Strong Together - Cadi Murphy

     Proverbs 17:17

     Running, we are running. You and I, we are running down curving paths in green woods, along cliffs far above the churning sea, wild and carefree in the wind.

     Hand in hand, we are a team. The Enemy hates us because we are so strong together. The Enemy hates us, but he cannot stop us. He snatches at our feet, but we are too fast. He catches only the footprints we leave behind.

     We come to a meadow filled with glimmering shafts of sunbeams. We laugh at the way the grass tickles our bare toes as we skip through the clearing, startling a flock of white birds into the sky. You stoop to gather a handful of flowers, but suddenly tumble to the earth, your feet flying upward like the birds. I laugh and continue on, knowing that you will soon scramble up to be at my side again.           

     There is a fruit tree at the edge of the clearing. I pick the savory produce, take a bite, and turn to offer the next bite to you.

     But you are not there.

     The fruit sticks in my throat. I choke it down and throw the rest of it away as I plunge into the meadow. I cry out your name. Your voice returns with mine. I find you where you fell, the bouquet crushed beside you. Your ankle is caught in a snare, a cruel twisting of wire now coated with your blood. A chill wind prickles my arms. The Enemy may not be as fast as we are, but he has not given up the chase.

     I kneel beside you, pull the wire out of your flesh, and dry your tears on my shoulder as I hold you. The wind brings in shadowy clouds to destroy the sunbeams. It brings a whisper of approaching danger.

     You gasp and point. The Enemy is there, emerging from the trees. He has found us.

     Running, we are running through the dark forest, over decaying trees and hard boulders. Our breath is short and fear is like a deep pool. Together, we are strong… but now you are slow. Your blood dots the ground where the snare slashed you. You move carefully, no longer lighthearted. Your smile has been overtaken by pain.

     The Enemy is close. He sends an arrow speeding towards us, an arrow burning with poison flame. It explodes in a tree trunk just above your head. You scream and stumble. I catch your arm and pull you forward.

     The rolling clouds release their rain. Jaws with iron teeth snap up from the ground, but I leap over the trap just in time.
      You are letting the rain drag you down. I pull you along, but you are so heavy. The Enemy is very close.

     A flaming arrow brushes my arm. I have never felt such pain before. I let go of your hand to clutch my wound.

     Running, we are running, though I know there is no escape. At least, not for both of us. Before my next breath, I am moving, a dark will rising within me, an evil instinct I did not know I posses.

I grab your arm again, but not to steady you. I pull you into a tree. Your head thuds against the bark as I let you go again. I do not hesitate, do not look at you. I stare into the rain and prepare to jump over a small stream ahead.

     Your hand shoots up to grab the hem of my shirt. I fall. We roll in the wet leaves, the thunder muting our shrieks as we fight like wild animals. I try to push you away, to escape the approaching danger, but your fingernails cut me. Rage fills my heart, my lungs, my head. I can escape if you will only let go! But I see the same thought mirrored in your eyes. Mud cakes our faces. Our teeth are bared at each other. Blood flows.

     You push my face to the ground. Through the rain, I see someone standing near us, just watching. It is the Enemy. A smoldering arrow is in his hand. His smile is the satisfied leer of a lion whose prey is already caught.

     This is what he wants. His traps are far more elaborate than just metal snares.

     Your cold fingers are crawling around my throat, squeezing and seeking my life. My instinct, my rage, tells me to fight back. But this is what he wants.

     I remember the words of our Father, the things He told us as He set us on our journey, set our feet to running; “My little children, I love you. So love one another.” I hear the words as if they are carried on the wind.

     The Enemy laughs. I turn against your fingers, raising my arms. I wrap you into an embrace, pulling you once again into my shoulder. You try to push yourself away, but I listen to the words on the wind and I do not let you go. Your violence suddenly ends, leaving you breathless and trembling in my arms.

     The wind changes; growing warm, stirring our hair, and igniting a fire inside me. The fire burns brighter than the flaming arrows.

     “We are strong together,” I whisper. “We are not alone.” You grasp my hand. We stand as one.

     The Enemy’s arrow crumbles, spilling from his hand to the wet ground. The sun shines through the rain. The Enemy flees.

     A large hand falls gently on my shoulder. I see the other hand on yours. Our Father is standing over us. He smiles and draws us in, closer to each other and closer to His heart.

Summer Story 2014 - Dangerdust

• Read the article. 
• Watch the video:
  

   

straight on til morning - Mirriam Neal

it doesn’t happen all at once. you can’t even remember when it started, but it did. the day came when you looked at something and said, ‘that’s for little kids’ and you never did it again; the day when you cared more about how the world perceived you than about how much fun you were having. you don’t mean for it to happen, it just does. the second star to the right gets dimmer and the world around you gets sharper, spins faster; becomes a watercolor blur of faces you recognize and names you forget, of things you want to do and things you have done, and things you can’t remember doing because you did them so long ago. friends fade from your life and new friends take their place. hopefully, family remains constant. you watch the people around you grow and wonder how they got so old so fast, while the face in the mirror never changes. not that you can see. your taste moves up; from nancy drew to the fault in our stars, and beyond, and then one day you realize you haven’t wanted to read young adult fiction in a week, in two weeks. you have a driver’s license and you have voted. your drawings are true artwork and you are never satisfied with them, and you miss the days when every scribble was a masterpiece. you feel like atlas, with a world of responsibility on your shoulders, and you want to shrug them off but somehow you can’t escape the weight. and then one day, you’re old enough to be young again. you pick up that book you read and re-read as a little kid, or you put in Winnie-the-pooh and remember how happy it makes you. you put olives on your fingertips and you might even step away from the computer and take a walk; feel your hair get hot from the sun and your feet get cool in the grass. you say something that’s on your mind instead of bottling it up. you pretend you see a fairy in the brambles, and maybe you do. you sit on the floor and play chess with your nephew, or make paper airplanes with him, or show him how to draw a new kind of dragon, or tell him stories about worlds trapped inside thrift-store purses. and the second star to the right shines a little brighter.

A Year and a Day - Grace Cappella

My brother embarked for the port of Bombay
He said, “I'll be back in a year and a day.”
I waved my farewell, I whispered a prayer,
Wished that once more he would tousle my hair;
“Bring him back, bring him back,” pleaded I of the sea,
Return thou my brother to me, to me,
Return thou my brother to me.”

All through the summer I minded the house,
Mother was ill; the cat caught not a mouse
Then a letter arrived from him, brightened my day,
He wrote he was well and halfway to Bombay.
I gazed at the waves and repeated my plea,
“Return thou my brother to me, to me,
Return thou my brother to me.”

When in Autumn a ship did come in, flag half-mast,
I trembled for fear that cruel Death had flown past.
A sailor, cap off and downcast at our door—
Then—“Annie, thy brother is, sadly, no more.”
I said it can't be and ran down to the sea;
“Return thou my brother to me, to me,
Return thou my brother to me!”

As time went on I heard more of the tale:
A captain had seen him go down in a gale.
No survivors; to that he could surely attest,
But it could not extinguish hope's fire in my breast!
Not a day let I pass without voicing my plea:
“Return thou my brother to me, O sea,
Return thou my brother to me!”

I waited and watched though the snow did fly,
Recalled his last whisper, embrace, his goodbye,
Stared toward the horizon till my eyes grew sore
Then walked home, in despair, to my room, shut the door.
And once more did I offer my plea to the sea:
“Return thou, I charge thee, my brother to me!
Return thou my brother to me!”

Wild winter swept by and became a warm spring
Still kept I my vigil, though hope was fading.
Folks called me crazy and bade me forget,
But I couldn't give up, I just couldn't—not yet.
Resuming my plea, I did beg of the sea,
“Return thou my brother to me, to me,
Return thou my brother to me!”

Twelve months it had been; he had but one day left
'Fore I would believe truly he'd gone adrift.
Once more did I strain to catch sight of his ship,
But it did not appear, and my hopes took a dip.
For the last time I offered my plea to the sea,
“Return thou my brother to me, to me,
Please return thou my brother to me.”

All night I kept tryst on the shore of the bay
Till the stars faded out at the breaking of day,
And there was his ship! He was back from Bombay!
He'd returned, as promised, in a year and a day!
I gasped in surprise, I danced in my glee,
“O sea, you have brought back my brother to me!
You have brought back my brother to me!”

As soon as they anchored he rushed out to me,
Embraced me as when he'd first left for the sea—
“I've returned, as I said, in a year and a day!
Why then dost thou look at me fearfully, pray?”
I replied, “I had heard you were lost in the sea,
Yet I hoped every day that thee'd come back to me,
That thou wouldst return unto me.”

The village still slept; not a sound broke the peace
But our whispers and muffled steps in booted feet.
I could not contain my great joy anymore;
With a shout I proclaimed as we reached our own door:
“My brother is back, he is back from the sea!
The sea has returned my own brother to me!
At last he's returned unto me!”

The Phoenix - Kawana L. Smith

Jadedly winging his way toward the west,

His breast  a dull red,

And his drooping head

Looking to find his belated rest.

A scented nest,

Cinnamon and myrrh,

Become his sepulcher;

Here, Death shall have its conquest.

He sings a song of the sun setting old,

The fragrant pyre

A requiem of fire,

Until third morn when embers are cold.

Then arise, Phoenix, arise!

Death's gate is rift!

Now from the ashes lift

A flame coloured wing toward the skies!