I?”<br /><br /> I told you you’d like him. I grinned. “I’m glad you’re not dead, Mr. Melzer.”<br /><br /> “Likewise,” he said, shooting a wink my way. When I turned around to walk back to my bike, I heard the rolled up newspaper hit the top of the pile.<br /></div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-63508967620858967482008-08-18T00:00:00.005-04:002008-12-10T11:49:54.314-05:00The Book of Names by D. Barkley Briggs<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s1600-h/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg"><a href="http://teenfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178594274707613778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s200/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg" border="0" /></a></a><br /><br />It's the 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://hiddenlands.net/">D. Barkley Briggs</a></font></strong><br /><p></p><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="160"><font color="#009900" size="4"></font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"><font size="2"><font color="#009900">and his/her book:</font> </font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"></strong></div></font><p></p><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="7"><font size="3"></font></strong></div></font><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/160006227X/">The Book of Names (Legends of Karac Tor)</a></font></strong></div><br /><p align="center">NavPress Publishing Group (July 15, 2008)</p><br /><p align="center"></p><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><font color="#ff6600"></font></font></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><p></p><font color="#ff6600">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</font> </font></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCudX5rnzj5mt4jQnJPvY63jrZ_xtE86iXiDq5d3seStT43Zh1KenOPm9BOlm44nUSDQtddLMeGhI_uNpsS3zE87c7pFFWP8UlHTbRWhT0u42USOzAGQRqcIfocJ5npJDk8wOvDTtlm8/s1600-h/BriggsBW.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCudX5rnzj5mt4jQnJPvY63jrZ_xtE86iXiDq5d3seStT43Zh1KenOPm9BOlm44nUSDQtddLMeGhI_uNpsS3zE87c7pFFWP8UlHTbRWhT0u42USOzAGQRqcIfocJ5npJDk8wOvDTtlm8/s200/BriggsBW.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235689689091635522" /></a>Dean Barkley Briggs is an author, father of eight, and prone to twisting his ankle playing basketball. He grew up reading J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Patricia McKillip, Guy Gavriel Kay, Stephen R. Donaldson, Ursila K. Leguin, Susan Cooper, Madeline L'Engle, Terry Brooks, Andre Norton and Lloyd Alexander (just to name a few)...and generally thinks most fantasy fiction pales in comparison. (Yes, he dabbled in sci-fi, too. Most notably Bradbury, Burroughs and Heinlein).<br /><br />After losing his wife of 16 years, Briggs decided to tell a tale his four sons could relate to in their own journey through loss. Thus was born The Legends of Karac Tor, a sweeping adventure of four brothers who, while struggling to adjust to life without mom, become enmeshed in the crisis of another world. Along the way they must find their courage, face their pain, and never quit searching for home.<br /><br />Briggs is remarried to a lovely woman, who previously lost her husband. Together with her four children, their hands are full.<br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: $12.99 <br />Reading level: Young Adult<br />Paperback: 397 pages <br />Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (July 15, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 160006227X <br />ISBN-13: 978-1600062278 <br /><br /><font color="#ffcc00"><strong><font size="5">Watch the Trailer:</font> </strong><br /></font><br /><br /><embed src="http://godtube.com/flvplayer.swf" FlashVars="viewkey=dad2e148f650af4a8ab3" wmode="transparent" quality="high" width="330" height="270" name="godtube" align="middle" allowScriptAccess="sameDomain" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" /></embed><br /><br /><font color="#ffcc00"><strong><font size="5">Enter the Contest:</font> </strong><br /></font><br /><embed src="http://godtube.com/flvplayer.swf" FlashVars="viewkey=b38cf7b4d35aea02a5a2" wmode="transparent" quality="high" width="330" height="270" name="godtube" align="middle" allowScriptAccess="sameDomain" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" /></embed><br /><br /><br /><font color="#ffcc00"><strong><font size="5">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</font> </strong><br /></font><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDCOIDizPWVveW9kyMN79cEWRBY5sM4SvCxfaNYmsWi66eKw1WV0krZlNsHauOwFw44FPdKpsVp0oDmwe1zNwmOxK9JP_SAcqg4XyRZCxTELWugjYEpbPBV0eQwSNoZRlGLqudEP2_eLE/s1600-h/BookofNames.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDCOIDizPWVveW9kyMN79cEWRBY5sM4SvCxfaNYmsWi66eKw1WV0krZlNsHauOwFw44FPdKpsVp0oDmwe1zNwmOxK9JP_SAcqg4XyRZCxTELWugjYEpbPBV0eQwSNoZRlGLqudEP2_eLE/s200/BookofNames.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235689798525483314" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;"><font color="#00008B"><strong><font size="3"><center>In final days / Come final woes<br /><br />Doors shall open / Doors shall close<br /><br />Forgotten curse / Blight the land<br /><br />Four names, one blood / Fall or stand <br /><br /><br />If lost the great one / Fallen low<br /><br />Rises new / Ancient foe<br /><br />Darkest path / River black<br /><br />Blade which breaks / Anoint, attack <br /><br /><br />If once and future / Lord of war,<br /><br />Queen la Faye / Mighty sword,<br /><br />Rises ‘gain / As warrior king,<br /><br />Prepare / For day of reckoning <br /><br /><br />If Aion’s breath / For music cursed<br /><br />Sings making things / Made perverse,<br /><br />Fate shall split / Road in twain<br /><br />One shall lose / One shall gain <br /><br /><br />If secret lore / Then be found<br /><br />Eight plus one / All unbound<br /><br />Beast shall come / Six must go<br /><br />Doors shall open / Doors shall close <br /><br /><br />If buried deep / Hidden seen<br /><br />Ancient tomb / Midst crimson green<br /><br />Nine shall bow / Nine more rise<br /><br />Nine horns blow / Nine stars shine <br /><br /><br />If falling flame / Burning pure<br /><br />Ten thousand cries / For mercy heard<br /><br />Then plagues, peril / Horns of dread<br /><br />End of days / Land be red <br /><br /><br />When final days / Bring final woes<br /><br />Doors shall open / Doors shall close<br /><br />Fate for one / For all unleashed<br /><br />Come the Prince / Slay the beast <br /><br /><br />Cross the water / Isgurd’s way<br /><br />White horse / Top the waves<br /><br />Aion, fierce! / Aion, brave!<br /><br />Aion rides / To save the day <br /><br /><br /><em>— The Ravna’s Last Riddle </em></font> </strong></center><br /></font><br /> <br /><br />Chapter 1<br /><br />BLACK BIRDS <br /><br /><br /> The day was gray and cold, mildly damp. Perfect for magic. Strange clouds overhead teased the senses with a fragrance of storm wind and lightning and the faint, clean smell of ozone. Invisible energy sparkled like morning dew on blades of grass. <br /><br /> Standing alone in an empty field on the back end of their new acreage, Hadyn Barlow only saw the clouds. By definition, you can't see what's invisible, and as for smelling magic? Well, let's just say, unlikely. Hadyn saw what was obvious for late November, rural Missouri: leafless trees, dead grass, winter coming on strong. Most of all he saw (and despised) the humongous briar patch in front of him, feeling anew each and every blister and callous earned hacking through its branches.<br /><br /> Making room for cattle next spring, or so he was told; this, even though his dad had never owned a cow in his life. He was a history teacher for crying out loud. A college professor. Hadyn's shoulders slumped. It didn't matter. Everything was different now. Mr. Barlow didn't let his boys curse, but low under his breath, Hadyn did, mildly, just to prove the point. Life stunk. That was the brutal truth. <br /><br /> All true for the most part. Yet standing alone in the field, bundled in flannel, something else prickled his skin—something hidden in the rhythm of the day, at its core—and it wasn't just the chill wind. He couldn't shake it. A sense of something. Out-of-placeness. Faced with a friendless sophomore year, Hadyn knew that feeling all too well. It attacked him every morning, right before school.<br /><br /> But this was something more, more than the usual nervousness and name-calling stuff. His intuition was maddeningly vague. Hadyn sniffed the air, eyeing the field. A fox scampered in the distance. Bobwhites whistled softly. This had been his routine for weeks. Go to school, come home, do chores. Today was no different. Except for the clouds.<br /><br /> He looked upwards, struck again by the strange hues. The colors were still there; kinda creepy. They had lingered since the bus ride home. He had seen it happen with his own eyes, though he didn’t think much of it at the time. Right about the time school let out and the yellow buses began winding home, the skies had opened and spilled. Low banks of clouds came tumbling from the horizon like old woolen blankets. Like that scene from <em>Independence Day</em>, when the alien ships first appeared. Hues of purple, cobalt and charcoal smeared together. Not sky blue. Not normal. Riding on the bus, face pressed against the cold window, he didn’t know what to think. Only that it looked…<em>otherworldly</em>. Like God had put Van Gogh in charge for the day.<br /><br /> Strange.<br /><br /> Earlier, the day hadn’t felt weird. If anything, he had felt relief. Two days until Friday...until Thanksgiving Break. Only two days. He could make it. Standing by the mailbox with his three brothers, waiting for the bus—he couldn’t wait to get his own car—mild winds had stirred from the south, scampering through row after row of brittle stalks in the neighbor’s cornfield across the road. He heard them in the leafless oak and elm of his own yard, hissing with a high, dry laughter. Warm winds, not cold. But about noon, the wind shifted. Again, no big deal for Missouri, always caught in the middle between the gulf streams of Mexico and Canada’s bitter cold. Temperamental weather was normal in these parts.<br /><br /> Yet there it was. From the winding ride home to this very moment, he couldn’t rid himself of that dry-mouthed, queasy feeling. It was more than a shift in wind. It was a shift in energy. Yes, the dark clouds and strange colors reminded him of the thickening air before a big, cracking Midwestern storm, but that wasn’t it. This was different.<br /><br /> Hadyn being Hadyn, more than anything else, wanted to identify the moment. To name it.<br /><br /> Though he didn’t actually verbalize until age three, Hadyn was born with a question mark wrinkled into his brows. Always searching, always studying something. He couldn’t speak a word before then—refused to, his dad always said—yet he knew the letters of the alphabet at a precocious 12 months. When he finally did decide to talk, words gushed. Full sentences. Big vocabulary. Not surprisingly, it was clear early on that Hadyn was one of those types bent toward structure, patterns. He hated incongruities, hated not knowing how to pinpoint the strange twist in sky and mood right in the middle of an otherwise typically dreary day. If it was just nasty weather, name it! What did it feel like? <em>Wet fish guts?</em> Not quite. <em>A full wet diaper?</em> He remembered those well enough from when the twins were little, but no. <em>A three day old slice of cheese?</em><br /><br /> Yes, that was it. Cold, damp, moldy.<br /><br /> <em>Velveeta, actually,</em> he decided, feeling a small measure of satisfaction. He fumbled for the zipper of his coat as another icy breeze prickled his skin. <em>Yep, another lousy Velveeta day in the life of Hadyn Barlow.</em><br /><br /> He thought of the roaring wood stove back home. Hot cocoa. Little consolation. Until dusk, the oldest Barlow boy was stuck outside in a field with hatchet and hedge shears. Stuck in a foul mood, stuck with a knot in his throat. Just plain stuck. His task, his life, seemed endless and pointless.<br /><br />“Just a little bit every day, however much you can manage after school,” his father would remind him. “And don’t look so grumpy. The days are shorter and shorter.”<br /><br /> But not any warmer.<br /><br /> “Grr!” Hadyn grumbled aloud, snapping at the cold in his thoughts. He had chosen to “clear” the massive beast by carving tunnels in it, not just hacking mindlessly. Probably not exactly what Dad had in mind, but, well, to be honest, he didn’t really care. He was the one stuck out here in the cold. He had already carved several tunnels, and reentered the biggest one now, loping and clicking his shears at the endless mess of thorns and branches, alternated by halfhearted swings of the hatchet. The briar patch sprawled a couple hundred feet in every direction, comprised of dense, overgrown nettles, blackberry bushes and cottonweed. Untended for generations, the underbrush was so thick and tall a person could easily get lost in it, especially toward the center, where the land formed a shallow ravine that channeled wet weather rains toward the pond on the lower field. Hadyn guessed the height at the center point would be a good 12 feet or more. Enormous.<br /><br /> Really, it was a ridiculous task. Dad had to know that.<br /><br /> “Why not just burn the thing?” Hadyn had asked him. Burn it, then brush-hog it. Throw a hand grenade in and run.<br /><br /> Mr. Barlow never really answered, just said he wanted him to clear it by hand. After the first day of grumbling and complaining (which proved none too popular with his father), Hadyn started carving tunnels. His plan was to craft a maze out of it, maybe create a place to escape...at least have some fun before his dad made him level the whole thing <br /><br /> <em>Fun?</em> He caught himself, tasting the word like a spoonful of Nyquil. <em>Fun is soccer with the guys back home.</em><br /><br /> He paused for a moment to wipe his brow. Home was no longer a city, not for four months now. It was a cow pasture. Home <em>had </em>been Independence, the suburb of Kansas City whose chief claim to fame (other than being the birthplace of Harry S. Truman) was that Jesus would return there, at least according to one of numerous Mormon splinter groups. For Hadyn, it was all about skateboards and traffic and rows of houses. Noise. Friends. Now, all that—everything familiar and good—was exactly three hours and nineteen minutes straight across I-70 on the opposite end of the state. Might as well have been on the opposite side of the planet. Home now: three hundred acres in the middle of nowhere, away from all he had ever known.<br /><br /> The town was called Newland. The name seemed like a smack in the face.<br /><br /> New town. New school. New faces. New troubles to deal with. New disappointments. His dad had tried to make a big deal of the “new” thing. This would be a <em>new</em> start for their family, a <em>new </em>chapter, blah, blah, blah. A change, from sadness to hope, he said. Hadyn hated change.<br /><br /> He didn’t want new. He wanted it how it used to be.<br /><br /> How it used to be was happy. Normal. Right. Fair. How it used to be meant they were a family of six, not five. Hadyn felt a familiar pang slice across his chest. He would have traded all the unknown magic in the world for five more minutes with—<br /><br /> <em>Mom...</em><br /><br /> It had been a year since she died. His mental images of her remained vivid, of a beautiful woman with porcelain smooth skin, naturally blonde, witty, vivacious. All four Barlow brothers shared her spunky attitude, as well as an even mix of their parents’ coloring: mom’s fairness, dad’s darker hair and complexion, the boys somewhere in between. Hadyn, rapidly entering his adult body, was tall for his age, muscular, lean, possessed of a sometimes uncomfortably aristocratic air. Some days his eyes were smoky jade, others, iron gray. But he had Anna’s cleverness.<br /><br /> His parents had been saving money for several years, studying the land all around Newland. Hadyn could not fathom why. What was so special about Podunk, America? But he knew his mom had been happy to think about life in the country. Once upon a time, that was enough. But now? Without her, what was the point? Why couldn’t they have just stayed in Independence? Moving wasn’t going to bring her back. Didn’t Dad know that? <br /><br /> For the second time that afternoon, a tidal wave of loneliness nearly drowned him, left him in a goo of self-pity, the sort of sticky feeling he didn’t want anyone to spoil by cheering him up. He took one more angry swing. Done or not, he was done for the day. Work could wait. Dad would just have to deal with it. Already, he had built a pretty impressive maze, though. Six unconnected tunnels so far.<br /><br /> <em>Like I give a rip about these stupid tunnels,</em> he thought as he crawled from the center toward the mouth of the largest, longest shaft. <em>Or this stupid land, or town, or patch of—</em>his knee jammed against a thorn protruding from the soil—<em>thorny! ridiculous!...</em><br /><br /> He clenched his jaw, flashing through dozens of choice words, using none. Honoring his dad. Pain streamed as tears down his cheek, and it wasn’t just the thorn in his knee. It was life. Crawling forty more feet, he emerged to face the slowly westering sun melting down the sky. The otherworldly colors he had seen earlier were gone. Only the cold remained. And now, a bleeding, sore knee.<br /><br /> Behind him, he heard heard rustling grass and the high pitched, lilting notes of his brother’s tin whistle. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and grimaced. Ewan, like his mother, was musical. Even more like her, he was sentimental. He often carried the whistle she had brought him as a gift from Ireland. It would, no doubt, have seemed humorous to some, to see him wandering the field, playing a spritely little tune. It only annoyed Hadyn. Thankfully, as Ewan drew closer, the song trailed away.<br /><br /> “Hey, Hadyn.”<br /><br /> Hadyn grunted. “What do you want?”<br /><br /> Ewan shrugged, tucking the flute into his back pocket. He wore blue jeans, and a blue embroidered ball cap, initialed ‘ECB’.<br /><br /> “Wondered how things were going.”<br /><br /> “Dad sent you to help, didn’t he?”<br /><br /> Ewan frowned. “Yep. Got done with my chores sooner than planned.”<br /><br /> “Bummer.”<br /><br /> “Major bummer,” Ewan emphasized. “Looks like you’re near the center, though. That’s pretty cool.”<br /><br /> Hadyn didn’t reply. With only two years between them, the two brothers had always been the closest of friends, the fiercest competitors, the quickest of combatants. They understood each other’s rhythms like no one else in the family. Whereas Hadyn was studied, wise and cautious, Ewan was quick, fearless and comfortable with long odds. No one could make Ewan laugh—gasping-for-air, fall-on-the-ground-cackling—like Hadyn. Likewise, Ewan could frustrate Hadyn to no end, or, with the sheer power of silliness, cheer him up when a sullen moment was about to strike. Not much wanting to be rescued from his mood at the moment, however, Hadyn let his silent response wrap around him like a barrier against further penetration. He didn’t notice that Ewan’s gaze had drifted from the briar patch to the low sky and paused there.<br /><br /> “What do you make of that?” he dimly heard his brother say, distracted, curious. Through the haze of his own thoughts, Hadyn followed Ewan’s line of sight, his pointing finger, straight into the sunset. At first, he saw nothing. Then it was obvious. Several large, black birds were swooping low on the horizon. Even at a distance, it appeared they were headed straight for the two boys, unveering over the slope of the ground, drawing swiftly nearer, a hundred yards or so away. From the sound of their raucous cry, they were like ravens, only larger, throatier, and if possible, blacker.<br /><br /> “Cawl-cawl,” they cried.<br /><br /> Hadyn counted four total, wings outstretched, unflapping, like stealth bombers in formation. There was something organized and determined about their flight. It lacked animal randomness.<br /><br /> “Do they look strange to you?” Ewan asked, cocking his head.<br /><br /> Hadyn pretended to be uninterested. It didn’t last. “What is that in their claws? What’re they carrying?”<br /><br /> “Yeah, I see it. Sticks?”<br /><br /> “Too thick. It would be too heavy. Wouldn’t it?”<br /><br /> “Hard to tell at this angle. Are they heading for us?” Ewan held up his hand to shield his eyes. “Man, they’re fast. What are they?”<br /><br /> “I don’t know, but they’re still—”<br /><br /> “Look out!” Ewan dove to the side, tripping Hadyn in the process. Both boys hit the ground on a roll, turning just in time to see the birds swoop suddenly upward, arcing high into the sky, turn, then turn again. The lead bird, larger than the others, croaked loudly; the other three responded. Over and over, the same phrase, like a demand: “Cawl!”<br /><br /> All four were pitch black, having none of the deep blue sheen of a crow’s feathers, or so it seemed in the failing light. They flew as black slashes in the sky, all wing and beak, not elegant in the air, but fast. Disappearing completely against the lightless eastern expanse, they reappeared again as silhouettes skimming the western horizon. At first it seemed to Hadyn the birds would fly away, as they swept up and out in a wide arc. But the curve of their path soon came full circle. They were attempting another pass. Both boys nervously scooted further outside the angle of the birds’ approach.<br /><br /> “What in the world?” Hadyn said, hatchet raised and ready. It was clearer now in silhouette form. Each bird carried the form of a long, thick tube in their talons. <br /><br /> The brothers hunched on the ground, motionless, muscles tensed, watching as the birds continued their second approach. Hadyn held his breath. The birds didn’t veer, nor aim again for the boys. Instead, they formed a precise, single-file line, a black arrow shooting toward the main tunnel of the thicket. With a final loud croak—“Cawl!”—and not a single flap of wing, all four swooped straight into the hole, one after the other. As they did, each released the object clutched in its talons. The tubes clattered together with a light, tinny sound at the mouth of the tunnel, literally at the boys’ feet. The birds were already beyond sight. Their throaty noise echoed for a moment, evaporating into an obvious silence marked only by the faint breeze of wings passing over broken grass.<br /><br /> Hadyn and Ewan stared first at the tunnel, then at the objects. Then at each other. Then back at the tunnel. In the same instant, each of them leaped toward what the birds had left behind: four thin, black metallic tubes, trimmed with milky white bands at top and bottom. <br /><br /> Hadyn slowly stretched out his hand and picked up a tube. He rolled it between his fingers. It was about the length of Ewan’s Irish whistle, but thicker, maybe the circumference of a quarter. Not heavy at all. In the middle of each tube, finely wrought in scripted gold filigree, the letter ‘A’ appeared.<br /><br /> Ewan lightly shook his tube, listening for clues to its contents. It sounded hollow. <br /><br /> “They didn’t even have us sign for delivery,” he deadpanned. “What do we do with these? They look important.”<br /><br /> “How should I know?” Hadyn said contemptuously, flicking his eyes cautiously toward the tunnel. “Where’d they even go? I mean, really. Are they just hiding back there until we leave?”<br /><br /> “Who cares!” Ewan said. His disgust was obvious. Hadyn’s was being an analyst again. “This isn’t hard, Hadyn. Some big birds dive bombed us. They dropped these cool tubes. It makes no sense. It’s awesome. Totally, factor 10 cool.”<br /><br /> Hadyn mulled it over. “Maybe they’re some sort of carrier pigeon, but...do carrier pigeons even fly anymore?<br /><br /> “Only on Gilligan’s Island. TV Land. Listen to me, you’re just guessing.”<br /><br /> “Have you got a better idea?” Hadyn demanded.<br /><br /> Ewan waited, considered. Hadyn knew he hated being put on the spot like that, in the inferior position. Now it was Ewan’s turn to think. <br /><br /> “Okay, maybe you’re right. Maybe those birds really are carriers of some sort?—” Ewan held up a tube, “—obviously they are. What if they need to carry these things farther still? What if they’re just resting? What if they are trained to do this when they need to rest? Drop their packages, find a hole, rest, then grab their stuff and carry on?”<br /><br /> “So...are you suggesting we flush them out? Cause there is no way I’m going to crawl back there. They can get out later on their own.”<br /><br /> Ewan didn’t reply. Instead he dug into his pocket, pulled out a small flashlight, and scuttled into the tunnel the birds had entered. “Wait here,” he ordered. <br /><br /> “Hey, watch it back there!” Hadyn cautioned. Secretly, he wanted him to go, knew how to punch his brother’s buttons to make it happen. “Those claws looked sharp!”<br /><br /> While he waited for Ewan to return, Hadyn examined the tubes further. He shook one tube, flicked it, smelled another; picked up and twirled the third and fourth tubes. His efforts yielded the same muffled sensation of something barely shifting inside. Maybe a rolled up piece of paper? If the ravens (or crows, or whatever they were) were carriers of some sort, a written message did make the most sense. But who in the world still sent paper messages...by bird? By raven, no less. Hello, email anyone?<br /><br /> Presently, Ewan reappeared, breathing hard.<br /><br /> “They’re gone,” he said simply. “Must have flown out one of the other tunnels.”<br /><br /> Hadyn creased his brow. “No way. None of the tunnels connect yet.”<br /><br /> “They don’t?” Ewan’s eyes widened as it dawned on him that he hadn’t seen any other tunnels. “No...they don’t.”<br /><br /> The two boys stared at one another in silence. Evening enfolded them; soon, darkness. “They must have crawled through the branches,” Hadyn surmised, but he hardly sounded convinced. “Are you sure you didn’t see them?”<br /><br /> Ewan rolled his eyes. “Hello? Big, black flappy things. Yes, I’m sure.” He grabbed one of the tubes, shook it again. “This band looks like ivory, but it’s hard to tell in this light.”<br /><br /> “Reminds me of one of mom’s necklaces.”<br /><br /> Ewan grabbed the end and twisted. “Only one way to find out.”<br /><br /> This time Hadyn didn’t argue or analyze. Curiosity had gotten the best of him. The lid twisted off with surprising ease, followed by a thin hiss of sealed air. Ewan wrinkled his face. “Smells old. Yuck. Turn on your flashlight. Mine is getting weak.”<br /><br /> He tapped the open end against the palm of his left hand. The coiled edge of a piece of thick, cream-colored parchment slipped out. Hadyn leaned in closer. Ewan gingerly teased the scroll out. It had a heavy grain of woven cotton, with rough edges trimmed in gold foil. Both boys let out a long slow breath. Neither the silver moon hung off the treeline, nor the winking stars, provided light enough to clearly see. Hadyn turned on his flashlight as his brother unrolled the parchment. The paper was larger than normal, rich to the touch. Pinning both ends to the ground, both boys read at once the simple message beautifully scripted on the inside in golden ink: <em>“You have been chosen for a life of great purpose. Adventure awaits you in the Hidden Lands.”</em><br /><br /> “Dude!” Ewan whistled softly. “Looks like something from King Arthur. What in the world are the Hidden Lands?”<br /><br /> Hadyn, who actually loved the lore of King Arthur—and Ewan knew it—was already reaching for another tube. Ewan followed his lead. Within twenty seconds, all four tubes were opened, and four identical parchments lay spread on the ground in the dark, illuminated only by flashlights. Golden ink glimmered, subtly shifting hues. Each bore the exact same message.<br /><br /> <em>“You have been chosen for a life of great purpose. Adventure awaits you in the Hidden Lands.”</em><br /><br />Hadyn grabbed the four sheets, quickly rolled them up, and inserted each back into its thin metal sleeve. “We need to head home before Dad gets worried,” he said. “You take two and I’ll take two. Stick them under your shirt and act cool. I have no idea what these are. But for now, they’re our little secret.”<br /><br />He puffed up for a moment, the older brother. Still out of sorts with the world.<br /><br />“And none of your games, either, Ewan. I mean it. I’m not in the mood.”<br /></div></textarea><br /></div><br /><br />*****************************************************************************<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s1600-h/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg"><a href="http://teenfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178594274707613778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s200/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg" border="0" /></a></a><br /><br />It's the 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://hiddenlands.net/">D. Barkley Briggs</a></font></strong><br /><p></p><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="160"><font color="#009900" size="4"></font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"><font size="2"><font color="#009900">and his/her book:</font> </font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"></strong></div></font><p></p><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="7"><font size="3"></font></strong></div></font><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/160006227X/">The Book of Names (Legends of Karac Tor)</a></font></strong></div><br /><p align="center">NavPress Publishing Group (July 15, 2008)</p><br /><p align="center"></p><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><font color="#ff6600"></font></font></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><p></p><font color="#ff6600">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</font> </font></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCudX5rnzj5mt4jQnJPvY63jrZ_xtE86iXiDq5d3seStT43Zh1KenOPm9BOlm44nUSDQtddLMeGhI_uNpsS3zE87c7pFFWP8UlHTbRWhT0u42USOzAGQRqcIfocJ5npJDk8wOvDTtlm8/s1600-h/BriggsBW.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCudX5rnzj5mt4jQnJPvY63jrZ_xtE86iXiDq5d3seStT43Zh1KenOPm9BOlm44nUSDQtddLMeGhI_uNpsS3zE87c7pFFWP8UlHTbRWhT0u42USOzAGQRqcIfocJ5npJDk8wOvDTtlm8/s200/BriggsBW.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235689689091635522" /></a>Dean Barkley Briggs is an author, father of eight, and prone to twisting his ankle playing basketball. He grew up reading J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Patricia McKillip, Guy Gavriel Kay, Stephen R. Donaldson, Ursila K. Leguin, Susan Cooper, Madeline L'Engle, Terry Brooks, Andre Norton and Lloyd Alexander (just to name a few)...and generally thinks most fantasy fiction pales in comparison. (Yes, he dabbled in sci-fi, too. Most notably Bradbury, Burroughs and Heinlein).<br /><br />After losing his wife of 16 years, Briggs decided to tell a tale his four sons could relate to in their own journey through loss. Thus was born The Legends of Karac Tor, a sweeping adventure of four brothers who, while struggling to adjust to life without mom, become enmeshed in the crisis of another world. Along the way they must find their courage, face their pain, and never quit searching for home.<br /><br />Briggs is remarried to a lovely woman, who previously lost her husband. Together with her four children, their hands are full.<br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: $12.99 <br />Reading level: Young Adult<br />Paperback: 397 pages <br />Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (July 15, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 160006227X <br />ISBN-13: 978-1600062278 <br /><br /><font color="#ffcc00"><strong><font size="5">Watch the Trailer:</font> </strong><br /></font><br /><br /><embed src="http://godtube.com/flvplayer.swf" FlashVars="viewkey=dad2e148f650af4a8ab3" wmode="transparent" quality="high" width="330" height="270" name="godtube" align="middle" allowScriptAccess="sameDomain" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" /></embed><br /><br /><font color="#ffcc00"><strong><font size="5">Enter the Contest:</font> </strong><br /></font><br /><embed src="http://godtube.com/flvplayer.swf" FlashVars="viewkey=b38cf7b4d35aea02a5a2" wmode="transparent" quality="high" width="330" height="270" name="godtube" align="middle" allowScriptAccess="sameDomain" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" /></embed><br /><br /><br /><font color="#ffcc00"><strong><font size="5">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</font> </strong><br /></font><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDCOIDizPWVveW9kyMN79cEWRBY5sM4SvCxfaNYmsWi66eKw1WV0krZlNsHauOwFw44FPdKpsVp0oDmwe1zNwmOxK9JP_SAcqg4XyRZCxTELWugjYEpbPBV0eQwSNoZRlGLqudEP2_eLE/s1600-h/BookofNames.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDCOIDizPWVveW9kyMN79cEWRBY5sM4SvCxfaNYmsWi66eKw1WV0krZlNsHauOwFw44FPdKpsVp0oDmwe1zNwmOxK9JP_SAcqg4XyRZCxTELWugjYEpbPBV0eQwSNoZRlGLqudEP2_eLE/s200/BookofNames.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235689798525483314" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;"><font color="#00008B"><strong><font size="3"><center>In final days / Come final woes<br /><br />Doors shall open / Doors shall close<br /><br />Forgotten curse / Blight the land<br /><br />Four names, one blood / Fall or stand <br /><br /><br />If lost the great one / Fallen low<br /><br />Rises new / Ancient foe<br /><br />Darkest path / River black<br /><br />Blade which breaks / Anoint, attack <br /><br /><br />If once and future / Lord of war,<br /><br />Queen la Faye / Mighty sword,<br /><br />Rises ‘gain / As warrior king,<br /><br />Prepare / For day of reckoning <br /><br /><br />If Aion’s breath / For music cursed<br /><br />Sings making things / Made perverse,<br /><br />Fate shall split / Road in twain<br /><br />One shall lose / One shall gain <br /><br /><br />If secret lore / Then be found<br /><br />Eight plus one / All unbound<br /><br />Beast shall come / Six must go<br /><br />Doors shall open / Doors shall close <br /><br /><br />If buried deep / Hidden seen<br /><br />Ancient tomb / Midst crimson green<br /><br />Nine shall bow / Nine more rise<br /><br />Nine horns blow / Nine stars shine <br /><br /><br />If falling flame / Burning pure<br /><br />Ten thousand cries / For mercy heard<br /><br />Then plagues, peril / Horns of dread<br /><br />End of days / Land be red <br /><br /><br />When final days / Bring final woes<br /><br />Doors shall open / Doors shall close<br /><br />Fate for one / For all unleashed<br /><br />Come the Prince / Slay the beast <br /><br /><br />Cross the water / Isgurd’s way<br /><br />White horse / Top the waves<br /><br />Aion, fierce! / Aion, brave!<br /><br />Aion rides / To save the day <br /><br /><br /><em>— The Ravna’s Last Riddle </em></font> </strong></center><br /></font><br /> <br /><br />Chapter 1<br /><br />BLACK BIRDS <br /><br /><br /> The day was gray and cold, mildly damp. Perfect for magic. Strange clouds overhead teased the senses with a fragrance of storm wind and lightning and the faint, clean smell of ozone. Invisible energy sparkled like morning dew on blades of grass. <br /><br /> Standing alone in an empty field on the back end of their new acreage, Hadyn Barlow only saw the clouds. By definition, you can't see what's invisible, and as for smelling magic? Well, let's just say, unlikely. Hadyn saw what was obvious for late November, rural Missouri: leafless trees, dead grass, winter coming on strong. Most of all he saw (and despised) the humongous briar patch in front of him, feeling anew each and every blister and callous earned hacking through its branches.<br /><br /> Making room for cattle next spring, or so he was told; this, even though his dad had never owned a cow in his life. He was a history teacher for crying out loud. A college professor. Hadyn's shoulders slumped. It didn't matter. Everything was different now. Mr. Barlow didn't let his boys curse, but low under his breath, Hadyn did, mildly, just to prove the point. Life stunk. That was the brutal truth. <br /><br /> All true for the most part. Yet standing alone in the field, bundled in flannel, something else prickled his skin—something hidden in the rhythm of the day, at its core—and it wasn't just the chill wind. He couldn't shake it. A sense of something. Out-of-placeness. Faced with a friendless sophomore year, Hadyn knew that feeling all too well. It attacked him every morning, right before school.<br /><br /> But this was something more, more than the usual nervousness and name-calling stuff. His intuition was maddeningly vague. Hadyn sniffed the air, eyeing the field. A fox scampered in the distance. Bobwhites whistled softly. This had been his routine for weeks. Go to school, come home, do chores. Today was no different. Except for the clouds.<br /><br /> He looked upwards, struck again by the strange hues. The colors were still there; kinda creepy. They had lingered since the bus ride home. He had seen it happen with his own eyes, though he didn’t think much of it at the time. Right about the time school let out and the yellow buses began winding home, the skies had opened and spilled. Low banks of clouds came tumbling from the horizon like old woolen blankets. Like that scene from <em>Independence Day</em>, when the alien ships first appeared. Hues of purple, cobalt and charcoal smeared together. Not sky blue. Not normal. Riding on the bus, face pressed against the cold window, he didn’t know what to think. Only that it looked…<em>otherworldly</em>. Like God had put Van Gogh in charge for the day.<br /><br /> Strange.<br /><br /> Earlier, the day hadn’t felt weird. If anything, he had felt relief. Two days until Friday...until Thanksgiving Break. Only two days. He could make it. Standing by the mailbox with his three brothers, waiting for the bus—he couldn’t wait to get his own car—mild winds had stirred from the south, scampering through row after row of brittle stalks in the neighbor’s cornfield across the road. He heard them in the leafless oak and elm of his own yard, hissing with a high, dry laughter. Warm winds, not cold. But about noon, the wind shifted. Again, no big deal for Missouri, always caught in the middle between the gulf streams of Mexico and Canada’s bitter cold. Temperamental weather was normal in these parts.<br /><br /> Yet there it was. From the winding ride home to this very moment, he couldn’t rid himself of that dry-mouthed, queasy feeling. It was more than a shift in wind. It was a shift in energy. Yes, the dark clouds and strange colors reminded him of the thickening air before a big, cracking Midwestern storm, but that wasn’t it. This was different.<br /><br /> Hadyn being Hadyn, more than anything else, wanted to identify the moment. To name it.<br /><br /> Though he didn’t actually verbalize until age three, Hadyn was born with a question mark wrinkled into his brows. Always searching, always studying something. He couldn’t speak a word before then—refused to, his dad always said—yet he knew the letters of the alphabet at a precocious 12 months. When he finally did decide to talk, words gushed. Full sentences. Big vocabulary. Not surprisingly, it was clear early on that Hadyn was one of those types bent toward structure, patterns. He hated incongruities, hated not knowing how to pinpoint the strange twist in sky and mood right in the middle of an otherwise typically dreary day. If it was just nasty weather, name it! What did it feel like? <em>Wet fish guts?</em> Not quite. <em>A full wet diaper?</em> He remembered those well enough from when the twins were little, but no. <em>A three day old slice of cheese?</em><br /><br /> Yes, that was it. Cold, damp, moldy.<br /><br /> <em>Velveeta, actually,</em> he decided, feeling a small measure of satisfaction. He fumbled for the zipper of his coat as another icy breeze prickled his skin. <em>Yep, another lousy Velveeta day in the life of Hadyn Barlow.</em><br /><br /> He thought of the roaring wood stove back home. Hot cocoa. Little consolation. Until dusk, the oldest Barlow boy was stuck outside in a field with hatchet and hedge shears. Stuck in a foul mood, stuck with a knot in his throat. Just plain stuck. His task, his life, seemed endless and pointless.<br /><br />“Just a little bit every day, however much you can manage after school,” his father would remind him. “And don’t look so grumpy. The days are shorter and shorter.”<br /><br /> But not any warmer.<br /><br /> “Grr!” Hadyn grumbled aloud, snapping at the cold in his thoughts. He had chosen to “clear” the massive beast by carving tunnels in it, not just hacking mindlessly. Probably not exactly what Dad had in mind, but, well, to be honest, he didn’t really care. He was the one stuck out here in the cold. He had already carved several tunnels, and reentered the biggest one now, loping and clicking his shears at the endless mess of thorns and branches, alternated by halfhearted swings of the hatchet. The briar patch sprawled a couple hundred feet in every direction, comprised of dense, overgrown nettles, blackberry bushes and cottonweed. Untended for generations, the underbrush was so thick and tall a person could easily get lost in it, especially toward the center, where the land formed a shallow ravine that channeled wet weather rains toward the pond on the lower field. Hadyn guessed the height at the center point would be a good 12 feet or more. Enormous.<br /><br /> Really, it was a ridiculous task. Dad had to know that.<br /><br /> “Why not just burn the thing?” Hadyn had asked him. Burn it, then brush-hog it. Throw a hand grenade in and run.<br /><br /> Mr. Barlow never really answered, just said he wanted him to clear it by hand. After the first day of grumbling and complaining (which proved none too popular with his father), Hadyn started carving tunnels. His plan was to craft a maze out of it, maybe create a place to escape...at least have some fun before his dad made him level the whole thing <br /><br /> <em>Fun?</em> He caught himself, tasting the word like a spoonful of Nyquil. <em>Fun is soccer with the guys back home.</em><br /><br /> He paused for a moment to wipe his brow. Home was no longer a city, not for four months now. It was a cow pasture. Home <em>had </em>been Independence, the suburb of Kansas City whose chief claim to fame (other than being the birthplace of Harry S. Truman) was that Jesus would return there, at least according to one of numerous Mormon splinter groups. For Hadyn, it was all about skateboards and traffic and rows of houses. Noise. Friends. Now, all that—everything familiar and good—was exactly three hours and nineteen minutes straight across I-70 on the opposite end of the state. Might as well have been on the opposite side of the planet. Home now: three hundred acres in the middle of nowhere, away from all he had ever known.<br /><br /> The town was called Newland. The name seemed like a smack in the face.<br /><br /> New town. New school. New faces. New troubles to deal with. New disappointments. His dad had tried to make a big deal of the “new” thing. This would be a <em>new</em> start for their family, a <em>new </em>chapter, blah, blah, blah. A change, from sadness to hope, he said. Hadyn hated change.<br /><br /> He didn’t want new. He wanted it how it used to be.<br /><br /> How it used to be was happy. Normal. Right. Fair. How it used to be meant they were a family of six, not five. Hadyn felt a familiar pang slice across his chest. He would have traded all the unknown magic in the world for five more minutes with—<br /><br /> <em>Mom...</em><br /><br /> It had been a year since she died. His mental images of her remained vivid, of a beautiful woman with porcelain smooth skin, naturally blonde, witty, vivacious. All four Barlow brothers shared her spunky attitude, as well as an even mix of their parents’ coloring: mom’s fairness, dad’s darker hair and complexion, the boys somewhere in between. Hadyn, rapidly entering his adult body, was tall for his age, muscular, lean, possessed of a sometimes uncomfortably aristocratic air. Some days his eyes were smoky jade, others, iron gray. But he had Anna’s cleverness.<br /><br /> His parents had been saving money for several years, studying the land all around Newland. Hadyn could not fathom why. What was so special about Podunk, America? But he knew his mom had been happy to think about life in the country. Once upon a time, that was enough. But now? Without her, what was the point? Why couldn’t they have just stayed in Independence? Moving wasn’t going to bring her back. Didn’t Dad know that? <br /><br /> For the second time that afternoon, a tidal wave of loneliness nearly drowned him, left him in a goo of self-pity, the sort of sticky feeling he didn’t want anyone to spoil by cheering him up. He took one more angry swing. Done or not, he was done for the day. Work could wait. Dad would just have to deal with it. Already, he had built a pretty impressive maze, though. Six unconnected tunnels so far.<br /><br /> <em>Like I give a rip about these stupid tunnels,</em> he thought as he crawled from the center toward the mouth of the largest, longest shaft. <em>Or this stupid land, or town, or patch of—</em>his knee jammed against a thorn protruding from the soil—<em>thorny! ridiculous!...</em><br /><br /> He clenched his jaw, flashing through dozens of choice words, using none. Honoring his dad. Pain streamed as tears down his cheek, and it wasn’t just the thorn in his knee. It was life. Crawling forty more feet, he emerged to face the slowly westering sun melting down the sky. The otherworldly colors he had seen earlier were gone. Only the cold remained. And now, a bleeding, sore knee.<br /><br /> Behind him, he heard heard rustling grass and the high pitched, lilting notes of his brother’s tin whistle. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and grimaced. Ewan, like his mother, was musical. Even more like her, he was sentimental. He often carried the whistle she had brought him as a gift from Ireland. It would, no doubt, have seemed humorous to some, to see him wandering the field, playing a spritely little tune. It only annoyed Hadyn. Thankfully, as Ewan drew closer, the song trailed away.<br /><br /> “Hey, Hadyn.”<br /><br /> Hadyn grunted. “What do you want?”<br /><br /> Ewan shrugged, tucking the flute into his back pocket. He wore blue jeans, and a blue embroidered ball cap, initialed ‘ECB’.<br /><br /> “Wondered how things were going.”<br /><br /> “Dad sent you to help, didn’t he?”<br /><br /> Ewan frowned. “Yep. Got done with my chores sooner than planned.”<br /><br /> “Bummer.”<br /><br /> “Major bummer,” Ewan emphasized. “Looks like you’re near the center, though. That’s pretty cool.”<br /><br /> Hadyn didn’t reply. With only two years between them, the two brothers had always been the closest of friends, the fiercest competitors, the quickest of combatants. They understood each other’s rhythms like no one else in the family. Whereas Hadyn was studied, wise and cautious, Ewan was quick, fearless and comfortable with long odds. No one could make Ewan laugh—gasping-for-air, fall-on-the-ground-cackling—like Hadyn. Likewise, Ewan could frustrate Hadyn to no end, or, with the sheer power of silliness, cheer him up when a sullen moment was about to strike. Not much wanting to be rescued from his mood at the moment, however, Hadyn let his silent response wrap around him like a barrier against further penetration. He didn’t notice that Ewan’s gaze had drifted from the briar patch to the low sky and paused there.<br /><br /> “What do you make of that?” he dimly heard his brother say, distracted, curious. Through the haze of his own thoughts, Hadyn followed Ewan’s line of sight, his pointing finger, straight into the sunset. At first, he saw nothing. Then it was obvious. Several large, black birds were swooping low on the horizon. Even at a distance, it appeared they were headed straight for the two boys, unveering over the slope of the ground, drawing swiftly nearer, a hundred yards or so away. From the sound of their raucous cry, they were like ravens, only larger, throatier, and if possible, blacker.<br /><br /> “Cawl-cawl,” they cried.<br /><br /> Hadyn counted four total, wings outstretched, unflapping, like stealth bombers in formation. There was something organized and determined about their flight. It lacked animal randomness.<br /><br /> “Do they look strange to you?” Ewan asked, cocking his head.<br /><br /> Hadyn pretended to be uninterested. It didn’t last. “What is that in their claws? What’re they carrying?”<br /><br /> “Yeah, I see it. Sticks?”<br /><br /> “Too thick. It would be too heavy. Wouldn’t it?”<br /><br /> “Hard to tell at this angle. Are they heading for us?” Ewan held up his hand to shield his eyes. “Man, they’re fast. What are they?”<br /><br /> “I don’t know, but they’re still—”<br /><br /> “Look out!” Ewan dove to the side, tripping Hadyn in the process. Both boys hit the ground on a roll, turning just in time to see the birds swoop suddenly upward, arcing high into the sky, turn, then turn again. The lead bird, larger than the others, croaked loudly; the other three responded. Over and over, the same phrase, like a demand: “Cawl!”<br /><br /> All four were pitch black, having none of the deep blue sheen of a crow’s feathers, or so it seemed in the failing light. They flew as black slashes in the sky, all wing and beak, not elegant in the air, but fast. Disappearing completely against the lightless eastern expanse, they reappeared again as silhouettes skimming the western horizon. At first it seemed to Hadyn the birds would fly away, as they swept up and out in a wide arc. But the curve of their path soon came full circle. They were attempting another pass. Both boys nervously scooted further outside the angle of the birds’ approach.<br /><br /> “What in the world?” Hadyn said, hatchet raised and ready. It was clearer now in silhouette form. Each bird carried the form of a long, thick tube in their talons. <br /><br /> The brothers hunched on the ground, motionless, muscles tensed, watching as the birds continued their second approach. Hadyn held his breath. The birds didn’t veer, nor aim again for the boys. Instead, they formed a precise, single-file line, a black arrow shooting toward the main tunnel of the thicket. With a final loud croak—“Cawl!”—and not a single flap of wing, all four swooped straight into the hole, one after the other. As they did, each released the object clutched in its talons. The tubes clattered together with a light, tinny sound at the mouth of the tunnel, literally at the boys’ feet. The birds were already beyond sight. Their throaty noise echoed for a moment, evaporating into an obvious silence marked only by the faint breeze of wings passing over broken grass.<br /><br /> Hadyn and Ewan stared first at the tunnel, then at the objects. Then at each other. Then back at the tunnel. In the same instant, each of them leaped toward what the birds had left behind: four thin, black metallic tubes, trimmed with milky white bands at top and bottom. <br /><br /> Hadyn slowly stretched out his hand and picked up a tube. He rolled it between his fingers. It was about the length of Ewan’s Irish whistle, but thicker, maybe the circumference of a quarter. Not heavy at all. In the middle of each tube, finely wrought in scripted gold filigree, the letter ‘A’ appeared.<br /><br /> Ewan lightly shook his tube, listening for clues to its contents. It sounded hollow. <br /><br /> “They didn’t even have us sign for delivery,” he deadpanned. “What do we do with these? They look important.”<br /><br /> “How should I know?” Hadyn said contemptuously, flicking his eyes cautiously toward the tunnel. “Where’d they even go? I mean, really. Are they just hiding back there until we leave?”<br /><br /> “Who cares!” Ewan said. His disgust was obvious. Hadyn’s was being an analyst again. “This isn’t hard, Hadyn. Some big birds dive bombed us. They dropped these cool tubes. It makes no sense. It’s awesome. Totally, factor 10 cool.”<br /><br /> Hadyn mulled it over. “Maybe they’re some sort of carrier pigeon, but...do carrier pigeons even fly anymore?<br /><br /> “Only on Gilligan’s Island. TV Land. Listen to me, you’re just guessing.”<br /><br /> “Have you got a better idea?” Hadyn demanded.<br /><br /> Ewan waited, considered. Hadyn knew he hated being put on the spot like that, in the inferior position. Now it was Ewan’s turn to think. <br /><br /> “Okay, maybe you’re right. Maybe those birds really are carriers of some sort?—” Ewan held up a tube, “—obviously they are. What if they need to carry these things farther still? What if they’re just resting? What if they are trained to do this when they need to rest? Drop their packages, find a hole, rest, then grab their stuff and carry on?”<br /><br /> “So...are you suggesting we flush them out? Cause there is no way I’m going to crawl back there. They can get out later on their own.”<br /><br /> Ewan didn’t reply. Instead he dug into his pocket, pulled out a small flashlight, and scuttled into the tunnel the birds had entered. “Wait here,” he ordered. <br /><br /> “Hey, watch it back there!” Hadyn cautioned. Secretly, he wanted him to go, knew how to punch his brother’s buttons to make it happen. “Those claws looked sharp!”<br /><br /> While he waited for Ewan to return, Hadyn examined the tubes further. He shook one tube, flicked it, smelled another; picked up and twirled the third and fourth tubes. His efforts yielded the same muffled sensation of something barely shifting inside. Maybe a rolled up piece of paper? If the ravens (or crows, or whatever they were) were carriers of some sort, a written message did make the most sense. But who in the world still sent paper messages...by bird? By raven, no less. Hello, email anyone?<br /><br /> Presently, Ewan reappeared, breathing hard.<br /><br /> “They’re gone,” he said simply. “Must have flown out one of the other tunnels.”<br /><br /> Hadyn creased his brow. “No way. None of the tunnels connect yet.”<br /><br /> “They don’t?” Ewan’s eyes widened as it dawned on him that he hadn’t seen any other tunnels. “No...they don’t.”<br /><br /> The two boys stared at one another in silence. Evening enfolded them; soon, darkness. “They must have crawled through the branches,” Hadyn surmised, but he hardly sounded convinced. “Are you sure you didn’t see them?”<br /><br /> Ewan rolled his eyes. “Hello? Big, black flappy things. Yes, I’m sure.” He grabbed one of the tubes, shook it again. “This band looks like ivory, but it’s hard to tell in this light.”<br /><br /> “Reminds me of one of mom’s necklaces.”<br /><br /> Ewan grabbed the end and twisted. “Only one way to find out.”<br /><br /> This time Hadyn didn’t argue or analyze. Curiosity had gotten the best of him. The lid twisted off with surprising ease, followed by a thin hiss of sealed air. Ewan wrinkled his face. “Smells old. Yuck. Turn on your flashlight. Mine is getting weak.”<br /><br /> He tapped the open end against the palm of his left hand. The coiled edge of a piece of thick, cream-colored parchment slipped out. Hadyn leaned in closer. Ewan gingerly teased the scroll out. It had a heavy grain of woven cotton, with rough edges trimmed in gold foil. Both boys let out a long slow breath. Neither the silver moon hung off the treeline, nor the winking stars, provided light enough to clearly see. Hadyn turned on his flashlight as his brother unrolled the parchment. The paper was larger than normal, rich to the touch. Pinning both ends to the ground, both boys read at once the simple message beautifully scripted on the inside in golden ink: <em>“You have been chosen for a life of great purpose. Adventure awaits you in the Hidden Lands.”</em><br /><br /> “Dude!” Ewan whistled softly. “Looks like something from King Arthur. What in the world are the Hidden Lands?”<br /><br /> Hadyn, who actually loved the lore of King Arthur—and Ewan knew it—was already reaching for another tube. Ewan followed his lead. Within twenty seconds, all four tubes were opened, and four identical parchments lay spread on the ground in the dark, illuminated only by flashlights. Golden ink glimmered, subtly shifting hues. Each bore the exact same message.<br /><br /> <em>“You have been chosen for a life of great purpose. Adventure awaits you in the Hidden Lands.”</em><br /><br />Hadyn grabbed the four sheets, quickly rolled them up, and inserted each back into its thin metal sleeve. “We need to head home before Dad gets worried,” he said. “You take two and I’ll take two. Stick them under your shirt and act cool. I have no idea what these are. But for now, they’re our little secret.”<br /><br />He puffed up for a moment, the older brother. Still out of sorts with the world.<br /><br />“And none of your games, either, Ewan. I mean it. I’m not in the mood.”</div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-57366003270212813482008-08-11T00:02:00.004-04:002008-12-10T11:49:54.611-05:00I’m Not Crazy, But I Might be a Carrier by Charles Marshall<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/G_SpuNQ7mbk&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/G_SpuNQ7mbk&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s1600-h/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg"></a><a href="http://nonfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179647009365145890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s200/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg" border="0" /></a><br />It's the 15th, time for the Non~FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 15th, we will featuring an author and his/her latest non~fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><br /><a href="http://www.charlesmarshallcomedy.com/">Charles Marshall</a></span></strong><br /><p></p><br /><strong><span style="font-size:160;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#009900;">and his book:</span> </span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"></strong></div></span><p></p><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:7;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></strong></div></span><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/082543419X/">I’m Not Crazy, But I Might be a Carrier </a></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Kregel Publications (April 17, 2008)<br /></p><br /><p align="center"></p><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><br /><p></p><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg8Wp-R7HonwLOZuRz56P6YZm_AL674Dt_25rXRDBNnAO9Q42ZPQY2mH5ioAKDikG_IB8BvpRiAV3mjJrhlM7mBgJpcfrLVCXoPRYYZu7G825v1X29LK0TDqWnj7lfxGjOzlgnOXiu/s1600-h/Charles+Marshall.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233097953116979634" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg8Wp-R7HonwLOZuRz56P6YZm_AL674Dt_25rXRDBNnAO9Q42ZPQY2mH5ioAKDikG_IB8BvpRiAV3mjJrhlM7mBgJpcfrLVCXoPRYYZu7G825v1X29LK0TDqWnj7lfxGjOzlgnOXiu/s200/Charles+Marshall.jpg" border="0" /></a><strong>Charles Marshall</strong> began his career onstage as a singer/songwriter. When his singing voice gave out, he turned to stand-up comedy and was much more successful. He is now a nationally syndicated Christian humor columnist and has contributed to Focus on the Family magazine. He is the author of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0974808458/">Shattering the Glass Slipper: Destroying Fairy Tale Thinking Before It Destroys You </a>and has filmed two stand-up comedy videos, I'm Just Sayin' and Fully Animated.<br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: $12.99<br />Paperback: 144 pages<br />Publisher: Kregel Publications (April 17, 2008)<br />Language: English<br />ISBN-10: 082543419X<br />ISBN-13: 978-0825434198<br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></div></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA6pU338tcSicChi8VppUcPxoqYtn9_MNyjX5GiH2YIhKsoAoxuYgMUE0IwfDiJZLbSVyNrMwk60wy3dFbMWJdkndw-XFvikTWUXq1jwOyad0RE9zHesMBMGh2r43K1nKuD841su56/s1600-h/I'm+Not+Crazy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233098157477716114" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA6pU338tcSicChi8VppUcPxoqYtn9_MNyjX5GiH2YIhKsoAoxuYgMUE0IwfDiJZLbSVyNrMwk60wy3dFbMWJdkndw-XFvikTWUXq1jwOyad0RE9zHesMBMGh2r43K1nKuD841su56/s200/I'm+Not+Crazy.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div style="OVERFLOW: auto; HEIGHT: 307px">Chapter 1 Going to the Dogs<br /><br /> <br /><br /> My wife and I have been thinking about getting a dog, lately, and discussing what type we might get. For me, there is really only one possibility—and that, of course, is a real dog.<br /><br /> For the uninitiated, there are three basic types of dogs:<br /><br /> 1] Real dogs. These are dogs as God originally made them—monstrous, made-for-the-outdoors hunting machines that are perfect for intimidating neighbors and attracting lawsuits. <br /><br /> The ownership rule for guys and dogs is simple: the bigger the dog, the cooler you look. Walk down the street with a Pekingese and you might as well be wearing a tutu.<br /><br /> When you observe a man walking down the street with a massive real-dog, his message to you is clear. “Yes, I’m overcompensating for my insecurities and lack of masculinity but I’ve got a really big dog.” <br /><br /> Now that’s the kind of attitude I can get behind. <br /><br /> 2] Mutant rat-dogs, otherwise known as Chihuahuas. These poor creatures are the unintentional result of secret experiments conducted by the Mexican army in a failed attempt to create the ultimate weapon by cross-breeding bats and Great Danes. The only surviving result of these experiments is a group of nervous, angry little rat-dogs that decided to take their revenge on humanity by being annoying on just about every level known to mankind. <br /> <br /><br /><br /> If you are approached by one of these aberrations of nature, know that it despises you with a hatred rarely seen outside the Middle East, and that it won’t hesitate to tear your ankles to shreds. These dogs are the piranhas of the canine world and would nuke <br /><br /><br />mankind tomorrow if they thought they could get away with it. Under no circumstance should one of these animals be allowed to run for public office. <br /><br /> 3] Kitty-dogs, which is every kind of dog that does not fall into one of the first two categories. I’m all in favor of this type of dog because, hey, girls have to have dogs, too. <br /><br /> The curse of the kitty-dog is that there are those who take a warped delight in dressing them up like people. Most dogs would rather be subjected to Mexican weapons experiments than go through this type of torture.<br /><br /> I cannot say this in strong enough terms: You should never, ever dress up your dog for any reason whatsoever. Take it from me—even if it were thirty below outside, your dog would rather die with dignity in his own fur coat than live while being seen in a little poochie parka.<br /><br /> If you dress your dog, you need to know two things:<br /><br /> 1] The rest of us are making fun of you behind your back.<br /><br /> 2] Every day your dog prays for a heaven where he gets to dress you up in humiliating costumes while he and his doggie friends point at you and laugh for all eternity.<br /><br /> If you feel you absolutely must dress an animal, go dress one that at least has a chance of defending itself like a cougar or a wolverine or a Chihuahua. <br /> <br /><br /><br /> One of the most amazing things about the three dog types is that for every one of them, there is someone that likes that kind of dog. At this very moment, there are people risking the loss of fingers and eyes while they stroke their vicious little rat-dogs, all for the sake of love.<br /><br /> That’s a mysterious kind of love, isn’t it—the kind that embraces the unlovely, that sees through the imperfect and loves without regard? <br /><br /> Let’s face it, the human heart isn’t very attractive either. Every thought we have is consumed with self. If you peel away the layers of even our most noble deeds and acts of kindness, you will find thoughts that circle back to ourselves like homing pigeons. In our hearts, we are all mutant rat-dogs.<br /><br /> And yet God loves us. <br /><br /> In the Bible, you find that same theme of an indefatigable, undefeatable love reaching out to a vicious, ungrateful humanity over and over again. I’ve found it’s a love well worth pursuing.<br /><br /> And so the great dog debate rages in my household, and I think my wife is coming around to my point of view. But, if by chance, you happen to see me in the neighborhood walking a Pekingese that is wearing a teeny hat and sundress, you may safely assume things did not go my way.<br /></div></textarea><br /></div><br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/G_SpuNQ7mbk&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/G_SpuNQ7mbk&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s1600-h/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg"></a><a href="http://nonfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179647009365145890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s200/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg" border="0" /></a><br />It's the 15th, time for the Non~FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 15th, we will featuring an author and his/her latest non~fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><br /><a href="http://www.charlesmarshallcomedy.com/">Charles Marshall</a></span></strong><br /><p></p><br /><strong><span style="font-size:160;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#009900;">and his book:</span> </span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"></strong></div></span><p></p><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:7;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></strong></div></span><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/082543419X/">I’m Not Crazy, But I Might be a Carrier </a></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Kregel Publications (April 17, 2008)<br /></p><br /><p align="center"></p><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><br /><p></p><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg8Wp-R7HonwLOZuRz56P6YZm_AL674Dt_25rXRDBNnAO9Q42ZPQY2mH5ioAKDikG_IB8BvpRiAV3mjJrhlM7mBgJpcfrLVCXoPRYYZu7G825v1X29LK0TDqWnj7lfxGjOzlgnOXiu/s1600-h/Charles+Marshall.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233097953116979634" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg8Wp-R7HonwLOZuRz56P6YZm_AL674Dt_25rXRDBNnAO9Q42ZPQY2mH5ioAKDikG_IB8BvpRiAV3mjJrhlM7mBgJpcfrLVCXoPRYYZu7G825v1X29LK0TDqWnj7lfxGjOzlgnOXiu/s200/Charles+Marshall.jpg" border="0" /></a><strong>Charles Marshall</strong> began his career onstage as a singer/songwriter. When his singing voice gave out, he turned to stand-up comedy and was much more successful. He is now a nationally syndicated Christian humor columnist and has contributed to Focus on the Family magazine. He is the author of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0974808458/">Shattering the Glass Slipper: Destroying Fairy Tale Thinking Before It Destroys You </a>and has filmed two stand-up comedy videos, I'm Just Sayin' and Fully Animated.<br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: $12.99<br />Paperback: 144 pages<br />Publisher: Kregel Publications (April 17, 2008)<br />Language: English<br />ISBN-10: 082543419X<br />ISBN-13: 978-0825434198<br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></div></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA6pU338tcSicChi8VppUcPxoqYtn9_MNyjX5GiH2YIhKsoAoxuYgMUE0IwfDiJZLbSVyNrMwk60wy3dFbMWJdkndw-XFvikTWUXq1jwOyad0RE9zHesMBMGh2r43K1nKuD841su56/s1600-h/I'm+Not+Crazy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233098157477716114" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA6pU338tcSicChi8VppUcPxoqYtn9_MNyjX5GiH2YIhKsoAoxuYgMUE0IwfDiJZLbSVyNrMwk60wy3dFbMWJdkndw-XFvikTWUXq1jwOyad0RE9zHesMBMGh2r43K1nKuD841su56/s200/I'm+Not+Crazy.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div style="OVERFLOW: auto; HEIGHT: 307px">Chapter 1 Going to the Dogs<br /><br /> <br /><br /> My wife and I have been thinking about getting a dog, lately, and discussing what type we might get. For me, there is really only one possibility—and that, of course, is a real dog.<br /><br /> For the uninitiated, there are three basic types of dogs:<br /><br /> 1] Real dogs. These are dogs as God originally made them—monstrous, made-for-the-outdoors hunting machines that are perfect for intimidating neighbors and attracting lawsuits. <br /><br /> The ownership rule for guys and dogs is simple: the bigger the dog, the cooler you look. Walk down the street with a Pekingese and you might as well be wearing a tutu.<br /><br /> When you observe a man walking down the street with a massive real-dog, his message to you is clear. “Yes, I’m overcompensating for my insecurities and lack of masculinity but I’ve got a really big dog.” <br /><br /> Now that’s the kind of attitude I can get behind. <br /><br /> 2] Mutant rat-dogs, otherwise known as Chihuahuas. These poor creatures are the unintentional result of secret experiments conducted by the Mexican army in a failed attempt to create the ultimate weapon by cross-breeding bats and Great Danes. The only surviving result of these experiments is a group of nervous, angry little rat-dogs that decided to take their revenge on humanity by being annoying on just about every level known to mankind. <br /> <br /><br /><br /> If you are approached by one of these aberrations of nature, know that it despises you with a hatred rarely seen outside the Middle East, and that it won’t hesitate to tear your ankles to shreds. These dogs are the piranhas of the canine world and would nuke <br /><br /><br />mankind tomorrow if they thought they could get away with it. Under no circumstance should one of these animals be allowed to run for public office. <br /><br /> 3] Kitty-dogs, which is every kind of dog that does not fall into one of the first two categories. I’m all in favor of this type of dog because, hey, girls have to have dogs, too. <br /><br /> The curse of the kitty-dog is that there are those who take a warped delight in dressing them up like people. Most dogs would rather be subjected to Mexican weapons experiments than go through this type of torture.<br /><br /> I cannot say this in strong enough terms: You should never, ever dress up your dog for any reason whatsoever. Take it from me—even if it were thirty below outside, your dog would rather die with dignity in his own fur coat than live while being seen in a little poochie parka.<br /><br /> If you dress your dog, you need to know two things:<br /><br /> 1] The rest of us are making fun of you behind your back.<br /><br /> 2] Every day your dog prays for a heaven where he gets to dress you up in humiliating costumes while he and his doggie friends point at you and laugh for all eternity.<br /><br /> If you feel you absolutely must dress an animal, go dress one that at least has a chance of defending itself like a cougar or a wolverine or a Chihuahua. <br /> <br /><br /><br /> One of the most amazing things about the three dog types is that for every one of them, there is someone that likes that kind of dog. At this very moment, there are people risking the loss of fingers and eyes while they stroke their vicious little rat-dogs, all for the sake of love.<br /><br /> That’s a mysterious kind of love, isn’t it—the kind that embraces the unlovely, that sees through the imperfect and loves without regard? <br /><br /> Let’s face it, the human heart isn’t very attractive either. Every thought we have is consumed with self. If you peel away the layers of even our most noble deeds and acts of kindness, you will find thoughts that circle back to ourselves like homing pigeons. In our hearts, we are all mutant rat-dogs.<br /><br /> And yet God loves us. <br /><br /> In the Bible, you find that same theme of an indefatigable, undefeatable love reaching out to a vicious, ungrateful humanity over and over again. I’ve found it’s a love well worth pursuing.<br /><br /> And so the great dog debate rages in my household, and I think my wife is coming around to my point of view. But, if by chance, you happen to see me in the neighborhood walking a Pekingese that is wearing a teeny hat and sundress, you may safely assume things did not go my way.<br /></div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-61833912295312055272008-07-28T00:18:00.002-04:002008-12-10T11:49:54.632-05:00FIRST: Romancing Hollywood Nobody by Lisa Samson<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 84px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" height="204" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" width="126" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is <strong><span style="color:#ffcc00;">August FIRST</span></strong>, time for the FIRST Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>Today's feature author is: </strong><br /></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.lisasamson.com/">LISA SAMSON</a></span></strong><br /></div><br /><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#993300;">and her book:</span> </span></strong><br /></p><br /><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600062210/">Romancing Hollywood Nobody</a></span></strong><br /></p><br /><br /><p align="center">NavPress Publishing Group (July 15, 2008) <br /></p><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/RyZHaGYZQoI/AAAAAAAAAS0/zuS-VBcoNeA/s1600-h/lisa+samson.jpg"><em></em></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZ3arVbxiSWuvYa7pOsU9hJUCSG9Ze8oUVzAB6cGIZWd-nHJykZ7I2f3wF_T4xYovuSKav8iQ3yVCQe1ZxkQ_GC2_NOOG277J-jkux5LSLZfMfcfnROgJwcA-V_ff7ajizkAbAcf2w4fA/s1600-h/lisa+samson.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194889207587266866" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 215px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 293px" height="304" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZ3arVbxiSWuvYa7pOsU9hJUCSG9Ze8oUVzAB6cGIZWd-nHJykZ7I2f3wF_T4xYovuSKav8iQ3yVCQe1ZxkQ_GC2_NOOG277J-jkux5LSLZfMfcfnROgJwcA-V_ff7ajizkAbAcf2w4fA/s320/lisa+samson.jpg" width="228" border="0" /></a>Lisa Samson is the author of twenty books, including the Christy Award-winning <em>Songbird</em>. <em>Apples of Gold</em> was her first novel for teens<br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br />These days, she's working on <em>Quaker Summer</em>, volunteering at Kentucky Refugee Ministries, raising children and trying to be supportive of a husband in seminary. (Trying . . . some days she's downright awful. It's a good thing he's such a fabulous cook!) She can tell you one thing, it's never dull around there.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/RyZLuWYZQpI/AAAAAAAAAS8/vl_DmC05Mrw/s1600-h/lisa_bio.jpg"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaMbM_nBVJUztm_BNi7182CoV3zChzSVQ85MwkAZosc376uz5WfjgqKy67Au7fzJqtbWUp9Q1DLEVHw0DNNFvwgmdlpmHp0WephxXitWWD4YxEb81pePmR7zxNAbc_BNafLriJVOnMJPn3/s1600-h/tosca+lee.jpg"></a>Other Novels by Lisa:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600060919/"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Hollywood Nobody</span></a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600062016/"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Finding Hollywood Nobody</span></a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578568862/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Straight Up</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578568854/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Club Sandwich</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446615188/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Songbird</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578565987/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Tiger Lillie</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1576737489/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">The Church Ladies</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578565960/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Women's Intuition: A Novel</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446679313/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Songbird</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578565979/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">The Living End</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;"><br /></span><br />Visit her at her <a href="http://www.lisasamson.com/">website</span></a>.<br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: $12.99 <br />Paperback: 195 pages <br />Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (July 15, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 1600062210 <br />ISBN-13: 978-1600062216 <br /><br /><span style="color:#cc0000;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#000066;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqQGy9-HIJ2JfejQfZIBlPRKNhWMQ79rjSOR35DYIkF7bfNbDQJFm-WpkMf5EFS7plMsnhYMo7isXrUPWCMcgypinldT4WPszm699_MzNku1HQzK-pvFMRKUu7Ad3vbizgFXSzGyB9Ykx/s1600-h/rhn"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqQGy9-HIJ2JfejQfZIBlPRKNhWMQ79rjSOR35DYIkF7bfNbDQJFm-WpkMf5EFS7plMsnhYMo7isXrUPWCMcgypinldT4WPszm699_MzNku1HQzK-pvFMRKUu7Ad3vbizgFXSzGyB9Ykx/s200/rhn" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227910218932266754" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;"><strong>Monday, April 30, 6:00 a.m. </strong><br /><br />My eyes open. Yes, yes, yes. The greatest man in the entire world <br /><br />is brewing coffee right here in the TrailMama. <br /><br />“Dad.” <br /><br />“Morning, Scotty. The big day.” <br /><br />“Yep.” <br /><br /> “And this time, you won't have to drive.” <br /><br /> I throw back the covers on my loft bed and slip down to the dinette of our RV. My dad sleeps on the dinette bed. He's usually got it turned back into our kitchen table by 5:00 a.m. What can I say? The guy may be just as much in love with cheese as I am, but honestly? Our body clocks are about as different as Liam Neeson and Seth Green. <br /><br /> You know what I mean? <br /><br /> And we have lots of differences. <br /><br /> For one, he's totally a nonfiction person and I'm fiction all the way. For two, he has no fashion sense whatsoever. And for three, he has way more hope for people at the outset than I do. Man, do I have a lot to learn on that front. <br /><br /> He hands me a mug and I sip the dark liquid. I was roasting coffee beans for a while there, but Dad took the mantle upon himself and he does a better job. <br /><br /> Starbucks Schmarbucks. <br /><br /> He hands me another mug and I head to the back of the TrailMama to wake up Charley. My grandmother looks so sweet in the morning, her frosted, silver-blonde hair fanned out on the pillow. You know, she could pass for an aging mermaid. A really short one, true. <br /> <br /><br /><br /> I wave the mug as close as I can to her nose without fear of her rearing up, knocking the mug and burning her face. “Charley . . .” I singsong. “Time to get a move on. Time to get back on the road.” <br /><br /> And boy is this a switch! <br /><br /> All I can say is, your life can be going one way for years and years and then, snap-snap-snap-in-a-Z, it looks like it had major plastic surgery. <br /><br /> Only in reverse. Imagine life just getting more and more real. I like it. <br /><br /> Charley opens her eyes. “Hey, baby. You brought me coffee. You get groovier every day.” <br /><br /> She's a hippie. What can I say? <br /><br /> And she started drinking coffee again when I ran away last fall in Texas. I mean, I didn't really run away. I went somewhere with a perfectly good reason for not telling anyone, and I was planning to return as soon as my mission was done. <br /><br /> She scootches up to a sitting position, hair still in a cloud, takes the mug and, with that dazzling smile still on her face (think Kate Hudson) sips the coffee. She sighs. <br /><br /> “I know,” I say. “How did we make it so long without him?” <br /><br /> “Now that he's with us, I don't know. But somehow we did, didn't we, baby? It may not have always been graceful and smooth, but we made it together.” <br /><br /> I rub her shoulder. “Yeah. I guess you could say we pretty much did.” <br /><br /> The engine hums its movin'-on song. “Dad's ready to pull out. Let's hit it.” <br /><br /> “Scotland, here we come.” <br /><br />Scotland? Well, sort of. <br /> <br /><br /><br /><strong>An hour later </strong><br /><br />This has been a great school year. In addition to the online courses I'm taking through Indiana University High School, Dad's been teaching me and man, is he smart. I'm sure most sixteen-(almost seventeen)-year-olds think their fathers are the smartest guys in the world, but in my case it happens to be true. <br /><br /> Okay, even I have to admit he probably won't win the Nobel Prize for physics or anything, but he's street smart and there's no replacing that sort of thing. Big plus: he knows high school math. We're both living under the radar. And he's taken our faux last name. Dawn. He's now Ezra Fitzgerald Dawn. After Ezra Pound, one of F. Scott Fitzgerald's Lost Generation friends. <br /><br /> I'm just lovin' that. <br /><br /> “Your mom would have loved the name change, Scotty.” <br /><br /> He told me about his life as an FBI agent, some of the cases he worked on, and well, I'd like to tell you he had a life like Sydney Bristow's in Alias, but he probably spent most of his time on com-puter work and sitting around on his butt waiting for someone to make a move. The FBI, apparently, prefers to trick people more than corner them in showdowns and shootouts. The Robertsman case was his first time undercover in the field and we know how terribly that worked out for him. And me. And Charley. And Babette, my mother. <br /><br /> I pull out my math book and sit in the passenger seat of the TrailMama. “Ready for some 'rithmetic, Dad?” <br /><br /> “You bet.” He turns to me and smiles. His smile still makes my heart warm up like a griddle ready to make smiley-face pan-cakes. I flip on my book light. <br /><br /><br /> It's still dark and we're headed to Asheville, North Carolina for Charley's latest shoot. A film about Bonnie Prince Charlie called Charlie's Lament. How ironic is that? The director, Bartholomew (don't dare call him Bart) Evans, is a real jerk. I'm not going to be hanging around the set much even though Liam Neeson is Lord George Murray, the voice of reason Prince Charlie refused to listen to. But hey, that's my history lesson. We're still on math. <br /><br /> I finish up the last lesson in geometry . . . finally! Honestly, I still don't understand it without a mammoth amount of help, but the workbook's filled and that's a good thing. <br /><br /> There. <br /><br /> I set down my pen. “Finished!” <br /><br /> Dad gives a nod as he continues to look out the windshield. You might guess, despite the tattoos, piercings, and his gleaming bald head, he's a very careful driver. And he won't let me drive like Charley did. <br /><br /> “So . . . driver's license then, right?” <br /><br /> He's been holding that over my head so I'd finish the math course. <br /><br /> “You know it. After the film, we'll request your new birth certificate and go from there.” <br /><br /> “What state are we supposedly from?” The FBI has given us a new identity, official papers and all that. <br /><br /> “Wyoming.” <br /><br />“Are you kidding me? Wyoming? Why?” <br /><br />“Think about it, honey. Who's from Wyoming?” <br /><br />“Lots of people?” <br /><br />“Know any of them?” <br /><br />“Uh. No.” <br /><br />“See?” <br /><br /><br /> “Okay, Wyoming it is, then.” <br /><br /> “You realize you'll only have my beat-up old black truck to drive around.” The same truck we're towing behind the TrailMama. <br /><br /> “I'll take it.” <br /><br /> So here's the thing. The rest of the entire world thinks my father was shot in the chest and killed when he was outed by a branch of the mob he was after. This mob was financing James Robertsman's campaign for governor of Maryland. <br /><br /> The guy's running for president of the United States now. <br /><br />I kid you not. <br /><br /> Wish I was kidding. <br /><br /> We thought he was after us for several years because Charley knew too much. But then last fall, we found out the guy chasing me was my father, and Robertsman is most likely cocky enough to think he took care of everything he needed. I say that's quite all right. Although, I have to admit, the fact that a dirtbag like that guy may end up in the Oval Office sickens me to no end. <br /><br /> Thanks to that guy, we had been running in fear from my own father. <br /><br /> The thing is, I could be really mad about all those wasted years, and a portion of me feels that way. But we've been given another chance, and I'll be darned if I throw away these days being angry. There's too much to be thankful for. <br /><br /> Don't get me wrong. I still have my surly days. I don't want Dad and Charley to think they have it as easy as all that! <br /><br /> Okay, time to blog. <br /><br /><strong>Hollywood Nobody: April 30 </strong><br /><br />Let's cut to the chase, Nobodies! <br /><br /> <strong>Today's Seth News: </strong>It's official. Seth Haas and Karissa Bonano are officially each other's exclusive main squeeze. The two were seen coming out of a popular LA tattoo parlor with each other's names on the inside of their forearms. How cliché. And pass the barf bag. <br /><br /> <strong>Today's Violette Dillinger Report:</strong> Violette has broken up with Joe Mason of Sweet Margaret. She wanted you all to know that long-distance romances are hard for any couple, but espe-cially for people as young as she is. “Joe needed to live his life. I'm on the road a lot. It wasn't fair to either of us.” Sounds like she's definitely not on the road to Britney. I'm just sayin'. <br /><br /> <strong>Today's Rave:</strong> Mandy Moore. The girl can really sing! And her latest album is filled with good songs. The bubble gum days of insipid teen heartbreak are over. She's finally come into her own. (Wish some others would follow her example, but I won't hold my breath. And man, are we on the theme of bratty stars today or what? Well, there are just so many of them from which to choose!) <br /><br /> <strong>Today's Rant:</strong> Crazy expensive celebrity weddings. What? If they spend more, will they be more likely to stay together? I have no idea. Mariah Carey's $25,000 dress pales in comparison to Catherine Zeta-Jones's $100,000 gown. What are those things made of? <br /><br /> <strong>Today's Quote:</strong> “Dream as if you'll live forever, live as if you'll die today.” <em>James Dean </em> <br /><br /></div></textarea><br /></div><br /><br />**********************************************<br /><br /><a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 84px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" height="204" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" width="126" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is <strong><span style="color:#ffcc00;">August FIRST</span></strong>, time for the FIRST Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>Today's feature author is: </strong><br /></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.lisasamson.com/">LISA SAMSON</a></span></strong><br /></div><br /><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#993300;">and her book:</span> </span></strong><br /></p><br /><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600062210/">Romancing Hollywood Nobody</a></span></strong><br /></p><br /><br /><p align="center">NavPress Publishing Group (July 15, 2008) <br /></p><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/RyZHaGYZQoI/AAAAAAAAAS0/zuS-VBcoNeA/s1600-h/lisa+samson.jpg"><em></em></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZ3arVbxiSWuvYa7pOsU9hJUCSG9Ze8oUVzAB6cGIZWd-nHJykZ7I2f3wF_T4xYovuSKav8iQ3yVCQe1ZxkQ_GC2_NOOG277J-jkux5LSLZfMfcfnROgJwcA-V_ff7ajizkAbAcf2w4fA/s1600-h/lisa+samson.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194889207587266866" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 215px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 293px" height="304" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZ3arVbxiSWuvYa7pOsU9hJUCSG9Ze8oUVzAB6cGIZWd-nHJykZ7I2f3wF_T4xYovuSKav8iQ3yVCQe1ZxkQ_GC2_NOOG277J-jkux5LSLZfMfcfnROgJwcA-V_ff7ajizkAbAcf2w4fA/s320/lisa+samson.jpg" width="228" border="0" /></a>Lisa Samson is the author of twenty books, including the Christy Award-winning <em>Songbird</em>. <em>Apples of Gold</em> was her first novel for teens<br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"></span><br />These days, she's working on <em>Quaker Summer</em>, volunteering at Kentucky Refugee Ministries, raising children and trying to be supportive of a husband in seminary. (Trying . . . some days she's downright awful. It's a good thing he's such a fabulous cook!) She can tell you one thing, it's never dull around there.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/RyZLuWYZQpI/AAAAAAAAAS8/vl_DmC05Mrw/s1600-h/lisa_bio.jpg"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaMbM_nBVJUztm_BNi7182CoV3zChzSVQ85MwkAZosc376uz5WfjgqKy67Au7fzJqtbWUp9Q1DLEVHw0DNNFvwgmdlpmHp0WephxXitWWD4YxEb81pePmR7zxNAbc_BNafLriJVOnMJPn3/s1600-h/tosca+lee.jpg"></a>Other Novels by Lisa:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600060919/"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Hollywood Nobody</span></a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600062016/"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Finding Hollywood Nobody</span></a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578568862/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Straight Up</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578568854/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Club Sandwich</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446615188/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Songbird</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578565987/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Tiger Lillie</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1576737489/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">The Church Ladies</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578565960/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Women's Intuition: A Novel</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446679313/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">Songbird</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578565979/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color:#3366ff;">The Living End</span></a><span style="color:#3366ff;"><br /></span><br />Visit her at her <a href="http://www.lisasamson.com/">website</span></a>.<br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: $12.99 <br />Paperback: 195 pages <br />Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (July 15, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 1600062210 <br />ISBN-13: 978-1600062216 <br /><br /><span style="color:#cc0000;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#000066;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqQGy9-HIJ2JfejQfZIBlPRKNhWMQ79rjSOR35DYIkF7bfNbDQJFm-WpkMf5EFS7plMsnhYMo7isXrUPWCMcgypinldT4WPszm699_MzNku1HQzK-pvFMRKUu7Ad3vbizgFXSzGyB9Ykx/s1600-h/rhn"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqQGy9-HIJ2JfejQfZIBlPRKNhWMQ79rjSOR35DYIkF7bfNbDQJFm-WpkMf5EFS7plMsnhYMo7isXrUPWCMcgypinldT4WPszm699_MzNku1HQzK-pvFMRKUu7Ad3vbizgFXSzGyB9Ykx/s200/rhn" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227910218932266754" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;"><strong>Monday, April 30, 6:00 a.m. </strong><br /><br />My eyes open. Yes, yes, yes. The greatest man in the entire world <br /><br />is brewing coffee right here in the TrailMama. <br /><br />“Dad.” <br /><br />“Morning, Scotty. The big day.” <br /><br />“Yep.” <br /><br /> “And this time, you won't have to drive.” <br /><br /> I throw back the covers on my loft bed and slip down to the dinette of our RV. My dad sleeps on the dinette bed. He's usually got it turned back into our kitchen table by 5:00 a.m. What can I say? The guy may be just as much in love with cheese as I am, but honestly? Our body clocks are about as different as Liam Neeson and Seth Green. <br /><br /> You know what I mean? <br /><br /> And we have lots of differences. <br /><br /> For one, he's totally a nonfiction person and I'm fiction all the way. For two, he has no fashion sense whatsoever. And for three, he has way more hope for people at the outset than I do. Man, do I have a lot to learn on that front. <br /><br /> He hands me a mug and I sip the dark liquid. I was roasting coffee beans for a while there, but Dad took the mantle upon himself and he does a better job. <br /><br /> Starbucks Schmarbucks. <br /><br /> He hands me another mug and I head to the back of the TrailMama to wake up Charley. My grandmother looks so sweet in the morning, her frosted, silver-blonde hair fanned out on the pillow. You know, she could pass for an aging mermaid. A really short one, true. <br /> <br /><br /><br /> I wave the mug as close as I can to her nose without fear of her rearing up, knocking the mug and burning her face. “Charley . . .” I singsong. “Time to get a move on. Time to get back on the road.” <br /><br /> And boy is this a switch! <br /><br /> All I can say is, your life can be going one way for years and years and then, snap-snap-snap-in-a-Z, it looks like it had major plastic surgery. <br /><br /> Only in reverse. Imagine life just getting more and more real. I like it. <br /><br /> Charley opens her eyes. “Hey, baby. You brought me coffee. You get groovier every day.” <br /><br /> She's a hippie. What can I say? <br /><br /> And she started drinking coffee again when I ran away last fall in Texas. I mean, I didn't really run away. I went somewhere with a perfectly good reason for not telling anyone, and I was planning to return as soon as my mission was done. <br /><br /> She scootches up to a sitting position, hair still in a cloud, takes the mug and, with that dazzling smile still on her face (think Kate Hudson) sips the coffee. She sighs. <br /><br /> “I know,” I say. “How did we make it so long without him?” <br /><br /> “Now that he's with us, I don't know. But somehow we did, didn't we, baby? It may not have always been graceful and smooth, but we made it together.” <br /><br /> I rub her shoulder. “Yeah. I guess you could say we pretty much did.” <br /><br /> The engine hums its movin'-on song. “Dad's ready to pull out. Let's hit it.” <br /><br /> “Scotland, here we come.” <br /><br />Scotland? Well, sort of. <br /> <br /><br /><br /><strong>An hour later </strong><br /><br />This has been a great school year. In addition to the online courses I'm taking through Indiana University High School, Dad's been teaching me and man, is he smart. I'm sure most sixteen-(almost seventeen)-year-olds think their fathers are the smartest guys in the world, but in my case it happens to be true. <br /><br /> Okay, even I have to admit he probably won't win the Nobel Prize for physics or anything, but he's street smart and there's no replacing that sort of thing. Big plus: he knows high school math. We're both living under the radar. And he's taken our faux last name. Dawn. He's now Ezra Fitzgerald Dawn. After Ezra Pound, one of F. Scott Fitzgerald's Lost Generation friends. <br /><br /> I'm just lovin' that. <br /><br /> “Your mom would have loved the name change, Scotty.” <br /><br /> He told me about his life as an FBI agent, some of the cases he worked on, and well, I'd like to tell you he had a life like Sydney Bristow's in Alias, but he probably spent most of his time on com-puter work and sitting around on his butt waiting for someone to make a move. The FBI, apparently, prefers to trick people more than corner them in showdowns and shootouts. The Robertsman case was his first time undercover in the field and we know how terribly that worked out for him. And me. And Charley. And Babette, my mother. <br /><br /> I pull out my math book and sit in the passenger seat of the TrailMama. “Ready for some 'rithmetic, Dad?” <br /><br /> “You bet.” He turns to me and smiles. His smile still makes my heart warm up like a griddle ready to make smiley-face pan-cakes. I flip on my book light. <br /><br /><br /> It's still dark and we're headed to Asheville, North Carolina for Charley's latest shoot. A film about Bonnie Prince Charlie called Charlie's Lament. How ironic is that? The director, Bartholomew (don't dare call him Bart) Evans, is a real jerk. I'm not going to be hanging around the set much even though Liam Neeson is Lord George Murray, the voice of reason Prince Charlie refused to listen to. But hey, that's my history lesson. We're still on math. <br /><br /> I finish up the last lesson in geometry . . . finally! Honestly, I still don't understand it without a mammoth amount of help, but the workbook's filled and that's a good thing. <br /><br /> There. <br /><br /> I set down my pen. “Finished!” <br /><br /> Dad gives a nod as he continues to look out the windshield. You might guess, despite the tattoos, piercings, and his gleaming bald head, he's a very careful driver. And he won't let me drive like Charley did. <br /><br /> “So . . . driver's license then, right?” <br /><br /> He's been holding that over my head so I'd finish the math course. <br /><br /> “You know it. After the film, we'll request your new birth certificate and go from there.” <br /><br /> “What state are we supposedly from?” The FBI has given us a new identity, official papers and all that. <br /><br /> “Wyoming.” <br /><br />“Are you kidding me? Wyoming? Why?” <br /><br />“Think about it, honey. Who's from Wyoming?” <br /><br />“Lots of people?” <br /><br />“Know any of them?” <br /><br />“Uh. No.” <br /><br />“See?” <br /><br /><br /> “Okay, Wyoming it is, then.” <br /><br /> “You realize you'll only have my beat-up old black truck to drive around.” The same truck we're towing behind the TrailMama. <br /><br /> “I'll take it.” <br /><br /> So here's the thing. The rest of the entire world thinks my father was shot in the chest and killed when he was outed by a branch of the mob he was after. This mob was financing James Robertsman's campaign for governor of Maryland. <br /><br /> The guy's running for president of the United States now. <br /><br />I kid you not. <br /><br /> Wish I was kidding. <br /><br /> We thought he was after us for several years because Charley knew too much. But then last fall, we found out the guy chasing me was my father, and Robertsman is most likely cocky enough to think he took care of everything he needed. I say that's quite all right. Although, I have to admit, the fact that a dirtbag like that guy may end up in the Oval Office sickens me to no end. <br /><br /> Thanks to that guy, we had been running in fear from my own father. <br /><br /> The thing is, I could be really mad about all those wasted years, and a portion of me feels that way. But we've been given another chance, and I'll be darned if I throw away these days being angry. There's too much to be thankful for. <br /><br /> Don't get me wrong. I still have my surly days. I don't want Dad and Charley to think they have it as easy as all that! <br /><br /> Okay, time to blog. <br /><br /><strong>Hollywood Nobody: April 30 </strong><br /><br />Let's cut to the chase, Nobodies! <br /><br /> <strong>Today's Seth News: </strong>It's official. Seth Haas and Karissa Bonano are officially each other's exclusive main squeeze. The two were seen coming out of a popular LA tattoo parlor with each other's names on the inside of their forearms. How cliché. And pass the barf bag. <br /><br /> <strong>Today's Violette Dillinger Report:</strong> Violette has broken up with Joe Mason of Sweet Margaret. She wanted you all to know that long-distance romances are hard for any couple, but espe-cially for people as young as she is. “Joe needed to live his life. I'm on the road a lot. It wasn't fair to either of us.” Sounds like she's definitely not on the road to Britney. I'm just sayin'. <br /><br /> <strong>Today's Rave:</strong> Mandy Moore. The girl can really sing! And her latest album is filled with good songs. The bubble gum days of insipid teen heartbreak are over. She's finally come into her own. (Wish some others would follow her example, but I won't hold my breath. And man, are we on the theme of bratty stars today or what? Well, there are just so many of them from which to choose!) <br /><br /> <strong>Today's Rant:</strong> Crazy expensive celebrity weddings. What? If they spend more, will they be more likely to stay together? I have no idea. Mariah Carey's $25,000 dress pales in comparison to Catherine Zeta-Jones's $100,000 gown. What are those things made of? <br /><br /> <strong>Today's Quote:</strong> “Dream as if you'll live forever, live as if you'll die today.” <em>James Dean </em> <br /><br /></div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-12056901652095830482008-07-20T15:49:00.004-04:002008-12-10T11:49:54.658-05:00Watcher in the Woods: Dreamhouse Kings, Book #2 by Robert Liparulo<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s1600-h/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg"><a href="http://teenfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178594274707613778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s200/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg" border="0" /></a></a><br /><br />It's July 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.robertliparulo.com/">Robert Liparulo </a></font></strong><br /><p></p><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="160"><font color="#009900" size="4"></font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"><font size="2"><font color="#009900">and his book:</font> </font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"></strong></div></font><p></p><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="7"><font size="3"></font></strong></div></font><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595544968/">Watcher in the Woods: Dreamhouse Kings, Book #2</a></font></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Thomas Nelson (May 6, 2008)</p><br /><p align="center"></p><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><font color="#ff6600"></font></font></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><p></p><font color="#ff6600">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</font> </font></strong></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33k6AhYa3bVOiTLi-GQxG2jMOMdQGDGATqXuqhoKmMmDMLR1fwzev4eXKa1igHbrbLTrz8KdJJFRtmvFU73o9YJoU8pHx4-w94uO6cERG78BKXfUD03geaI90AcMFn20Q3zH4dQHFUag/s1600-h/robert.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5201923314873808306" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33k6AhYa3bVOiTLi-GQxG2jMOMdQGDGATqXuqhoKmMmDMLR1fwzev4eXKa1igHbrbLTrz8KdJJFRtmvFU73o9YJoU8pHx4-w94uO6cERG78BKXfUD03geaI90AcMFn20Q3zH4dQHFUag/s200/robert.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPeHVQsuOSwgX6XjE0O8Sq3KaCYzZRALkDxsOY5sGxmfUFvIpEPIHZJFJSQDlBYYkNsWlrtVfUZaBJW_9RrCCgDr9vewXrhHqHpszHQbG7Yx6-xZaEcRVdYBRCoLkEpKr4MmiBAHF4mU0/s1600-h/robert.jpg"></a>Robert Liparulo is an award-winning author of over a thousand published articles and short stories. He is currently a contributing editor for New Man magazine. His work has appeared in Reader's Digest, Travel & Leisure, Modern Bride, Consumers Digest, Chief Executive, and The Arizona Daily Star, among other publications. In addition, he previously worked as a celebrity journalist, interviewing Stephen King, Tom Clancy, Charlton Heston, and others for magazines such as Rocky Road, Preview, and L.A. Weekly. He has sold or optioned three screenplays.<br /><br />Robert is an avid scuba diver, swimmer, reader, traveler, and a law enforcement and military enthusiast. He lives in Colorado with his wife and four children.<br /><br />Here are some of his titles:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595544941/">House of Dark Shadows (Dreamhouse Kings Book 1)</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0785261761/">Comes a Horseman</a><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595543651/"><br />Germ<br /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0785261796"><br />Deadfall<br /></a><br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: $14.99 <br />Reading level: Young Adult<br />Hardcover: 304 pages <br />Publisher: Thomas Nelson (May 6, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 1595544968 <br />ISBN-13: 978-1595544964 <br /><br /><br /><font color="#ffcc00"><strong><font size="5">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</font> </strong><br /></font><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4aAKMbqHJBLAFlND2B91HYpuqbd-7_ujzszGL1CQveYyNofo0yRPzv2T_KHK-SXS2RGQ_3-tydtydlzeOJbOQIAbTGEnzqMBiWJBYij-9jYFrLD5y-KDQqp6Cjr3wniG3Ryz0ZBBpJZk/s1600-h/watcher-in-the-woods.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4aAKMbqHJBLAFlND2B91HYpuqbd-7_ujzszGL1CQveYyNofo0yRPzv2T_KHK-SXS2RGQ_3-tydtydlzeOJbOQIAbTGEnzqMBiWJBYij-9jYFrLD5y-KDQqp6Cjr3wniG3Ryz0ZBBpJZk/s200/watcher-in-the-woods.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224537693452146674" /></a> <div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;"> 1<br /><br /> At twelve years old, David King was too young to die. At least he thought so.<br /><br /> But try telling that to the people shooting at him.<br /><br /> He had no idea where he was. When he had stepped through the portal, smoke immediately blinded him. An explosion had thrown rocks and who-knew-what into his face. It shook the floor and knocked him off his feet. Now he was on his hands and knees on a hardwood floor. Glass and splinters dug into his palms. Somewhere, all kinds of guns were firing. Bullets zinged overhead, thunking into walls—bits of flying plaster stung his cheeks.<br /><br /> Okay, so he wasn’t sure the bullets were meant for him. The guns seemed both near and far. But in the end, if he were hit, did it matter whether the shooters meant to get him or he’d had the dumb luck to stumble into the middle of a firefight? He’d be just as dead.<br /><br /> The smoke cleared a bit. Sunlight poured in from a school-bus-sized hole in the ceiling. Not just the ceiling—David could see attic rafters and the jagged and burning edges of the roof. Way above was a blue sky, soft white clouds.<br /><br /> He was in a bedroom. A dresser lay on the floor. In front of him was a bed. He gripped the mattress and pushed himself up.<br /><br /> A wall exploded into a shower of plaster, rocks, and dust. He flew back. Air burst from his lungs, and he crumpled again to the floor. He gulped for breath, but nothing came. The stench of fire—burning wood and rock, something dank and putrid—swirled into his nostrils on the thick, gray smoke. The taste of cement coated his tongue. Finally, oxygen reached his lungs, and he pulled it in with loud gasps, like a swimmer saved from drowning. He coughed out the smoke and dust. He stood, finding his balance, clearing his head, wavering until he reached out to steady himself.<br /><br /> A hole in the floor appeared to be trying to eat the bed. It was listing like a sinking ship, the far corner up in the air, the corner nearest David canted down into the hole. Flames had found the blankets and were spreading fast.<br /><br /> Outside, machine-gun fire erupted. <br /><br /> David jumped. <br /><br /> He stumbled toward an outside wall. It had crumbled, forming a rough V-shaped hole from where the ceiling used to be nearly to the floor. Bent rebar jutted out of the plaster every few feet.<br /><br /> More gunfire, another explosion. The floor shook.<br /><br /> Beyond the walls of the bedroom, the rumble of an engine and a rhythmic, metallic click-click-click-click-click tightened his stomach. He recognized the sound from a dozen war movies: a tank. It was rolling closer, getting louder.<br /><br /> He reached the wall and dropped to his knees. He peered out onto the dirt and cobblestone streets of a small village. Every house and building was at least partially destroyed, ravaged by bombs and bullets. The streets were littered with chunks of wall, roof tiles, even furniture that had spilled out through the ruptured buildings.<br /><br /> David’s eyes fell on an object in the street. His panting breath froze in his throat. He slapped his palm over his mouth, either to stifle a scream or to keep himself from throwing up. It was a body, mutilated almost beyond recognition. It lay on its back, screaming up to heaven. Male or female, adult or child, David didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. That it was human and damaged was enough to crush his heart. His eyes shot away from the sight, only to spot another body. This one was not as broken, but was no less horrible. It was a young woman. She was lying on her stomach, head turned with an expression of surprised disbelief and pointing her lifeless eyes directly at David.<br /><br /> He spun around and sat on the floor. He pushed his knuckles into each eye socket, squeegeeing out the wetness. He swallowed, willing his nausea to pass. <br /><br /> His older brother, Xander, said that he had puked when he first saw a dead body. That had been only two days ago—in the Colosseum. David didn’t know where the portal he had stepped through had taken him. Certainly not to a gladiator fight in Rome.<br /><br /> He squinted toward the other side of the room, toward the shadowy corner where he had stepped into . . . wherever this was . . . whenever it was. Nothing there now. No portal. No passage home. Just a wall.<br /><br /> He heard rifle shots and a scream.<br /><br /> Click-click-click-click-click . . . the tank was still approaching.<br /><br /> What had he done? He thought he could be a hero, and now he was about to get shot or blown up or . . . something that amounted to the same thing: Dead.<br /><br /> Dad had been right. They weren’t ready. They should have made a plan.<br /><br /> Click-click-click-click-click.<br /><br /> David rose into a crouch and turned toward the crumbled wall.<br /><br /> I’m here now, he thought. I gotta know what I’m dealing with, right? Okay then. I can do this. <br /><br /> He popped up from his hiding place to look out onto the street. Down the road to his right, the tank was coming into town over a bridge. Bullets sparked against its steel skin. Soldiers huddled behind it, keeping close as it moved forward. In turn, they would scurry out to the side, fire a rifle or machine gun, and step back quickly. Their targets were to David’s left, which meant he was smack between them.<br /><br /> Figures.<br /><br /> At that moment, he’d have given anything to redo the past hour. He closed his eyes. Had it really only been an hour? An hour to go from his front porch to here?<br /><br /> In this house, stranger things had happened. . . .<br /></div></textarea><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br />*****************************************<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s1600-h/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg"><a href="http://teenfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178594274707613778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s200/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg" border="0" /></a></a><br /><br />It's July 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.robertliparulo.com/">Robert Liparulo </a></font></strong><br /><p></p><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="160"><font color="#009900" size="4"></font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"><font size="2"><font color="#009900">and his book:</font> </font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"></strong></div></font><p></p><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="7"><font size="3"></font></strong></div></font><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595544968/">Watcher in the Woods: Dreamhouse Kings, Book #2</a></font></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Thomas Nelson (May 6, 2008)</p><br /><p align="center"></p><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><font color="#ff6600"></font></font></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><p></p><font color="#ff6600">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</font> </font></strong></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33k6AhYa3bVOiTLi-GQxG2jMOMdQGDGATqXuqhoKmMmDMLR1fwzev4eXKa1igHbrbLTrz8KdJJFRtmvFU73o9YJoU8pHx4-w94uO6cERG78BKXfUD03geaI90AcMFn20Q3zH4dQHFUag/s1600-h/robert.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5201923314873808306" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33k6AhYa3bVOiTLi-GQxG2jMOMdQGDGATqXuqhoKmMmDMLR1fwzev4eXKa1igHbrbLTrz8KdJJFRtmvFU73o9YJoU8pHx4-w94uO6cERG78BKXfUD03geaI90AcMFn20Q3zH4dQHFUag/s200/robert.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPeHVQsuOSwgX6XjE0O8Sq3KaCYzZRALkDxsOY5sGxmfUFvIpEPIHZJFJSQDlBYYkNsWlrtVfUZaBJW_9RrCCgDr9vewXrhHqHpszHQbG7Yx6-xZaEcRVdYBRCoLkEpKr4MmiBAHF4mU0/s1600-h/robert.jpg"></a>Robert Liparulo is an award-winning author of over a thousand published articles and short stories. He is currently a contributing editor for New Man magazine. His work has appeared in Reader's Digest, Travel & Leisure, Modern Bride, Consumers Digest, Chief Executive, and The Arizona Daily Star, among other publications. In addition, he previously worked as a celebrity journalist, interviewing Stephen King, Tom Clancy, Charlton Heston, and others for magazines such as Rocky Road, Preview, and L.A. Weekly. He has sold or optioned three screenplays.<br /><br />Robert is an avid scuba diver, swimmer, reader, traveler, and a law enforcement and military enthusiast. He lives in Colorado with his wife and four children.<br /><br />Here are some of his titles:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595544941/">House of Dark Shadows (Dreamhouse Kings Book 1)</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0785261761/">Comes a Horseman</a><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595543651/"><br />Germ<br /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0785261796"><br />Deadfall<br /></a><br /><br />Product Details<br /><br />List Price: $14.99 <br />Reading level: Young Adult<br />Hardcover: 304 pages <br />Publisher: Thomas Nelson (May 6, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 1595544968 <br />ISBN-13: 978-1595544964 <br /><br /><br /><font color="#ffcc00"><strong><font size="5">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</font> </strong><br /></font><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4aAKMbqHJBLAFlND2B91HYpuqbd-7_ujzszGL1CQveYyNofo0yRPzv2T_KHK-SXS2RGQ_3-tydtydlzeOJbOQIAbTGEnzqMBiWJBYij-9jYFrLD5y-KDQqp6Cjr3wniG3Ryz0ZBBpJZk/s1600-h/watcher-in-the-woods.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4aAKMbqHJBLAFlND2B91HYpuqbd-7_ujzszGL1CQveYyNofo0yRPzv2T_KHK-SXS2RGQ_3-tydtydlzeOJbOQIAbTGEnzqMBiWJBYij-9jYFrLD5y-KDQqp6Cjr3wniG3Ryz0ZBBpJZk/s200/watcher-in-the-woods.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224537693452146674" /></a> <div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;"> 1<br /><br /> At twelve years old, David King was too young to die. At least he thought so.<br /><br /> But try telling that to the people shooting at him.<br /><br /> He had no idea where he was. When he had stepped through the portal, smoke immediately blinded him. An explosion had thrown rocks and who-knew-what into his face. It shook the floor and knocked him off his feet. Now he was on his hands and knees on a hardwood floor. Glass and splinters dug into his palms. Somewhere, all kinds of guns were firing. Bullets zinged overhead, thunking into walls—bits of flying plaster stung his cheeks.<br /><br /> Okay, so he wasn’t sure the bullets were meant for him. The guns seemed both near and far. But in the end, if he were hit, did it matter whether the shooters meant to get him or he’d had the dumb luck to stumble into the middle of a firefight? He’d be just as dead.<br /><br /> The smoke cleared a bit. Sunlight poured in from a school-bus-sized hole in the ceiling. Not just the ceiling—David could see attic rafters and the jagged and burning edges of the roof. Way above was a blue sky, soft white clouds.<br /><br /> He was in a bedroom. A dresser lay on the floor. In front of him was a bed. He gripped the mattress and pushed himself up.<br /><br /> A wall exploded into a shower of plaster, rocks, and dust. He flew back. Air burst from his lungs, and he crumpled again to the floor. He gulped for breath, but nothing came. The stench of fire—burning wood and rock, something dank and putrid—swirled into his nostrils on the thick, gray smoke. The taste of cement coated his tongue. Finally, oxygen reached his lungs, and he pulled it in with loud gasps, like a swimmer saved from drowning. He coughed out the smoke and dust. He stood, finding his balance, clearing his head, wavering until he reached out to steady himself.<br /><br /> A hole in the floor appeared to be trying to eat the bed. It was listing like a sinking ship, the far corner up in the air, the corner nearest David canted down into the hole. Flames had found the blankets and were spreading fast.<br /><br /> Outside, machine-gun fire erupted. <br /><br /> David jumped. <br /><br /> He stumbled toward an outside wall. It had crumbled, forming a rough V-shaped hole from where the ceiling used to be nearly to the floor. Bent rebar jutted out of the plaster every few feet.<br /><br /> More gunfire, another explosion. The floor shook.<br /><br /> Beyond the walls of the bedroom, the rumble of an engine and a rhythmic, metallic click-click-click-click-click tightened his stomach. He recognized the sound from a dozen war movies: a tank. It was rolling closer, getting louder.<br /><br /> He reached the wall and dropped to his knees. He peered out onto the dirt and cobblestone streets of a small village. Every house and building was at least partially destroyed, ravaged by bombs and bullets. The streets were littered with chunks of wall, roof tiles, even furniture that had spilled out through the ruptured buildings.<br /><br /> David’s eyes fell on an object in the street. His panting breath froze in his throat. He slapped his palm over his mouth, either to stifle a scream or to keep himself from throwing up. It was a body, mutilated almost beyond recognition. It lay on its back, screaming up to heaven. Male or female, adult or child, David didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. That it was human and damaged was enough to crush his heart. His eyes shot away from the sight, only to spot another body. This one was not as broken, but was no less horrible. It was a young woman. She was lying on her stomach, head turned with an expression of surprised disbelief and pointing her lifeless eyes directly at David.<br /><br /> He spun around and sat on the floor. He pushed his knuckles into each eye socket, squeegeeing out the wetness. He swallowed, willing his nausea to pass. <br /><br /> His older brother, Xander, said that he had puked when he first saw a dead body. That had been only two days ago—in the Colosseum. David didn’t know where the portal he had stepped through had taken him. Certainly not to a gladiator fight in Rome.<br /><br /> He squinted toward the other side of the room, toward the shadowy corner where he had stepped into . . . wherever this was . . . whenever it was. Nothing there now. No portal. No passage home. Just a wall.<br /><br /> He heard rifle shots and a scream.<br /><br /> Click-click-click-click-click . . . the tank was still approaching.<br /><br /> What had he done? He thought he could be a hero, and now he was about to get shot or blown up or . . . something that amounted to the same thing: Dead.<br /><br /> Dad had been right. They weren’t ready. They should have made a plan.<br /><br /> Click-click-click-click-click.<br /><br /> David rose into a crouch and turned toward the crumbled wall.<br /><br /> I’m here now, he thought. I gotta know what I’m dealing with, right? Okay then. I can do this. <br /><br /> He popped up from his hiding place to look out onto the street. Down the road to his right, the tank was coming into town over a bridge. Bullets sparked against its steel skin. Soldiers huddled behind it, keeping close as it moved forward. In turn, they would scurry out to the side, fire a rifle or machine gun, and step back quickly. Their targets were to David’s left, which meant he was smack between them.<br /><br /> Figures.<br /><br /> At that moment, he’d have given anything to redo the past hour. He closed his eyes. Had it really only been an hour? An hour to go from his front porch to here?<br /><br /> In this house, stranger things had happened. . . .<br /></div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-19806466921267100162008-07-12T22:43:00.001-04:002008-12-10T11:49:54.833-05:00What's the Big Deal About Other Religions by John Ankerberg and Dillon Burroughs<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s1600-h/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg"></a><a href="http://nonfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179647009365145890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s200/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg" border="0" /></a><br />It's July 15th, time for the Non~FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 15th, we will featuring an author and his/her latest non~fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature authors are: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.ankerberg.org/bio.htm"> John Ankerberg</a><br />and<br /><a href="http://www.readdb.com/">Dillon Burroughs</a></span></strong><br /><p></p><br /><strong><span style="font-size:160;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#009900;">and their book:</span> </span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"></strong></div></span><p></p><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:7;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></strong></div></span><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0736921222/">What's the Big Deal About Other Religions</a></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Harvest House Publishers (March 1, 2008) <br /></p><br /><p align="center"></p><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><br /><p></p><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHORS:</span> </span></strong></div></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfOXjnle3V6W4o2I-DB2EUaBO65czaVamWkpS3ow0XDMIKI-T_uXPHWiCxLGXyy5HgRp2J_iBzfKl9km3t7xZL5YRL1fjJE4rMJt_RxWvgYiB1_zsQb80_-TCrHkCsJ34OI9HYFEho/s1600-h/ankerberg-95.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfOXjnle3V6W4o2I-DB2EUaBO65czaVamWkpS3ow0XDMIKI-T_uXPHWiCxLGXyy5HgRp2J_iBzfKl9km3t7xZL5YRL1fjJE4rMJt_RxWvgYiB1_zsQb80_-TCrHkCsJ34OI9HYFEho/s200/ankerberg-95.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222308922620275186" /></a><strong>Dr. John F. Ankerberg</strong> is the President and founder of The Ankerberg Theological Research Institute. He is also the producer and host of the nationally televised John Ankerberg Show, a half-hour program seen in all 50 states via independent stations, the DAYSTAR Network, the DISH Network, DirecTV and on the SKY ANGEL Satellite, numerous cable outlets, as well as on the internet. The program can be seen each week by a potential viewing audience in excess of 99 million people. John presents contemporary spiritual issues and defends biblical/Christian answers.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrwjvC2anbRAKCNVhRiVgAem2vhddg5ye1haOhqnLydos9cySFe65EIgU8cmO369AAFYGV8ZbURJqs3VIQhdgqXP5ah2MGUx0RJMknTE8nldO_IPR5A5uGuMVSi6FqC8C3hDFtxXx/s1600-h/Dillon"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrwjvC2anbRAKCNVhRiVgAem2vhddg5ye1haOhqnLydos9cySFe65EIgU8cmO369AAFYGV8ZbURJqs3VIQhdgqXP5ah2MGUx0RJMknTE8nldO_IPR5A5uGuMVSi6FqC8C3hDFtxXx/s200/Dillon" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222310303633456434" /></a>Writer and communicator <strong>Dillon Burroughs </strong>is author of fourteen books and serves as a staff writer and research associate for the Ankerberg Theological Research Institute. In the past two years, his books have sold over 113,000 copies while his edited works have sold more than two million copies. On subjects related to spirituality and culture, Dillon’s written projects have appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Salem Radio Network news, Moody Radio Network, James Dobson’s Focus on the Family, iLife Television Network, Prime Time America, Leadership Journal, NBC affiliates, The John Ankerberg Show, Discipleship Journal, Group Magazine, and many other media outlets. <br /><br />Dillon Burroughs is a ThM graduate from Dallas Theological Seminary in addition to graduating with a B.S. degree in Communications from Indiana State University. As time allows, he also serves as an adjunct professor at Tennessee Temple University. Dillon lives in Tennessee with his wife, Deborah, and two children, Ben and Natalie.<br /><br /><br />Product Details:<br /><br />List Price: $12.99 <br />Paperback: 256 pages <br />Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (March 1, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0736921222 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0736921220 <br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></div><br /></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2TTRG2IWHiGjZFCMeBMf4zm5OZBl3RNhr75oSB7PbfTIsuf45hTuz9zmPfR8DbuGw7IWGE8G4wKjFQU67MZGTZ5MXV5_ZXOB-ChWPCCQ31DiAkFhtoKoW9e3SfnUhOJ2E3qYkYMfx/s1600-h/Other+Religions"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2TTRG2IWHiGjZFCMeBMf4zm5OZBl3RNhr75oSB7PbfTIsuf45hTuz9zmPfR8DbuGw7IWGE8G4wKjFQU67MZGTZ5MXV5_ZXOB-ChWPCCQ31DiAkFhtoKoW9e3SfnUhOJ2E3qYkYMfx/s200/Other+Religions" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222308991555054754" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;">Christianity: <br /><br />What’s the Big Deal About Jesus?<br /><br />“Christianity is good for you, but it’s not right for me. I think you ought to believe whatever makes you happy and gives you peace.”<br /><br />“Christianity is the ‘right’ religion—isn’t that being naive?”<br /><br />The label Christianity covers a broad range of people today. While over 2.1 billion people are statistically considered followers of Jesus Christ, polls by religious researcher George Barna have observed that only four percent of American Christians hold to a biblical worldview (that is, beliefs consistent with the Bible’s teachings), and just 51 percent of Christian clergy hold to such a view. As a result, even many who call themselves Christians have agreed with the quotes that appear above, asking if it is perhaps naïve to claim Christianity is the only way to God.<br /><br />However, the above quotes are inconsistent with Christianity’s origins and founder. In this chapter we’ll briefly review how Christianity began, consider its early beliefs, introduce its founder, and investigate the reliability of the New Testament, which is part of the Bible.<br /><br />A Firm Foundation<br /><br />All of Christianity is built around one basic belief: the resurrection of its founder, Jesus of Nazareth. On Passover Friday around A.D. 30, Jesus was executed on a Roman cross on the accusation of conspiracy against the government. The Sanhedrin (Jewish leaders) had insisted that the Roman leader Pilate condemn Jesus, though Pilate had not found him guilty of any crimes worthy of death. After the crucifixion, death, and burial of Jesus in a tomb, the body disappeared three days later. Immediately this was followed by many “Jesus sightings” reported over the next 40 days. A social revolution began ten days later in Jerusalem, Israel, as over 3000 people joined the movement after a street message given by the apostle Peter (Acts 2). Christianity was off and running, and has been growing ever since.<br /><br />Oxford University theologian Dr. Alister McGrath has noted,<br /><br />The identity of Christianity is inextricably linked with the uniqueness of Christ, which is in turn grounded in the Resurrection and Incarnation.<br /><br />How do we know Jesus came back to life? First, the 27 books of the New Testament are based upon this one event—the resurrection of Jesus. Despite the attacks of many, the writings of Christianity have been shown to have emerged during the first century with the courageous message that Jesus, a man executed by the government, was alive. This carried many implications about his life and death and beyond. What other motive did these writers have except that they truly believed all this had occurred?<br /><br />In addition, many individuals of that day claimed to have encountered Jesus after his death. According to the Gospel writers and the missionary Paul, Jesus appeared a total of at least 12 times after his return from death:<br /><br />The Post-Resurrection Appearances of Jesus Christ<br /><br /># Sighting Source<br /><br />1. Mary Magdalene--Mark 16:9; John 20:11-18<br /><br />2. Women returning from the tomb--Matthew 28:9-10<br /><br />3. Two men walking to Emmaus--Mark 16:12-13; Luke 24:13-32<br /><br />4. Peter--Luke 24:34; 1 Corinthians 15:5<br /><br />5. 10 disciples; two men from Emmaus--Luke 24:36-43; John 20:19-23<br /><br />6. 11 disciples (including Thomas)--John 20:24-29<br /><br />7. 7 disciples--John 21:1-24<br /><br />8. 500 people at one time--1 Corinthians 15:6<br /><br />9. James, the half-brother of Jesus--1 Corinthians 15:7<br /><br />10. 11 disciples Matthew 28:16-20<br /><br />11. 11 disciples before Jesus returned to heaven--Luke 24:50-53<br /><br />12. Paul-- Acts 9:3-6; 1 Corinthians 15:8<br /><br />In just one of these sightings, over 500 people claimed to see Jesus alive after his death. Did you know that if each of those 500 people were to testify in court for only six minutes, including time for cross-examination, we would have an amazing 50 hours of firsthand testimony? Few other events from over 2000 years ago find this level of support. None offer the number of witnesses the resurrection does for a supernatural event.<br /><br />Further, the changed lives of the early followers of Jesus supported their report that Jesus was alive. All but one of Jesus’ 11 followers died for his belief in the resurrection of Jesus. Hundreds—if not thousands—of other Christians suffered or died within the first century of Christianity for their beliefs as well. The killing of the first Christian martyr, Stephen, led to the persecution of the Jerusalem church, which eventually forced many Christians to flee the area for safety.<br /><br />“Could you convince thousands of people in our own day that President Kennedy had resurrected from the dead? There’s no way…unless it really happened.”<br /><br />The amazing phenomenon of Christianity’s growth also stands as a powerful testimony that this faith is based on a supernatural resurrection. How could a crucified Jew (Jesus), former tax collector (Matthew), Jesus-hater (Paul), and small town fishermen (including Peter) establish a movement that has resulted in the largest religion on Earth? How could this happen?<br /><br />When Christianity began, the Roman Empire was the greatest government of the time. Yet 300 years later, the Roman Empire had crumbled, and Christianity was continuing to grow. This, in spite of its humble beginning as a grassroots network of individuals who witnessed that Jesus had come back to life. Even though the proclamation of Jesus’ teachings produced persecution of the greatest kind, Christianity continued to spread across the Roman Empire—all the way to the palace of Caesar in Rome, the world’s political and social capital.<br /><br />Christianity 101<br /><br />So Christianity originated from a group of Jesus-followers who spread the message that they had personally witnessed his three years of teaching and miracles, watched him die on a cross, and then personally met, saw, talked to, ate with, and received instructions from him after his resurrection from the dead. But what are the core beliefs of Christianity? There are six central elements of<br />traditional Christianity.<br /><br />First, there is the common understanding of Jews and Christians that there is only one true God—who is infi nite, holy, loving, just, and true. In addition, Christians believe that in the nature (presence) of the one true God there exists three persons—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Christianity does not believe in three gods, but one. As Dr. Norman Geisler, bestselling author and cofounder of Southern Evangelical Seminary, has written,<br /><br />The Trinity is not the belief that God is three personas and only one person at the same time and in the same sense. That would be a contradiction. Rather, it is the belief that there are three persons in one nature. This may be a mystery, but it is not a contradiction. That is, it may go beyond reason’s ability to comprehend completely, but it does not go against reason’s ability to apprehend consistently.<br />Further, the Trinity is not the belief that there are three natures in one nature or three essences in one essence. That would be a contradiction. Rather, Christians affirm that there are three persons in one essence…He is one in the sense of his essence but many in the sense of his persons. So there is no violation of the law of noncontradiction in the doctrine of the Trinity.<br /><br />Traditional Christianity also accepts the 66 books of the Holy Bible as revelation from God, perfect and authoritative for all spiritual matters. While Roman Catholicism accepts the additional authority of the pope and church tradition, and Eastern Orthodoxy accepts church tradition as equal in authority to the Bible, the earliest traditional Christianity and later Protestant Christianity have been based solely on God’s written revelation through his apostles and prophets.<br /><br />Third, Christians believe every person who has ever lived (with the exception of Jesus Christ) has been born a sinner separated from God. It is our sin nature that keeps us from knowing and experiencing God and creates a need for reconciliation through a means only God can provide.<br /><br />Fourth, in his infinite love, God has provided the solution to the barrier between himself and humanity through Jesus Christ. The Bible teaches that the death of Jesus provides payment for our sins, and on the basis of our believing, he is our sinbearer and he will forgive us the moment we believe. All this is confirmed by Jesus’ resurrection from the dead—he has paid the penalty for sin and conquered death. In this way God offers a basis for a person to place his or her faith in Christ and to enter into a personal relationship with Jesus, in which he enters your life and you walk through life with his power and guidance.<br /><br />Fifth, this rescue or salvation God offers through Jesus is based solely on what God has done rather than on what people do. In other words, salvation is a free gift based on God’s grace to us (unearned favor) rather than good works or deeds we can accomplish, though these will accompany a person once he or she becomes a Christian. One of the major points of contention during the Protestant Reformation resulted from the Roman Catholic Church’s unbiblical teaching<br />that God’s grace consists of humans cooperating with God’s grace to merit salvation, rather than receiving salvation in full as a gift on the basis of faith alone the moment a person believes.<br /><br />Sixth, Christians believe in an eternal afterlife. God allows individuals the ability to choose or reject him, and after death, that decision is final. Those who have chosen to believe in Jesus will enjoy eternity with him in heaven, while those who decline will spend eternity in hell, separated from God. God will accept every person’s decision and not force him or her to change their mind. While all this may sound politically incorrect in our culture, it has stood as an essential component of Christian teaching from the earliest times. The choice we make here on earth will have eternal consequences. <br /><br />Jesus: Founder and CEO of Christianity <br /><br />Christian philosopher Dr. C. Stephen Evans points out that “it is an essential part of Christian faith that Jesus is God in a unique and exclusive way. It follows from this that all religions [that disagree] cannot be equally true.”7 Again, if different religions teach contradictory things about who God is, salvation, the afterlife, and<br />even Jesus, then one or another could be true, but they can’t all be true at the same time. What are the big super-signs that help us decide which religion is true? According to biblical Christianity, if Jesus claimed to be God and proved his claim by his resurrection, then he is God and Christianity is true. No other religious leader in history has claimed to be God and risen from the dead.<br /><br />Further, there are at least seven concepts Jesus taught about himself that stand unique to Christianity. First, Jesus communicated that he fulfi lled biblical prophecy, given hundreds of years in advance, that he was the promised Messiah. He repeatedly claimed to be the person that God’s Messiah was predicted to be, and many scholars have created extensive lists of these prophetic connections. Here are some examples of prophecies Jesus fulfilled:<br /><br />Prophecy--Old Testament Prophecy--New Testament Fulfillment<br /><br />Born of a virgin-- Isaiah 7:14-- Matthew 1:18,25<br /><br />Born in Bethlehem-- Micah 5:2-- Matthew 2:1<br /><br />Preceded by a messenger-- Isaiah 40:3-- Matthew 3:1-2<br /><br />Rejected by his own people-- Isaiah 53:3-- John 7:5; 7:48<br /><br />Betrayed by a close friend-- Isaiah 41:9-- John 13:26-30<br /><br />His side pierced-- Zechariah 12:10-- John 19:34<br /><br />His death by crucifixion-- Psalm 22:1,11-18-- Luke 23:33; John 19:23-24<br /><br />His resurrection-- Psalm 16:10-- Acts 13:34-37<br /><br />Second, Jesus stands as a unique, unparalleled individual among the leaders of various world religions. He made predictions about the future that could only be made by someone who claimed to be God. Further, he noted in advance several of the things that would occur at the time of his death and resurrection. Unlike anyone else, he also promised to one day return to earth to set up his future kingdom.<br /><br />The Seven “I Ams” of Jesus in John’s Gospel<br /><br /> “I am the bread of life” (John 6:35,48; see also verse 51).<br /><br /> “I am the light of the world” (John 8:12).<br /><br /> “I am the gate for the sheep” (John 10:7; see also verse 9).<br /><br /> “I am the good shepherd” (John 10:11,14).<br /><br /> “I am the resurrection and the life” (John 11:25).<br /><br /> “I am the way and the truth and the life” (John 14:6).<br /><br /> “I am the true vine” (John 15:1; see also verse 5).<br /><br />Further, Jesus is unique in his nature, being fully divine and fully human nature in one person. Jesus was born as a man without sin through a miraculous virgin birth. He challenged his own family, disciples, and even his enemies to prove him guilty of sin, but none could do so. Think of the reaction you would receive if you asked your parents, brothers, sisters, and friends, “Can any of you point to one sin I have committed?” Those closest to us know our faults. We all have them. Yet Jesus lived a perfect life free of sin.<br /><br />As God’s divine son, Jesus performed miracles, healings, and exorcisms; fulfi lled Jewish prophecies; and accomplished his own resurrection. In these ways he affi rmed his divine nature, displaying power far beyond that of any person who has ever lived. Today people downplay the miracles, but they are documented in careful detail in the Bible, and even Jesus’ enemies did not deny his miracles. They weren’t able to. So they just claimed that he performed them with<br />the help of evil powers (Matthew 12:24).<br /><br />The Exorcisms of Jesus<br /><br />Exorcism-- Source<br />1. Healed a demon-possessed man at Capernaum ---Mark 1:21-28; Luke 4:31-37<br /><br />2. Drove out demons and evil spirits Matthew 8:16-17; Mark 1:32-39; Luke 4:33-41<br />3. Healed the man possessed by demons at the Gadarenes-- Matthew 8:28-34; Mark 5:1-20; Luke 8:26-39<br /><br />4. Drove a demon out of a mute man, who then spoke-- Matthew 9:32-34;<br />Mark 3:20-22<br /><br />Christianity is also the only major religion whose founder sacrificed his life for the sins of those who would choose to believe in him. Jesus’ horrifi c death on the cross stood as proof of his statement that “the Son of Man [Jesus] did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.”<br /><br />The Nature Miracles of Jesus<br /><br />The Miracle—Source<br /><br />1. Calming the wind and waves-- Matthew 8:26; Mark 4:39; Luke 8:24<br /><br />2. Walking on water-- Matthew 14:25; Mark 6:48; John 6:19<br /><br />3. Money in the fish’s mouth-- Matthew 17:27<br /><br />4. Withering of the fig tree-- Matthew 21:19; Mark 11:14<br /><br />5. Miraculous catch of fish-- Luke 5:4-7<br /><br />6. Turning water into wine-- John 2:7-8<br /><br />7. Second miraculous catch of fish-- John 21:6<br /><br />8. Feeding the 4000-- Matthew 15:32-38; Mark 8:1-9<br /><br />9. Feeding the 5000-- Matthew 14:13-21; Mark 6:34-44; Luke 9:12-17; John 6:5-12<br /><br />Sixth, as mentioned earlier, Jesus also rose from the dead. Those in his time could never account for his empty tomb and the disappearance of his body. Jesus’ followers spanned the known world testifying of his resurrection (his actual bodily appearing to them), teaching his words, and dying for their belief in him.<br /><br />Finally, Jesus promises, at the end of time, to personally judge every person who ever lived. It would be eternally disappointing to have Jesus look at us, fairly judge us, and conclude, “I never knew you” (Matthew 7:23).<br /><br />Christianity by the Book<br /><br />Those who want to investigate the truthfulness of the original Christian message can look to a wealth of manuscript evidence regarding the transmission of the 27 books of the New Testament through the years. The New Testament manuscripts offer more supporting evidence than any other ancient book. Christians also accept the Jewish scriptures (the Old Testament) as part of their holy book, the Bible. Traditional Christianity believes in the inerrancy of Scripture, meaning the original words of the Bible’s books are without error and perfect in every way.<br /><br />As a result, Bible translation, distribution, and teaching stand as important responsibilities within Christianity. The Bible is the most translated book in history, has been used as the script for the most-watched fi lm in history (the Jesus fi lm), and has enjoyed greater distribution than any book in the world. Over 100 million copies of the New Testament or Bible are sold every year worldwide. <br /><br />Interesting Statistics About the Bible<br /><br />The Bible was written over a period of 1600 years,<br /><br /> by more than 40 authors of every sort—kings, peasants, fi shermen, poets, shepherds, government offi cials, teachers, and prophets—<br /><br /> in three languages (Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek),<br /><br /> on three continents—Asia, Africa, and Europe.11<br /><br />What Makes Christianity Unique?<br /><br />“Christianity isn’t about people in search of God, but rather God in search of<br />people.”—STEVE RUSSO<br /><br />Many have suggested that Christianity is about having a personal relationship with Jesus, and not performing good works and following rituals. Religious movements throughout history ultimately hold to a signifi cantly different common thread—that certain actions or works are required to obtain a blissful afterlife. In Christianity, however, the key to reaching God here and now and dwelling with him for eternity is to receive and trust in a gift already provided by its founder, Jesus Christ. As the apostle Paul made clear to Christians at Ephesus, “God saved you by his grace when you believed. And you can’t take credit for this; it is a gift from God. Salvation is not a reward for the good things we have done, so none of us can boast about it.”<br /><br />God’s gift of salvation also brings assurance. If Jesus’ righteous life and atoning death on the cross is the sole basis for God’s gift, then a Christian doesn’t have to worry about earning or losing that gift. Once the gift is received, it belongs to the Christian forever because it rests on what Jesus did—not what the Christian did or does in the past, present, or future.<br /><br />Christianity in Summary<br /><br />As we compare and contrast the beliefs of various religions throughout this book, we hope to make the distinctives of each one as clear as possible. Here, we summarize the key teachings of Christianity:<br /><br />Belief-- Basic Description<br /><br />God-- One God in three persons—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.<br />Holy Book-- The 66 books of the Holy Bible are the authoritative<br />works of Christianity.<br /><br />Sin-- All people have sinned (except Jesus).<br /><br />Jesus Christ-- God’s perfect son, holy, resurrected, divine (second person of the Trinity) yet also fully human.<br /><br />Salvation-- Obtained only by God’s grace through faith in Jesus Christ, not by human effort.<br /><br />Afterlife-- All people will enter heaven or hell upon death based on whether they have salvation in Jesus Christ. The Bible does not teach reincarnation, annihilation (ending of the soul), or the existence of purgatory.<br /><br /><br />Some people assume that biblical Christianity and Roman Catholicism are essentially similar. But is that the case? What differences exist? Are these differences really a big deal, or only minor details? Our next chapter will address these questions head-on.<br /></div></textarea><br /></div><br />*************************************<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s1600-h/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg"></a><a href="http://nonfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179647009365145890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s200/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg" border="0" /></a><br />It's July 15th, time for the Non~FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 15th, we will featuring an author and his/her latest non~fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature authors are: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.ankerberg.org/bio.htm"> John Ankerberg</a><br />and<br /><a href="http://www.readdb.com/">Dillon Burroughs</a></span></strong><br /><p></p><br /><strong><span style="font-size:160;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#009900;">and their book:</span> </span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"></strong></div></span><p></p><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:7;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></strong></div></span><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0736921222/">What's the Big Deal About Other Religions</a></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Harvest House Publishers (March 1, 2008) <br /></p><br /><p align="center"></p><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><br /><p></p><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHORS:</span> </span></strong></div></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfOXjnle3V6W4o2I-DB2EUaBO65czaVamWkpS3ow0XDMIKI-T_uXPHWiCxLGXyy5HgRp2J_iBzfKl9km3t7xZL5YRL1fjJE4rMJt_RxWvgYiB1_zsQb80_-TCrHkCsJ34OI9HYFEho/s1600-h/ankerberg-95.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfOXjnle3V6W4o2I-DB2EUaBO65czaVamWkpS3ow0XDMIKI-T_uXPHWiCxLGXyy5HgRp2J_iBzfKl9km3t7xZL5YRL1fjJE4rMJt_RxWvgYiB1_zsQb80_-TCrHkCsJ34OI9HYFEho/s200/ankerberg-95.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222308922620275186" /></a><strong>Dr. John F. Ankerberg</strong> is the President and founder of The Ankerberg Theological Research Institute. He is also the producer and host of the nationally televised John Ankerberg Show, a half-hour program seen in all 50 states via independent stations, the DAYSTAR Network, the DISH Network, DirecTV and on the SKY ANGEL Satellite, numerous cable outlets, as well as on the internet. The program can be seen each week by a potential viewing audience in excess of 99 million people. John presents contemporary spiritual issues and defends biblical/Christian answers.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrwjvC2anbRAKCNVhRiVgAem2vhddg5ye1haOhqnLydos9cySFe65EIgU8cmO369AAFYGV8ZbURJqs3VIQhdgqXP5ah2MGUx0RJMknTE8nldO_IPR5A5uGuMVSi6FqC8C3hDFtxXx/s1600-h/Dillon"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrwjvC2anbRAKCNVhRiVgAem2vhddg5ye1haOhqnLydos9cySFe65EIgU8cmO369AAFYGV8ZbURJqs3VIQhdgqXP5ah2MGUx0RJMknTE8nldO_IPR5A5uGuMVSi6FqC8C3hDFtxXx/s200/Dillon" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222310303633456434" /></a>Writer and communicator <strong>Dillon Burroughs </strong>is author of fourteen books and serves as a staff writer and research associate for the Ankerberg Theological Research Institute. In the past two years, his books have sold over 113,000 copies while his edited works have sold more than two million copies. On subjects related to spirituality and culture, Dillon’s written projects have appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Salem Radio Network news, Moody Radio Network, James Dobson’s Focus on the Family, iLife Television Network, Prime Time America, Leadership Journal, NBC affiliates, The John Ankerberg Show, Discipleship Journal, Group Magazine, and many other media outlets. <br /><br />Dillon Burroughs is a ThM graduate from Dallas Theological Seminary in addition to graduating with a B.S. degree in Communications from Indiana State University. As time allows, he also serves as an adjunct professor at Tennessee Temple University. Dillon lives in Tennessee with his wife, Deborah, and two children, Ben and Natalie.<br /><br /><br />Product Details:<br /><br />List Price: $12.99 <br />Paperback: 256 pages <br />Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (March 1, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0736921222 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0736921220 <br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></div><br /></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2TTRG2IWHiGjZFCMeBMf4zm5OZBl3RNhr75oSB7PbfTIsuf45hTuz9zmPfR8DbuGw7IWGE8G4wKjFQU67MZGTZ5MXV5_ZXOB-ChWPCCQ31DiAkFhtoKoW9e3SfnUhOJ2E3qYkYMfx/s1600-h/Other+Religions"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2TTRG2IWHiGjZFCMeBMf4zm5OZBl3RNhr75oSB7PbfTIsuf45hTuz9zmPfR8DbuGw7IWGE8G4wKjFQU67MZGTZ5MXV5_ZXOB-ChWPCCQ31DiAkFhtoKoW9e3SfnUhOJ2E3qYkYMfx/s200/Other+Religions" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222308991555054754" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;">Christianity: <br /><br />What’s the Big Deal About Jesus?<br /><br />“Christianity is good for you, but it’s not right for me. I think you ought to believe whatever makes you happy and gives you peace.”<br /><br />“Christianity is the ‘right’ religion—isn’t that being naive?”<br /><br />The label Christianity covers a broad range of people today. While over 2.1 billion people are statistically considered followers of Jesus Christ, polls by religious researcher George Barna have observed that only four percent of American Christians hold to a biblical worldview (that is, beliefs consistent with the Bible’s teachings), and just 51 percent of Christian clergy hold to such a view. As a result, even many who call themselves Christians have agreed with the quotes that appear above, asking if it is perhaps naïve to claim Christianity is the only way to God.<br /><br />However, the above quotes are inconsistent with Christianity’s origins and founder. In this chapter we’ll briefly review how Christianity began, consider its early beliefs, introduce its founder, and investigate the reliability of the New Testament, which is part of the Bible.<br /><br />A Firm Foundation<br /><br />All of Christianity is built around one basic belief: the resurrection of its founder, Jesus of Nazareth. On Passover Friday around A.D. 30, Jesus was executed on a Roman cross on the accusation of conspiracy against the government. The Sanhedrin (Jewish leaders) had insisted that the Roman leader Pilate condemn Jesus, though Pilate had not found him guilty of any crimes worthy of death. After the crucifixion, death, and burial of Jesus in a tomb, the body disappeared three days later. Immediately this was followed by many “Jesus sightings” reported over the next 40 days. A social revolution began ten days later in Jerusalem, Israel, as over 3000 people joined the movement after a street message given by the apostle Peter (Acts 2). Christianity was off and running, and has been growing ever since.<br /><br />Oxford University theologian Dr. Alister McGrath has noted,<br /><br />The identity of Christianity is inextricably linked with the uniqueness of Christ, which is in turn grounded in the Resurrection and Incarnation.<br /><br />How do we know Jesus came back to life? First, the 27 books of the New Testament are based upon this one event—the resurrection of Jesus. Despite the attacks of many, the writings of Christianity have been shown to have emerged during the first century with the courageous message that Jesus, a man executed by the government, was alive. This carried many implications about his life and death and beyond. What other motive did these writers have except that they truly believed all this had occurred?<br /><br />In addition, many individuals of that day claimed to have encountered Jesus after his death. According to the Gospel writers and the missionary Paul, Jesus appeared a total of at least 12 times after his return from death:<br /><br />The Post-Resurrection Appearances of Jesus Christ<br /><br /># Sighting Source<br /><br />1. Mary Magdalene--Mark 16:9; John 20:11-18<br /><br />2. Women returning from the tomb--Matthew 28:9-10<br /><br />3. Two men walking to Emmaus--Mark 16:12-13; Luke 24:13-32<br /><br />4. Peter--Luke 24:34; 1 Corinthians 15:5<br /><br />5. 10 disciples; two men from Emmaus--Luke 24:36-43; John 20:19-23<br /><br />6. 11 disciples (including Thomas)--John 20:24-29<br /><br />7. 7 disciples--John 21:1-24<br /><br />8. 500 people at one time--1 Corinthians 15:6<br /><br />9. James, the half-brother of Jesus--1 Corinthians 15:7<br /><br />10. 11 disciples Matthew 28:16-20<br /><br />11. 11 disciples before Jesus returned to heaven--Luke 24:50-53<br /><br />12. Paul-- Acts 9:3-6; 1 Corinthians 15:8<br /><br />In just one of these sightings, over 500 people claimed to see Jesus alive after his death. Did you know that if each of those 500 people were to testify in court for only six minutes, including time for cross-examination, we would have an amazing 50 hours of firsthand testimony? Few other events from over 2000 years ago find this level of support. None offer the number of witnesses the resurrection does for a supernatural event.<br /><br />Further, the changed lives of the early followers of Jesus supported their report that Jesus was alive. All but one of Jesus’ 11 followers died for his belief in the resurrection of Jesus. Hundreds—if not thousands—of other Christians suffered or died within the first century of Christianity for their beliefs as well. The killing of the first Christian martyr, Stephen, led to the persecution of the Jerusalem church, which eventually forced many Christians to flee the area for safety.<br /><br />“Could you convince thousands of people in our own day that President Kennedy had resurrected from the dead? There’s no way…unless it really happened.”<br /><br />The amazing phenomenon of Christianity’s growth also stands as a powerful testimony that this faith is based on a supernatural resurrection. How could a crucified Jew (Jesus), former tax collector (Matthew), Jesus-hater (Paul), and small town fishermen (including Peter) establish a movement that has resulted in the largest religion on Earth? How could this happen?<br /><br />When Christianity began, the Roman Empire was the greatest government of the time. Yet 300 years later, the Roman Empire had crumbled, and Christianity was continuing to grow. This, in spite of its humble beginning as a grassroots network of individuals who witnessed that Jesus had come back to life. Even though the proclamation of Jesus’ teachings produced persecution of the greatest kind, Christianity continued to spread across the Roman Empire—all the way to the palace of Caesar in Rome, the world’s political and social capital.<br /><br />Christianity 101<br /><br />So Christianity originated from a group of Jesus-followers who spread the message that they had personally witnessed his three years of teaching and miracles, watched him die on a cross, and then personally met, saw, talked to, ate with, and received instructions from him after his resurrection from the dead. But what are the core beliefs of Christianity? There are six central elements of<br />traditional Christianity.<br /><br />First, there is the common understanding of Jews and Christians that there is only one true God—who is infi nite, holy, loving, just, and true. In addition, Christians believe that in the nature (presence) of the one true God there exists three persons—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Christianity does not believe in three gods, but one. As Dr. Norman Geisler, bestselling author and cofounder of Southern Evangelical Seminary, has written,<br /><br />The Trinity is not the belief that God is three personas and only one person at the same time and in the same sense. That would be a contradiction. Rather, it is the belief that there are three persons in one nature. This may be a mystery, but it is not a contradiction. That is, it may go beyond reason’s ability to comprehend completely, but it does not go against reason’s ability to apprehend consistently.<br />Further, the Trinity is not the belief that there are three natures in one nature or three essences in one essence. That would be a contradiction. Rather, Christians affirm that there are three persons in one essence…He is one in the sense of his essence but many in the sense of his persons. So there is no violation of the law of noncontradiction in the doctrine of the Trinity.<br /><br />Traditional Christianity also accepts the 66 books of the Holy Bible as revelation from God, perfect and authoritative for all spiritual matters. While Roman Catholicism accepts the additional authority of the pope and church tradition, and Eastern Orthodoxy accepts church tradition as equal in authority to the Bible, the earliest traditional Christianity and later Protestant Christianity have been based solely on God’s written revelation through his apostles and prophets.<br /><br />Third, Christians believe every person who has ever lived (with the exception of Jesus Christ) has been born a sinner separated from God. It is our sin nature that keeps us from knowing and experiencing God and creates a need for reconciliation through a means only God can provide.<br /><br />Fourth, in his infinite love, God has provided the solution to the barrier between himself and humanity through Jesus Christ. The Bible teaches that the death of Jesus provides payment for our sins, and on the basis of our believing, he is our sinbearer and he will forgive us the moment we believe. All this is confirmed by Jesus’ resurrection from the dead—he has paid the penalty for sin and conquered death. In this way God offers a basis for a person to place his or her faith in Christ and to enter into a personal relationship with Jesus, in which he enters your life and you walk through life with his power and guidance.<br /><br />Fifth, this rescue or salvation God offers through Jesus is based solely on what God has done rather than on what people do. In other words, salvation is a free gift based on God’s grace to us (unearned favor) rather than good works or deeds we can accomplish, though these will accompany a person once he or she becomes a Christian. One of the major points of contention during the Protestant Reformation resulted from the Roman Catholic Church’s unbiblical teaching<br />that God’s grace consists of humans cooperating with God’s grace to merit salvation, rather than receiving salvation in full as a gift on the basis of faith alone the moment a person believes.<br /><br />Sixth, Christians believe in an eternal afterlife. God allows individuals the ability to choose or reject him, and after death, that decision is final. Those who have chosen to believe in Jesus will enjoy eternity with him in heaven, while those who decline will spend eternity in hell, separated from God. God will accept every person’s decision and not force him or her to change their mind. While all this may sound politically incorrect in our culture, it has stood as an essential component of Christian teaching from the earliest times. The choice we make here on earth will have eternal consequences. <br /><br />Jesus: Founder and CEO of Christianity <br /><br />Christian philosopher Dr. C. Stephen Evans points out that “it is an essential part of Christian faith that Jesus is God in a unique and exclusive way. It follows from this that all religions [that disagree] cannot be equally true.”7 Again, if different religions teach contradictory things about who God is, salvation, the afterlife, and<br />even Jesus, then one or another could be true, but they can’t all be true at the same time. What are the big super-signs that help us decide which religion is true? According to biblical Christianity, if Jesus claimed to be God and proved his claim by his resurrection, then he is God and Christianity is true. No other religious leader in history has claimed to be God and risen from the dead.<br /><br />Further, there are at least seven concepts Jesus taught about himself that stand unique to Christianity. First, Jesus communicated that he fulfi lled biblical prophecy, given hundreds of years in advance, that he was the promised Messiah. He repeatedly claimed to be the person that God’s Messiah was predicted to be, and many scholars have created extensive lists of these prophetic connections. Here are some examples of prophecies Jesus fulfilled:<br /><br />Prophecy--Old Testament Prophecy--New Testament Fulfillment<br /><br />Born of a virgin-- Isaiah 7:14-- Matthew 1:18,25<br /><br />Born in Bethlehem-- Micah 5:2-- Matthew 2:1<br /><br />Preceded by a messenger-- Isaiah 40:3-- Matthew 3:1-2<br /><br />Rejected by his own people-- Isaiah 53:3-- John 7:5; 7:48<br /><br />Betrayed by a close friend-- Isaiah 41:9-- John 13:26-30<br /><br />His side pierced-- Zechariah 12:10-- John 19:34<br /><br />His death by crucifixion-- Psalm 22:1,11-18-- Luke 23:33; John 19:23-24<br /><br />His resurrection-- Psalm 16:10-- Acts 13:34-37<br /><br />Second, Jesus stands as a unique, unparalleled individual among the leaders of various world religions. He made predictions about the future that could only be made by someone who claimed to be God. Further, he noted in advance several of the things that would occur at the time of his death and resurrection. Unlike anyone else, he also promised to one day return to earth to set up his future kingdom.<br /><br />The Seven “I Ams” of Jesus in John’s Gospel<br /><br /> “I am the bread of life” (John 6:35,48; see also verse 51).<br /><br /> “I am the light of the world” (John 8:12).<br /><br /> “I am the gate for the sheep” (John 10:7; see also verse 9).<br /><br /> “I am the good shepherd” (John 10:11,14).<br /><br /> “I am the resurrection and the life” (John 11:25).<br /><br /> “I am the way and the truth and the life” (John 14:6).<br /><br /> “I am the true vine” (John 15:1; see also verse 5).<br /><br />Further, Jesus is unique in his nature, being fully divine and fully human nature in one person. Jesus was born as a man without sin through a miraculous virgin birth. He challenged his own family, disciples, and even his enemies to prove him guilty of sin, but none could do so. Think of the reaction you would receive if you asked your parents, brothers, sisters, and friends, “Can any of you point to one sin I have committed?” Those closest to us know our faults. We all have them. Yet Jesus lived a perfect life free of sin.<br /><br />As God’s divine son, Jesus performed miracles, healings, and exorcisms; fulfi lled Jewish prophecies; and accomplished his own resurrection. In these ways he affi rmed his divine nature, displaying power far beyond that of any person who has ever lived. Today people downplay the miracles, but they are documented in careful detail in the Bible, and even Jesus’ enemies did not deny his miracles. They weren’t able to. So they just claimed that he performed them with<br />the help of evil powers (Matthew 12:24).<br /><br />The Exorcisms of Jesus<br /><br />Exorcism-- Source<br />1. Healed a demon-possessed man at Capernaum ---Mark 1:21-28; Luke 4:31-37<br /><br />2. Drove out demons and evil spirits Matthew 8:16-17; Mark 1:32-39; Luke 4:33-41<br />3. Healed the man possessed by demons at the Gadarenes-- Matthew 8:28-34; Mark 5:1-20; Luke 8:26-39<br /><br />4. Drove a demon out of a mute man, who then spoke-- Matthew 9:32-34;<br />Mark 3:20-22<br /><br />Christianity is also the only major religion whose founder sacrificed his life for the sins of those who would choose to believe in him. Jesus’ horrifi c death on the cross stood as proof of his statement that “the Son of Man [Jesus] did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.”<br /><br />The Nature Miracles of Jesus<br /><br />The Miracle—Source<br /><br />1. Calming the wind and waves-- Matthew 8:26; Mark 4:39; Luke 8:24<br /><br />2. Walking on water-- Matthew 14:25; Mark 6:48; John 6:19<br /><br />3. Money in the fish’s mouth-- Matthew 17:27<br /><br />4. Withering of the fig tree-- Matthew 21:19; Mark 11:14<br /><br />5. Miraculous catch of fish-- Luke 5:4-7<br /><br />6. Turning water into wine-- John 2:7-8<br /><br />7. Second miraculous catch of fish-- John 21:6<br /><br />8. Feeding the 4000-- Matthew 15:32-38; Mark 8:1-9<br /><br />9. Feeding the 5000-- Matthew 14:13-21; Mark 6:34-44; Luke 9:12-17; John 6:5-12<br /><br />Sixth, as mentioned earlier, Jesus also rose from the dead. Those in his time could never account for his empty tomb and the disappearance of his body. Jesus’ followers spanned the known world testifying of his resurrection (his actual bodily appearing to them), teaching his words, and dying for their belief in him.<br /><br />Finally, Jesus promises, at the end of time, to personally judge every person who ever lived. It would be eternally disappointing to have Jesus look at us, fairly judge us, and conclude, “I never knew you” (Matthew 7:23).<br /><br />Christianity by the Book<br /><br />Those who want to investigate the truthfulness of the original Christian message can look to a wealth of manuscript evidence regarding the transmission of the 27 books of the New Testament through the years. The New Testament manuscripts offer more supporting evidence than any other ancient book. Christians also accept the Jewish scriptures (the Old Testament) as part of their holy book, the Bible. Traditional Christianity believes in the inerrancy of Scripture, meaning the original words of the Bible’s books are without error and perfect in every way.<br /><br />As a result, Bible translation, distribution, and teaching stand as important responsibilities within Christianity. The Bible is the most translated book in history, has been used as the script for the most-watched fi lm in history (the Jesus fi lm), and has enjoyed greater distribution than any book in the world. Over 100 million copies of the New Testament or Bible are sold every year worldwide. <br /><br />Interesting Statistics About the Bible<br /><br />The Bible was written over a period of 1600 years,<br /><br /> by more than 40 authors of every sort—kings, peasants, fi shermen, poets, shepherds, government offi cials, teachers, and prophets—<br /><br /> in three languages (Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek),<br /><br /> on three continents—Asia, Africa, and Europe.11<br /><br />What Makes Christianity Unique?<br /><br />“Christianity isn’t about people in search of God, but rather God in search of<br />people.”—STEVE RUSSO<br /><br />Many have suggested that Christianity is about having a personal relationship with Jesus, and not performing good works and following rituals. Religious movements throughout history ultimately hold to a signifi cantly different common thread—that certain actions or works are required to obtain a blissful afterlife. In Christianity, however, the key to reaching God here and now and dwelling with him for eternity is to receive and trust in a gift already provided by its founder, Jesus Christ. As the apostle Paul made clear to Christians at Ephesus, “God saved you by his grace when you believed. And you can’t take credit for this; it is a gift from God. Salvation is not a reward for the good things we have done, so none of us can boast about it.”<br /><br />God’s gift of salvation also brings assurance. If Jesus’ righteous life and atoning death on the cross is the sole basis for God’s gift, then a Christian doesn’t have to worry about earning or losing that gift. Once the gift is received, it belongs to the Christian forever because it rests on what Jesus did—not what the Christian did or does in the past, present, or future.<br /><br />Christianity in Summary<br /><br />As we compare and contrast the beliefs of various religions throughout this book, we hope to make the distinctives of each one as clear as possible. Here, we summarize the key teachings of Christianity:<br /><br />Belief-- Basic Description<br /><br />God-- One God in three persons—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.<br />Holy Book-- The 66 books of the Holy Bible are the authoritative<br />works of Christianity.<br /><br />Sin-- All people have sinned (except Jesus).<br /><br />Jesus Christ-- God’s perfect son, holy, resurrected, divine (second person of the Trinity) yet also fully human.<br /><br />Salvation-- Obtained only by God’s grace through faith in Jesus Christ, not by human effort.<br /><br />Afterlife-- All people will enter heaven or hell upon death based on whether they have salvation in Jesus Christ. The Bible does not teach reincarnation, annihilation (ending of the soul), or the existence of purgatory.<br /><br /><br />Some people assume that biblical Christianity and Roman Catholicism are essentially similar. But is that the case? What differences exist? Are these differences really a big deal, or only minor details? Our next chapter will address these questions head-on.<br /></div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-89509004248281026992008-06-29T16:46:00.005-04:002008-12-10T11:49:54.893-05:00A Mile in My Flip-Flops by Melody CarlsonGrab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below):<br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 84px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" height="204" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" width="126" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is <strong><span style="color:#000099;">July </span><span style="color:#ff0000;">FIRST</span></strong>, time for the FIRST Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.melodycarlson.com/">Melody Carlson</a></span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;">and her book:</span> </span></strong><br /><br /></p><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400073146/">A Mile in My Flip-Flops</a></span></strong><br /><br />WaterBrook Press (June 17, 2008)<br /><br /></p><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0zJfKgP43jq4G-Iz7fn8-IhyZBJUYJx7mpRghhGj3kdsDFZIZ5gKcaL-Jk4l8Zgv9vB42qn9RsTXqnBqjejLIm456tMOOplP0CLSs9IOpKIH1JJIHIrtDIxWwZ-JZrStpXzqexvDHnQ/s1600-h/carlson.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213072267768585634" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0zJfKgP43jq4G-Iz7fn8-IhyZBJUYJx7mpRghhGj3kdsDFZIZ5gKcaL-Jk4l8Zgv9vB42qn9RsTXqnBqjejLIm456tMOOplP0CLSs9IOpKIH1JJIHIrtDIxWwZ-JZrStpXzqexvDHnQ/s200/carlson.jpg" border="0" /></a>In sixth grade, Melody Carlson helped start a school newspaper called The BuccaNews (her school’s mascot was a Buccaneer...arrr!). As editor of this paper, she wrote most of the material herself, creating goofy phony bylines to hide the fact that the school newspaper was mostly a "one man" show.<br /><br />Visit Melody's <a href="http://www.melodycarlson.com/">website</a> to see all of her wonderful and various book titles.<br /><br />Don't miss her latest teen fiction, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310714893/">Stealing Bradford (Carter House Girls, Book 2)</a>.<br /><br /><br />Product Details:<br /><br />List Price: $13.99<br /><br />Paperback: 336 pages<br /><br />Publisher: WaterBrook Press (June 17, 2008)<br /><br />Language: English<br /><br />ISBN-10: 1400073146<br /><br />ISBN-13: 978-1400073146<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieB-b26M_G2fX9xiSpo1xTpM8Iq_ONHke0OiXj1A-fyODcsFsAAsLszdOzkmCw7j735isvugfdkgSCIUYbvlns5Z-3Xcr0X3yduA7zXndszWeOV4J2kGZ7Q4Hv-bMUHSiGRqGP-kBitrIS/s1600-h/flip-flops.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215547850508500450" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieB-b26M_G2fX9xiSpo1xTpM8Iq_ONHke0OiXj1A-fyODcsFsAAsLszdOzkmCw7j735isvugfdkgSCIUYbvlns5Z-3Xcr0X3yduA7zXndszWeOV4J2kGZ7Q4Hv-bMUHSiGRqGP-kBitrIS/s200/flip-flops.jpg" border="0" /></a></span></div><br /><div style="OVERFLOW: auto; HEIGHT: 307px">I’m not the kind of girl who wants anyone to feel sorry for her.<br /><br />So after my fiancé jilted me less than four weeks before our wedding date, and since the invitations had already been sent, my only recourse was to lie low and wait for everyone to simply forget.<br /><br />Consequently, I became a recluse. If I wasn’t at work, teaching a delightful class of five-year-olds, who couldn’t care less about my shattered love life, I could be found holed up in my apartment, escaping all unnecessary interaction with “sympathetic” friends.<br /><br />And that is how I became addicted to HGTV and ice cream. Okay, that probably calls for some explanation. HGTV stands for Home and Garden TV, a network that runs 24/7 and is what I consider the highest form of comfort TV. It is habit forming, albeit slightly mind numbing. And ice cream obviously needs no explanation.<br /><br />Other than the fact that my dad, bless his heart, had seven quart-sized cartons of Ben & Jerry’s delivered to my apartment the day after Collin dumped me. Appropriately enough, dear old Dad (who knows me better than anyone on the planet) selected a flavor called Chocolate Therapy, a product worthy of its name and just as addictive as HGTV.<br /><br />But now, eighteen months and twenty-two pounds later, I seem to be in a rut. And apparently I’m not the only one who thinks so.<br /><br />“Come on, Gretchen,” urges my best friend, Holly, from her end of the phone line. “Just come with us–please!”<br /><br />“Right…,” I mutter as I lick my spoon and dip it back into a freshly opened carton of Chunky Monkey–also appropriately named, but let’s not go there. Anyway, not only had I moved on to new ice cream flavors, but I also had given up using bowls. “Like I want to tag along with the newlyweds. Thanks, but no thanks.”<br /><br />“Like I keep telling you, we’re not newlyweds anymore,” she insists. “We’ve been married three months now.”<br /><br />“Yeah…well…”<br /><br />“And it’s Cinco de Mayo,” she persists, using that little girl voice that I first heard when we became best friends back in third grade. “We always go together.”<br /><br />I consider this. I want to point out that Holly and I used to always go to the Cinco de Mayo celebration together–as in past tense. And despite her pity for me, or perhaps it’s just some sort of misplaced guilt because she’s married and I am not, I think the days of hanging with my best friend are pretty much over now. The image of Holly and Justin, both good looking enough to be models, strolling around holding hands with frumpy, dumpy me tagging along behind them like their poor, single, reject friend just doesn’t work for me.<br /><br />“Thanks anyway,” I tell her. “But I’m kind of busy today.”<br /><br />“So what are you doing then?” I hear the challenge in her voice, like she thinks I don’t have anything to do on a Saturday.<br /><br />I slump back into the sofa and look over to the muted TV, which is tuned, of course, to HGTV, where my favorite show, House Flippers, is about to begin, and I don’t want to miss a minute of it. “I’m, uh…I’ve got lesson plans to do,” I say quickly. This is actually true, although I don’t usually do them until Sunday evening.<br /><br />She snickers. “Yeah, that’s a good one, Gretch. I’ll bet you’re vegging out in front of HGTV with a carton of Chocolate Fudge Brownie.”<br /><br />“Wrong.” Okay, Holly is only partially wrong. Fortunately, I haven’t told her about my latest flavor.<br /><br />“Come on,” she tries again. “It’ll be fun. You can bring Riley along. He’d probably like to stretch his legs.”<br /><br />I glance over to where my usually hyper, chocolate Lab mixed breed is snoozing on his LL Bean doggy bed with a chewed-up and slightly soggy Cole Haan loafer tucked under his muzzle. “Riley’s napping,” I say. “He doesn’t want to be disturbed.”<br /><br />“Like he wouldn’t want to go out and get some fresh air and sunshine?”<br /><br />“We already had our walk today."<br /><br />Holly laughs. “You mean that little shuffle you do over to the itty bitty park across the street from your apartment complex? What’s that take? Like seven and a half minutes for the whole round trip? That’s not enough exercise for a growing dog like Riley.”<br /><br />“I threw a ball for him to chase.”<br /><br />“So there’s nothing I can do or say to change your mind?” House Flippers is just starting. “Nope,” I say, trying to end this conversation. “But thanks for thinking of me.”<br /><br />“Want me to bring you back an empanada?”<br /><br />“Sure,” I say quickly. “You guys have fun!” Then I hang up and, taking the TV off mute, I lean back into the soft chenille sofa and lose myself while watching a hapless couple from Florida renovate a seriously run-down split-level into something they hope to sell for a profit. Unfortunately, neither of them is terribly clever when it comes to remodeling basics. And their taste in interior design is sadly lacking too. The woman’s favorite color is rose, which she uses liberally throughout the house, and she actually thinks that buyers will appreciate the dated brown tiles and bathroom fixtures in the powder room. By the time the show ends, not only is the house still on the market despite the reduced price and open house, but the couple’s marriage seems to be in real trouble as well.<br /><br />“Too bad,” I say out loud as I mute the TV for commercials. Riley’s head jerks up, and he looks at me with expectant eyes.<br /><br />“You just keep being a good boy,” I tell him in a soothing tone. Hopefully, he’ll stretch out this midday nap a bit longer. Because once Riley starts moving, my tiny apartment seems to shrink, first by inches and then by feet.<br /><br />My hope for an elongated nap crumbles when his tail begins to beat rhythmically on the floor, almost like a warning–thump, thump, thump–and the next thing I know, he’s up and prowling around the cluttered living room. Riley isn’t even full grown yet, and he’s already way too much dog for my apartment. Holly warned me that his breed needed room to romp and play. She tried to talk me into a little dog, like a Yorkie or Chihuahua, but I had fallen for those liquid amber eyes…and did I mention that he’s part chocolate Lab? Since when have I been able to resist chocolate? Besides, he reminded me of a cuddly brown teddy bear. But I hardly considered the fact that he would get bigger.<br /><br />After he climbed into my lap that day, licking my face and smelling of puppy breath and other things that I knew could be shampooed away, there was no way I could leave him behind at the Humane Society. I already knew that he’d been rejected as a Christmas present. Some dimwitted father had gotten him for toddler twins without consulting Mommy first. Even so, Holly tried to convince me that a good-looking puppy like that would quickly find another home.<br /><br />But it was too late. I knew Riley was meant for me, and that was that. And I had grandiose ideas of taking him for long walks on the beach. “He’ll help me get in shape,” I assured Holly. She’d long since given up on me going to the fitness club with her, so I think she bought into the whole exercise theory. She also bought Riley his LL Bean deluxe doggy bed, which I could barely wedge into my already crowded apartment and now takes up most of the dining area, even though it’s partially tucked beneath a gorgeous craftsman-style Ethan Allen dining room set. Although it’s hard to tell that it’s gorgeous since it’s pushed up against a wall and covered with boxes of Pottery Barn kitchen items that won’t fit into my limited cabinet space.<br /><br />“This place is way too small for us,” I say to Riley as I shove the half-full ice cream carton back into the freezer. As if to confirm this, his wagging tail whacks an oversized dried arrangement in a large bronze vase, sending seedpods, leaves, and twigs flying across the carpet and adding to the general atmosphere of chaos and confusion.<br /><br />My decorating style? Contemporary clutter with a little eclectic disorder thrown in for special effect. Although, to be fair, that’s not the real me. I’m sure the real me could make a real place look like a million bucks. That is, if I had a real place…or a million bucks.<br /><br />I let out a long sigh as I stand amid my clutter and survey my crowded apartment. It’s been like this for almost two years now.<br /><br />Overly filled with all the stuff I purchased shortly after Collin proposed to me more than two years ago. Using my meager teacher’s salary and skimpy savings, I started planning the interior décor for our new home. I couldn’t wait to put it all together after the wedding.<br /><br />“Have you ever heard of wedding presents?” Holly asked me when she first realized what I was doing.<br /><br />“Of course,” I assured her. “But I can’t expect the guests to provide everything for our home. I figured I might as well get started myself. Look at this great set of espresso cups that I got at Crate & Barrel last weekend for thirty percent off.”<br /><br />“Well, at least you have good taste,” she admitted as she stooped to admire a hand-tied wool area rug I’d just gotten on sale. Of course, she gasped when she saw the price tag still on it. “Expensive taste too!”<br /><br />“It’ll last a lifetime,” I assured her, just like the Karastan salesman had assured me. Of course, as it turned out, my entire relationship with Collin didn’t even last two years. Now I’m stuck with a rug that’s too big to fit in this crummy little one-bedroom apartment–the same apartment I’d given Mr. Yamamoto notice on two months before my wedding. It was so humiliating to have to beg to keep it after the wedding was cancelled, but I didn’t know what else to do.<br /><br />And now, a year and a half later, I’m still here. Stuck. It’s like everyone else has moved on with their lives except me. It wouldn’t be so bad if I had enough room to make myself at home or enough room for Riley to wag his tail without causing mass destruction…or enough room to simply breathe. Maybe I should rent a storage unit for all this stuff. Or maybe I should move myself into a storage unit since it would probably be bigger than this apartment.<br /><br />As I pick up Riley’s newest mess, I decide the bottom line is that I need to make a decision. Get rid of some things–whether by storage, a yard sale, or charity–or else get more space. I vote for more space. Not that I can afford more space. I’m already strapped as it is.<br /><br />Kindergarten teachers don’t make a whole lot. I feel like I’ve created a prison for myself. What used to be a convenient hideout now feels like a trap, and these thin walls seem to be closing in on me daily. Feeling hopeless, I flop back onto the couch and ponder my limited options. Then I consider forgetting the whole thing and escaping back into HGTV, which might call for some more ice cream.<br /><br />But that’s when I look down and notice my thighs spreading out like two very large slabs of ham. Very pale ham, I might add as I tug at my snug shorts to help cover what I don’t want to see, but it’s not working. I stare at my flabby legs in horror. When did this happen?<br /><br />I stand up now, trying to erase that frightening image of enormous, white thunder thighs. I pace around my apartment a bit before I finally go and stand in front of an oversized mirror that’s leaning against the wall near the front door. This is a beautiful mirror I got half price at World Market, but it belongs in a large home, possibly over a fireplace or in a lovely foyer. And it will probably be broken by Riley’s antics if it remains against this wall much longer.<br /><br />But instead of admiring the heavy bronze frame of the mirror like I usually do, I actually look into the mirror and am slightly stunned at what I see. Who is that frumpy girl? And who let her into my apartment? I actually used to think I was sort of good looking. Not a babe, mind you, but okay. Today I see a faded girl with disappointed eyes.<br /><br />Some people, probably encouraged by Holly, a long-legged dazzling brunette, used to say I resembled Nicole Kidman. Although they probably were thinking of when Nicole was heavier and I was lighter. Now it’s a pretty big stretch to see any similarities. To add insult to injury, Nicole has already hit the big “four o,” whereas I am only thirty-two. Her forties might be yesterday’s twenties, but my thirties look more like someone else’s fifties. And I used to take better care of myself. Okay, I was never thin, but I did eat right and got exercise from jogging and rollerblading. Compared to now, I was in great shape. And my long strawberry blond hair, which I thought was my best asset, was usually wavy and fresh looking, although you wouldn’t know that now. It’s unwashed and pulled tightly into a shabby-looking ponytail, which accentuates my pudgy face and pale skin. Even my freckles have faded. It doesn’t help matters that my worn T-shirt (with a peeling logo that proclaims “My Teacher Gets an A+”) is saggy and baggy, and my Old Navy khaki shorts, as I’ve just observed, are too tight, and my rubber flip-flops look like they belong on a homeless person–although I could easily be mistaken for one if I was pushing a shopping cart down the street.<br /><br />Then, in the midst of this pathetic personal inventory, my focus shifts to all the junk that’s piled behind me–the boxes, the myriad of stuff lining the short, narrow hallway and even spilling into the open door of my tiny bedroom, which can barely contain the queensize bed and bronze bedframe still in the packing box behind it. If it wasn’t so depressing, it would almost be funny. I just shake my head. And then I notice Riley standing strangely still behind me and looking almost as confused as I feel. With his head slightly cocked to one side, he watches me curiously, as if he, too, is afraid to move. This is nuts. Totally certifiable. A girl, or even a dog, could seriously lose it living like this. Or maybe I already have. They say you’re always the last to know that you’ve lost your marbles.<br /><br />“It’s time for a change,” I announce to Riley. He wags his tail happily now, as if he wholeheartedly agrees. Or maybe he simply thinks I’m offering to take him on a nice, long walk. “We need a real house,” I continue, gathering steam now. “And we need a real yard for you to run and play in.” Of course, this only excites him more.<br /><br />And that’s when he begins to run about the apartment like a possessed thing, bumping into boxes and furnishings until I finally open the sliding door and send him out to the tiny deck to calm himself.<br /><br />After he settles down, I go and join him. It’s pretty hot out here, and I notice that the seedling sunflower plants, ones we’d started in the classroom and I’d brought home to nurture along, are now hanging limp and lifeless, tortured by the hot afternoon sun that bakes this little patio. Just one more thing I hate about this place.<br /><br />So much for my attempt at terrace gardening. I’d seen a show on HGTV that inspired me to turn this little square of cement deck into a real oasis. But in reality it’s simply a barren desert that will only get worse as the summer gets hotter. I feel like I’m on the verge of tears now. It’s hopeless.<br /><br />This is all wrong. On so many levels. This is not where I was supposed to be at this stage of the game. This is not the life I had planned. I feel like I’ve been robbed or tricked or like someone ripped the rug out from under me. And sometimes in moments like this, I even resent God and question my faith in him. I wonder why he allows things like this to happen. Why does he let innocent people get hurt by the selfishness of others? It just doesn’t make sense. And it’s not fair.<br /><br />Oh, I’ve tried to convince myself I’m over the fact that my ex fiancé, Collin Fairfield, was a total jerk. And I try not to blame him for being swept away when his high school sweetheart decided, after fifteen years of being apart, that she was truly in love with him. I heard that the revelation came to Selena at the same time she received our engraved wedding invitation, which I did not send to her. She wasn’t even on my list.<br /><br />And I actually believe that I’ve mostly forgiven Collin…and that sneaky Selena too. And I wish them well, although I didn’t attend their wedding last fall. A girl has to draw the line somewhere.<br /><br />But all that aside, this is still so wrong. I do not belong in this stuffy little apartment that’s cluttered with my pretty household goods. I belong in a real house. A house with a white picket fence and a lawn and fruit trees in the backyard. And being single shouldn’t mean that I don’t get to have that. There must be some way I can afford a home.<br /><br />Of course, I’m fully aware that real estate isn’t cheap in El Ocaso. It’s on the news regularly. Our town’s prices certainly aren’t as outrageous as some of the suburbs around San Diego, but they’re not exactly affordable on a teacher’s salary. I try not to remember how much I had in my savings account back before I got engaged and got carried away with spending on my wedding and my home. That pretty much depleted what might’ve gone toward a small down payment on what probably would’ve been a very small house. But, hey, even a small house would be better than this prison-cell apartment.<br /><br />And that’s when it hits me. And it’s so totally obvious I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. I will become a house flipper! Just like the people on my favorite HGTV show, I will figure out a way to secure a short-term loan, purchase a fixer-upper house, and do the repairs and decorating myself–with my dad’s expert help, of course!<br /><br />And then, maybe as early as midsummer, I will sell this beautifully renovated house for enough profit to make a good-sized down payment on another house just for me…and Riley. Even if the secondhouse is a fixer-upper too, I can take my time with it, making it just the way I want it. And it’ll be so much better than where I live now.<br /><br />I’m surprised I didn’t come up with this idea months ago. It’s so totally simple. Totally perfect. And totally me!<br /><br />“We are going house hunting,” I announce to Riley as I shove open the sliding door and march back inside the apartment. His whole body is wagging with doggy joy as I quickly exchange my too-tight shorts for jeans and then reach for his leather leash and my Dolce & Gabbana knockoff bag–the one I bought to carry on my honeymoon, the honeymoon that never was. I avoid looking at my image in the big mirror as we make a hasty exit.<br /><br />“Come on, boy,” I say as I hook the leash to his collar at the top of the stairs. “This is going to be fun!” And since this outing is in the spirit of fun, I even put down the top on my VW Bug, something I haven’t done in ages. Riley looks like he’s died and gone to doggy heaven as he rides joyfully in the backseat, his ears flapping in the breeze. Who knows, maybe we’ll find a house for sale on the beach.<br /><br />Okay, it’d have to be a run-down, ramshackle sort of place that no one but me can see the hidden value in, but it could happen. And while I renovate my soon-to-be wonder house, Riley can be king of the beach. The possibilities seem limitless. And when I stop at the grocery store to pick up real-estate papers, I am impressed with how many listings there are. But I can’t read and drive, so I decide to focus on driving. And since I know this town like the back of my hand, this should be easy.<br /><br />But thanks to the Cinco de Mayo celebration, the downtown area is crowded, so I start my search on the south end of town, trying to avoid traffic jams. I’m aware that this area is a little pricey for me, but you never know. First, I pull over into a parking lot and read the fliers. I read about several houses for sale, but the prices are staggering.<br /><br />Even more than I imagined. Also, based on the descriptions and photos, these houses already seem to be in great shape. No fixer-uppers here. Then I notice some condo units for sale, and I can imagine finding a run-down unit in need of a little TLC, but it’s the same situation. According to the fliers, they’re in tiptop, turnkey shape–recently remodeled with granite counters and cherry hardwood floors and new carpeting and prices so high I can’t imagine doing anything that could push them a penny higher. My profit margin and spirits are steadily sinking. Maybe my idea to flip a house has already flopped. Just like the rest of my life.<br /><br /><br />Excerpted from A Mile in My Flip-Flops by Melody Carlson Copyright © 2008 by Melody Carlson. Excerpted by permission of WaterBrook Press, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.<br /><br /></div><br /></textarea><br /><br /><br /><br />*********************************************<br /><br /><a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 84px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" height="204" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" width="126" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is <strong><span style="color:#000099;">July </span><span style="color:#ff0000;">FIRST</span></strong>, time for the FIRST Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.melodycarlson.com/">Melody Carlson</a></span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;">and her book:</span> </span></strong></p><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400073146/">A Mile in My Flip-Flops</a></span></strong><br />WaterBrook Press (June 17, 2008) </p><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0zJfKgP43jq4G-Iz7fn8-IhyZBJUYJx7mpRghhGj3kdsDFZIZ5gKcaL-Jk4l8Zgv9vB42qn9RsTXqnBqjejLIm456tMOOplP0CLSs9IOpKIH1JJIHIrtDIxWwZ-JZrStpXzqexvDHnQ/s1600-h/carlson.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213072267768585634" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0zJfKgP43jq4G-Iz7fn8-IhyZBJUYJx7mpRghhGj3kdsDFZIZ5gKcaL-Jk4l8Zgv9vB42qn9RsTXqnBqjejLIm456tMOOplP0CLSs9IOpKIH1JJIHIrtDIxWwZ-JZrStpXzqexvDHnQ/s200/carlson.jpg" border="0" /></a>In sixth grade, Melody Carlson helped start a school newspaper called The BuccaNews (her school’s mascot was a Buccaneer...arrr!). As editor of this paper, she wrote most of the material herself, creating goofy phony bylines to hide the fact that the school newspaper was mostly a "one man" show.<br /><br />Visit Melody's <a href="http://www.melodycarlson.com/">website</a> to see all of her wonderful and various book titles.<br /><br />Don't miss her latest teen fiction, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310714893/">Stealing Bradford (Carter House Girls, Book 2)</a>.<br /><br />Product Details:<br /><br />List Price: $13.99<br />Paperback: 336 pages<br />Publisher: WaterBrook Press (June 17, 2008)<br />Language: English<br />ISBN-10: 1400073146<br />ISBN-13: 978-1400073146<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieB-b26M_G2fX9xiSpo1xTpM8Iq_ONHke0OiXj1A-fyODcsFsAAsLszdOzkmCw7j735isvugfdkgSCIUYbvlns5Z-3Xcr0X3yduA7zXndszWeOV4J2kGZ7Q4Hv-bMUHSiGRqGP-kBitrIS/s1600-h/flip-flops.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215547850508500450" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieB-b26M_G2fX9xiSpo1xTpM8Iq_ONHke0OiXj1A-fyODcsFsAAsLszdOzkmCw7j735isvugfdkgSCIUYbvlns5Z-3Xcr0X3yduA7zXndszWeOV4J2kGZ7Q4Hv-bMUHSiGRqGP-kBitrIS/s200/flip-flops.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></span></div><br /><div style="OVERFLOW: auto; HEIGHT: 307px">I’m not the kind of girl who wants anyone to feel sorry for her.<br /><br />So after my fiancé jilted me less than four weeks before our wedding date, and since the invitations had already been sent, my only recourse was to lie low and wait for everyone to simply forget.<br /><br />Consequently, I became a recluse. If I wasn’t at work, teaching a delightful class of five-year-olds, who couldn’t care less about my shattered love life, I could be found holed up in my apartment, escaping all unnecessary interaction with “sympathetic” friends.<br /><br />And that is how I became addicted to HGTV and ice cream. Okay, that probably calls for some explanation. HGTV stands for Home and Garden TV, a network that runs 24/7 and is what I consider the highest form of comfort TV. It is habit forming, albeit slightly mind numbing. And ice cream obviously needs no explanation.<br /><br />Other than the fact that my dad, bless his heart, had seven quart-sized cartons of Ben & Jerry’s delivered to my apartment the day after Collin dumped me. Appropriately enough, dear old Dad (who knows me better than anyone on the planet) selected a flavor called Chocolate Therapy, a product worthy of its name and just as addictive as HGTV.<br /><br />But now, eighteen months and twenty-two pounds later, I seem to be in a rut. And apparently I’m not the only one who thinks so.<br /><br />“Come on, Gretchen,” urges my best friend, Holly, from her end of the phone line. “Just come with us–please!”<br /><br />“Right…,” I mutter as I lick my spoon and dip it back into a freshly opened carton of Chunky Monkey–also appropriately named, but let’s not go there. Anyway, not only had I moved on to new ice cream flavors, but I also had given up using bowls. “Like I want to tag along with the newlyweds. Thanks, but no thanks.”<br /><br />“Like I keep telling you, we’re not newlyweds anymore,” she insists. “We’ve been married three months now.”<br /><br />“Yeah…well…”<br /><br />“And it’s Cinco de Mayo,” she persists, using that little girl voice that I first heard when we became best friends back in third grade. “We always go together.”<br /><br />I consider this. I want to point out that Holly and I used to always go to the Cinco de Mayo celebration together–as in past tense. And despite her pity for me, or perhaps it’s just some sort of misplaced guilt because she’s married and I am not, I think the days of hanging with my best friend are pretty much over now. The image of Holly and Justin, both good looking enough to be models, strolling around holding hands with frumpy, dumpy me tagging along behind them like their poor, single, reject friend just doesn’t work for me.<br /><br />“Thanks anyway,” I tell her. “But I’m kind of busy today.”<br />“So what are you doing then?” I hear the challenge in her voice, like she thinks I don’t have anything to do on a Saturday.<br /><br />I slump back into the sofa and look over to the muted TV, which is tuned, of course, to HGTV, where my favorite show, House Flippers, is about to begin, and I don’t want to miss a minute of it. “I’m, uh…I’ve got lesson plans to do,” I say quickly. This is actually true, although I don’t usually do them until Sunday evening.<br /><br />She snickers. “Yeah, that’s a good one, Gretch. I’ll bet you’re vegging out in front of HGTV with a carton of Chocolate Fudge Brownie.”<br /><br />“Wrong.” Okay, Holly is only partially wrong. Fortunately, I haven’t told her about my latest flavor.<br /><br />“Come on,” she tries again. “It’ll be fun. You can bring Riley along. He’d probably like to stretch his legs.”<br /><br />I glance over to where my usually hyper, chocolate Lab mixed breed is snoozing on his LL Bean doggy bed with a chewed-up and slightly soggy Cole Haan loafer tucked under his muzzle. “Riley’s napping,” I say. “He doesn’t want to be disturbed.”<br /><br />“Like he wouldn’t want to go out and get some fresh air and sunshine?”<br /><br />“We already had our walk today.”<br />Holly laughs. “You mean that little shuffle you do over to the itty bitty park across the street from your apartment complex? What’s that take? Like seven and a half minutes for the whole round trip? That’s not enough exercise for a growing dog like Riley.”<br /><br />“I threw a ball for him to chase.”<br /><br />“So there’s nothing I can do or say to change your mind?” House Flippers is just starting. “Nope,” I say, trying to end this conversation. “But thanks for thinking of me.”<br /><br />“Want me to bring you back an empanada?”<br /><br />“Sure,” I say quickly. “You guys have fun!” Then I hang up and, taking the TV off mute, I lean back into the soft chenille sofa and lose myself while watching a hapless couple from Florida renovate a seriously run-down split-level into something they hope to sell for a profit. Unfortunately, neither of them is terribly clever when it comes to remodeling basics. And their taste in interior design is sadly lacking too. The woman’s favorite color is rose, which she uses liberally throughout the house, and she actually thinks that buyers will appreciate the dated brown tiles and bathroom fixtures in the powder room. By the time the show ends, not only is the house still on the market despite the reduced price and open house, but the couple’s marriage seems to be in real trouble as well.<br /><br />“Too bad,” I say out loud as I mute the TV for commercials. Riley’s head jerks up, and he looks at me with expectant eyes.<br /><br />“You just keep being a good boy,” I tell him in a soothing tone. Hopefully, he’ll stretch out this midday nap a bit longer. Because once Riley starts moving, my tiny apartment seems to shrink, first by inches and then by feet.<br /><br />My hope for an elongated nap crumbles when his tail begins to beat rhythmically on the floor, almost like a warning–thump, thump, thump–and the next thing I know, he’s up and prowling around the cluttered living room. Riley isn’t even full grown yet, and he’s already way too much dog for my apartment. Holly warned me that his breed needed room to romp and play. She tried to talk me into a little dog, like a Yorkie or Chihuahua, but I had fallen for those liquid amber eyes…and did I mention that he’s part chocolate Lab? Since when have I been able to resist chocolate? Besides, he reminded me of a cuddly brown teddy bear. But I hardly considered the fact that he would get bigger.<br /><br />After he climbed into my lap that day, licking my face and smelling of puppy breath and other things that I knew could be shampooed away, there was no way I could leave him behind at the Humane Society. I already knew that he’d been rejected as a Christmas present. Some dimwitted father had gotten him for toddler twins without consulting Mommy first. Even so, Holly tried to convince me that a good-looking puppy like that would quickly find another home.<br /><br />But it was too late. I knew Riley was meant for me, and that was that. And I had grandiose ideas of taking him for long walks on the beach. “He’ll help me get in shape,” I assured Holly. She’d long since given up on me going to the fitness club with her, so I think she bought into the whole exercise theory. She also bought Riley his LL Bean deluxe doggy bed, which I could barely wedge into my already crowded apartment and now takes up most of the dining area, even though it’s partially tucked beneath a gorgeous craftsman-style Ethan Allen dining room set. Although it’s hard to tell that it’s gorgeous since it’s pushed up against a wall and covered with boxes of Pottery Barn kitchen items that won’t fit into my limited cabinet space.<br /><br />“This place is way too small for us,” I say to Riley as I shove the half-full ice cream carton back into the freezer. As if to confirm this, his wagging tail whacks an oversized dried arrangement in a large bronze vase, sending seedpods, leaves, and twigs flying across the carpet and adding to the general atmosphere of chaos and confusion.<br /><br />My decorating style? Contemporary clutter with a little eclectic disorder thrown in for special effect. Although, to be fair, that’s not the real me. I’m sure the real me could make a real place look like a million bucks. That is, if I had a real place…or a million bucks.<br /><br />I let out a long sigh as I stand amid my clutter and survey my crowded apartment. It’s been like this for almost two years now.<br /><br />Overly filled with all the stuff I purchased shortly after Collin proposed to me more than two years ago. Using my meager teacher’s salary and skimpy savings, I started planning the interior décor for our new home. I couldn’t wait to put it all together after the wedding.<br /><br />“Have you ever heard of wedding presents?” Holly asked me when she first realized what I was doing.<br /><br />“Of course,” I assured her. “But I can’t expect the guests to provide everything for our home. I figured I might as well get started myself. Look at this great set of espresso cups that I got at Crate & Barrel last weekend for thirty percent off.”<br /><br />“Well, at least you have good taste,” she admitted as she stooped to admire a hand-tied wool area rug I’d just gotten on sale. Of course, she gasped when she saw the price tag still on it. “Expensive taste too!”<br /><br />“It’ll last a lifetime,” I assured her, just like the Karastan salesman had assured me. Of course, as it turned out, my entire relationship with Collin didn’t even last two years. Now I’m stuck with a rug that’s too big to fit in this crummy little one-bedroom apartment–the same apartment I’d given Mr. Yamamoto notice on two months before my wedding. It was so humiliating to have to beg to keep it after the wedding was cancelled, but I didn’t know what else to do.<br /><br />And now, a year and a half later, I’m still here. Stuck. It’s like everyone else has moved on with their lives except me. It wouldn’t be so bad if I had enough room to make myself at home or enough room for Riley to wag his tail without causing mass destruction…or enough room to simply breathe. Maybe I should rent a storage unit for all this stuff. Or maybe I should move myself into a storage unit since it would probably be bigger than this apartment.<br /><br />As I pick up Riley’s newest mess, I decide the bottom line is that I need to make a decision. Get rid of some things–whether by storage, a yard sale, or charity–or else get more space. I vote for more space. Not that I can afford more space. I’m already strapped as it is.<br /><br />Kindergarten teachers don’t make a whole lot. I feel like I’ve created a prison for myself. What used to be a convenient hideout now feels like a trap, and these thin walls seem to be closing in on me daily. Feeling hopeless, I flop back onto the couch and ponder my limited options. Then I consider forgetting the whole thing and escaping back into HGTV, which might call for some more ice cream.<br /><br />But that’s when I look down and notice my thighs spreading out like two very large slabs of ham. Very pale ham, I might add as I tug at my snug shorts to help cover what I don’t want to see, but it’s not working. I stare at my flabby legs in horror. When did this happen?<br /><br />I stand up now, trying to erase that frightening image of enormous, white thunder thighs. I pace around my apartment a bit before I finally go and stand in front of an oversized mirror that’s leaning against the wall near the front door. This is a beautiful mirror I got half price at World Market, but it belongs in a large home, possibly over a fireplace or in a lovely foyer. And it will probably be broken by Riley’s antics if it remains against this wall much longer.<br /><br />But instead of admiring the heavy bronze frame of the mirror like I usually do, I actually look into the mirror and am slightly stunned at what I see. Who is that frumpy girl? And who let her into my apartment? I actually used to think I was sort of good looking. Not a babe, mind you, but okay. Today I see a faded girl with disappointed eyes.<br /><br />Some people, probably encouraged by Holly, a long-legged dazzling brunette, used to say I resembled Nicole Kidman. Although they probably were thinking of when Nicole was heavier and I was lighter. Now it’s a pretty big stretch to see any similarities. To add insult to injury, Nicole has already hit the big “four o,” whereas I am only thirty-two. Her forties might be yesterday’s twenties, but my thirties look more like someone else’s fifties. And I used to take better care of myself. Okay, I was never thin, but I did eat right and got exercise from jogging and rollerblading. Compared to now, I was in great shape. And my long strawberry blond hair, which I thought was my best asset, was usually wavy and fresh looking, although you wouldn’t know that now. It’s unwashed and pulled tightly into a shabby-looking ponytail, which accentuates my pudgy face and pale skin. Even my freckles have faded. It doesn’t help matters that my worn T-shirt (with a peeling logo that proclaims “My Teacher Gets an A+”) is saggy and baggy, and my Old Navy khaki shorts, as I’ve just observed, are too tight, and my rubber flip-flops look like they belong on a homeless person–although I could easily be mistaken for one if I was pushing a shopping cart down the street.<br /><br />Then, in the midst of this pathetic personal inventory, my focus shifts to all the junk that’s piled behind me–the boxes, the myriad of stuff lining the short, narrow hallway and even spilling into the open door of my tiny bedroom, which can barely contain the queensize bed and bronze bedframe still in the packing box behind it. If it wasn’t so depressing, it would almost be funny. I just shake my head. And then I notice Riley standing strangely still behind me and looking almost as confused as I feel. With his head slightly cocked to one side, he watches me curiously, as if he, too, is afraid to move. This is nuts. Totally certifiable. A girl, or even a dog, could seriously lose it living like this. Or maybe I already have. They say you’re always the last to know that you’ve lost your marbles.<br /><br />“It’s time for a change,” I announce to Riley. He wags his tail happily now, as if he wholeheartedly agrees. Or maybe he simply thinks I’m offering to take him on a nice, long walk. “We need a real house,” I continue, gathering steam now. “And we need a real yard for you to run and play in.” Of course, this only excites him more.<br /><br />And that’s when he begins to run about the apartment like a possessed thing, bumping into boxes and furnishings until I finally open the sliding door and send him out to the tiny deck to calm himself.<br /><br />After he settles down, I go and join him. It’s pretty hot out here, and I notice that the seedling sunflower plants, ones we’d started in the classroom and I’d brought home to nurture along, are now hanging limp and lifeless, tortured by the hot afternoon sun that bakes this little patio. Just one more thing I hate about this place.<br /><br />So much for my attempt at terrace gardening. I’d seen a show on HGTV that inspired me to turn this little square of cement deck into a real oasis. But in reality it’s simply a barren desert that will only get worse as the summer gets hotter. I feel like I’m on the verge of tears now. It’s hopeless.<br /><br />This is all wrong. On so many levels. This is not where I was supposed to be at this stage of the game. This is not the life I had planned. I feel like I’ve been robbed or tricked or like someone ripped the rug out from under me. And sometimes in moments like this, I even resent God and question my faith in him. I wonder why he allows things like this to happen. Why does he let innocent people get hurt by the selfishness of others? It just doesn’t make sense. And it’s not fair.<br /><br />Oh, I’ve tried to convince myself I’m over the fact that my ex fiancé, Collin Fairfield, was a total jerk. And I try not to blame him for being swept away when his high school sweetheart decided, after fifteen years of being apart, that she was truly in love with him. I heard that the revelation came to Selena at the same time she received our engraved wedding invitation, which I did not send to her. She wasn’t even on my list.<br /><br />And I actually believe that I’ve mostly forgiven Collin…and that sneaky Selena too. And I wish them well, although I didn’t attend their wedding last fall. A girl has to draw the line somewhere.<br /><br />But all that aside, this is still so wrong. I do not belong in this stuffy little apartment that’s cluttered with my pretty household goods. I belong in a real house. A house with a white picket fence and a lawn and fruit trees in the backyard. And being single shouldn’t mean that I don’t get to have that. There must be some way I can afford a home.<br /><br />Of course, I’m fully aware that real estate isn’t cheap in El Ocaso. It’s on the news regularly. Our town’s prices certainly aren’t as outrageous as some of the suburbs around San Diego, but they’re not exactly affordable on a teacher’s salary. I try not to remember how much I had in my savings account back before I got engaged and got carried away with spending on my wedding and my home. That pretty much depleted what might’ve gone toward a small down payment on what probably would’ve been a very small house. But, hey, even a small house would be better than this prison-cell apartment.<br /><br />And that’s when it hits me. And it’s so totally obvious I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. I will become a house flipper! Just like the people on my favorite HGTV show, I will figure out a way to secure a short-term loan, purchase a fixer-upper house, and do the repairs and decorating myself–with my dad’s expert help, of course!<br /><br />And then, maybe as early as midsummer, I will sell this beautifully renovated house for enough profit to make a good-sized down payment on another house just for me…and Riley. Even if the secondhouse is a fixer-upper too, I can take my time with it, making it just the way I want it. And it’ll be so much better than where I live now.<br /><br />I’m surprised I didn’t come up with this idea months ago. It’s so totally simple. Totally perfect. And totally me!<br /><br />“We are going house hunting,” I announce to Riley as I shove open the sliding door and march back inside the apartment. His whole body is wagging with doggy joy as I quickly exchange my too-tight shorts for jeans and then reach for his leather leash and my Dolce & Gabbana knockoff bag–the one I bought to carry on my honeymoon, the honeymoon that never was. I avoid looking at my image in the big mirror as we make a hasty exit.<br /><br />“Come on, boy,” I say as I hook the leash to his collar at the top of the stairs. “This is going to be fun!” And since this outing is in the spirit of fun, I even put down the top on my VW Bug, something I haven’t done in ages. Riley looks like he’s died and gone to doggy heaven as he rides joyfully in the backseat, his ears flapping in the breeze. Who knows, maybe we’ll find a house for sale on the beach.<br /><br />Okay, it’d have to be a run-down, ramshackle sort of place that no one but me can see the hidden value in, but it could happen. And while I renovate my soon-to-be wonder house, Riley can be king of the beach. The possibilities seem limitless. And when I stop at the grocery store to pick up real-estate papers, I am impressed with how many listings there are. But I can’t read and drive, so I decide to focus on driving. And since I know this town like the back of my hand, this should be easy.<br /><br />But thanks to the Cinco de Mayo celebration, the downtown area is crowded, so I start my search on the south end of town, trying to avoid traffic jams. I’m aware that this area is a little pricey for me, but you never know. First, I pull over into a parking lot and read the fliers. I read about several houses for sale, but the prices are staggering.<br /><br />Even more than I imagined. Also, based on the descriptions and photos, these houses already seem to be in great shape. No fixer-uppers here. Then I notice some condo units for sale, and I can imagine finding a run-down unit in need of a little TLC, but it’s the same situation. According to the fliers, they’re in tiptop, turnkey shape–recently remodeled with granite counters and cherry hardwood floors and new carpeting and prices so high I can’t imagine doing anything that could push them a penny higher. My profit margin and spirits are steadily sinking. Maybe my idea to flip a house has already flopped. Just like the rest of my life.<br /><br /><br />Excerpted from A Mile in My Flip-Flops by Melody Carlson Copyright © 2008 by Melody Carlson. Excerpted by permission of WaterBrook Press, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.<br /></div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-24940764872273053712008-06-18T13:37:00.007-04:002008-12-10T11:49:54.920-05:00Mixed Bags by Melody CarlsonGrab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s1600-h/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg"><a href="http://teenfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178594274707613778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s200/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg" border="0" /></a></a><br /><br />It's June 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.MelodyCarlson.com/">Melody Carlson</a></font></strong><br /><p></p><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="160"><font color="#009900" size="4"></font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"><font size="2"><font color="#009900">and her book:</font> </font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"></strong></div></font><p></p><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="7"><font size="3"></font></strong></div></font><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310714885 ">Mixed Bags (Carter House Girls, Book 1) </a></font></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Zondervan (May 1, 2008) </p><br /><p align="center"></p><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><font color="#ff6600"></font></font></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><p></p><font color="#ff6600">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</font> </font></strong></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0zJfKgP43jq4G-Iz7fn8-IhyZBJUYJx7mpRghhGj3kdsDFZIZ5gKcaL-Jk4l8Zgv9vB42qn9RsTXqnBqjejLIm456tMOOplP0CLSs9IOpKIH1JJIHIrtDIxWwZ-JZrStpXzqexvDHnQ/s1600-h/carlson.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0zJfKgP43jq4G-Iz7fn8-IhyZBJUYJx7mpRghhGj3kdsDFZIZ5gKcaL-Jk4l8Zgv9vB42qn9RsTXqnBqjejLIm456tMOOplP0CLSs9IOpKIH1JJIHIrtDIxWwZ-JZrStpXzqexvDHnQ/s200/carlson.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213072267768585634" /></a>In sixth grade, Melody Carlson helped start a school newspaper called The BuccaNews (her school’s mascot was a Buccaneer...arrr!). As editor of this paper, she wrote most of the material herself, creating goofy phony bylines to hide the fact that the school newspaper was mostly a "one man" show. <br /><br />Visit the Melody's <a href="http://www.MelodyCarlson.com/">website</a> to see all of her wonderful and various book titles.<br /><br />Don't miss the second book in this series: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310714893/">Stealing Bradford (Carter House Girls, Book 2)</a><br /><br />And one of her latest, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400073146/">A Mile in My Flip-Flops</a> will be featured on <a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/">FIRST Blog Alliance </a>on July 1st!<br /><br />Product Details:<br /><br />List Price: $9.99 <br />Paperback: 224 pages <br />Publisher: Zondervan (May 1, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0310714885 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0310714880 <br /><br /><br /><br /><font color="#ffcc00"><strong><font size="5">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</font> </strong><br /></font><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-7Nn55AJLWJKOmfRkbBO0N-YZwKsoieMJLFnfc7kfaQfJYtstNzeQaYmzhnNzUZ57ga5sHJTPfsiCwPfUx40rl4fIaZIOAwdrKWW1rsww3wlVRMl-g01cf4t7UK1yHkv5NK29uKdva-o/s1600-h/mixed+bags.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-7Nn55AJLWJKOmfRkbBO0N-YZwKsoieMJLFnfc7kfaQfJYtstNzeQaYmzhnNzUZ57ga5sHJTPfsiCwPfUx40rl4fIaZIOAwdrKWW1rsww3wlVRMl-g01cf4t7UK1yHkv5NK29uKdva-o/s200/mixed+bags.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213072075363577202" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;"> “Desiree,” called Inez as she knocked on the other side of the closed bedroom door. “Mrs. Carter wants to see you downstairs.”<br /><br />“The name is DJ.”<br /><br />“I’m sorry, but your grandmother has instructed me to call you Desiree.”<br /><br />DJ opened the door and looked down on the short and slightly overweight middle-aged housekeeper. “And I have instructed you to call me DJ.”<br /><br />Inez’s dark eyes twinkled as she gave her a sly grin. “Yes, but it’s your grandmother who pays my salary, Desiree. I take orders from Mrs. Carter. And she wants to see you downstairs in her office, pronto.”<br /><br />DJ grabbed her favorite Yankees ball cap and shoved it onto her head, pulling her scraggly looking blonde ponytail through the hole in the back of it.<br /><br />“You’re wearing that?” asked Inez with a frown. “You know what your grandmother says about — -”<br /><br />“Look,” said DJ. “My grandmother might pay you to take orders from her, but I’m a free agent. Got that?”<br /><br />Inez chuckled. “I got that. But you’re the one who’ll be getting it before too long, Desiree.”<br /><br />“DJ,” she growled as she tromped loudly down the curving staircase. Why had she let Dad talk her into living with her grandmother for her last two years of high school? She’d only been here since last spring, late into the school year, but long enough to know that it was nearly unbearable. Boarding school would be better than this. At least she’d have a little privacy there and no one constantly riding her — -telling her how to act, walk, look, and think. She wished there were some way, short of running away (which would be totally stupid), out of this uncomfortable arrangement.<br /><br />“There you are,” said Grandmother when DJ walked into the office. Her grandmother frowned at her ball cap and then pasted what appeared to be a very forced smile onto her collagen-injected lips. “I want you to meet a new resident.” She made a graceful hand movement, motioning to where an attractive and somewhat familiar-looking Latina woman was sitting next to a fashionably dressed girl who seemed to be about DJ’s age, but could probably pass for older. The girl was beautiful. Even with the scowl creasing her forehead, it was obvious that this girl was stunning. Her skin was darker than her mother’s, latte-colored and creamy. Her long black hair curled softly around her face. She had high cheekbones and dramatic eyes.<br /><br />DJ noticed her grandmother smiling her approval on this unhappy-looking girl. But the girl looked oblivious as she fiddled with the gold chain of what looked like an expensive designer bag. Not that DJ was an expert when it came to fashion. The woman stood politely, extending her hand to DJ.<br /><br />“I’d like to present my granddaughter, Desiree Lane.” Grandmother turned back to DJ now, the approval evaporating from her expression. “Desiree, this is Ms. Perez and her daughter Taylor.”<br /><br />DJ shook the woman’s hand and mumbled, “Nice to meet you.” But the unfriendly daughter just sat in the leather chair, one long leg elegantly crossed over the other, as she totally ignored everyone in the room.<br /><br />Grandmother continued speaking to DJ, although DJ suspected this little speech was for Taylor’s mother. “Ms. Perez and I first met when my magazine featured her for her illustrious music career. Her face graced our cover numerous times over the years. Perhaps you’ve heard of Eva Perez.”<br /><br />The woman smiled. “Or perhaps not,” she said in a voice that was as smooth as honey. “According to my daughter, kids in your age group don’t comprise even a minuscule part of my fan base.”<br /><br />DJ smiled at the woman now. “Actually, I have heard of you, Ms. Perez. My mom used to play your CDs. She was a serious Latin jazz fan.”<br /><br />“Was?” She frowned. “I hope her taste in music hasn’t changed. I need all the fans I can get these days.”<br /><br />Grandmother cleared her throat. “Desiree’s mother — -my daughter — -was killed in a car accident about a year ago.”<br /><br />“Oh, I’m so sorry.”<br /><br />DJ sort of nodded. She never knew how to react when -people said they were sorry about the loss of her mother. It wasn’t as if it were their fault.<br /><br />“Desiree,” said Grandmother, “Would you mind giving Taylor a tour of the house while I go over some business details with her mother?”<br /><br />“No problem.”<br /><br />Grandmother’s recently Botoxed forehead creased ever so slightly, and DJ knew that, once again, she had either said the wrong thing, used bad grammar, or was slumping like a “bag of potatoes.” Nothing she did ever seemed right when it came to her grandmother. “And after the tour, perhaps you could show Taylor to her room.”<br /><br />“Which room?” asked DJ, feeling concerned. Sure, Taylor might be a perfectly nice person, even if a little snobbish, but DJ was not ready for a roommate just yet.<br /><br />“The blue room, please. Inez has already taken some of Taylor’s bags up for her. Thank you, Desiree.”<br /><br />Feeling dismissed as well as disapproved of, DJ led their reluctant new resident out to the foyer. “Well, you’ve probably already seen this.” DJ waved her arm toward the elegant front entrance with its carved double doors and shining marble floor and Persian rug. She motioned toward the ornate oak staircase. “And that’s where the bedrooms are, but we can see that later.” She walked through to the dining room. “This is where we chow down.” She pointed to the swinging doors. “The kitchen’s back there, but the cook, Clara, can be a little witchy about trespassers.” DJ snickered. “Besides, my grandmother does not want her girls to spend much time in the kitchen anyway.”<br /><br />“Like that’s going to be a problem,” said Taylor, the first words she’d spoken since meeting DJ.<br /><br />“Huh?” said DJ.<br /><br />“I don’t imagine anyone is going to be exactly pigging out around here. I mean aren’t we all supposed to become famous models or something?” asked Taylor as she examined a perfectly manicured thumbnail.<br /><br />DJ frowned. “Well, my grandmother did edit one of the biggest fashion magazines in the world, but I don’t think that means we’re all going to become famous models. I know I’m not.”<br /><br />Taylor peered curiously at her. “Why not? You’ve got the height, the build, and you’re not half bad looking . . . well, other than the fact that you obviously have absolutely no style.” She sort of laughed, but not with genuine humor. “But then you’ve got your grandmother to straighten that out for you.”<br /><br />DJ just shook her head. “I think my grandmother will give up on me pretty soon. Especially when the others get here. She’ll have girls with more promise to set her sights on.” At least that was what DJ was hoping.<br /><br />“Has anyone else arrived?”<br /><br />“Not yet.” DJ continued the tour. “This is the library.” She paused to allow Taylor to look inside the room and then moved on. “And that’s the sunroom, or observatory, as Grandmother calls it.” She laughed. “Hearing her talk about this house sometimes reminds me of playing Clue.”<br /><br />“What?”<br /><br />“You know, the murder game, like where Colonel Mustard kills Mrs. Peacock with a wrench in the observatory.”<br /><br />“Oh, I never played that.”<br /><br />“Right . . .” Then DJ showed Taylor the large living room, the most modern space in the house. Grandmother had put this room together shortly after deciding to take on her crazy venture. Above the fireplace hung a large flat-screen TV, which was connected to a state-of-the-art DVD and sound system. This was encircled by some comfortable pieces of leather furniture, pillows, and throws.<br /><br />“Not bad,” admitted Taylor.<br /><br />“Welcome back to the twenty-first century.”<br /><br />“Do you have wireless here?”<br /><br />“Yeah. I told Grandmother it was a necessity for school.”<br /><br />“Good.”<br /><br />“This house has been in our family for a long time,” said DJ as she led Taylor up the stairs. “But no one has lived here for the past twenty years. My grandmother had it restored after she retired a -couple of years ago.” DJ didn’t add that her grandmother had been forced to retire due to her age (a carefully guarded and mysterious number) or that this new business venture, boarding teen “debutantes,” was to help supplement her retirement income. Those were strict family secrets and, despite DJ’s angst in living here, she did have a sense of family loyalty — -at least for the time being. She wasn’t sure if she could control herself indefinitely.<br /><br />DJ stopped at the second-floor landing. “The bedrooms are on this floor, and the third floor has a ballroom that would be perfect for volleyball, although Grandmother has made it clear that it’s not that kind of ballroom.” She led Taylor down the hall. “My bedroom is here,” she pointed to the closed door. “And yours is right next door.” She opened the door. “The blue room.”<br /><br />Taylor looked into the pale blue room and shook her head in a dismal way. “And is it true that I have to share this room with a perfect stranger?”<br /><br />“Well, I don’t know how perfect she’ll be.”<br /><br />“Funny.” Taylor rolled her eyes as she opened a door to one of the walk-in closets opposite the beds.<br /><br />“I try.”<br /><br />“It’s not as big as I expected.”<br /><br />“It’s bigger than it looks,” said DJ as she walked into the room and then pointed to a small alcove that led to the bathroom.<br /><br />“Do I get any say in who becomes my roommate?”<br /><br />“I guess you can take that up with my grandmother.”<br /><br />Taylor tossed her purse onto the bed closest to the bathroom and then kicked off her metallic-toned sandals. “These shoes might be Marc Jacobs, but they’re killing me.”<br /><br />“So, you’re really into this?” asked DJ. “The whole fashion thing?”<br /><br />Taylor sat down on the bed, rubbing a foot. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to look good.”<br /><br />DJ felt the need to bite her tongue. Taylor was her grandmother’s first official paying customer to arrive and participate in this crazy scheme. Far be it from DJ to rock Grandmother’s boat. At least not just yet.<br /><br />“Well, thanks for the tour,” said Taylor in a bored voice. Then she went over to where a set of expensive-looking luggage was stacked in a corner. “Don’t the servants around here know how to put things away properly?”<br /><br />“Properly?” DJ shrugged.<br /><br />Taylor picked up the top bag and laid it down on the bench at the foot of one of the beds and opened it.<br /><br />“Don’t you want to go down and tell your mom good-bye?” asked DJ as she moved toward the door.<br /><br />Taylor laughed in a mean way. “And make her think she’s doing me a favor by dumping me here? Not on your life.”<br /><br />“Here are some more bags for Miss Mitchell,” said Inez as she lugged two large suitcases into the room, setting them by the door.<br /><br />“Put them over there,” commanded Taylor, pointing to the bench at the foot of the other bed. “And don’t pile them on top of each other. This happens to be Louis Vuitton, you know.”<br /><br />DJ saw Inez make a face behind Taylor’s back. But the truth was DJ didn’t blame her. Inez might be a housekeeper, but she didn’t deserve to be treated like a slave. Suddenly, DJ felt guilty for snapping at Inez earlier today. She smiled now, and Inez looked surprised and a little suspicious. Then DJ grabbed the largest bag, hoisted it onto the bench with a loud grunt, and Taylor turned around and gave her a dark scowl.<br /><br />“Thank you,” she snapped.<br /><br />“Later,” said DJ as she exited the room with Inez on her heels.<br /><br />“Mrs. Carter wants to see you downstairs, Desiree,” announced Inez when they were out on the landing.<br /><br />“Again?” complained DJ. “What for?”<br /><br />“Another girl just arrived. Your grandmother wants you to give her a tour too.”<br /><br />“What am I now?” asked DJ. “The official tour guide?”<br /><br />“That sounds about right.” Inez gave her a smirk.<br /><br />DJ wasn’t sure if she could stomach another fashion diva with an attitude problem, but on the other hand, she didn’t want to risk another etiquette lecture from her grandmother either. Once again, she clomped down the stairs and made her appearance in the office, suppressing the urge to bow and say, “At your ser-vice, Madam.”<br /><br />“Eliza,” gushed Grandmother, “This is my granddaughter, Desiree Lane. And Desiree, I’d like you to meet Eliza Wilton.”<br /><br />“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Desiree.”<br /><br />DJ nodded. She could tell by how formal her grandmother was acting that Eliza Wilton must be someone really important — -meaning extraordinarily wealthy — -even more so than the Mitchells. And that’s when she remembered her grandmother going on about “the Wilton fortune” this morning at breakfast. Of course, that must be Eliza’s family.<br /><br />“Nice to meet ya, Eliza,” DJ said in a purposely casual tone. This girl was pretty too, but not like Taylor’s dark and dramatic beauty. Eliza was a tall, slender, impeccably dressed, blue-eyed blonde. She wasn’t exactly a Paris Hilton clone — -and she didn’t have a little dog as far as DJ could see — -but there was a similarity, except that Eliza’s face was a little softer looking, a little sweeter, but then looks could be deceiving.<br /><br />DJ wondered if the Botox was starting to wear off, as her grandmother studied her with a furrowed brow, probably comparing her to Miss Perfect Eliza. Naturally, DJ would not measure up.<br /><br />“Eliza is from Louisville,” said Grandmother. “Her parents are presently residing in France, where her father just purchased a vineyard. But Eliza’s grandmother and I are old friends. We went to college together. When she heard about what I was doing up here in Connecticut, she encouraged her daughter to send dear Eliza our way.”<br /><br />“Lucky Eliza,” said DJ in a droll tone.<br /><br />Eliza actually giggled. Then Grandmother cleared her throat. “Desiree will give you a tour of the house,” she said. “And she’ll show you to your room.”<br /><br />“Which is . . . ?” asked DJ.<br /><br />“The rose room.”<br /><br />Of course, thought DJ as she led Eliza from the office. Next to her grandmother’s suite, the rose room was probably the best room in the house. Naturally, someone as important as Eliza would be entitled to that. Not that DJ had wanted it. And perhaps her grandmother had actually offered it to her last month. DJ couldn’t remember. But she had never been a flowery sort of girl, and she knew the rose wallpaper in there would’ve been giving her a serious migraine by now. Besides she liked her sunny yellow bedroom and, in her opinion, it had the best view in the house. On a clear day, you could actually glimpse a sliver of the Atlantic Ocean from her small bathroom window.<br /><br />DJ started to do a repeat of her earlier tour, even using the same lines, until she realized that Eliza was actually interested.<br /><br />“How old is this house?”<br /><br />“Just over a hundred years,” DJ told her. “It was built in 1891.”<br /><br />“It has a nice feel to it.”<br /><br />DJ considered this. “Yeah, I kinda thought that too, after I got used to it. To be honest, it seemed pretty big to me at first. But then you’re probably used to big houses.”<br /><br />“I suppose. Not that I’m particularly fond of mansions.”<br /><br />“Why aren’t you with your parents?” asked DJ. “In France?”<br /><br />“They’re concerned about things like politics and security,” said Eliza as they exited the library. “In fact, they almost refused to let me come here.”<br /><br />“Why?”<br /><br />“Oh, I think they felt I was safer in boarding school. If our grandmothers hadn’t been such good friends, I’m sure they never would’ve agreed.”<br /><br />“So, you’re happy to be here?” DJ studied Eliza’s expression.<br /><br />“Sure, aren’t you?”<br /><br />DJ frowned. “I don’t know . . . I guess.”<br /><br />“I think it’ll be fun to go to a real high school, to just live like a normal girl, with other normal girls.”<br /><br />DJ tried not to look too shocked. “You think this is normal?”<br /><br />Eliza laughed. “I guess I don’t really know what normal is, but it’s more normal that what I’m used to.”<br /><br />“But what about the whole fashion thing?” asked DJ. “I mean you must know about my grandmother’s plans to turn us all into little debutantes. Are you into all that?”<br /><br />“That’s nothing new. Remember, I’m from the south. My family is obsessed with turning me into a lady. That was one of the other reasons my parents agreed to this. I think they see the Carter House as some sort of finishing school.”<br /><br />Or some sort of reformatory school, thought DJ. Although she didn’t say it out loud. Not yet, anyway.<br /> </div> <br /> <br /></textarea><br /><br />**********************<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s1600-h/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg"><a href="http://teenfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178594274707613778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s200/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg" border="0" /></a></a><br /><br />It's June 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.MelodyCarlson.com/">Melody Carlson</a></font></strong><br /><p></p><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="160"><font color="#009900" size="4"></font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"><font size="2"><font color="#009900">and her book:</font> </font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"></strong></div></font><p></p><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="7"><font size="3"></font></strong></div></font><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310714885 ">Mixed Bags (Carter House Girls, Book 1) </a></font></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Zondervan (May 1, 2008) </p><br /><p align="center"></p><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><font color="#ff6600"></font></font></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><p></p><font color="#ff6600">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</font> </font></strong></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0zJfKgP43jq4G-Iz7fn8-IhyZBJUYJx7mpRghhGj3kdsDFZIZ5gKcaL-Jk4l8Zgv9vB42qn9RsTXqnBqjejLIm456tMOOplP0CLSs9IOpKIH1JJIHIrtDIxWwZ-JZrStpXzqexvDHnQ/s1600-h/carlson.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0zJfKgP43jq4G-Iz7fn8-IhyZBJUYJx7mpRghhGj3kdsDFZIZ5gKcaL-Jk4l8Zgv9vB42qn9RsTXqnBqjejLIm456tMOOplP0CLSs9IOpKIH1JJIHIrtDIxWwZ-JZrStpXzqexvDHnQ/s200/carlson.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213072267768585634" /></a>In sixth grade, Melody Carlson helped start a school newspaper called The BuccaNews (her school’s mascot was a Buccaneer...arrr!). As editor of this paper, she wrote most of the material herself, creating goofy phony bylines to hide the fact that the school newspaper was mostly a "one man" show. <br /><br />Visit the Melody's <a href="http://www.MelodyCarlson.com/">website</a> to see all of her wonderful and various book titles.<br /><br />Don't miss the second book in this series: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310714893/">Stealing Bradford (Carter House Girls, Book 2)</a><br /><br />And one of her latest, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400073146/">A Mile in My Flip-Flops</a> will be featured on <a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/">FIRST Blog Alliance </a>on July 1st!<br /><br />Product Details:<br /><br />List Price: $9.99 <br />Paperback: 224 pages <br />Publisher: Zondervan (May 1, 2008) <br />Language: English <br />ISBN-10: 0310714885 <br />ISBN-13: 978-0310714880 <br /><br /><br /><font color="#ffcc00"><strong><font size="5">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</font> </strong><br /></font><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-7Nn55AJLWJKOmfRkbBO0N-YZwKsoieMJLFnfc7kfaQfJYtstNzeQaYmzhnNzUZ57ga5sHJTPfsiCwPfUx40rl4fIaZIOAwdrKWW1rsww3wlVRMl-g01cf4t7UK1yHkv5NK29uKdva-o/s1600-h/mixed+bags.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-7Nn55AJLWJKOmfRkbBO0N-YZwKsoieMJLFnfc7kfaQfJYtstNzeQaYmzhnNzUZ57ga5sHJTPfsiCwPfUx40rl4fIaZIOAwdrKWW1rsww3wlVRMl-g01cf4t7UK1yHkv5NK29uKdva-o/s200/mixed+bags.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213072075363577202" /></a><div style= "overflow: auto; height: 307px;"> “Desiree,” called Inez as she knocked on the other side of the closed bedroom door. “Mrs. Carter wants to see you downstairs.”<br /><br />“The name is DJ.”<br /><br />“I’m sorry, but your grandmother has instructed me to call you Desiree.”<br /><br />DJ opened the door and looked down on the short and slightly overweight middle-aged housekeeper. “And I have instructed you to call me DJ.”<br /><br />Inez’s dark eyes twinkled as she gave her a sly grin. “Yes, but it’s your grandmother who pays my salary, Desiree. I take orders from Mrs. Carter. And she wants to see you downstairs in her office, pronto.”<br /><br />DJ grabbed her favorite Yankees ball cap and shoved it onto her head, pulling her scraggly looking blonde ponytail through the hole in the back of it.<br /><br />“You’re wearing that?” asked Inez with a frown. “You know what your grandmother says about — -”<br /><br />“Look,” said DJ. “My grandmother might pay you to take orders from her, but I’m a free agent. Got that?”<br /><br />Inez chuckled. “I got that. But you’re the one who’ll be getting it before too long, Desiree.”<br /><br />“DJ,” she growled as she tromped loudly down the curving staircase. Why had she let Dad talk her into living with her grandmother for her last two years of high school? She’d only been here since last spring, late into the school year, but long enough to know that it was nearly unbearable. Boarding school would be better than this. At least she’d have a little privacy there and no one constantly riding her — -telling her how to act, walk, look, and think. She wished there were some way, short of running away (which would be totally stupid), out of this uncomfortable arrangement.<br /><br />“There you are,” said Grandmother when DJ walked into the office. Her grandmother frowned at her ball cap and then pasted what appeared to be a very forced smile onto her collagen-injected lips. “I want you to meet a new resident.” She made a graceful hand movement, motioning to where an attractive and somewhat familiar-looking Latina woman was sitting next to a fashionably dressed girl who seemed to be about DJ’s age, but could probably pass for older. The girl was beautiful. Even with the scowl creasing her forehead, it was obvious that this girl was stunning. Her skin was darker than her mother’s, latte-colored and creamy. Her long black hair curled softly around her face. She had high cheekbones and dramatic eyes.<br /><br />DJ noticed her grandmother smiling her approval on this unhappy-looking girl. But the girl looked oblivious as she fiddled with the gold chain of what looked like an expensive designer bag. Not that DJ was an expert when it came to fashion. The woman stood politely, extending her hand to DJ.<br /><br />“I’d like to present my granddaughter, Desiree Lane.” Grandmother turned back to DJ now, the approval evaporating from her expression. “Desiree, this is Ms. Perez and her daughter Taylor.”<br /><br />DJ shook the woman’s hand and mumbled, “Nice to meet you.” But the unfriendly daughter just sat in the leather chair, one long leg elegantly crossed over the other, as she totally ignored everyone in the room.<br /><br />Grandmother continued speaking to DJ, although DJ suspected this little speech was for Taylor’s mother. “Ms. Perez and I first met when my magazine featured her for her illustrious music career. Her face graced our cover numerous times over the years. Perhaps you’ve heard of Eva Perez.”<br /><br />The woman smiled. “Or perhaps not,” she said in a voice that was as smooth as honey. “According to my daughter, kids in your age group don’t comprise even a minuscule part of my fan base.”<br /><br />DJ smiled at the woman now. “Actually, I have heard of you, Ms. Perez. My mom used to play your CDs. She was a serious Latin jazz fan.”<br /><br />“Was?” She frowned. “I hope her taste in music hasn’t changed. I need all the fans I can get these days.”<br /><br />Grandmother cleared her throat. “Desiree’s mother — -my daughter — -was killed in a car accident about a year ago.”<br /><br />“Oh, I’m so sorry.”<br /><br />DJ sort of nodded. She never knew how to react when -people said they were sorry about the loss of her mother. It wasn’t as if it were their fault.<br /><br />“Desiree,” said Grandmother, “Would you mind giving Taylor a tour of the house while I go over some business details with her mother?”<br /><br />“No problem.”<br /><br />Grandmother’s recently Botoxed forehead creased ever so slightly, and DJ knew that, once again, she had either said the wrong thing, used bad grammar, or was slumping like a “bag of potatoes.” Nothing she did ever seemed right when it came to her grandmother. “And after the tour, perhaps you could show Taylor to her room.”<br /><br />“Which room?” asked DJ, feeling concerned. Sure, Taylor might be a perfectly nice person, even if a little snobbish, but DJ was not ready for a roommate just yet.<br /><br />“The blue room, please. Inez has already taken some of Taylor’s bags up for her. Thank you, Desiree.”<br /><br />Feeling dismissed as well as disapproved of, DJ led their reluctant new resident out to the foyer. “Well, you’ve probably already seen this.” DJ waved her arm toward the elegant front entrance with its carved double doors and shining marble floor and Persian rug. She motioned toward the ornate oak staircase. “And that’s where the bedrooms are, but we can see that later.” She walked through to the dining room. “This is where we chow down.” She pointed to the swinging doors. “The kitchen’s back there, but the cook, Clara, can be a little witchy about trespassers.” DJ snickered. “Besides, my grandmother does not want her girls to spend much time in the kitchen anyway.”<br /><br />“Like that’s going to be a problem,” said Taylor, the first words she’d spoken since meeting DJ.<br /><br />“Huh?” said DJ.<br /><br />“I don’t imagine anyone is going to be exactly pigging out around here. I mean aren’t we all supposed to become famous models or something?” asked Taylor as she examined a perfectly manicured thumbnail.<br /><br />DJ frowned. “Well, my grandmother did edit one of the biggest fashion magazines in the world, but I don’t think that means we’re all going to become famous models. I know I’m not.”<br /><br />Taylor peered curiously at her. “Why not? You’ve got the height, the build, and you’re not half bad looking . . . well, other than the fact that you obviously have absolutely no style.” She sort of laughed, but not with genuine humor. “But then you’ve got your grandmother to straighten that out for you.”<br /><br />DJ just shook her head. “I think my grandmother will give up on me pretty soon. Especially when the others get here. She’ll have girls with more promise to set her sights on.” At least that was what DJ was hoping.<br /><br />“Has anyone else arrived?”<br /><br />“Not yet.” DJ continued the tour. “This is the library.” She paused to allow Taylor to look inside the room and then moved on. “And that’s the sunroom, or observatory, as Grandmother calls it.” She laughed. “Hearing her talk about this house sometimes reminds me of playing Clue.”<br /><br />“What?”<br /><br />“You know, the murder game, like where Colonel Mustard kills Mrs. Peacock with a wrench in the observatory.”<br /><br />“Oh, I never played that.”<br /><br />“Right . . .” Then DJ showed Taylor the large living room, the most modern space in the house. Grandmother had put this room together shortly after deciding to take on her crazy venture. Above the fireplace hung a large flat-screen TV, which was connected to a state-of-the-art DVD and sound system. This was encircled by some comfortable pieces of leather furniture, pillows, and throws.<br /><br />“Not bad,” admitted Taylor.<br /><br />“Welcome back to the twenty-first century.”<br /><br />“Do you have wireless here?”<br /><br />“Yeah. I told Grandmother it was a necessity for school.”<br /><br />“Good.”<br /><br />“This house has been in our family for a long time,” said DJ as she led Taylor up the stairs. “But no one has lived here for the past twenty years. My grandmother had it restored after she retired a -couple of years ago.” DJ didn’t add that her grandmother had been forced to retire due to her age (a carefully guarded and mysterious number) or that this new business venture, boarding teen “debutantes,” was to help supplement her retirement income. Those were strict family secrets and, despite DJ’s angst in living here, she did have a sense of family loyalty — -at least for the time being. She wasn’t sure if she could control herself indefinitely.<br /><br />DJ stopped at the second-floor landing. “The bedrooms are on this floor, and the third floor has a ballroom that would be perfect for volleyball, although Grandmother has made it clear that it’s not that kind of ballroom.” She led Taylor down the hall. “My bedroom is here,” she pointed to the closed door. “And yours is right next door.” She opened the door. “The blue room.”<br /><br />Taylor looked into the pale blue room and shook her head in a dismal way. “And is it true that I have to share this room with a perfect stranger?”<br /><br />“Well, I don’t know how perfect she’ll be.”<br /><br />“Funny.” Taylor rolled her eyes as she opened a door to one of the walk-in closets opposite the beds.<br /><br />“I try.”<br /><br />“It’s not as big as I expected.”<br /><br />“It’s bigger than it looks,” said DJ as she walked into the room and then pointed to a small alcove that led to the bathroom.<br /><br />“Do I get any say in who becomes my roommate?”<br /><br />“I guess you can take that up with my grandmother.”<br /><br />Taylor tossed her purse onto the bed closest to the bathroom and then kicked off her metallic-toned sandals. “These shoes might be Marc Jacobs, but they’re killing me.”<br /><br />“So, you’re really into this?” asked DJ. “The whole fashion thing?”<br /><br />Taylor sat down on the bed, rubbing a foot. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to look good.”<br /><br />DJ felt the need to bite her tongue. Taylor was her grandmother’s first official paying customer to arrive and participate in this crazy scheme. Far be it from DJ to rock Grandmother’s boat. At least not just yet.<br /><br />“Well, thanks for the tour,” said Taylor in a bored voice. Then she went over to where a set of expensive-looking luggage was stacked in a corner. “Don’t the servants around here know how to put things away properly?”<br /><br />“Properly?” DJ shrugged.<br /><br />Taylor picked up the top bag and laid it down on the bench at the foot of one of the beds and opened it.<br /><br />“Don’t you want to go down and tell your mom good-bye?” asked DJ as she moved toward the door.<br /><br />Taylor laughed in a mean way. “And make her think she’s doing me a favor by dumping me here? Not on your life.”<br /><br />“Here are some more bags for Miss Mitchell,” said Inez as she lugged two large suitcases into the room, setting them by the door.<br /><br />“Put them over there,” commanded Taylor, pointing to the bench at the foot of the other bed. “And don’t pile them on top of each other. This happens to be Louis Vuitton, you know.”<br /><br />DJ saw Inez make a face behind Taylor’s back. But the truth was DJ didn’t blame her. Inez might be a housekeeper, but she didn’t deserve to be treated like a slave. Suddenly, DJ felt guilty for snapping at Inez earlier today. She smiled now, and Inez looked surprised and a little suspicious. Then DJ grabbed the largest bag, hoisted it onto the bench with a loud grunt, and Taylor turned around and gave her a dark scowl.<br /><br />“Thank you,” she snapped.<br /><br />“Later,” said DJ as she exited the room with Inez on her heels.<br /><br />“Mrs. Carter wants to see you downstairs, Desiree,” announced Inez when they were out on the landing.<br /><br />“Again?” complained DJ. “What for?”<br /><br />“Another girl just arrived. Your grandmother wants you to give her a tour too.”<br /><br />“What am I now?” asked DJ. “The official tour guide?”<br /><br />“That sounds about right.” Inez gave her a smirk.<br /><br />DJ wasn’t sure if she could stomach another fashion diva with an attitude problem, but on the other hand, she didn’t want to risk another etiquette lecture from her grandmother either. Once again, she clomped down the stairs and made her appearance in the office, suppressing the urge to bow and say, “At your ser-vice, Madam.”<br /><br />“Eliza,” gushed Grandmother, “This is my granddaughter, Desiree Lane. And Desiree, I’d like you to meet Eliza Wilton.”<br /><br />“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Desiree.”<br /><br />DJ nodded. She could tell by how formal her grandmother was acting that Eliza Wilton must be someone really important — -meaning extraordinarily wealthy — -even more so than the Mitchells. And that’s when she remembered her grandmother going on about “the Wilton fortune” this morning at breakfast. Of course, that must be Eliza’s family.<br /><br />“Nice to meet ya, Eliza,” DJ said in a purposely casual tone. This girl was pretty too, but not like Taylor’s dark and dramatic beauty. Eliza was a tall, slender, impeccably dressed, blue-eyed blonde. She wasn’t exactly a Paris Hilton clone — -and she didn’t have a little dog as far as DJ could see — -but there was a similarity, except that Eliza’s face was a little softer looking, a little sweeter, but then looks could be deceiving.<br /><br />DJ wondered if the Botox was starting to wear off, as her grandmother studied her with a furrowed brow, probably comparing her to Miss Perfect Eliza. Naturally, DJ would not measure up.<br /><br />“Eliza is from Louisville,” said Grandmother. “Her parents are presently residing in France, where her father just purchased a vineyard. But Eliza’s grandmother and I are old friends. We went to college together. When she heard about what I was doing up here in Connecticut, she encouraged her daughter to send dear Eliza our way.”<br /><br />“Lucky Eliza,” said DJ in a droll tone.<br /><br />Eliza actually giggled. Then Grandmother cleared her throat. “Desiree will give you a tour of the house,” she said. “And she’ll show you to your room.”<br /><br />“Which is . . . ?” asked DJ.<br /><br />“The rose room.”<br /><br />Of course, thought DJ as she led Eliza from the office. Next to her grandmother’s suite, the rose room was probably the best room in the house. Naturally, someone as important as Eliza would be entitled to that. Not that DJ had wanted it. And perhaps her grandmother had actually offered it to her last month. DJ couldn’t remember. But she had never been a flowery sort of girl, and she knew the rose wallpaper in there would’ve been giving her a serious migraine by now. Besides she liked her sunny yellow bedroom and, in her opinion, it had the best view in the house. On a clear day, you could actually glimpse a sliver of the Atlantic Ocean from her small bathroom window.<br /><br />DJ started to do a repeat of her earlier tour, even using the same lines, until she realized that Eliza was actually interested.<br /><br />“How old is this house?”<br /><br />“Just over a hundred years,” DJ told her. “It was built in 1891.”<br /><br />“It has a nice feel to it.”<br /><br />DJ considered this. “Yeah, I kinda thought that too, after I got used to it. To be honest, it seemed pretty big to me at first. But then you’re probably used to big houses.”<br /><br />“I suppose. Not that I’m particularly fond of mansions.”<br /><br />“Why aren’t you with your parents?” asked DJ. “In France?”<br /><br />“They’re concerned about things like politics and security,” said Eliza as they exited the library. “In fact, they almost refused to let me come here.”<br /><br />“Why?”<br /><br />“Oh, I think they felt I was safer in boarding school. If our grandmothers hadn’t been such good friends, I’m sure they never would’ve agreed.”<br /><br />“So, you’re happy to be here?” DJ studied Eliza’s expression.<br /><br />“Sure, aren’t you?”<br /><br />DJ frowned. “I don’t know . . . I guess.”<br /><br />“I think it’ll be fun to go to a real high school, to just live like a normal girl, with other normal girls.”<br /><br />DJ tried not to look too shocked. “You think this is normal?”<br /><br />Eliza laughed. “I guess I don’t really know what normal is, but it’s more normal that what I’m used to.”<br /><br />“But what about the whole fashion thing?” asked DJ. “I mean you must know about my grandmother’s plans to turn us all into little debutantes. Are you into all that?”<br /><br />“That’s nothing new. Remember, I’m from the south. My family is obsessed with turning me into a lady. That was one of the other reasons my parents agreed to this. I think they see the Carter House as some sort of finishing school.”<br /><br />Or some sort of reformatory school, thought DJ. Although she didn’t say it out loud. Not yet, anyway.<br /> </div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-89643476347573121672008-06-15T00:01:00.004-04:002008-12-10T11:49:55.070-05:00Exposing Darwinism's Weakest Link: Why Evolution Can't Explain Human Existence by Kenneth Poppe<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s1600-h/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg"></a><a href="http://nonfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179647009365145890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s200/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg" border="0" /></a><br />It's June 15th, time for the Non~FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 15th, we will featuring an author and his/her latest non~fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.ifsed.org/">Kenneth Poppe</a></span></strong><br /><p></p><br /><strong><span style="font-size:160;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#009900;">and his book:</span> </span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"></strong></div></span><p></p><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:7;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></strong></div></span><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0736921257/">Exposing Darwinism's Weakest Link: Why Evolution Can't Explain Human Existence </a></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Harvest House Publishers (March 1, 2008)</p><br /><p align="center"></p><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><br /><p></p><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMPxXFUTTLlAmGyQwiH_oxk833BwCWgVyM5T7Art-nV-l_LfK_z7PPQuIk8aKrkpyNBYjd461fjeeti6sJSghuQxpTFY4ptrECXLrRj2gYDiVBEVWvT9hIt6dI2WI84t-INmya_5AS/s1600-h/POPPE.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211939585222724082" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMPxXFUTTLlAmGyQwiH_oxk833BwCWgVyM5T7Art-nV-l_LfK_z7PPQuIk8aKrkpyNBYjd461fjeeti6sJSghuQxpTFY4ptrECXLrRj2gYDiVBEVWvT9hIt6dI2WI84t-INmya_5AS/s200/POPPE.jpg" border="0" /></a>A career biology instructor, <a href="http://www.ifsed.org/">Kenneth Poppe</a> holds a doctorate in education and taught in secondary schools for more than 25 years. He is now senior consultant with the International Foundation for Science Education by Design (www.ifsed.org). In addition to working in teacher education and assisting in DNA research of stream ecology, he has authored Reclaiming Science from Darwinism.<br /><br />Product Details:<br /><br />List Price: $14.99<br />Paperback: 304 pages<br />Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (March 1, 2008)<br />Language: English<br />ISBN-10: 0736921257<br />ISBN-13: 978-0736921251<br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /></span><br /><em>The majority is not trying to establish a religion or to teach it—it is trying to protect itself from the effort of an insolent minority to force irreligion upon the children under the guise of teaching science.</em><br /><br />—WILLIAM JENNINGS BRYAN<br /><br /><br />BRYAN WAS THE ATTORNEY FOR THE PROSECUTION AT THE 1925 “SCOPES MONKEY TRIAL” IN DAYTON, TENNESSEE THAT MADE EVOLUTION A HOUSEHOLD TERM. THE ABOVE WORDS ARE FROM HIS<br />WRITTEN CLOSING STATEMENT, WHICH WAS NEVER READ IN COURT.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLiku7q-YD4UuvHD4IoKNKTVqMJmmv3igbfyLbZBumJ6NFrioDq2qcU4YI0XzJ3WYxhynSp8XTaVhgV8Z3waBdVMyuBQMVQCUdI4uGQIbAGiiCBHLsizNZCAJUs0gBnhupUjyGzNUF/s1600-h/darwinism.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211949428854988802" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLiku7q-YD4UuvHD4IoKNKTVqMJmmv3igbfyLbZBumJ6NFrioDq2qcU4YI0XzJ3WYxhynSp8XTaVhgV8Z3waBdVMyuBQMVQCUdI4uGQIbAGiiCBHLsizNZCAJUs0gBnhupUjyGzNUF/s200/darwinism.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div align="center">1<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">EXAMINING YOUR FAMILY TREE<br /></span><br /><em>A Monkey for an Uncle?</em><br /><br /></div><div align="left">Consider your biological father. He is responsible for half of the genetic codes that shaped your body, and probably some of your personality as well. Now consider his father, your grandfather. If typical, I would guess at least a couple of your body traits are more grandpa’s than dad’s—having somehow skipped a generation. And how about your great-grandfather? Were you lucky enough to know him, even if just like me, through those vague and shifting memories as a very<br />small boy? Dare I throw in a great-great-grandfather—in my case known only through legend and those grainy black-and-white photos of a roughly dressed man beside a horse and buggy?<br /><br />Consider that when your great-great-grandfather was your age, for surely he once was, he could try to reconstruct his lineage just as you have done. What names and faces would he have recalled? And if you could piece great-great-granddad’s and your recollections together, that would create a timeline taking you back eight generations—perhaps 250 years or so! Where would you find your ancestors then? In my case, I’m told, the Hamburg, Germany, area. And would my ancestors then be traced to the nomadic Gaelic stock that inhabited Western Europe before formal countries were established there? And then to where? Ancient Phoenicians, Sumerians, Egyptians? And how about yours?<br /><br />Now to get to the main point. If you kept traveling back in time in this manner, generation after generation, where would you end up? Where would your dad’s ancestors have been living 1000 years ago? 2500 to 5000 years ago? And so on? Those who believe in strict Darwinism would say an extended family schematic would show your ancestors going back several million years ago where they first evolved on the African continent. And on this reverse journey you would see slowly reappearing total body hair, steadily shrinking brains, increasingly sloping foreheads and jaw protrusions, and extending arms whose knuckles would eventually be dragging the ground, assisting a clumsy, bent-over gait. In other words, strict evolutionists say if you could backtrack your family tree for, say, 5 million years, your ancestors would now be closer in appearance to a chimp than a human. And if you continued farther back in time, the coccyx bone at the bottom of your pelvis would extend into a prehensile tail, and the reappearing grasping toes on your feet would send you back to swinging in the trees from whence you came some 10 to 15 million years ago.<br /><br />Stop and ponder your supposed family tree in this way—a videotape in rewind. Is this really how it went down? Did humans come from monkeys? (Often a Darwinist will answer no to this question by saying it wasn’t a direct path of evolution. But monkeys have to be on the path before apes, right? And apes would have to be on the path before humanoids, right? So it most absolutely is, in theory, “monkey to man”—no matter how crooked the line.) Now if this isn’t the truth, what’s the alternative? Unless you consult primitive worship superstitions, I’ve stated before that the world’s five major religions give you one origin—Genesis—and it includes a tantalizing tale of an innocent man Adam and his companion woman, Eve, in a pristine garden. But for so many, that’s a fairy tale of bigger proportions than monkeys becoming humans. So what is the truth?<br /><br />Here’s my response. Regardless of which religious view(s) might supply the answer(s), I will stand firmly on this:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><blockquote><span style="font-family:courier new;">There is absolutely no scientific support for the<br />monkey-to-man scenario—absolutely none.</span><br /></blockquote></span><br />On the contrary, science, and even philosophy, validate the title of this book and its overriding message as stated a few pages ago.<br /><br /><strong>Either-Or</strong><br /><br />If there is an alternative answer to the totally unscientific view that monkeys slowly turned into people, ostensibly it is one of the religious variety. But before we tackle the idea, let me first share the concept I find continually bubbling up from the origins cauldron: Almost every major issue concludes with just two choices—<em>either</em> it could have happened this way, <em>or</em> it couldn’t. So grab a writing instrument and check your choice of one of two for each of the ten statements below.<br /><br /><strong>It Could It Couldn’t<br />Happen Happen</strong><br /><br />_______ ______ 1. The most violent accidental explosion ever, the big bang, was sufficiently self-appointed to create the largest and most fine-tuned object ever known, the universe.<br /><br />_______ ______ 2. The sheer number of planets in the universe, and the number of years these planets have existed, give us a mathematical chance that at least one would become a fully interactive biological world—ours—by accident.<br /><br />_______ ______ 3. Blind luck had the ability to construct the approximately 80,000 different life-required protein chains of specifically sequenced amino acids (from an “alphabet” of 20 different amino-acid choices)—even those proteins 10,000 amino acids long.<br /><br />_______ ______ 4. The RNA/DNA molecules, containing information equivalent to all the books in 20 standard libraries, suddenly appeared by chance in the “primordial soup” before the first cell was a reality.<br /><br />_______ ______ 5. Almost as soon as Earth’s conditions permitted, a functional cell appeared, selfprepared with a wide array of metabolizing and reproductive mechanisms.<br /><br />_______ ______ 6. A half billion years ago, in the blink of an evolutionary eye, the Cambrian explosion self-generated the completely interactive gene pool of all 32 animal phyla with complex organ systems. Once complex life didn’t exist, then it was all there.<br /><br />_______ ______ 7. After the Cambrian explosion, random scramblings of genetic information kept producing improved genetic codes. This allowed life to surge forward as animals kept giving rise to improved offspring with which, suddenly<br />or eventually, they could not mate.<br /><br />_______ ______ 8. These accidental genetic surges adequately explain a whole host of large-scale advances— for example, straight bones in fins turning into jointed bones in legs, reptile scales turning into bird feathers, photosensitive cells turning into eyes, births from amniotic eggs turning into births from a placenta, and chordates like cows or hippos going back into the ocean to become whales.<br /><br />_______ ______ 9. While animals randomly surged forward within 32 phyla from sponges to mammals, plants accomplished a similar advance in complexity from moss to cacti, but did it in only 8 steps, often called divisions instead of phyla.<br /><br /><em>And central to this book:<br /></em><br />_______ ______ 10. Primates like monkeys left the trees and kept getting bigger, stronger, and smarter. About 5 million years of natural selection was sufficient time for hominids to adapt to walking on their hind legs, learn to use tools,<br />fashion clothes to wear, master fire, develop first spoken and then written communication, and finally organize societies in cave homes among maple groves that eventually became cottage homes on Maple Street.<br /><br />So how did you score on this checklist? The two most extreme scores would be to have <em>all</em> ten checks in the right column of “it couldn’t happen”—like me—or all ten checks on the left column of “it could happen.” Of course, you realize that <em>one single check</em> in the right column dooms Darwinism to immediate failure. All it takes is one legitimate “couldn’t” check in this either-or set-up and natural evolution has no chance to produce me the writer, or you the reader. If you can, actually imagine trying to agree with all ten statements as checked on the left, and I’ll wager you’ll feel the full weight of the folly of “self-made” life. Therefore, if you find evolution insufficient <em>in even one instance</em>, you need to consider a bigger-than-science connection— unless, of course, you want to remain apathetic. So, if evolution or apathy is not the answer, I suggest you begin a quest to come to grips with the “God” who engineered this miracle.<br /><br />Rejecting statement #10 above reflects this chapter’s opening rejection of the idea that all our ancestral lines slowly become more stooped and stupider as we observe the reverse of totally natural processes. If the world generally rejected that notion and stood on the “God alternative” with confidence, it would dramatically change the debate on the other nine statements. And yet if monkeys are not our uncles then how do you explain human origin? How do you explain the master plan of God the Designer? </div> </textarea><br /></div><br />***********************************************<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s1600-h/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg"></a><a href="http://nonfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179647009365145890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAnyKkLJjCXAqflyOGlKtIEw3j3WSI1bHmY_laIjjSIHLGs2lyUmhuiJ1gZb_mT3MtPxNvWGyD00tJDeNjG-cILug-xH2tezQxeCf0Hww_vfrUy2iqy2riPQmBi77wTb02wQ05PtF9/s200/NonFIRST+Button.jpeg" border="0" /></a><br />It's June 15th, time for the Non~FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 15th, we will featuring an author and his/her latest non~fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.ifsed.org/">Kenneth Poppe</a></span></strong><br /><p></p><br /><strong><span style="font-size:160;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#009900;">and his book:</span> </span></span></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"></strong></div></span><p></p><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:7;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></strong></div></span><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0736921257/">Exposing Darwinism's Weakest Link: Why Evolution Can't Explain Human Existence </a></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Harvest House Publishers (March 1, 2008)</p><br /><p align="center"></p><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></span></strong></div><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><br /><p></p><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMPxXFUTTLlAmGyQwiH_oxk833BwCWgVyM5T7Art-nV-l_LfK_z7PPQuIk8aKrkpyNBYjd461fjeeti6sJSghuQxpTFY4ptrECXLrRj2gYDiVBEVWvT9hIt6dI2WI84t-INmya_5AS/s1600-h/POPPE.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211939585222724082" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMPxXFUTTLlAmGyQwiH_oxk833BwCWgVyM5T7Art-nV-l_LfK_z7PPQuIk8aKrkpyNBYjd461fjeeti6sJSghuQxpTFY4ptrECXLrRj2gYDiVBEVWvT9hIt6dI2WI84t-INmya_5AS/s200/POPPE.jpg" border="0" /></a>A career biology instructor, <a href="http://www.ifsed.org/">Kenneth Poppe</a> holds a doctorate in education and taught in secondary schools for more than 25 years. He is now senior consultant with the International Foundation for Science Education by Design (www.ifsed.org). In addition to working in teacher education and assisting in DNA research of stream ecology, he has authored Reclaiming Science from Darwinism.<br /><br />Product Details:<br /><br />List Price: $14.99<br />Paperback: 304 pages<br />Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (March 1, 2008)<br />Language: English<br />ISBN-10: 0736921257<br />ISBN-13: 978-0736921251<br /><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /></span><br /><em>The majority is not trying to establish a religion or to teach it—it is trying to protect itself from the effort of an insolent minority to force irreligion upon the children under the guise of teaching science.</em><br /><br />—WILLIAM JENNINGS BRYAN<br /><br /><br />BRYAN WAS THE ATTORNEY FOR THE PROSECUTION AT THE 1925 “SCOPES MONKEY TRIAL” IN DAYTON, TENNESSEE THAT MADE EVOLUTION A HOUSEHOLD TERM. THE ABOVE WORDS ARE FROM HIS<br />WRITTEN CLOSING STATEMENT, WHICH WAS NEVER READ IN COURT.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLiku7q-YD4UuvHD4IoKNKTVqMJmmv3igbfyLbZBumJ6NFrioDq2qcU4YI0XzJ3WYxhynSp8XTaVhgV8Z3waBdVMyuBQMVQCUdI4uGQIbAGiiCBHLsizNZCAJUs0gBnhupUjyGzNUF/s1600-h/darwinism.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211949428854988802" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLiku7q-YD4UuvHD4IoKNKTVqMJmmv3igbfyLbZBumJ6NFrioDq2qcU4YI0XzJ3WYxhynSp8XTaVhgV8Z3waBdVMyuBQMVQCUdI4uGQIbAGiiCBHLsizNZCAJUs0gBnhupUjyGzNUF/s200/darwinism.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div align="center">1<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">EXAMINING YOUR FAMILY TREE<br /></span><br /><em>A Monkey for an Uncle?</em><br /><br /></div><div align="left">Consider your biological father. He is responsible for half of the genetic codes that shaped your body, and probably some of your personality as well. Now consider his father, your grandfather. If typical, I would guess at least a couple of your body traits are more grandpa’s than dad’s—having somehow skipped a generation. And how about your great-grandfather? Were you lucky enough to know him, even if just like me, through those vague and shifting memories as a very<br />small boy? Dare I throw in a great-great-grandfather—in my case known only through legend and those grainy black-and-white photos of a roughly dressed man beside a horse and buggy?<br /><br />Consider that when your great-great-grandfather was your age, for surely he once was, he could try to reconstruct his lineage just as you have done. What names and faces would he have recalled? And if you could piece great-great-granddad’s and your recollections together, that would create a timeline taking you back eight generations—perhaps 250 years or so! Where would you find your ancestors then? In my case, I’m told, the Hamburg, Germany, area. And would my ancestors then be traced to the nomadic Gaelic stock that inhabited Western Europe before formal countries were established there? And then to where? Ancient Phoenicians, Sumerians, Egyptians? And how about yours?<br /><br />Now to get to the main point. If you kept traveling back in time in this manner, generation after generation, where would you end up? Where would your dad’s ancestors have been living 1000 years ago? 2500 to 5000 years ago? And so on? Those who believe in strict Darwinism would say an extended family schematic would show your ancestors going back several million years ago where they first evolved on the African continent. And on this reverse journey you would see slowly reappearing total body hair, steadily shrinking brains, increasingly sloping foreheads and jaw protrusions, and extending arms whose knuckles would eventually be dragging the ground, assisting a clumsy, bent-over gait. In other words, strict evolutionists say if you could backtrack your family tree for, say, 5 million years, your ancestors would now be closer in appearance to a chimp than a human. And if you continued farther back in time, the coccyx bone at the bottom of your pelvis would extend into a prehensile tail, and the reappearing grasping toes on your feet would send you back to swinging in the trees from whence you came some 10 to 15 million years ago.<br /><br />Stop and ponder your supposed family tree in this way—a videotape in rewind. Is this really how it went down? Did humans come from monkeys? (Often a Darwinist will answer no to this question by saying it wasn’t a direct path of evolution. But monkeys have to be on the path before apes, right? And apes would have to be on the path before humanoids, right? So it most absolutely is, in theory, “monkey to man”—no matter how crooked the line.) Now if this isn’t the truth, what’s the alternative? Unless you consult primitive worship superstitions, I’ve stated before that the world’s five major religions give you one origin—Genesis—and it includes a tantalizing tale of an innocent man Adam and his companion woman, Eve, in a pristine garden. But for so many, that’s a fairy tale of bigger proportions than monkeys becoming humans. So what is the truth?<br /><br />Here’s my response. Regardless of which religious view(s) might supply the answer(s), I will stand firmly on this:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><blockquote><span style="font-family:courier new;">There is absolutely no scientific support for the<br />monkey-to-man scenario—absolutely none.</span><br /></blockquote></span><br />On the contrary, science, and even philosophy, validate the title of this book and its overriding message as stated a few pages ago.<br /><br /><strong>Either-Or</strong><br /><br />If there is an alternative answer to the totally unscientific view that monkeys slowly turned into people, ostensibly it is one of the religious variety. But before we tackle the idea, let me first share the concept I find continually bubbling up from the origins cauldron: Almost every major issue concludes with just two choices—<em>either</em> it could have happened this way, <em>or</em> it couldn’t. So grab a writing instrument and check your choice of one of two for each of the ten statements below.<br /><br /><strong>It Could It Couldn’t<br />Happen Happen</strong><br /><br />_______ ______ 1. The most violent accidental explosion ever, the big bang, was sufficiently self-appointed to create the largest and most fine-tuned object ever known, the universe.<br /><br />_______ ______ 2. The sheer number of planets in the universe, and the number of years these planets have existed, give us a mathematical chance that at least one would become a fully interactive biological world—ours—by accident.<br /><br />_______ ______ 3. Blind luck had the ability to construct the approximately 80,000 different life-required protein chains of specifically sequenced amino acids (from an “alphabet” of 20 different amino-acid choices)—even those proteins 10,000 amino acids long.<br /><br />_______ ______ 4. The RNA/DNA molecules, containing information equivalent to all the books in 20 standard libraries, suddenly appeared by chance in the “primordial soup” before the first cell was a reality.<br /><br />_______ ______ 5. Almost as soon as Earth’s conditions permitted, a functional cell appeared, selfprepared with a wide array of metabolizing and reproductive mechanisms.<br /><br />_______ ______ 6. A half billion years ago, in the blink of an evolutionary eye, the Cambrian explosion self-generated the completely interactive gene pool of all 32 animal phyla with complex organ systems. Once complex life didn’t exist, then it was all there.<br /><br />_______ ______ 7. After the Cambrian explosion, random scramblings of genetic information kept producing improved genetic codes. This allowed life to surge forward as animals kept giving rise to improved offspring with which, suddenly<br />or eventually, they could not mate.<br /><br />_______ ______ 8. These accidental genetic surges adequately explain a whole host of large-scale advances— for example, straight bones in fins turning into jointed bones in legs, reptile scales turning into bird feathers, photosensitive cells turning into eyes, births from amniotic eggs turning into births from a placenta, and chordates like cows or hippos going back into the ocean to become whales.<br /><br />_______ ______ 9. While animals randomly surged forward within 32 phyla from sponges to mammals, plants accomplished a similar advance in complexity from moss to cacti, but did it in only 8 steps, often called divisions instead of phyla.<br /><br /><em>And central to this book:<br /></em><br />_______ ______ 10. Primates like monkeys left the trees and kept getting bigger, stronger, and smarter. About 5 million years of natural selection was sufficient time for hominids to adapt to walking on their hind legs, learn to use tools,<br />fashion clothes to wear, master fire, develop first spoken and then written communication, and finally organize societies in cave homes among maple groves that eventually became cottage homes on Maple Street.<br /><br />So how did you score on this checklist? The two most extreme scores would be to have <em>all</em> ten checks in the right column of “it couldn’t happen”—like me—or all ten checks on the left column of “it could happen.” Of course, you realize that <em>one single check</em> in the right column dooms Darwinism to immediate failure. All it takes is one legitimate “couldn’t” check in this either-or set-up and natural evolution has no chance to produce me the writer, or you the reader. If you can, actually imagine trying to agree with all ten statements as checked on the left, and I’ll wager you’ll feel the full weight of the folly of “self-made” life. Therefore, if you find evolution insufficient <em>in even one instance</em>, you need to consider a bigger-than-science connection— unless, of course, you want to remain apathetic. So, if evolution or apathy is not the answer, I suggest you begin a quest to come to grips with the “God” who engineered this miracle.<br /><br />Rejecting statement #10 above reflects this chapter’s opening rejection of the idea that all our ancestral lines slowly become more stooped and stupider as we observe the reverse of totally natural processes. If the world generally rejected that notion and stood on the “God alternative” with confidence, it would dramatically change the debate on the other nine statements. And yet if monkeys are not our uncles then how do you explain human origin? How do you explain the master plan of God the Designer? </div>M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-67268474263350260192008-05-29T22:42:00.004-04:002008-12-10T11:49:55.222-05:00DragonLight by Donita K. Paul<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"><a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 84px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" height="204" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" width="126" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is <strong><span style="color:#009900;">June FIRST</span></strong>, time for the FIRST Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.dragonkeeper.us/">Donita K. Paul</a></span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;">and her book:</span> </span></strong></p><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400073782/">DragonLight</a></span></strong><br />WaterBrook Press (June 17, 2008) </p><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRuqji2tplWUTDuoIqYmM6moTincFAloBGj0XsmxXv_-B7YksIqId3JlJznNU5Ir_ZHyxRnSY4ta7vsHCSRxbNuBC3RPyPpC4HoOCMHk0IjWOB7xfOijQJ3olgMgxkWae81GqhaWOqlYxh/s1600-h/donita.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRuqji2tplWUTDuoIqYmM6moTincFAloBGj0XsmxXv_-B7YksIqId3JlJznNU5Ir_ZHyxRnSY4ta7vsHCSRxbNuBC3RPyPpC4HoOCMHk0IjWOB7xfOijQJ3olgMgxkWae81GqhaWOqlYxh/s200/donita.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206291842503843026" /></a>Donita K. Paul is a retired teacher and award-winning author of seven novels, including DragonSpell, DragonQuest, DragonKnight, and DragonFire. When not writing, she is often engaged in mentoring writers of all ages. Donita lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado where she is learning to paint–walls and furniture! Visit her website at www.dragonkeeper.us.<br /><br />The Books of the DragonKeeper Series:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578568234/">DragonSpell </a><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400071291/">DragonQuest </a><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400072506/">DragonKnight </a><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400072514/">DragonFire </a><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400073782/">DragonLight</a><br /><br />Visit her <a href="http://www.dragonkeeper.us/">website</a>.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /></span></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHLvP3zfU3qNdN4XabCec40nMyHiS-1hHMGpNAdEC31tYMTaDBiIYjdXUVVzyvnxjdx2pulULBdNe7kXjHRvjSkzy5TxWXKaW70srx3S5Yc7cXwf5rrFEs1F15voxaQtfWrHGcLKktnvzz/s1600-h/dl.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHLvP3zfU3qNdN4XabCec40nMyHiS-1hHMGpNAdEC31tYMTaDBiIYjdXUVVzyvnxjdx2pulULBdNe7kXjHRvjSkzy5TxWXKaW70srx3S5Yc7cXwf5rrFEs1F15voxaQtfWrHGcLKktnvzz/s200/dl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206291230639870626" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Castle Passages</strong><br /><br /></span>Kale wrinkled her nose at the dank air drifting up from the stone staircase. Below, utter darkness created a formidable barrier.<br /><br />Toopka stood close to her knee. Sparks skittered across the doneel child’s furry hand where she clasped the flowing, soft material of Kale’s wizard robe. Kale frowned down at her ward. The little doneel spent too much time attached to her skirts to be captivated by the light show. Instead, Toopka glowered into the forbidding corridor. “What’s down<br />there?”<br /><br />Kale sighed. “I’m not sure.”<br /><br />“Is it the dungeon?”<br /><br />“I don’t think we have a dungeon.”<br /><br />Toopka furrowed her brow in confusion. “Don’t you know? It’s your castle.”<br /><br />“A castle built by committee.” Kale’s face grimaced at the memory of weeks of creative chaos. She put her hand on Toopka’s soft head.<br /><br />The doneel dragged her gaze away from the stairway, tilted her head back, and frowned at her guardian. “What’s ‘by committee’?”<br /><br />“You remember, don’t you? It was just five years ago.”<br /><br />“I remember the wizards coming and the pretty tents in the meadow.” Toopka pursed her lips. “And shouting. I remember shouting.” “They were shouting because no one was listening. Twenty-one wizards came for the castle raising. Each had their own idea about what we needed. So they each constructed their fragment of the castle structure according to their whims.”<br /><br />Toopka giggled.<br /><br />“I don’t think it’s funny. The chunks of castle were erected, juxtaposed with the others, but not as a whole unit. I thank Wulder that at least my parents had some sense. My mother and father connected the tads, bits, and smidgens together with steps and short halls. When nothing else would work, they formed gateways from one portion to another.”<br /><br />The little doneel laughed out loud and hid her face in Kale’s silky wizard’s robe. Miniature lightning flashes enveloped Toopka’s head and cascaded down her neck, over her back, and onto the floor like a waterfall of sparks.<br /><br />Kale cut off the flow of energy and placed a hand on the doneel’s shoulder. “Surely you remember this, Toopka.”<br /><br />She looked up, her face growing serious. “I was very young then.”<br /><br />Kale narrowed her eyes and examined the child’s innocent face. “As long as I have known you, you’ve appeared to be the same age. Are you ever going to grow up?”<br /><br />Toopka shrugged, then the typical smile of a doneel spread across her face. Her thin black lips stretched, almost reaching from ear to ear. “I’m growing up as fast as I can, but I don’t think I’m the one in charge. If I were in charge, I would be big enough to have my own dragon, instead of searching for yours.”<br /><br />The statement pulled Kale back to her original purpose. No doubt she had been manipulated yet again by the tiny doneel, but dropping the subject of Toopka’s age for the time being seemed prudent.<br /><br />Kale rubbed the top of Toopka’s head. The shorter fur between her ears felt softer than the hair on the child’s arms. Kale always found it soothing to stroke Toopka’s head, and the doneel liked it as well.<br /><br />Kale let her hand fall to her side and pursued their mission. “Gally and Mince have been missing for a day and a half. We must find them. Taylaminkadot said she heard an odd noise when she came down to the storeroom.” Kale squared her shoulders and took a step down into the dark, dank stairwell. “Gally and Mince may be down here, and they may be in trouble.”<br /><br />“How can you know who’s missing?” Toopka tugged on Kale’s robe, letting loose a spray of sparkles. “You have hundreds of minor dragons in the castle and more big dragons in the fields.”<br /><br />“I know.” Kale put her hand in front of her, and a globe of light appeared, resting on her palm. “I’m a Dragon Keeper. I know when any of my dragons have missed a meal or two.” She stepped through the doorway.<br /><br />Toopka tugged on Kale’s gown. “May I have a light too?”<br /><br />“Of course.” She handed the globe to the doneel. The light flickered. Kale tapped it, and the glow steadied. She produced another light to sit in her own hand and proceeded down the steps.<br /><br />Toopka followed, clutching the sparkling cloth of Kale’s robe in one hand and the light in the other. “I think we should take a dozen guards with us.”<br /><br />“I don’t think there’s anything scary down here, Toopka. After all, as you reminded me, this is our castle, and we certainly haven’t invited anything nasty to live with us.”<br /><br />“It’s the things that come uninvited that worry me.”<br /><br />“All right. Just a moment.” Kale turned to face the archway at the top of the stairs, a few steps up from where they stood.<br /><br />She reached with her mind to the nearest band of minor dragons. Soon chittering dragon voices, a rainbow vision of soft, flapping, leathery wings, and a ripple of excitement swept through her senses. She heard Artross, the leader of this watch, call for his band to mind their manners, listen to orders, and calm themselves.<br /><br />Kale smiled her greeting as they entered the stairway and circled above her. She turned to Toopka, pleased with her solution, but Toopka scowled. Obviously, the doneel was not impressed with the arrival of a courageous escort.<br /><br />Kale opened her mouth to inform Toopka that a watch of dragons provides sentries, scouts, and fighters. And Bardon had seen to their training. But the doneel child knew this.<br /><br />Each watch formed without a Dragon Keeper’s instigation. Usually eleven to fifteen minor dragons developed camaraderie, and a leader emerged. A social structure developed within each watch. Kale marveled at the process. Even though she didn’t always understand the choices, she did nothing to alter the natural way of establishing the hierarchy and respectfully worked with what was in place.<br /><br />Artross, a milky white dragon who glowed in the dark, had caught Kale’s affections. She sent a warm greeting to the serious-minded leader and received a curt acknowledgment. The straight-laced young dragon with his tiny, mottled white body tickled her. Although they didn’t look alike in the least, Artross’s behavior reminded Kale of her husband’s personality.<br /><br />Kale nodded at Toopka and winked. “Now we have defenders.”<br /><br />“I think,” said the doneel, letting go of Kale’s robe and stepping down a stair, “it would be better if they were bigger and carried swords.”<br /><br />Kale smiled as one of the younger dragons landed on her shoulder. He pushed his violet head against her chin, rubbing with soft scales circling between small bumps that looked like stunted horns. Toopka skipped ahead with the other minor dragons flying just above her head.<br /><br />“Hello, Crain,” said Kale, using a fingertip to stroke his pink belly. She’d been at his hatching a week before. The little dragon chirred his contentment. “With your love of learning, I’m surprised you’re not in the library with Librettowit.”<br /><br />A scene emerged in Kale’s mind from the small dragon’s thoughts. She hid a smile. “I’m sorry you got thrown out, but you must not bring your snacks into Librettowit’s reading rooms. A tumanhofer usually likes a morsel of food to tide him over, but not when the treat threatens to smudge the pages of his precious books.” She felt the small beast shudder at the memory of the librarian’s angry voice. “It’s all right, Crain. He’ll forgive you and let you come back into his bookish sanctum. And he’ll delight in helping you find all sorts of wonderful facts.”<br /><br />Toopka came scurrying back. She’d deserted her lead position in the company of intrepid dragons. The tiny doneel dodged behind Kale and once more clutched the sparkling robe. Kale shifted her attention to a commotion ahead and sought out the thoughts of the leader Artross. “What’s wrong?” asked Kale, but her answer came as she tuned in to the leader of the dragon watch.<br /><br />Artross trilled orders to his subordinates. Kale saw the enemy through the eyes of this friend.<br /><br />An anvilhead snake slid over the stone floor of a room stacked high with large kegs. His long black body stretched out from a nook between two barrels. With the tail of the serpent hidden, she had no way of knowing its size. These reptiles’ heads outweighed their bodies. The muscled section behind the base of the jaws could be as much as six inches wide. But the length of the snake could be from three feet to thirty.<br /><br />Kale shuddered but took another step down the passage.<br /><br />Artross looked around the room and spotted another section of ropelike body against the opposite wall. Kegs hid most of the snake.<br /><br />Kale grimaced. Another snake? Or the end of the one threatening my dragons?<br /><br />The viper’s heavy head advanced, and the distant portion moved with the same speed.<br /><br />One snake.<br /><br />“Toopka, stay here,” she ordered and ran down the remaining steps. She tossed the globe from her right hand to her left and pulled her sword from its hiding place beneath her robe. Nothing appeared to be in her hand, but Kale felt the leather-bound hilt secure in her grip. The old sword had been given to her by her mother, and Kale knew<br />how to use the invisible blade with deadly precision.<br /><br />“Don’t let him get away,” she called as she increased her speed through the narrow corridor.<br /><br />The wizard robe dissolved as she rushed to join her guard. Her long dress of azure and plum reformed itself into leggings and a tunic. The color drained away and returned as a pink that would rival a stunning sunset. When she reached the cold, dark room, she cast her globe into the air. Floating in the middle of the room, it tripled in size and gave off a brighter light.<br /><br />The dragons circled above the snake, spitting their caustic saliva with great accuracy. Kale’s skin crawled at the sight of the coiling reptile. More and more of the serpentine body emerged from the shadowy protection of the stacked kegs. Obviously, the snake did not fear these intruders.<br /><br />Even covered with splotches of brightly colored spit, the creature looked like the loathsome killer it was. Kale’s two missing dragons could have been dinner for the serpent. She searched the room with the talent Wulder had bestowed upon her and concluded the little ones still lived.<br /><br />The reptile hissed at her, raised its massive head, and swayed in a threatening posture. The creature slithered toward her, propelled by the elongated body still on the floor. Just out of reach of Kale’s sword, the beast stopped, pulled its head back for the strike, and let out a slow, menacing hiss. The snake lunged, and Kale swung her invisible weapon. The severed head sailed across the room and slammed against the stone wall.<br /><br />Kale eyed the writhing body for a moment. “You won’t be eating any more small animals.” She turned her attention to the missing dragons and pointed her sword hand at a barrel at the top of one stack. “There. Gally and Mince are in that keg.”<br /><br />Several dragons landed on the wooden staves, and a brown dragon examined the cask to determine how best to open it. Toopka ran into the room and over to the barrel. “I’ll help.”<br /><br />Kale tilted her head. “There is also a nest of snake eggs.” She consulted the dragon most likely to know facts about anvilhead vipers. Crain landed on her shoulder and poured out all he knew in a combination of chittering and thoughts.<br /><br />The odd reptiles preferred eating young farm animals, grain, and feed. They did nothing to combat the population of rats, insects, and vermin. No farmer allowed the snakes on his property if he could help it. “Find the nest,” Kale ordered. “Destroy them all.”<br /><br />The watch of dragons took flight again, zooming into lightrockilluminated passages leading off from this central room. Kale waited until a small group raised an alarm. Four minor dragons had found the nest.<br /><br />She plunged down a dim passage, sending a plume of light ahead and calling for the dispersed dragons to join her. Eleven came from the other corridors, and nine flew in a V formation in front of her. Gally and Mince landed on her shoulders.<br /><br />“You’re all right. I’m so glad.”<br /><br />They scooted next to her neck, shivering. From their minds she deciphered the details of their ordeal. A game of hide-and-seek had led them into the depths of the castle. When the snake surprised them, they’d flown under the off-center lid of the barrel. As Mince dove into the narrow opening, he knocked the top just enough for it to rattle down into place. This successfully kept the serpent out, but also trapped them within.<br /><br />Kale offered sympathy, and they cuddled against her, rubbing their heads on her chin as she whisked through the underground tunnel in pursuit of the other dragons.<br /><br />Numerous rooms jutted off the main hallway, each stacked with boxes, crates, barrels, and huge burlap bags. Kale had no idea this vast amount of storage lay beneath the castle. Taylaminkadot, their efficient housekeeper and wife to Librettowit, probably had a tally sheet listing each item. Kale and the dragons passed rooms that contained fewer and fewer supplies until the stores dwindled to nothing.<br /><br />How long does this hallway continue on? She slowed to creep along and tiptoed over the stone floor, noticing the rougher texture under her feet. Approaching a corner, she detected the four minor dragons destroying the snake’s nest in the next room. Her escort of flying dragons veered off into the room, and she followed. The small dragons swooped over the nest, grabbed an egg, then flew to the beamed roof of the storage room. They hurled the eggs to the floor, and most broke open on contact. Some had more rubbery shells, a sign that they would soon hatch. The minor dragons attacked these eggs with tooth and claw. Once each shell gave way, the content was pulled out and examined. No<br />hatchling snake survived.<br /><br />The smell alone halted Kale in her tracks and sent her back a pace. She screwed up her face, but no amount of pinching her nose muscles cut off the odor of raw eggs and the bodies of unborn snakes. She produced a square of moonbeam material from her pocket and covered the lower half of her face. The properties of the handkerchief filtered the unpleasant aroma.<br /><br />Her gaze fell on the scene of annihilation. Usually, Kale found infant animals to be endearing, attractive in a gangly way. But the small snake bodies looked more like huge blackened worms than babies.<br /><br />Toopka raced up behind her and came to a skidding stop when she reached the doorway. “Ew!” She buried her face in the hem of Kale’s tunic, then peeked out with her nose still covered.<br /><br />The minor dragons continued to destroy the huge nest. Kale estimated over a hundred snake eggs must have been deposited in the old shallow basket. The woven edges sagged where the weight of the female snake had broken the reeds. Kale shuddered at the thought of all those snakes hatching and occupying the lowest level of the castle, her home. The urge to be above ground, in the light, and with her loved ones compelled her out of the room.<br /><br />Good work, she commended the dragons as she backed into the passage. Artross, be sure that no egg is left unshattered.<br /><br />She received his assurance, thanked him, then turned about and ran. She must find Bardon.<br /><br />“Wait for me!” Toopka called. Her tiny, booted feet pounded the stone floor in a frantic effort to catch up.<br /> </textarea><br /></div><br />**************************************************************<br /><br /><a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 84px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" height="204" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" width="126" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is <strong><span style="color:#009900;">June FIRST</span></strong>, time for the FIRST Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.dragonkeeper.us/">Donita K. Paul</a></span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;">and her book:</span> </span></strong></p><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400073782/">DragonLight</a></span></strong><br />WaterBrook Press (June 17, 2008) </p><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRuqji2tplWUTDuoIqYmM6moTincFAloBGj0XsmxXv_-B7YksIqId3JlJznNU5Ir_ZHyxRnSY4ta7vsHCSRxbNuBC3RPyPpC4HoOCMHk0IjWOB7xfOijQJ3olgMgxkWae81GqhaWOqlYxh/s1600-h/donita.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRuqji2tplWUTDuoIqYmM6moTincFAloBGj0XsmxXv_-B7YksIqId3JlJznNU5Ir_ZHyxRnSY4ta7vsHCSRxbNuBC3RPyPpC4HoOCMHk0IjWOB7xfOijQJ3olgMgxkWae81GqhaWOqlYxh/s200/donita.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206291842503843026" /></a>Donita K. Paul is a retired teacher and award-winning author of seven novels, including DragonSpell, DragonQuest, DragonKnight, and DragonFire. When not writing, she is often engaged in mentoring writers of all ages. Donita lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado where she is learning to paint–walls and furniture! Visit her website at www.dragonkeeper.us.<br /><br />The Books of the DragonKeeper Series:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578568234/">DragonSpell </a><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400071291/">DragonQuest </a><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400072506/">DragonKnight </a><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400072514/">DragonFire </a><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400073782/">DragonLight</a><br /><br />Visit her <a href="http://www.dragonkeeper.us/">website</a>.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /></span></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHLvP3zfU3qNdN4XabCec40nMyHiS-1hHMGpNAdEC31tYMTaDBiIYjdXUVVzyvnxjdx2pulULBdNe7kXjHRvjSkzy5TxWXKaW70srx3S5Yc7cXwf5rrFEs1F15voxaQtfWrHGcLKktnvzz/s1600-h/dl.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHLvP3zfU3qNdN4XabCec40nMyHiS-1hHMGpNAdEC31tYMTaDBiIYjdXUVVzyvnxjdx2pulULBdNe7kXjHRvjSkzy5TxWXKaW70srx3S5Yc7cXwf5rrFEs1F15voxaQtfWrHGcLKktnvzz/s200/dl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5206291230639870626" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Castle Passages</strong><br /><br /></span>Kale wrinkled her nose at the dank air drifting up from the stone staircase. Below, utter darkness created a formidable barrier.<br /><br />Toopka stood close to her knee. Sparks skittered across the doneel child’s furry hand where she clasped the flowing, soft material of Kale’s wizard robe. Kale frowned down at her ward. The little doneel spent too much time attached to her skirts to be captivated by the light show. Instead, Toopka glowered into the forbidding corridor. “What’s down<br />there?”<br /><br />Kale sighed. “I’m not sure.”<br /><br />“Is it the dungeon?”<br /><br />“I don’t think we have a dungeon.”<br /><br />Toopka furrowed her brow in confusion. “Don’t you know? It’s your castle.”<br /><br />“A castle built by committee.” Kale’s face grimaced at the memory of weeks of creative chaos. She put her hand on Toopka’s soft head.<br /><br />The doneel dragged her gaze away from the stairway, tilted her head back, and frowned at her guardian. “What’s ‘by committee’?”<br /><br />“You remember, don’t you? It was just five years ago.”<br /><br />“I remember the wizards coming and the pretty tents in the meadow.” Toopka pursed her lips. “And shouting. I remember shouting.” “They were shouting because no one was listening. Twenty-one wizards came for the castle raising. Each had their own idea about what we needed. So they each constructed their fragment of the castle structure according to their whims.”<br /><br />Toopka giggled.<br /><br />“I don’t think it’s funny. The chunks of castle were erected, juxtaposed with the others, but not as a whole unit. I thank Wulder that at least my parents had some sense. My mother and father connected the tads, bits, and smidgens together with steps and short halls. When nothing else would work, they formed gateways from one portion to another.”<br /><br />The little doneel laughed out loud and hid her face in Kale’s silky wizard’s robe. Miniature lightning flashes enveloped Toopka’s head and cascaded down her neck, over her back, and onto the floor like a waterfall of sparks.<br /><br />Kale cut off the flow of energy and placed a hand on the doneel’s shoulder. “Surely you remember this, Toopka.”<br /><br />She looked up, her face growing serious. “I was very young then.”<br /><br />Kale narrowed her eyes and examined the child’s innocent face. “As long as I have known you, you’ve appeared to be the same age. Are you ever going to grow up?”<br /><br />Toopka shrugged, then the typical smile of a doneel spread across her face. Her thin black lips stretched, almost reaching from ear to ear. “I’m growing up as fast as I can, but I don’t think I’m the one in charge. If I were in charge, I would be big enough to have my own dragon, instead of searching for yours.”<br /><br />The statement pulled Kale back to her original purpose. No doubt she had been manipulated yet again by the tiny doneel, but dropping the subject of Toopka’s age for the time being seemed prudent.<br /><br />Kale rubbed the top of Toopka’s head. The shorter fur between her ears felt softer than the hair on the child’s arms. Kale always found it soothing to stroke Toopka’s head, and the doneel liked it as well.<br /><br />Kale let her hand fall to her side and pursued their mission. “Gally and Mince have been missing for a day and a half. We must find them. Taylaminkadot said she heard an odd noise when she came down to the storeroom.” Kale squared her shoulders and took a step down into the dark, dank stairwell. “Gally and Mince may be down here, and they may be in trouble.”<br /><br />“How can you know who’s missing?” Toopka tugged on Kale’s robe, letting loose a spray of sparkles. “You have hundreds of minor dragons in the castle and more big dragons in the fields.”<br /><br />“I know.” Kale put her hand in front of her, and a globe of light appeared, resting on her palm. “I’m a Dragon Keeper. I know when any of my dragons have missed a meal or two.” She stepped through the doorway.<br /><br />Toopka tugged on Kale’s gown. “May I have a light too?”<br /><br />“Of course.” She handed the globe to the doneel. The light flickered. Kale tapped it, and the glow steadied. She produced another light to sit in her own hand and proceeded down the steps.<br /><br />Toopka followed, clutching the sparkling cloth of Kale’s robe in one hand and the light in the other. “I think we should take a dozen guards with us.”<br /><br />“I don’t think there’s anything scary down here, Toopka. After all, as you reminded me, this is our castle, and we certainly haven’t invited anything nasty to live with us.”<br /><br />“It’s the things that come uninvited that worry me.”<br /><br />“All right. Just a moment.” Kale turned to face the archway at the top of the stairs, a few steps up from where they stood.<br /><br />She reached with her mind to the nearest band of minor dragons. Soon chittering dragon voices, a rainbow vision of soft, flapping, leathery wings, and a ripple of excitement swept through her senses. She heard Artross, the leader of this watch, call for his band to mind their manners, listen to orders, and calm themselves.<br /><br />Kale smiled her greeting as they entered the stairway and circled above her. She turned to Toopka, pleased with her solution, but Toopka scowled. Obviously, the doneel was not impressed with the arrival of a courageous escort.<br /><br />Kale opened her mouth to inform Toopka that a watch of dragons provides sentries, scouts, and fighters. And Bardon had seen to their training. But the doneel child knew this.<br /><br />Each watch formed without a Dragon Keeper’s instigation. Usually eleven to fifteen minor dragons developed camaraderie, and a leader emerged. A social structure developed within each watch. Kale marveled at the process. Even though she didn’t always understand the choices, she did nothing to alter the natural way of establishing the hierarchy and respectfully worked with what was in place.<br /><br />Artross, a milky white dragon who glowed in the dark, had caught Kale’s affections. She sent a warm greeting to the serious-minded leader and received a curt acknowledgment. The straight-laced young dragon with his tiny, mottled white body tickled her. Although they didn’t look alike in the least, Artross’s behavior reminded Kale of her husband’s personality.<br /><br />Kale nodded at Toopka and winked. “Now we have defenders.”<br /><br />“I think,” said the doneel, letting go of Kale’s robe and stepping down a stair, “it would be better if they were bigger and carried swords.”<br /><br />Kale smiled as one of the younger dragons landed on her shoulder. He pushed his violet head against her chin, rubbing with soft scales circling between small bumps that looked like stunted horns. Toopka skipped ahead with the other minor dragons flying just above her head.<br /><br />“Hello, Crain,” said Kale, using a fingertip to stroke his pink belly. She’d been at his hatching a week before. The little dragon chirred his contentment. “With your love of learning, I’m surprised you’re not in the library with Librettowit.”<br /><br />A scene emerged in Kale’s mind from the small dragon’s thoughts. She hid a smile. “I’m sorry you got thrown out, but you must not bring your snacks into Librettowit’s reading rooms. A tumanhofer usually likes a morsel of food to tide him over, but not when the treat threatens to smudge the pages of his precious books.” She felt the small beast shudder at the memory of the librarian’s angry voice. “It’s all right, Crain. He’ll forgive you and let you come back into his bookish sanctum. And he’ll delight in helping you find all sorts of wonderful facts.”<br /><br />Toopka came scurrying back. She’d deserted her lead position in the company of intrepid dragons. The tiny doneel dodged behind Kale and once more clutched the sparkling robe. Kale shifted her attention to a commotion ahead and sought out the thoughts of the leader Artross. “What’s wrong?” asked Kale, but her answer came as she tuned in to the leader of the dragon watch.<br /><br />Artross trilled orders to his subordinates. Kale saw the enemy through the eyes of this friend.<br /><br />An anvilhead snake slid over the stone floor of a room stacked high with large kegs. His long black body stretched out from a nook between two barrels. With the tail of the serpent hidden, she had no way of knowing its size. These reptiles’ heads outweighed their bodies. The muscled section behind the base of the jaws could be as much as six inches wide. But the length of the snake could be from three feet to thirty.<br /><br />Kale shuddered but took another step down the passage.<br /><br />Artross looked around the room and spotted another section of ropelike body against the opposite wall. Kegs hid most of the snake.<br /><br />Kale grimaced. Another snake? Or the end of the one threatening my dragons?<br /><br />The viper’s heavy head advanced, and the distant portion moved with the same speed.<br /><br />One snake.<br /><br />“Toopka, stay here,” she ordered and ran down the remaining steps. She tossed the globe from her right hand to her left and pulled her sword from its hiding place beneath her robe. Nothing appeared to be in her hand, but Kale felt the leather-bound hilt secure in her grip. The old sword had been given to her by her mother, and Kale knew<br />how to use the invisible blade with deadly precision.<br /><br />“Don’t let him get away,” she called as she increased her speed through the narrow corridor.<br /><br />The wizard robe dissolved as she rushed to join her guard. Her long dress of azure and plum reformed itself into leggings and a tunic. The color drained away and returned as a pink that would rival a stunning sunset. When she reached the cold, dark room, she cast her globe into the air. Floating in the middle of the room, it tripled in size and gave off a brighter light.<br /><br />The dragons circled above the snake, spitting their caustic saliva with great accuracy. Kale’s skin crawled at the sight of the coiling reptile. More and more of the serpentine body emerged from the shadowy protection of the stacked kegs. Obviously, the snake did not fear these intruders.<br /><br />Even covered with splotches of brightly colored spit, the creature looked like the loathsome killer it was. Kale’s two missing dragons could have been dinner for the serpent. She searched the room with the talent Wulder had bestowed upon her and concluded the little ones still lived.<br /><br />The reptile hissed at her, raised its massive head, and swayed in a threatening posture. The creature slithered toward her, propelled by the elongated body still on the floor. Just out of reach of Kale’s sword, the beast stopped, pulled its head back for the strike, and let out a slow, menacing hiss. The snake lunged, and Kale swung her invisible weapon. The severed head sailed across the room and slammed against the stone wall.<br /><br />Kale eyed the writhing body for a moment. “You won’t be eating any more small animals.” She turned her attention to the missing dragons and pointed her sword hand at a barrel at the top of one stack. “There. Gally and Mince are in that keg.”<br /><br />Several dragons landed on the wooden staves, and a brown dragon examined the cask to determine how best to open it. Toopka ran into the room and over to the barrel. “I’ll help.”<br /><br />Kale tilted her head. “There is also a nest of snake eggs.” She consulted the dragon most likely to know facts about anvilhead vipers. Crain landed on her shoulder and poured out all he knew in a combination of chittering and thoughts.<br /><br />The odd reptiles preferred eating young farm animals, grain, and feed. They did nothing to combat the population of rats, insects, and vermin. No farmer allowed the snakes on his property if he could help it. “Find the nest,” Kale ordered. “Destroy them all.”<br /><br />The watch of dragons took flight again, zooming into lightrockilluminated passages leading off from this central room. Kale waited until a small group raised an alarm. Four minor dragons had found the nest.<br /><br />She plunged down a dim passage, sending a plume of light ahead and calling for the dispersed dragons to join her. Eleven came from the other corridors, and nine flew in a V formation in front of her. Gally and Mince landed on her shoulders.<br /><br />“You’re all right. I’m so glad.”<br /><br />They scooted next to her neck, shivering. From their minds she deciphered the details of their ordeal. A game of hide-and-seek had led them into the depths of the castle. When the snake surprised them, they’d flown under the off-center lid of the barrel. As Mince dove into the narrow opening, he knocked the top just enough for it to rattle down into place. This successfully kept the serpent out, but also trapped them within.<br /><br />Kale offered sympathy, and they cuddled against her, rubbing their heads on her chin as she whisked through the underground tunnel in pursuit of the other dragons.<br /><br />Numerous rooms jutted off the main hallway, each stacked with boxes, crates, barrels, and huge burlap bags. Kale had no idea this vast amount of storage lay beneath the castle. Taylaminkadot, their efficient housekeeper and wife to Librettowit, probably had a tally sheet listing each item. Kale and the dragons passed rooms that contained fewer and fewer supplies until the stores dwindled to nothing.<br /><br />How long does this hallway continue on? She slowed to creep along and tiptoed over the stone floor, noticing the rougher texture under her feet. Approaching a corner, she detected the four minor dragons destroying the snake’s nest in the next room. Her escort of flying dragons veered off into the room, and she followed. The small dragons swooped over the nest, grabbed an egg, then flew to the beamed roof of the storage room. They hurled the eggs to the floor, and most broke open on contact. Some had more rubbery shells, a sign that they would soon hatch. The minor dragons attacked these eggs with tooth and claw. Once each shell gave way, the content was pulled out and examined. No<br />hatchling snake survived.<br /><br />The smell alone halted Kale in her tracks and sent her back a pace. She screwed up her face, but no amount of pinching her nose muscles cut off the odor of raw eggs and the bodies of unborn snakes. She produced a square of moonbeam material from her pocket and covered the lower half of her face. The properties of the handkerchief filtered the unpleasant aroma.<br /><br />Her gaze fell on the scene of annihilation. Usually, Kale found infant animals to be endearing, attractive in a gangly way. But the small snake bodies looked more like huge blackened worms than babies.<br /><br />Toopka raced up behind her and came to a skidding stop when she reached the doorway. “Ew!” She buried her face in the hem of Kale’s tunic, then peeked out with her nose still covered.<br /><br />The minor dragons continued to destroy the huge nest. Kale estimated over a hundred snake eggs must have been deposited in the old shallow basket. The woven edges sagged where the weight of the female snake had broken the reeds. Kale shuddered at the thought of all those snakes hatching and occupying the lowest level of the castle, her home. The urge to be above ground, in the light, and with her loved ones compelled her out of the room.<br /><br />Good work, she commended the dragons as she backed into the passage. Artross, be sure that no egg is left unshattered.<br /><br />She received his assurance, thanked him, then turned about and ran. She must find Bardon.<br /><br />“Wait for me!” Toopka called. Her tiny, booted feet pounded the stone floor in a frantic effort to catch up.<br />M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8441454437435845568.post-38009435824814645652008-05-20T00:27:00.003-04:002008-12-10T11:49:55.245-05:00House of Dark Shadows: Dreamhouse Kings, Book #1 by Robert Liparulo<div>Grab the HTML for the entire post (will look like the post below): <br /><br /><textarea name="HTML for Picture" rows="8" cols="60"> <div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s1600-h/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg"><a href="http://teenfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178594274707613778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s200/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg" border="0" /></a></a><br /><br />It's May 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.robertliparulo.com/">Robert Liparulo </a></font></strong><br /><p></p><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="160"><font color="#009900" size="4"></font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"><font size="2"><font color="#009900">and his book:</font> </font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"></strong></div></font><p></p><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="7"><font size="3"></font></strong></div></font><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595544941">House of Dark Shadows: Dreamhouse Kings, Book #1</a></font></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Thomas Nelson (May 6, 2008)</p><br /><p align="center"></p><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><font color="#ff6600"></font></font></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><p></p><font color="#ff6600">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</font> </font></strong></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33k6AhYa3bVOiTLi-GQxG2jMOMdQGDGATqXuqhoKmMmDMLR1fwzev4eXKa1igHbrbLTrz8KdJJFRtmvFU73o9YJoU8pHx4-w94uO6cERG78BKXfUD03geaI90AcMFn20Q3zH4dQHFUag/s1600-h/robert.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5201923314873808306" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33k6AhYa3bVOiTLi-GQxG2jMOMdQGDGATqXuqhoKmMmDMLR1fwzev4eXKa1igHbrbLTrz8KdJJFRtmvFU73o9YJoU8pHx4-w94uO6cERG78BKXfUD03geaI90AcMFn20Q3zH4dQHFUag/s200/robert.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPeHVQsuOSwgX6XjE0O8Sq3KaCYzZRALkDxsOY5sGxmfUFvIpEPIHZJFJSQDlBYYkNsWlrtVfUZaBJW_9RrCCgDr9vewXrhHqHpszHQbG7Yx6-xZaEcRVdYBRCoLkEpKr4MmiBAHF4mU0/s1600-h/robert.jpg"></a>Robert Liparulo is an award-winning author of over a thousand published articles and short stories. He is currently a contributing editor for New Man magazine. His work has appeared in Reader's Digest, Travel & Leisure, Modern Bride, Consumers Digest, Chief Executive, and The Arizona Daily Star, among other publications. In addition, he previously worked as a celebrity journalist, interviewing Stephen King, Tom Clancy, Charlton Heston, and others for magazines such as Rocky Road, Preview, and L.A. Weekly. He has sold or optioned three screenplays.<br /><br />Robert is an avid scuba diver, swimmer, reader, traveler, and a law enforcement and military enthusiast. He lives in Colorado with his wife and four children.<br /><br />Here are some of his titles:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0785261761/">Comes a Horseman</a><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595543651/"><br />Germ<br /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0785261796"><br />Deadfall<br /></a><br /><br /><br /><div align="left"><br /><font color="#ffcc00"><strong><font size="5">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</font> </strong><br /></font><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia35U9Dlf0sAusvbFtJ4zOnwrIWfOkduWHvtC6wDTGePE0AYR1_8zD7OUOMHC7Ss5IJSyQalhD7PXoUZoiecgcbhWlTVMyvg322axEX7is48E2Q_gAXpsBB2LZDxc0EO-zT92ZmHlQLx0/s1600-h/house.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5201921828815123874" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia35U9Dlf0sAusvbFtJ4zOnwrIWfOkduWHvtC6wDTGePE0AYR1_8zD7OUOMHC7Ss5IJSyQalhD7PXoUZoiecgcbhWlTVMyvg322axEX7is48E2Q_gAXpsBB2LZDxc0EO-zT92ZmHlQLx0/s200/house.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /> </div></div>“A house of which one knows every room isn't worth living in.”<br /><br /> —Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa <br /> <br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br />Prologue <br /><br /><br /> Thirty years ago<br /><br /> The walls of the house absorbed the woman’s screams, until they felt to her as muffled and pointless as yelling underwater. Still, her lungs kept pushing out cries for help. Her attacker carried her over his shoulder. The stench of his sweat filled her nostrils. He paid no heed to her frantic writhing, or the pounding of her fists on his back, or even her fingernails, which dug furrows into his flesh. He simply lumbered, as steadily as a freight train, through the corridors of the big house.<br /><br /> She knew where they were heading, but not where she would end up. In this house, nothing was normal, nothing as it appeared. So while she knew in advance the turns her attacker would take, which hallways and doors he would traverse, their destination was as unknowable as a faraway galaxy. And that meant her taking would be untraceable. She would be unreachable to searchers. To would-be rescuers. To her family— and that realization terrified her more than being grabbed out of her bed. More than the flashes of imagined cruelty she would suffer away from the protection of the people who loved her. More than death.<br /><br /> But then she saw something more terrifying: her children, scrambling to catch up, to help. Their eyes were wide, streaming. They stumbled up the narrow staircase behind her attacker, seeming far below, rising to meet her. The thought of them following her into the chasm of her fate was more than she could stand.<br /><br /> “Go back,” she said, but by this time her throat was raw, her voice weak.<br /><br /> The man reached the landing and turned into another corridor.<br /><br /> Temporarily out of sight, her son yelled, “Mom!” His seven-year-old voice was almost lost in the shrillness of his panic. He appeared on the landing. His socked feet slipped on the hardwood floor and he went down. Behind him, his little sister stopped. She was frightened and confused, too young to do anything more than follow her brother. He clambered up and started to run again. <br /><br /> A hand gripped his shoulder, jarring him back. <br /><br /> The boy’s father had something in his fist: the lamp from his nightstand! He past the boy in the hallway. His bare feet gave him traction.<br /><br /> Thank God, she thought.<br /><br /> He reached her in seconds. With the lamp raised over his head, he grabbed her wrist. He pulled, tried to anchor himself to the floor, to the carpeted runner now covering the wood planks. But the brute under her walked on, tugging him with them. The man yanked on her arm. Pain flared in her shoulder. He might as well have tried pulling her from a car as it sped passed.<br /><br /> She caught a glimpse of the bizarrely shaped light fixtures on the corridor walls—mostly carved faces with glowing eyes. The bulbs flickered in time with her racing heart. She could not remember any of the lights doing that before. It was as though the electrical current running through the wires was responding to a disruption in the way things were supposed to be, a glitch in reality. <br /><br /> “Henry,” she said, pleading, hopeful.<br /><br /> His grip tightened as he stumbled along behind them. He brought the lamp’s heavy base down on her assailant. If the man carrying her flinched, she did not feel it. If he grunted or yelled out, she did not hear it.<br /><br /> What he did was stop. He spun around so quickly, the woman’s husband lost his grip on her. And now facing the other direction, she lost sight of him. Being suddenly denied her husband’s visage felt like getting the wind knocked out of her. She realized he was face to face with the man who’d taken her, and that felt like watching him step off a cliff.<br /><br /> “Nooo!” she screamed, her voice finding some volume. “Henry!”<br /><br /> His hand gripped her ankle, then broke free. The man under her moved in a violent dance, jostling her wildly. He spun again and her head struck the wall.<br /><br /> The lights went out completely . . . . but no, not the lights . . . her consciousness. It came back to her slowly, like the warmth of fire on a blistery day.<br /><br /> She tasted blood. She’d bitten her tongue. She opened her eyes. Henry was crumpled on the floor, receding as she was carried away. The children stood over him, touching him, calling him. Her son’s eyes found hers again. Determination hardened his jaw, pushed away the fear . . . at least a measure of it. He stepped over his father’s legs, coming to her rescue. Henry raised his head, weary, stunned. He reached for the boy, but missed.<br /><br /> Over the huffing breath of the man, the soft patter of her son’s feet reached her ears. How she’d loved that sound, knowing it was bringing him to her. Now she wanted it to carry him away, away from this danger. Her husband called to him in a croaking, strained voice. The boy kept coming.<br /><br /> She spread her arms. Her left hand clutched at open air, but the right one touched a wall. She clawed at it. Her nails snagged the wallpaper. One nail peeled back from her finger and snapped off.<br /><br /> Her assailant turned again, into a room—one of the small antechambers, like a mud room before the real room. He strode straight toward the next threshold.<br /><br /> Her son reached the first door, catching it as it was closing.<br /><br /> “Mom!” Panic etched old-man lines into his young face. His eyes appeared as wide as his mouth. He banged his shoulder on the jamb, trying to hurry in.<br /><br /> “Stay!” she said. She showed him her palms in a “stop” gesture, hoping he would understand, hoping he would obey. She took in his face, as a diver takes in a deep breath before plunging into the depths. He was fully in the antechamber now, reaching for her with both arms, but her captor had already opened the second door and was stepping through. The door was swinging shut behind him.<br /><br /> The light they were stepping into was bright. It swept around her, through the opening, and made pinpoints of the boy’s irises. His blue eyes dazzled. His cheeks glistened with tears. He wore his favorite pajamas—little R2D2s and C3P0s all over them, becoming threadbare and too small for him.<br /><br /> “I—“ she started, meaning to say she loved him, but the brute bounded downward, driving his shoulder into her stomach. Air rushed from her, unformed by vocal chords, tongue, lips. Just air.<br /><br /> “Moooom!” her son screamed. Full of despair. Reaching. Almost to the door. <br />“Mo—“<br /><br /> The door closed, separating her from her family forever.<br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /> 1 <br /><br /><br /> Now<br /><br /> Saturday, 4:55 P.M.<br /><br /> “Nothing but trees,” the bear said in Xander’s voice. It repeated itself: “Nothing but trees.”<br /><br /> Xander King turned away from the car window and stared into the smiling furry face, with its shiny half-bead eyes and stitched-on nose. He said, “I mean it, Toria. Get that thing out of my face. And turn it off.”<br /><br /> His sister’s hands moved quickly over the teddy bear’s paws, all the while keeping it suspended three inches in front of Xander. The bear said, “I mean it, Toria. Get that—”<br /><br /> At fifteen years old, Xander was too old to be messing around with little-kid toys. He seized the bear, squeezing the paw that silenced it.<br /><br /> “Mom!” Toria yelled. ”Make him give Wuzzy back!” She grabbed for it.<br /><br /> Xander turned away from her, tucking Wuzzy between his body and the car door. Outside his window, nothing but trees—as he had said and Wuzzy had agreed. It reminded him of a movie, as almost everything did. This time, it was The Edge, about a bear intent on eating Anthony Hopkins. An opening shot of the wilderness where it was filmed showed miles and miles of lush forest. Nothing but trees.<br /><br /> A month ago, his dad had announced that he had accepted a position as principal of a school six hundred miles away, and the whole King family had to move from the only home Xander had ever known. It was a place he had never even heard of: Pinedale, almost straight north from their home in Pasadena. Still in California, but barely. Pinedale. The name itself said “hick,” “small,” and “If you don’t die here, you’ll wish you had.” Of course, he had screamed, begged, sulked, and threatened to run away. But in the end here he was, wedged in the back seat with his nine-year-old sister and twelve-year-old brother.<br /><br /> The longer they drove, the thicker the woods grew and the more miserable he became. It was bad enough, leaving his friends, his school—everything!—but to be leaving them for hicksville, in the middle of nowhere, was a stake through his heart.<br /><br /> “Mom!” Toria yelled again, reaching for the bear.<br /><br /> Xander squeezed closer to the door, away from her. He must have put pressure on the bear in the wrong place: It began chanting in Toria’s whiny voice: “Mom! Mom! Mom!”<br /><br /> He frantically squeezed Wuzzy’s paws, but could not make it stop.<br /><br /> “Mom! Mom! Mom!”<br /><br /> The controls in the bear’s arms weren’t working. Frustrated by its continuous one-word poking at his brain—and a little concerned he had broken it and would have to buy her a new one—he looked to his sister for help.<br /><br /> She wasn’t grabbing for it anymore. Just grinning. One of those see-what-happens-when-you-mess-with-me smiles.<br /><br /> “Mom! Mom! Mom!”<br /><br /> Xander was about to show her what happened when you messed with him—the possibilities ranged from a display of his superior vocal volume to ripping Mr. Wuzzy’s arms right off—when the absurdity of it struck him. He cracked up.<br /><br /> “I mean it,” he laughed. “This thing is driving me crazy.” He shook the bear at her. It continued yelling for their mother.<br /><br /> His brother David, who was sitting on the other side of Toria and who had been doing a good job of staying out of the fight, started laughing too. He mimicked the bear, who was mimicking their sister: “Mom! Mom! Mom!”<br /><br /> Mrs. King shifted around in the front passenger seat. She was smiling, but her eyes were curious. <br /><br /> “Xander broke Wuzzy!” Toria whined. “He won’t turn off.” She pulled the bear out of Xander’s hands.<br /><br /> The furry beast stopped talking: “Mo—” Then, blessed silence.<br /><br /> Toria looked from brother to brother and they laugh again.<br /><br /> Xander shrugged. “I guess he just doesn’t like me.”<br /><br /> “He only likes me,” Toria said, hugging it.<br /><br /> “Oh, brother,” David said. He went back to the PSP game that had kept him occupied most of the drive.<br /><br /> Mom raised her eyebrows at Xander and said, “Be nice.”<br /><br /> Xander rolled his eyes. He adjusted his shoulders and wiggled his behind, nudging Toria. “It’s too cramped back here. It may be an SUV, but it isn’t big enough for us anymore.”<br /><br /> “Don’t start that,” his father warned from behind the wheel. He angled the rearview mirror to see his son.<br /><br /> “What?” Xander said, acting innocent.<br /><br /> “I did the same thing with my father,” Dad said. “The car’s too small . . . it uses too much gas . . . it’s too run down . . . ”<br /><br /> Xander smiled. “Well, it is.”<br /><br /> “And if we get a new car, what should we do with this one?”<br /><br /> “Well . . . .” Xander said. “You know. It’d be a safe car for me.” A ten-year-old Toyota 4Runner wasn’t his idea of cool wheels, but it was transportation.<br /><br /> Dad nodded. “Getting you a car is something we can talk about, okay? Let’s see how you do.”<br /><br /> “I have my driver’s permit. You know I’m a good driver.”<br /><br /> “He is,” Toria chimed in.<br /><br /> David added, “And then he can drive us to school.”<br /><br /> “I didn’t mean just the driving,” Dad said. He paused, catching Xander’s eyes in the mirror. “I mean with all of this, the move and everything.”<br /><br /> Xander stared out the window again. He mumbled, “Guess I’ll never get a car, then.”<br /><br /> “Xander?” Dad said. “I didn’t hear that.”<br /><br /> “Nothing.”<br /><br /> “He said he’ll never get a car,” Toria said.<br /><br /> Silence. David’s thumbs clicked furiously over the PSP buttons. Xander was aware of his mom watching him. If he looked, her eyes would be all sad-like, and she would be frowning in sympathy for him. He thought maybe his dad was looking too, but only for an opportunity to explain himself again. Xander didn’t want to hear it. Nothing his old man said would make this okay, would make ripping him out of his world less awful than it was. <br /><br /> “Dad, is the school’s soccer team good? Did they place?” David asked. Xander knew his brother wasn’t happy about the move either, but jumping right into the sport he was so obsessed about went a long way toward making the change something he could handle. Maybe Xander was like that three years ago, just rolling with the punches. He couldn’t remember. But now he had things in his life David didn’t: friends who truly mattered, ones he thought he’d spend the rest of his life with. Kids didn’t think that way. Friends could come and go and they adjusted. True, Xander had known his current friends for years, but they hadn’t become like blood until the last year or so.<br /><br /> That got him thinking about Danielle. He pulled his mobile phone from his shirt pocket and checked it. No text messages from her. No calls. She hadn’t replied to the last text he’d sent. He keyed in another: “Forget me already? JK.” But he wasn’t Just Kidding. He knew the score: Out of sight, out of mind. She had said all the right things, like We’ll talk on the phone all the time; You come down and see me and I’ll come up to see you, okay? and I’ll wait for you.<br /><br /> Yeah, sure you will, he thought. Even during the past week, he’d sensed a coldness in her, an emotional distancing. When he’d told his best friend, Dean had shrugged. Trying to sound world-wise, he’d said, “Forget her, dude. She’s a hot young babe. She’s gotta move on. You too. Not like you’re married, right?” Dean had never liked Danielle.<br /><br /> Xander tried to convince himself she was just another friend he was forced to leave behind. But there was a different kind of ache in his chest when he thought about her. A heavy weight in his stomach.<br /><br /> Stop it! he told himself. He flipped his phone closed.<br /><br /> On his mental list of the reasons to hate the move to Pinedale, he moved on to the one titled “career.” He had just started making short films with his buddies, and was pretty sure it was something he would eventually do for a living. They weren’t much, just short skits he and his friends acted out. He and Dean wrote the scripts, did the filming, used computer software to edit an hour of video into five-minute films, and laid music over them. They had six already on YouTube—with an average rating of four-and-a-half stars and a boatload of praise. Xander had dreams of getting a short film into the festival circuit, which of course would lead to offers to do music videos and commercials, probably an Oscar and onto feature movies starring Russell Crowe and Jim Carrey. Pasadena was right next to Hollywood, a twenty-minute drive. You couldn’t ask for a better place to live if you were the next Steven Spielberg. What in God’s creation would he find to film in Pinedale? Trees, he thought glumly, watching them fly past his window.<br /><br /> Dad, addressing David’s soccer concern, said, “We’ll talk about it later.”<br /><br /> Mom reached through the seatbacks to shake Xander’s knee. “It’ll work out,” she whispered.<br /><br /> “Wait a minute,” David said, understanding Dad-talk as well as Xander did. “Are you saying they suck—or that they don’t have a soccer team? You told me they did!”<br /><br /> “I said later, Dae.” His nickname came from Toria’s inability as a toddler to say David. She had also called Xander Xan, but it hadn’t stuck.<br /><br /> David slumped down in his seat.<br /><br /> Xander let the full extent of his misery show on his face for his mother.<br /><br /> She gave his knee a shake, sharing his misery. She was good that way. “Give it some time,” she whispered. “You’ll make new friends and find new things to do. Wait and see.” </textarea> <br /></div><br />*************************************************************<br /><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s1600-h/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg"><a href="http://teenfictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178594274707613778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnQ8lr_aPKmCQeB5pnjIBI-DaQx4nLpLq7XKWck6tg10gxw-agY30hp7d1UXxaf-tNltV0p5mMqUmUZR5_0iEoawVy4rXPfAQ-ckUUAZp7wIsVcSOw-y86h6xyrOiHOx_sfG8A1JX2NY/s200/Teen+FIRST+button.jpg" border="0" /></a></a><br /><br />It's May 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.robertliparulo.com/">Robert Liparulo </a></font></strong><br /><p></p><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="160"><font color="#009900" size="4"></font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"><font size="2"><font color="#009900">and his book:</font> </font></font></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000"></strong></div></font><p></p><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="7"><font size="3"></font></strong></div></font><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><font color="#cc0000" size="5"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595544941">House of Dark Shadows: Dreamhouse Kings, Book #1</a></font></strong></div><br /><p align="center">Thomas Nelson (May 6, 2008)</p><br /><p align="center"></p><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><font color="#ff6600"></font></font></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><strong><font color="#333399" size="4"><p></p><font color="#ff6600">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</font> </font></strong></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33k6AhYa3bVOiTLi-GQxG2jMOMdQGDGATqXuqhoKmMmDMLR1fwzev4eXKa1igHbrbLTrz8KdJJFRtmvFU73o9YJoU8pHx4-w94uO6cERG78BKXfUD03geaI90AcMFn20Q3zH4dQHFUag/s1600-h/robert.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5201923314873808306" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33k6AhYa3bVOiTLi-GQxG2jMOMdQGDGATqXuqhoKmMmDMLR1fwzev4eXKa1igHbrbLTrz8KdJJFRtmvFU73o9YJoU8pHx4-w94uO6cERG78BKXfUD03geaI90AcMFn20Q3zH4dQHFUag/s200/robert.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPeHVQsuOSwgX6XjE0O8Sq3KaCYzZRALkDxsOY5sGxmfUFvIpEPIHZJFJSQDlBYYkNsWlrtVfUZaBJW_9RrCCgDr9vewXrhHqHpszHQbG7Yx6-xZaEcRVdYBRCoLkEpKr4MmiBAHF4mU0/s1600-h/robert.jpg"></a>Robert Liparulo is an award-winning author of over a thousand published articles and short stories. He is currently a contributing editor for New Man magazine. His work has appeared in Reader's Digest, Travel & Leisure, Modern Bride, Consumers Digest, Chief Executive, and The Arizona Daily Star, among other publications. In addition, he previously worked as a celebrity journalist, interviewing Stephen King, Tom Clancy, Charlton Heston, and others for magazines such as Rocky Road, Preview, and L.A. Weekly. He has sold or optioned three screenplays.<br /><br />Robert is an avid scuba diver, swimmer, reader, traveler, and a law enforcement and military enthusiast. He lives in Colorado with his wife and four children.<br /><br />Here are some of his titles:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0785261761/">Comes a Horseman</a><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595543651/"><br />Germ<br /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0785261796"><br />Deadfall<br /></a><br /><br /><br /><div align="left"><br /><font color="#ffcc00"><strong><font size="5">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</font> </strong><br /></font><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia35U9Dlf0sAusvbFtJ4zOnwrIWfOkduWHvtC6wDTGePE0AYR1_8zD7OUOMHC7Ss5IJSyQalhD7PXoUZoiecgcbhWlTVMyvg322axEX7is48E2Q_gAXpsBB2LZDxc0EO-zT92ZmHlQLx0/s1600-h/house.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5201921828815123874" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia35U9Dlf0sAusvbFtJ4zOnwrIWfOkduWHvtC6wDTGePE0AYR1_8zD7OUOMHC7Ss5IJSyQalhD7PXoUZoiecgcbhWlTVMyvg322axEX7is48E2Q_gAXpsBB2LZDxc0EO-zT92ZmHlQLx0/s200/house.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /> </div></div>“A house of which one knows every room isn't worth living in.”<br /><br /> —Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa <br /> <br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br />Prologue <br /><br /><br /> Thirty years ago<br /><br /> The walls of the house absorbed the woman’s screams, until they felt to her as muffled and pointless as yelling underwater. Still, her lungs kept pushing out cries for help. Her attacker carried her over his shoulder. The stench of his sweat filled her nostrils. He paid no heed to her frantic writhing, or the pounding of her fists on his back, or even her fingernails, which dug furrows into his flesh. He simply lumbered, as steadily as a freight train, through the corridors of the big house.<br /><br /> She knew where they were heading, but not where she would end up. In this house, nothing was normal, nothing as it appeared. So while she knew in advance the turns her attacker would take, which hallways and doors he would traverse, their destination was as unknowable as a faraway galaxy. And that meant her taking would be untraceable. She would be unreachable to searchers. To would-be rescuers. To her family— and that realization terrified her more than being grabbed out of her bed. More than the flashes of imagined cruelty she would suffer away from the protection of the people who loved her. More than death.<br /><br /> But then she saw something more terrifying: her children, scrambling to catch up, to help. Their eyes were wide, streaming. They stumbled up the narrow staircase behind her attacker, seeming far below, rising to meet her. The thought of them following her into the chasm of her fate was more than she could stand.<br /><br /> “Go back,” she said, but by this time her throat was raw, her voice weak.<br /><br /> The man reached the landing and turned into another corridor.<br /><br /> Temporarily out of sight, her son yelled, “Mom!” His seven-year-old voice was almost lost in the shrillness of his panic. He appeared on the landing. His socked feet slipped on the hardwood floor and he went down. Behind him, his little sister stopped. She was frightened and confused, too young to do anything more than follow her brother. He clambered up and started to run again. <br /><br /> A hand gripped his shoulder, jarring him back. <br /><br /> The boy’s father had something in his fist: the lamp from his nightstand! He past the boy in the hallway. His bare feet gave him traction.<br /><br /> Thank God, she thought.<br /><br /> He reached her in seconds. With the lamp raised over his head, he grabbed her wrist. He pulled, tried to anchor himself to the floor, to the carpeted runner now covering the wood planks. But the brute under her walked on, tugging him with them. The man yanked on her arm. Pain flared in her shoulder. He might as well have tried pulling her from a car as it sped passed.<br /><br /> She caught a glimpse of the bizarrely shaped light fixtures on the corridor walls—mostly carved faces with glowing eyes. The bulbs flickered in time with her racing heart. She could not remember any of the lights doing that before. It was as though the electrical current running through the wires was responding to a disruption in the way things were supposed to be, a glitch in reality. <br /><br /> “Henry,” she said, pleading, hopeful.<br /><br /> His grip tightened as he stumbled along behind them. He brought the lamp’s heavy base down on her assailant. If the man carrying her flinched, she did not feel it. If he grunted or yelled out, she did not hear it.<br /><br /> What he did was stop. He spun around so quickly, the woman’s husband lost his grip on her. And now facing the other direction, she lost sight of him. Being suddenly denied her husband’s visage felt like getting the wind knocked out of her. She realized he was face to face with the man who’d taken her, and that felt like watching him step off a cliff.<br /><br /> “Nooo!” she screamed, her voice finding some volume. “Henry!”<br /><br /> His hand gripped her ankle, then broke free. The man under her moved in a violent dance, jostling her wildly. He spun again and her head struck the wall.<br /><br /> The lights went out completely . . . . but no, not the lights . . . her consciousness. It came back to her slowly, like the warmth of fire on a blistery day.<br /><br /> She tasted blood. She’d bitten her tongue. She opened her eyes. Henry was crumpled on the floor, receding as she was carried away. The children stood over him, touching him, calling him. Her son’s eyes found hers again. Determination hardened his jaw, pushed away the fear . . . at least a measure of it. He stepped over his father’s legs, coming to her rescue. Henry raised his head, weary, stunned. He reached for the boy, but missed.<br /><br /> Over the huffing breath of the man, the soft patter of her son’s feet reached her ears. How she’d loved that sound, knowing it was bringing him to her. Now she wanted it to carry him away, away from this danger. Her husband called to him in a croaking, strained voice. The boy kept coming.<br /><br /> She spread her arms. Her left hand clutched at open air, but the right one touched a wall. She clawed at it. Her nails snagged the wallpaper. One nail peeled back from her finger and snapped off.<br /><br /> Her assailant turned again, into a room—one of the small antechambers, like a mud room before the real room. He strode straight toward the next threshold.<br /><br /> Her son reached the first door, catching it as it was closing.<br /><br /> “Mom!” Panic etched old-man lines into his young face. His eyes appeared as wide as his mouth. He banged his shoulder on the jamb, trying to hurry in.<br /><br /> “Stay!” she said. She showed him her palms in a “stop” gesture, hoping he would understand, hoping he would obey. She took in his face, as a diver takes in a deep breath before plunging into the depths. He was fully in the antechamber now, reaching for her with both arms, but her captor had already opened the second door and was stepping through. The door was swinging shut behind him.<br /><br /> The light they were stepping into was bright. It swept around her, through the opening, and made pinpoints of the boy’s irises. His blue eyes dazzled. His cheeks glistened with tears. He wore his favorite pajamas—little R2D2s and C3P0s all over them, becoming threadbare and too small for him.<br /><br /> “I—“ she started, meaning to say she loved him, but the brute bounded downward, driving his shoulder into her stomach. Air rushed from her, unformed by vocal chords, tongue, lips. Just air.<br /><br /> “Moooom!” her son screamed. Full of despair. Reaching. Almost to the door. <br />“Mo—“<br /><br /> The door closed, separating her from her family forever.<br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /> 1 <br /><br /><br /> Now<br /><br /> Saturday, 4:55 P.M.<br /><br /> “Nothing but trees,” the bear said in Xander’s voice. It repeated itself: “Nothing but trees.”<br /><br /> Xander King turned away from the car window and stared into the smiling furry face, with its shiny half-bead eyes and stitched-on nose. He said, “I mean it, Toria. Get that thing out of my face. And turn it off.”<br /><br /> His sister’s hands moved quickly over the teddy bear’s paws, all the while keeping it suspended three inches in front of Xander. The bear said, “I mean it, Toria. Get that—”<br /><br /> At fifteen years old, Xander was too old to be messing around with little-kid toys. He seized the bear, squeezing the paw that silenced it.<br /><br /> “Mom!” Toria yelled. ”Make him give Wuzzy back!” She grabbed for it.<br /><br /> Xander turned away from her, tucking Wuzzy between his body and the car door. Outside his window, nothing but trees—as he had said and Wuzzy had agreed. It reminded him of a movie, as almost everything did. This time, it was The Edge, about a bear intent on eating Anthony Hopkins. An opening shot of the wilderness where it was filmed showed miles and miles of lush forest. Nothing but trees.<br /><br /> A month ago, his dad had announced that he had accepted a position as principal of a school six hundred miles away, and the whole King family had to move from the only home Xander had ever known. It was a place he had never even heard of: Pinedale, almost straight north from their home in Pasadena. Still in California, but barely. Pinedale. The name itself said “hick,” “small,” and “If you don’t die here, you’ll wish you had.” Of course, he had screamed, begged, sulked, and threatened to run away. But in the end here he was, wedged in the back seat with his nine-year-old sister and twelve-year-old brother.<br /><br /> The longer they drove, the thicker the woods grew and the more miserable he became. It was bad enough, leaving his friends, his school—everything!—but to be leaving them for hicksville, in the middle of nowhere, was a stake through his heart.<br /><br /> “Mom!” Toria yelled again, reaching for the bear.<br /><br /> Xander squeezed closer to the door, away from her. He must have put pressure on the bear in the wrong place: It began chanting in Toria’s whiny voice: “Mom! Mom! Mom!”<br /><br /> He frantically squeezed Wuzzy’s paws, but could not make it stop.<br /><br /> “Mom! Mom! Mom!”<br /><br /> The controls in the bear’s arms weren’t working. Frustrated by its continuous one-word poking at his brain—and a little concerned he had broken it and would have to buy her a new one—he looked to his sister for help.<br /><br /> She wasn’t grabbing for it anymore. Just grinning. One of those see-what-happens-when-you-mess-with-me smiles.<br /><br /> “Mom! Mom! Mom!”<br /><br /> Xander was about to show her what happened when you messed with him—the possibilities ranged from a display of his superior vocal volume to ripping Mr. Wuzzy’s arms right off—when the absurdity of it struck him. He cracked up.<br /><br /> “I mean it,” he laughed. “This thing is driving me crazy.” He shook the bear at her. It continued yelling for their mother.<br /><br /> His brother David, who was sitting on the other side of Toria and who had been doing a good job of staying out of the fight, started laughing too. He mimicked the bear, who was mimicking their sister: “Mom! Mom! Mom!”<br /><br /> Mrs. King shifted around in the front passenger seat. She was smiling, but her eyes were curious. <br /><br /> “Xander broke Wuzzy!” Toria whined. “He won’t turn off.” She pulled the bear out of Xander’s hands.<br /><br /> The furry beast stopped talking: “Mo—” Then, blessed silence.<br /><br /> Toria looked from brother to brother and they laugh again.<br /><br /> Xander shrugged. “I guess he just doesn’t like me.”<br /><br /> “He only likes me,” Toria said, hugging it.<br /><br /> “Oh, brother,” David said. He went back to the PSP game that had kept him occupied most of the drive.<br /><br /> Mom raised her eyebrows at Xander and said, “Be nice.”<br /><br /> Xander rolled his eyes. He adjusted his shoulders and wiggled his behind, nudging Toria. “It’s too cramped back here. It may be an SUV, but it isn’t big enough for us anymore.”<br /><br /> “Don’t start that,” his father warned from behind the wheel. He angled the rearview mirror to see his son.<br /><br /> “What?” Xander said, acting innocent.<br /><br /> “I did the same thing with my father,” Dad said. “The car’s too small . . . it uses too much gas . . . it’s too run down . . . ”<br /><br /> Xander smiled. “Well, it is.”<br /><br /> “And if we get a new car, what should we do with this one?”<br /><br /> “Well . . . .” Xander said. “You know. It’d be a safe car for me.” A ten-year-old Toyota 4Runner wasn’t his idea of cool wheels, but it was transportation.<br /><br /> Dad nodded. “Getting you a car is something we can talk about, okay? Let’s see how you do.”<br /><br /> “I have my driver’s permit. You know I’m a good driver.”<br /><br /> “He is,” Toria chimed in.<br /><br /> David added, “And then he can drive us to school.”<br /><br /> “I didn’t mean just the driving,” Dad said. He paused, catching Xander’s eyes in the mirror. “I mean with all of this, the move and everything.”<br /><br /> Xander stared out the window again. He mumbled, “Guess I’ll never get a car, then.”<br /><br /> “Xander?” Dad said. “I didn’t hear that.”<br /><br /> “Nothing.”<br /><br /> “He said he’ll never get a car,” Toria said.<br /><br /> Silence. David’s thumbs clicked furiously over the PSP buttons. Xander was aware of his mom watching him. If he looked, her eyes would be all sad-like, and she would be frowning in sympathy for him. He thought maybe his dad was looking too, but only for an opportunity to explain himself again. Xander didn’t want to hear it. Nothing his old man said would make this okay, would make ripping him out of his world less awful than it was. <br /><br /> “Dad, is the school’s soccer team good? Did they place?” David asked. Xander knew his brother wasn’t happy about the move either, but jumping right into the sport he was so obsessed about went a long way toward making the change something he could handle. Maybe Xander was like that three years ago, just rolling with the punches. He couldn’t remember. But now he had things in his life David didn’t: friends who truly mattered, ones he thought he’d spend the rest of his life with. Kids didn’t think that way. Friends could come and go and they adjusted. True, Xander had known his current friends for years, but they hadn’t become like blood until the last year or so.<br /><br /> That got him thinking about Danielle. He pulled his mobile phone from his shirt pocket and checked it. No text messages from her. No calls. She hadn’t replied to the last text he’d sent. He keyed in another: “Forget me already? JK.” But he wasn’t Just Kidding. He knew the score: Out of sight, out of mind. She had said all the right things, like We’ll talk on the phone all the time; You come down and see me and I’ll come up to see you, okay? and I’ll wait for you.<br /><br /> Yeah, sure you will, he thought. Even during the past week, he’d sensed a coldness in her, an emotional distancing. When he’d told his best friend, Dean had shrugged. Trying to sound world-wise, he’d said, “Forget her, dude. She’s a hot young babe. She’s gotta move on. You too. Not like you’re married, right?” Dean had never liked Danielle.<br /><br /> Xander tried to convince himself she was just another friend he was forced to leave behind. But there was a different kind of ache in his chest when he thought about her. A heavy weight in his stomach.<br /><br /> Stop it! he told himself. He flipped his phone closed.<br /><br /> On his mental list of the reasons to hate the move to Pinedale, he moved on to the one titled “career.” He had just started making short films with his buddies, and was pretty sure it was something he would eventually do for a living. They weren’t much, just short skits he and his friends acted out. He and Dean wrote the scripts, did the filming, used computer software to edit an hour of video into five-minute films, and laid music over them. They had six already on YouTube—with an average rating of four-and-a-half stars and a boatload of praise. Xander had dreams of getting a short film into the festival circuit, which of course would lead to offers to do music videos and commercials, probably an Oscar and onto feature movies starring Russell Crowe and Jim Carrey. Pasadena was right next to Hollywood, a twenty-minute drive. You couldn’t ask for a better place to live if you were the next Steven Spielberg. What in God’s creation would he find to film in Pinedale? Trees, he thought glumly, watching them fly past his window.<br /><br /> Dad, addressing David’s soccer concern, said, “We’ll talk about it later.”<br /><br /> Mom reached through the seatbacks to shake Xander’s knee. “It’ll work out,” she whispered.<br /><br /> “Wait a minute,” David said, understanding Dad-talk as well as Xander did. “Are you saying they suck—or that they don’t have a soccer team? You told me they did!”<br /><br /> “I said later, Dae.” His nickname came from Toria’s inability as a toddler to say David. She had also called Xander Xan, but it hadn’t stuck.<br /><br /> David slumped down in his seat.<br /><br /> Xander let the full extent of his misery show on his face for his mother.<br /><br /> She gave his knee a shake, sharing his misery. She was good that way. “Give it some time,” she whispered. “You’ll make new friends and find new things to do. Wait and see.”M. C. Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13777325241098466381noreply@blogger.com