Brother Against Brother: Short Fiction

Reassuring himself the Enfield was loaded; Seth pointed it at the Confederate. The man remained calm, propped against the remains of the stonewall.

“How old are you, Son?”

“What?”

“You ain’t old enough for fightin’, Son. You should be in school, or fetchin’ for your mother.”

“You shut up!” He tried to be threatening but failed. He was just a scared kid in a war that was supposed to be over.

A Private in Colonel Joshua Chamberlain’s Twentieth Maine Infantry, who were occupying this hill, miles from the main battle, Seth was still amid the horrors. The moans and screams of the wounded and dying added to his mental anguish. Somehow, when they swung down the side of the mound named Little Round Top, he had separated from the main group and stumbled into this depression, and away from the major shooting.

Falling into the hole, Seth landed on a body, which grunted and moved. Terrified, he scrambled around for identity, discovering the powdered blackened face of one of General Hood’s Texans, the very army they were killing. The Texan was unarmed, his Springfield broken beside him and his arm too mangled for bayonet use. Triumphantly, Seth had ‘captured’ an enemy single-handed. This glory soon faded, as he realized he was as trapped as the other was. Where could he go? He didn’t know if they had succeeded.

"Son, you ain’t fighin’ for slavery any more than I am.”

“Ain’t you?”

“Nope,” the Texan replied. “I’m a Texas soldier. That I’m in the Confederate army is just an odd detail.”

“But this is about slavery, ain’t it?” 

The man chuckled. “This war is about Government and politics, neither of which you or I care one whit about.” The Texan waved his good hand. “You let me palaver. You’ve probably heard speeches ‘bout the horrors of slavery, most not even half-told of the evils. There's a man in Washington that made some noise about the evil and it made a large part of this country a bit worried 'bout their rights as slave owners. I don’t own slaves, never have, never will. I’m in this ‘cause Texas said we’d fight and I’m Texas. As for the Cause, the Good Lord above will abolish slavery. He hates it and He won’t allow it, no matter what some may think. I can't agree havin' a war over the trouble is the best way to fix it, but that's the way it's come about. You and me are just a part of something a whole lot bigger." he chuckled. "hate to admit it, but it's even bigger than Texas."

Shifting slightly made his coat open, revealing his bloody chest. A grimace twisted his dirty face. he asked Seth, “Ya got any water?”

Seth tossed his canteen. “You said the Good Lord. You mean Jesus?”

“Born again into Jesus Christ twenty three years ago. Bet I was older’n you are now. How old are you, Son?”

“Sixteen.”

The Texan smiled. “Yup. Was seventeen when I accepted Jesus’ salvation. Have you, Son?”

Seth swallowed hard. “Yes, Sir. Three years now.” In fear, he lifted his rifle as the Texan reached under his coat. For a pistol?

“Whoa, Son, just getting’ my Prayer Book.” He held up a small ragged book bound together with twine. “A’right if I show you somethin’?” The Texan shifted and then settled back. “No need to keep pointin’ that gun. I surrender. I ain’t gonna fight no more ag’in ya.” He settled down next to the boy. “Do you know that right here, in the second letter to Timothy; we have the power to end all wars?”

The sour-sweet smell of the dark, thick, of the Texan's congealed blood rose in his nostrils. Swallowing bile, Seth leaned over and read from the Texan’s Bible. ‘All Scripture is given by the inspiration of God and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness, that the man of God may be perfect, thoroughly furnished unto all good works."

He smiled, although through the blood, grime and black powder soot the action made him seem more a ghoul than a man. There was no threat to Seth from the wounded man as he talked.

“An old man named Paul wrote that to a young soldier for Christ. And I’m sharing it with you, ‘cause there’s a place for enemies and there’s a place for killin’, but there’s a place in the hearts of all men for the truth of God. That, Son, if every man believes it, would end all wars. If only all people would turn to God, wars would cease.”

Seth never saw the rock. Lights burst in his head. Aware through a fog, the gun taken from his hands, he lay stunned and helpless.

“Forgive me, Son.”

Incredibly, he saw the sadness in the face of his enemy.

The Texan gazed at him a moment longer before turning to walk into the bullet shattered forest.

Seth thought, ‘Lord Jesus, that man’s not my enemy, he’s my brother.’

The End

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When It Counts--Fiction

     It had to be seconds but it seemed hours since my wheels disengaged from the track, slammed home to dig in and flip me into an airborne spin. A small hunk of debris causing a blown tire and my career as a Driver floated away with the wind streaming by at a hundred and sixty miles per hour. The Owners weren’t going to want to keep my contract; I couldn’t even win a 250 that didn’t count anyway.

     I shouldn’t have been in this race to begin with. I had taken this detour from the regular schedule to enter a short track race. It wasn’t in the points race and for all purposes I had no business to risk it. After begging LaDrews Racing for this opportunity, I’d blown it again. Maybe I hadn't fully convinced them of the great advertising opportunity, but they let me enter anyway. After-all, I'd begun on tracks like this. This was Kindergarten stuff for a Driver who's scored two-time second place at Daytona.

As the car went around for another spin, I saw any possible win at next year's Daytona fly away with the left front wheel. What good was the dream of Daytona when I'd wrecked LaDrews Dodge car two days before qualifying for Talladega. They were probably already exchanging my name on the roster for my teammate’s name.

     Kelsey was a good driver, yet he wasn’t a risk taker, never scratching the paint. The LaDrews brothers hired me for my nerve but I’d been a disappointment, even to myself.

     The car came down on its roof with a bone-jarring bang and immediately lifted for another round of flips. Metal and fiberglass flew in every direction. When would this crazy ride quit? I wasn’t enjoying it. Race car driving was about precision, deliberation, courage and most of all control.

     Right now, I had no control.

   We have no control.  That’s what that preacher said in church last Sunday; that little church my wife, Viv, insisted we attend. He’d said something about God being in control of everything.

     “God, if you’re in control, why don’t you stop this kaleidoscoping automobile?” I was screaming but the roaring of tearing metal screamed louder so I couldn't even hear myself.

     The stop seemed as frightening as the flying. My thrashed body felt stunned, even surrounded by the safety gear. Trapped in the demolished car, I watched the rescue vehicles arrive. I was still saying something but my head was still spinning to rapidly to register my own thoughts. Like the tire that was still rolling down the track to the infield my mind was running away with a jumble of thoughts. Maybe my life was flashing before my eyes, but it didn't look very familiar at the moment.

     “Gary, you all right?”

     I heard that and looked out at the anxious face of the attendant. I calmly replied, “Yeah, I’m okay.”

     While someone blew fire-retardant all over what was left of what had been a championship racecar, the rescue crew peeled the mangled metal apart and helped me out. The attendants took my arms as I stumbled.

     I grinned. “Went around too many times, dizzy.” My legs gave out and they caught me before I face-planted the asphalt.

     “Ambulance, Gary,” one said. “Get you checked out.” I was in no condition to complain as they lifted me and laid me on a gurney, strapping me down to restrict movement. "Just a short trip, relax." The attendant smiled. "The doctor'll fix you up"

     Whatever he might have said next was lost when the world suddenly became a humongous soft black pillow that swallowed me whole.

    Vivian, my wife, was in the room when I woke up, an open bible in her lap, her IPad in her hand, with the earbuds tucked in her dainty little ears. Seeing my open eyes, she smiled and pulled the earphones from her ears, brushing her long dark soft hair back.

     “Hey, Viv, been waiting long?”

     She stood by the bedside, taking my hand gently so not to disturb the tubes sticking out of my arms. That's when I noticed I was strapped down. “What’s all this?” I asked, staring around at the life monitors.

     “How do you feel?”

     Feeling foolish, lightheaded and wanting to giggle at the silliness of it all, I wondered what sort of drugs I was on, because giggling hadn't been in my repertoire for years. I grinned at her. “I'm hungry.” That was my standard line for her usual question of 'How are you?' but it didn't seem to have the same effect this time.

the conversation paused as a nurse came in and did a thorough check of everything, making sure I was in fact conscious. her only words apart from the usual commands of follow the light she shown in my eyes, 'squeeze my fingers as heard as you can', 'Are you in pain', and 'Don't hesitate to call the nurses station for anything you need', she left with the obvious statement, "The Doctor will be in shortly."

    Alone again, I made a smart crack about sponge baths just to tease Vivian. I was getting annoyed that Vivian seemed to be in a downer mood.

     "What's with you? I know you are afraid of my racing, but I'm fine. I'm alive. You should be happy now I won't be able to drive at Talladega." I lay back on the pillow. "Probably be sitting out the rest of the season if LaDrew really gets steamed over the mess I made."

     Vivian laid her hand on the blanket over my leg. “Do you know you were screaming into your mike?”

     I blushed easily. “Yeah, I know.”

     “Do you remember what you were saying?”

     “Why?” I asked. “Does it matter?”

     "Harmen LaDrew was in and gave me a copy of your mike recording." With a light touch, she placed one of the IPad's earbuds in my ear, and I found myself listening to the playback of my voice recording during the wreck. My eyes met hers, amazed at what I was hearing. I didn't remember any of it.

     Her eyes were loving, concerned. “Did you really ask Jesus to save you?”

     “I must have, it’s right there.” Flippantly, I added, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

     “Gary, how do you feel?”

     “I’m fine. What’s with you?”

      “Can you feel my hand?”

     I looked down at the sheet laying along my entire length. For a moment I was worried but then relieved to see I had two feet poking the sheet at the end of my legs. I watched Vivian's hand squeeze my right knee. She has long nails and she was squeezing hard, those nails pressing into my flesh through the sheet. Suddenly I was scared. My eyes lifted to hers, “What’s wrong?”

    “Your back is broken.” Her big brown eyes spilled tears. “Gary, did you mean it? Did you cry out to Jesus?”

    I lowered my head to the pillow and  stared at the ceiling. I whispered, “Lord Jesus, I mean it now.”

The End

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Don't Shoot The Messenger--(Flash Fiction Tale)

This is a fictional story, Please enjoy.

Don’t Shoot the Messenger 

“You can’t shoot those things.”

Behind me, an unfamiliar voice made that statement as I lined up a shot at a large Canada goose.

Hunting alone, surrounded by only my decoys, I hadn’t expected any other voice within miles. My gun jerked, my shot was lost and the flock of geese I had artfully called took flight. I lowered the gun and craned around to see who had spoken. In my defense, I was cross about the interruption. “I happen to have a valid license.”

The man looked old enough to have lived two lifetimes. His face was long, with heavy lines, eyes thick-lidded, drooping, and moist. The clothes may have fit him in a younger era but now were too large. To add to my annoyance, he wasn’t even looking at me but at some point beyond. Managing not to swear, I stood up, my efforts lost for the day.

Before I could complain, he smiled and pointed, “See, there. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

All I saw was a muddy, harvested cornfield and my decoys. "Huh?"

“There,” he stabbed a gnarled finger forward. “You were aiming right at it.”

I squinted at the distant mountains. “The view? Yeah, beautiful scenery but why interrupt my hunt just to tell me that? You some sort of nature nut?”

He looked at me. “Well, Son, maybe that. I'm more inclined toward God creating everything and all nature speaks of Him."

I began to consider him a fruitcake. “My license for hunting geese says I can shoot them. You gonna give me trouble on that?"

He laughed, a hard, grunting, deep throaty noise. “Of course, you can hunt the geese. I meant you can’t shoot angels.”

My mind was working, thinking he'd escaped some nearby facility. “You see angels, Pop?”

The laugh came again. “Occasionally. Lately a bit more. I think it’s like maybe God is letting me know.”

“Know what?”

He pointed up. “Time to go home.”

Thinking he was talking about the actual hour of the day, I asked, “Your family worried about you wandering off?”

“Son, I’ve stayed on the straight and narrow path since I was fourteen.” He shook his head. “I strayed a little in my twenties and again in my late forties, but I’ve always returned to my Savior Jesus Christ.” When he rubbed his veined hands together against the chill, they sounded like old paper. “Yes, I have family waiting for me there. I'm wanting to see them, though, it'll be hard on the great grandkids. Ah, but their parents will raise them up in the Lord.”

He had me baffled. It was like we were having two different conversations. Breaking open the shotgun, I popped out the shells. Sliding the gun into the case, I closed it safely inside, securing the latches.

I asked, “You gonna be here tomorrow, Pop?” I only had this one week off from work and considered moving my spread to another field if he was going to interrupt my hunting.

“I don’t know. I suppose it depends on God. I keep waiting for that angel to step toward me and beckon me to come.” He sounded wistful and his eyes teared up, looking somewhere only he could see. “I'd like to be home to be with Jesus.”

“What are you talking about?

“Don’t you know Jesus, Son?”

“Sure, my mother took me to church.”

He laid his hand on my shoulder. “Son, do you know Jesus took your punishment because the wages of sin are death. He took the Father’s wrath so you wouldn’t have to. And if you don’t ask Jesus to save you, you're headed for eternity in the Lake of Fire?”

The hairs on my neck stood up. “I haven’t heard that in years. Not since Sunday School.”

"Son, will you ask Jesus to save you today? I wouldn't want to know that you were suffering forever in that tormenting fire.”

That old man's words burned like a hot brand on something other than my flesh. I thought sure the ground was opening to swallow me. I looked down expecting to see that flaming lake and was thankful just to see mud.

"Do want Jesus to save you?"

“Y...yes." And I did, kneeling with him right there in the mud.

The next morning, I parked the truck at the edge of the cornfield, having spent a sleepless night while my brain repeated every word he said, like a continual recorded loop. For some reason I didn't get out right away, just sat there listening to the radio. When suddenly, I reached out and cranked up the volume.

In that tone all newscasters have, he said "Last night, Mr. Hendrickson, our well-loved local minister died peacefully at home, in his sleep. We will miss him deeply. Heaven has gained a great saint."

The broadcast went on but I didn’t hear it. I stared out the windshield, thinking about God.

The End

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The Children's Program----Flash Fiction

This fictional story is based on an actual children's skit I designed when I was teaching the 4 & 5 year olds in our Children's Program. The skit was never enacted, and I should also say neither did we have any of the disasters on stage that are mentioned. The personalities do not represent any known, or unknown, children, teachers or congregations.

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The Children's Program

     In taking her new position as the new Sunday School teacher of the four and five year olds, Sarah knew one of her duties would be for her class to deliver a performance in an end of the season program. This was a church tradition from the adults down to the youngest when the Sunday School classes ended for the summer months.

     She enjoyed her time with the children, yet she couldn't help but recall the horrors of the past. The incidents of children, and even the teachers, fighting on stage. Costume malfunctions or no one sang except the teacher, or children crying and running from the platform. Several years, no one learned their lines and teacher cued each word for word so the entire skit was an echoed speech, with the teacher speaking and the child repeating it back. Not wanting to present a similar disaster, with the age she was entrusted with, Sarah wondered if her class would be able to do anything.

     With the requirement in mind, during the ensuing weeks, she learned her children’s personalities. Amanda was shy and very small for her age. Harry liked to talk and chattered away sometimes incessantly. Freddy liked attending, but as his parents had joint custody, missed every third week away visiting his father. Sylvie would take off her shoes and socks as soon as she entered the building, frequently forgetting where she left them. Ginny disrupted the class screaming for her Mommy. At her mother’s request, if her antics became too unruly, punishment meant banishment to the nursery. This was unfortunate, as Ginny learned this trick and she would go smugly to play with the babies, whenever Sarah couldn't take it anymore. Naomi and her sister Valerie were the smartest and studied, answering well and asking good questions. Then there was Christopher the bully. Many times Christopher spent some of his Sunday School time standing in the corner for having hit, kicked or bitten someone, namely Sarah. Occasionally a new child would come for only one Sunday, or possibly a few weeks.

     Easter came and went and Sarah still hadn’t anything planned. When asked about it she would answer she was working on it but she knew it was a half-lie, which made her feel worse. She feared producing the disaster everyone seemed to expect. During the first week of May, she spent her noon lunchtime fasting and praying while seated in her car in the parking garage where she worked, her open Bible on the steering wheel. Pausing from her reading, she said, “God, it seems such a simple thing, why is it such a complicated task when it just involves these little children? You know them, Lord Jesus. There must be something they can do for you.” Refocusing on the Bible, she smiled, for there in front of her was the simplest answer.

      The day of the end of the season program, Sarah felt proud when all seven children attended. They had all enjoyed rehearsals, with Christopher taking his roll with gusto and Ginny apparently willing to participate.

     Her class performing first, Sarah assembled them behind the curtain on the left side of the stage. Their only prop was a huge refrigerator box lain horizontally on a rolling platform Sarah had requested made. She could feel the stares of the congregation and their skepticism, knowing they anticipated the traditional fracas. Saying a small prayer with her children, she nodded for them to go out, while shushing the giggling girls.

     Christopher, Harry, and Freddy pushed the refrigerator carton to the center of the stage. Sarah followed, taking her place behind the box as the boys stood to either side, Harry and Freddy on the left and Christopher on the right. None of the girls was in sight.

     Sarah smiled at the staring faces, pleased to see the parents in the crowd. With no preliminaries, she opened the skit by reciting Hebrews 12:1. “I beseech you therefore, by the mercies of God, that you present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service.” When she finished, the boys, in unison, loudly yelled, “What can we give to Jesus?”

     Immediately, the top of the box flew open and the four girls popped into view, arms raised, and tossing streamers of colorful paper. All seven children and Sarah, arms raised, yelled the answer “Ourselves!”

     With the platform littered with the streamers and each child smiling broadly, they took their bows. Then the boys shoved the box back behind the curtain, with the giggling girls still in the box. Off stage, the children clustered around Sarah, anxiously waiting for the response. For a moment the auditorium was silent, then someone began to clap, and then another, and so on until the entire room was applauding.

     Sarah quickly shooed the children onto stage to take another bow then hugged them all tightly as they came rushing back again. Kissing their faces, she said, “Thank you, Jesus, for trusting me with these children.”

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What He Saw-A Fiction Story

This is a fictional story I wrote some years ago, about a man who had a significant meeting with Jesus (John 9)

What He Saw

Huge tears streaked the dust on his face. He'd skinned his knuckles raw  from tightly wringing his hands. An anguished moaned crept from his throat. "No, no, no." The scene was unbearable yet he couldn't turn away. The horror filled his vision, sickening him. When he could look away for relief, his eyes would betray him, drawn to look again.

There, on that hill, the one across from the city wall, the bloody body hung, naked, strings of flesh hanging, the blood dripping from the shredded veins. The fist-pulped face bloated where they beat him and yanked out his beard. And that mockery of a crown; such blaspheme to the royal head!

He buried his face in his hands and his bony shoulders shook with sobs. "Why, my Lord? Today was a day of gladness. We are to celebrate the Passover, remember our heritage, and our day of deliverance. Why did this happen?"

Although larger than normally witness to a crucifixion, it was a typical group. Many came there for the spectacle, to get a thrill from the cruel barbarianism, while others shuddered at it and feared the cruelty of Rome. Then there was the added oddity of the religious leaders yelling insults at the dying man. What were they thinking? They who should know, yet were so angry and filled with hate.

As the anguished watcher looked on, the sky grew dark. People grew uneasy and stared around. Some muttering went through the crowd and some headed back for the town gates. As the throng thinned, he moved up closer to the execution hill, close enough to see the bloody body struggling to lift up, shuddering to inhale. In the torn face, the white, strained eyes swung heavenward as the darkness almost blackened out the sun. For the watcher the dimmed vision gave no respite.

What was happening? What more were they doing to him?

He stumbled forward, wanting to know, though fearful of what he might see. The road was rocky and crowded with the spectators leaving for the safety of Jerusalem. He moved against the jumble people, going in the opposite direction. At one rough area, he tripped and fell into somebody who cursed, shoving him away. Feeling the clothing of the man, he was amazed it was a priest. The religious man grabbed his robe around him, lifting the hem indecently to break into a trot, hurrying to get away. The man turned, also hurrying, but he wanted to get closer to the dying man.

When he was within fifty feet, a Roman soldier stood in front of him, his spear at ready. Not knowing what was going on, the guards nervously formed a circle around the top of the hill, halting anyone from approaching the three condemned men. He found a place beside a grieving woman and a young man, resigned, knowing this was as near as he could get to the man he loved. His weeping joined their wailing.

Somehow, as if sensing him, the eyes in the bloody face sought him through the darkness. Did the disfigured face attempt a smile, or was it his own imagination because he needed that recognition?

There was a horrible rasping sound as the condemned man agonized to pull himself up once more to inhale. The tongue poked through the crushed and bloodied lips. The dying man spoke. "I thirst." One of the soldiers took a stick with a soaked sponge and held it up for the man to suck the sour drink. After getting some of the liquid, he looked heavenward, working the moistness into his mouth before saying, "It is finished."

The body abruptly slumped, the head flopping to the chest, mouth open, eyes blank. The woman beside him gave a great wail and the young man futilely tried to comfort her. His own heart broke. It was over, the great Rabbi was dead.

The watcher stared at the dead, his eyes flooded with tears. The eyes Jesus of Nazareth restored sight to, only a few days before.

The End

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