The Power of Forgiveness: A Collection of Short Stories

Hot off the press!  #AmWriting flash #Fiction - some stories based on true life events.

From the authors of Writes 750 at Goodreads comes an anthology that is now published at Amazon in time for Easter: The Power of Forgiveness

Edited & published by Stephanie Baskerville; edited and cover art by Glenda Reynolds; edited and conception by David Russell. We would appreciate some book reviews for this and if you could share with your friends, family, and church groups.

 www.amazon.com/Power-Forgiveness-Collection-Short-Stories/dp/1545309507

TO WRITE GREAT FICTION: STOP USING THE LOGICAL SIDE OF YOUR BRAIN

One can learn a lot by reading advise from other people. But it always remains just that: advise from other people. To become a serious writer, we have to know our own minds and learn to listen to what we know to be true, for us, regardless of what anyone else might think or say.

No one else can tell you what you need to know when it comes to emotion. No one else can chart the terrain of your subconscious, your belief systems, or your dreams: the beautiful and totally unique irrationality that belongs only to you.

This is the stuff that comes out in the writing of great fiction. The character who is deeply unlikable. The plot that doesn’t seem to make any sense. The ending that doesn’t wrap up all the loose threads.

The first page that holds out a quiet but expectant hand, inviting in the curious reader softly, slowly, as so many works of brilliant fiction have done throughout the decades—without relying on Reality TV promo tactics to hustle in spectators who really couldn’t give a *BLEEP*.

This is what writing great fiction is actually like: It’s hard and confusing and there is no map. There is no method that will help you circumnavigate all the dark, festering places in your psyche that you don’t want to see. You won’t come out on the other side with all the answers, or even with any answers at all.

But the journey into the underworld is worth it. It’s always worth it. That’s why writers keep doing it. Because, deep in the most secret parts of our heart, we know we can do nothing else.

by Lauren Sapala. Lauren is a writing coach who specializes in personal growth and artistic development for introverted intuitive writers. http://www.laurensapala.com/

I Chose the Best of the Litter short story - Tales2Inspire The Garnet Collection ~ Stories in Feathers and Fur

By Glenda Reynolds

Working at the small mom and pop sign shop had its joys and challenges. The business was located in a very large warehouse called The Incubator. It existed in order to help small businesses in their new beginnings; however, the sign shop had stayed there passed its allowed time. After all, my employer had built separate office spaces for the business and owned some heavy duty equipment. One just didn’t pack all of that up and leave at a moment’s notice. It wasn’t a bad job. It did sometimes create a problem when an employee decided to spray paint something just outside of the office door which caused it difficult to breath. Fortunately that didn’t happen too often.

In the time of my employment there, a feral cat had given birth in a secret place of the warehouse. There was even a cat fight that took place just on top of the ceiling tiles of the “vinyl room”. Over the course of a couple of months, we noticed the little kittens running on the property. They loved to play in and around the forming tubes that were used for concrete columns. The mother cat was eventually caught and taken away by the local Animal Control. She couldn’t be placed in a home since she was wild. She had to be euthanized. Her litter of kittens ran loose for the moment.

One day as I sat at my desk while I paid the bills for the company, an employee asked me to follow him to the outer porch area. He motioned for me to look inside of a cardboard cement forming tube which was standing vertically. When I looked inside, a half of a dozen pair of little kitty eyes looked back at me. All of them had black fur with white paws, all except one. It was a male kitty with patches of gray tabby and patches of white on his face and body. He stood out from his little brothers and sisters. My heart melted. With a leather utility glove on my hand to protect it, I reached in as far as I could. I could only grab his little head to pull him out. He didn’t squirm at all as I brought him out. I placed him in a cardboard box until I could take him home. He was so scared that he stayed in it. I put my long sleeved jean shirt over a portion of the box in order for him to get used to my scent and to make him feel safe. 

When I arrived home and parked my truck, I donned the jean shirt in order to conceal the cat until the big reveal. When I entered my house, my husband, Bob, was on his computer as usual. I stood in the doorway with a smile on my face. As I pulled back my jean shirt, the cat’s little head popped out.

Bob made a face as he said, “Oh, no!” in mock dismay. Whatever he felt for the new kitty would soon change in a month or two. They would become best buddies.

Our new kitty was named Rambo after the movie character John Rambo because it seemed like he wasn’t afraid of anything. Rambo would spend time outside with me as I gardened, trimmed the yard or planted trees. He would walk the entire perimeter of the backyard along the privacy fence as if to check that everything was alright in his world. Or perhaps he was in search of lizards to chase.

 

I soon learned that cats are creatures of habit. Some habits are welcome while others are irritating. Little did we know that some things we would allow, such as allowing Rambo to come and go outside as he pleased, would later make us regret allowing him in the first place. His begging caused me to resort in using a pair of house slippers with little monkeys on them. When you pressed a button on one of the slippers, it made a sound like a jungle monkey. Rambo would run from it.

  

Rambo’s habits that gave me joy were sitting on the floor behind me against my heels as I put makeup on for work; playing in the dark before I went to sleep; crawling on my chest to have me rub his forehead and eyes; and being sprawled out in Bob’s lap at his computer with a look of contentment.

After being with us for eight years, we noticed that Rambo was becoming obese. We just thought that he was a big happy cat. As many cat owners do, we left dry food out all of the time, his only source of food besides treats. He developed liver disease and diabetes. He soon stopped eating altogether. Force-feeding him only delayed the inevitable. He recovered for a few months until he had a relapse, causing him to stop eating again. We understood then that the illness was winning.

But I lied to myself. The vet will make him better, I thought. Maybe the vet could give Rambo another saline treatment to hydrate him. But as I sat there at the veterinarian’s office with my dear buddy in his carrying case, I realized that I had to let him go. I had to do the right thing. I went to the front desk of the vet’s office and made arrangements to euthanize him and dispose of his body. I paid for these services up front.

A large man took the case from my hands, disappeared, and reappeared with an empty carrier. It was all too professional and void of any sense of caring. I was in a fog. I walked down the hall to exit the building. Once I set foot on the sidewalk, a scream was wrenched from my body as if I had been stabbed with a knife, as if an unknown part of me had just woke up and wanted to be heard. I placed the empty carrier on the passenger seat of my truck. When I got into the truck, I cried and screamed some more. Knowing that I had to drive myself home, I finally pulled myself together and turned the key in the ignition.

How could a pet have such an effect on a human? Did I really choose him or did he choose me? Did God bring him into my life to teach me how to have fun? To love more? To care more?  Try as I could, there were no other cats like Rambo for me to adopt either online or at the local shelter. I eventually found an orange and white short haired kitty that filled the hole in my life. Again, God brought another special creature into my life to heal me inside and out after a much needed operation. In the overall picture, God knows the desires of our hearts. Like James 1:17 says, “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of light…” I thank Him every day for these gifts, even if it is wrapped in fur with green eyes and a really mischievous disposition.

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A writer friend from my Writers 750 group purchased this anthology and gave a very heart felt review:

Heartwarming short stories by several authors about loving and being loved by pets

By Author-zone on May 29, 2016

Format: Paperback Verified Purchase

If you like animals, this anthology is a must read. If you don't, but you end up reading these beautiful

 stories anyway, you may end up loving them too. Different authors contributed to this edition with a mix of
animal tales ranging from birds to cats and dogs to horses and elephants, and others. I happen to love
animals so it was easy for me to immerse myself in these fabulous short stories mainly representing personal

experiences or others learned from family or friends. If anything the tender, and humane way animals were

 loved and treated by their masters - as depicted in each of the stories - made me think that there have

 to be more kind people in this world than evil ones and that animals are here for a reason - humans being

 part of it. The treatment of performing elephants was the exception, that is until they became useless and 

ended up in Sanctuaries - where their lives changed for the better.

When I learned from Glenda Reynolds about her story "I Chose the Best of the Litter" published in this 

anthology, I proceeded to buy the book. Of course, I read her story first. I simply loved it! As sad as it was 

for me to read about the beginning and the end of her pet companion, I admire the way in which she

 described the beauty of the "adoption," the joys the pick of the litter had brought to her household, and 

then the heartfelt narration of the final decision.

After reading Glenda's loving tale, I felt compelled to read the entire collection. I am glad I did.

                                                                             **********

Purchase your copy today at Amazon

 www.amazon.com/Tales2Inspire-Garnet-Collection-Stories-Feathers-ebook/dp/B01E1U3FN8

7 Habits That Will Help You Finish Your Book This Year

WORKSHOP REPLAY:

7 Habits That Will Help You Finish Your Book This Year

(From the webinar at www.jerryjenkins.com - the coauthor or the Left Behind series)

1. Keep the deadline sacred. Count how many days / how much to be written daily or weekly.
2. Establish a rigid routine. This does not include checking social media. Look up the Freedom app that blocks social media. Treat your writing as a job.
3. Celebrate small wins.
4. If totally stuck, prime the pump. Think READER FIRST and see if you are not motivated.
5. Make yourself accountable. Report to someone who will hold your feet to the fire.
6. Join a writers’ group – about community and support. (I suggest Write On at Amazon which is open to the public for both readers and writers)
7. Find the right mentor – someone who has been there, treats your writing with honesty, and gives constructive criticism. 

We're Gonna Live on Forever

View this video from The Afters

#GodsNotDead Live for #Christ because He died for you. #Grace

Eternity can happen any moment

 

 

The Black Patriot

By Glenda Reynolds

It was a time filled with much turmoil before the Revolutionary War. I was once a slave, purchased by the Smith family in Charleston, South Carolina. But Mr. Smith gave me my freedom. It was then that I chose to go by the name of Thomas Smith. There were other former slaves who chose to work the Smith plantation along side of me. In return we received a fair pay and a roof over our heads. We were free to come and go as we pleased. Many black folk in those days were not so fortunate. One man named Jamal was a slave at the Cooper plantation that bordered the Smith plantation. Mr. Cooper treated his slaves very badly. He took better care of his livestock than these people. Sometimes Jamal would tell me that both women and men would be beaten so badly at times that it took days for them to recover.

One evening I accompanied Mr. Smith into the local tavern. A soldier from the Continental Army was recruiting men to fight the British.

“I feel that it is my duty to serve my country, Mr. Smith,” I said as I watched him wipe the froth from his warm beer off his mustache. Smith set his mug down. He looked at me with those clear blue eyes.

“I wouldn’t fault you for serving at all. On the contrary, the family and I would be mighty proud of you!” Smith said as he placed his hand on my shoulder.

Just then we saw Mr. Cooper and Jamal approach the table of the recruiter.

“I would like to give you my slave Jamal to fight in the war,” said Mr. Cooper.

Jamal didn’t look very eager to be there, though he was submissive to his master’s wishes.

“Sign here please,” requested the recruiter.

“I can’t read or write,” replied Jamal.

“Just make your mark then.”

I stood up and walked to the recruiter and willingly signed my name. Cooper didn’t look impressed by my penmanship. Instead he looked at me with eyes filled with intense dislike. After that Cooper left the tavern, leaving Jamal in the hands of the soldier. He eventually came to sit with Mr. Smith and me.

The first chance that Jamal got, he ran away. He traveled all the way to Virginia with some other slaves. He heard that a British man named Lord Dunmore was recruiting black men to fight the rebels. In return the slaves would be given their freedom. Dunmore called his soldiers the Royal Ethiopian Regiment. His men carried muskets and wore shirts that read, “Liberty to Slaves”.

Back in South Carolina I was given my uniform and one pair of boots. I would never receive anything else in the way of clothes or boots again from the military. My regiment fought mightily against the British. We fought using guerrilla warfare against the red coats who were used to standing in plain view to shoot their enemy. The British pushed to the South. We were fighting near the Smith plantation. Under cover of darkness I entered the Smith’s house. Mr. Smith cocked his revolver and asked me to raise my hands. I turned around slowly.

“Mr. Smith, the British are here. Get your wife and children out of here – now!”

“By God, man, I almost shot you! I’m glad to see you that you’re alive!”

“We won’t be if we wait longer.”

I helped round up the children who hid in the fields with their mother. I also roused the black folk and told them to hide too. Soon British infantry came through the woods and onto the property. There were all kinds of crashing noises as they looted the place. When they were finished looting, they torched the house. The Brits soon headed off to the Cooper plantation where the Coopers didn’t stand a chance. Mr. Cooper was shot, his animals were killed, his house burned down, and the slaves were taken away by the soldiers. We felt it was safe enough to battle our house fire. We were able to save most of the house. At least the Smith’s still had a roof over their heads.

While thousands of slaves escaped from the south, some of these joined up with British forces in the north while some migrated to other colonies to seek a life of freedom. We heard that smallpox killed off most of the black loyalists enlisted in the Royal Ethiopian Regiment. I never heard from Jamal again.

France declared war on Great Britain and allied itself to the United States. They did this primarily for revenge for their losses in the French and Indian War. They contributed money, materials, navy, and troops to help win the war against Great Britain.

It was the Battle of Cowpens in Cherokee County South Carolina that turned the war in favor of the colonials. It demoralized the British and set into motion events that would end the war. It wasn’t until the Battle of Yorktown in Virginia that the British were finally defeated. Half of the British army had succumbed to malaria. October 19, 1781 the treaty was signed officially ending the war. The Brits wanted to wave their flags, shoulder their muskets, and play an American tune, but they were denied this. We sent them home with their muskets pointing to the ground and their tail between their legs.

I returned to South Carolina to stay in the employ of Mr. Smith. I helped make repairs to the damaged house. Soon Thanksgiving was upon us as we celebrated with a grand meal. A cornucopia graced the center of the table as we held hands and gave thanks to God.  I was seated next to a beautiful woman that I would later marry. Nothing gives me more joy than to have given my service for the idea of America, the land of the free, the home of the brave.

  

Diary of the Unborn

by Glenda Reynolds

I was conceived in the city of Brotherly Love, the birthplace of America’s freedom, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. It is a city rich in history, full of historical landmarks, places where events occurred that helped shape our nation. The people there boast that everyone is considered a brother – “outsiders will never understand”. It is a place where people can get their favorite food which some consider to be a cheesesteak hoagie, soft pretzel and a Tastykake. I wonder if someday I’ll have the pleasure of walking the streets of Philly and enjoying these delicious foods. Like many big cities, there are rich neighborhoods and a lot of poor ones. As with many big cities there are many problems that happen: crime, drug use, teen pregnancy, and people who prey on or abuse other people. There are unfortunate ones who fall through the cracks of society. My story is not unique, but it is worth telling.

My first conscious thoughts are of my own heartbeat and that of my mother’s. Does she know that I’m here? Does she know the potential I have of the man I can become? Someone big and strong to lead others, who makes a difference in the world, or does something as simple as hold her in my arms. Maybe after her bout with morning sickness she will realize I’m here. But no, she drinks a beer and pops some pills. Now I’m feeling sick myself. Maybe both of us will feel better tomorrow.

My mother really likes to dance! It’s really noisy for me. I especially find the subwoofer very irritating. I hear my mother laugh; she is having a good time. Except now I’m feeling woozy again after she drinks what they call “booze”. A fight is breaking out; people are yelling. One of them is my father who is yelling at my mother. I don’t understand what is happening, but there is no mistaking the slap to my mother’s face. We are lying on the ground. She is shaking with sobs as she puts her arms protectively over her tummy. She does know that I’m here! When I grow up, I will protect her from abusive people like him.

Many weeks have passed. My mama still remains with my father, afraid of living with him or maybe afraid of living without him. Which is the greater evil? I seem to be the topic of some heated arguments. My father is slapping Mama again, sending us tumbling down the stairs. We are a little banged up, but we survive. My mama realizes that she needs to get away. She gets up off the floor, throws her jacket on, and catches a bus to the other side of town. I hear the loud engine roar as we leave. We get off at Queen’s Village of South Philadelphia.

I can immediately feel the tension release in Mama as she walks silently through the neighborhood. She sits down at an outdoor café under a large tree. After the waitress serves her a small chicken pasta and tea, I enjoy the spices when I feed through the umbilical cord. She pays the tab and starts walking to my grandparent’s house. We stop at a tall, brick row house that has a window planter full of yellow and orange mums. After she raps on the door, Nana opens it, greeting Mama with a big hug and kisses. Then Nana’s eyes fall on the bulge that is me. Tears come to her eyes.

“I am so happy that you’ve come to visit with us! Come on in and say hello to your daddy.”

 Grandpa is very welcoming, at least he sounds like a caring person. When they observe how far along Mama is in her pregnancy and the bruises on her face, they insist that we stay with them. At the sound of this, I smile a toothless smile. We are loved. Now we are living with Nana and Grampa. I love my grandparents even before I officially meet them. They both know what it is like to live in poverty. They both had dreams and aspirations for themselves and have much to show for it. This is as close to a loving, strong family unit that I’ll ever know. Why can’t my mother and father be more like them? Could it be that they like other things that aren’t good for them?

Days go by. Days turn into weeks. My mama’s life is one big party. It seems that I never get any good sleep to grow inside of her. My amniotic fluid tastes very bitter most of the time. It gives me the hiccups. It doesn’t matter that Mama is big as she carries me. She still loves to wear tight fitting clothing to show off her curves. The men folk love it. Women think it’s slutty. Someday I’ll know what that means. Although we still live with Nana and Grandpa, Mama comes and goes as she pleases. One day the police raid my grandparent’s house. They find pills and pot. No, this will not be my future training pot although it is spelled the same way. One smells different than the other. I wouldn’t know. The policemen are taking us to jail.

Here we sit on a cold bench, surrounded by other thugs. The lights are so bright that I roll inside my mama to get away from the glare. She cries and rubs her tummy.

“I’m sorry I got us in here. Things will get better, I’m sure,” she reassures us. This is her first arrest so they show leniency towards her. My grandparents arrive to get us out, to “spring us from the pen”. No, this isn’t the future (play) pen that is planned for me. The other one has a soft mattress and toys, something that all babies look forward to. I could hear Nana crying. She hugs us. One would think that my mama would be grateful. Instead, she goes back to him.

My father has arrived at my grandparent’s house while Mama and I are there alone. She let him in. He spun his lies about how they should get back together and have a bright future. He insists that it couldn’t include a baby just yet. I stick my tongue out as if I tasted something nasty. I even kick her sides to let her know my disapproval. He continues by saying that if she loves him as she says she does, she would come away with him. He could pay for an abortion, and they would live happily ever after. She believes him.

No! No! No! My bottom lip trembles as I cry.

My mama asks him to wait a moment. She leaves the living room for a few minutes then returns with her jacket.

My father drives us to West Philadelphia to 38^th and Lancaster. Christian protestors are walking around the outside of The Women’s Medical Society clinic. The white, block-like silhouette of a man, woman and baby hangs above “Family Planning, Gyn & Geriatrics” on the corner of the brick building. My father is too cowardly to face these people. He drops us off to park the car. A kind middle-aged woman approaches Mama as she questions the reason for her visit.

“My boyfriend thinks that it’s the best for me to have an abortion at this time. I’m really too young to be caring for a child. I can’t even care for myself.”

“Sweetie, God loves you and your unborn child. He will provide for you. You don’t need to do this.” Mama kept her eyes on the ground, unmoved. “Haven’t you heard the stories about this doctor? He kills babies after they're born!” She used her fingers with a scissors motion.

“I need to do this. You don’t understand.”

“I understand that once you get in there, you’ll wish that you never made this trip. Stop and think about what you are doing.”

“I’ve had time to think. I just want this over with.”

“And what about your baby? Have you thought about what he wants? Surely you’ve felt life inside of you?”

“I’m just sorry that I didn’t have birth control before I got pregnant! Now if you’ll excuse me.” Mama pushed her way past the crowd.

Once she was inside, Mama gags at the smell of urine from the many cats that are allowed to roam the clinic. The furniture is stained with blood. She notices that the emergency exit is padlocked. Is this to keep people out or to keep them in? After signing in, she tries to find a place to sit that isn’t soiled. There are several women present who are only there to receive new prescriptions for Oxycontin or other drugs for themselves and their friends. These are filled by signed blank prescription pads; the doctor doesn’t even have to be present.  A clinic employee ushers Mama back to a room. On the way there, she peers through a door and sees a woman who has been given a labor induced drug. The woman has bled on the clinic’s furniture. No one is attending her. After Mama is taken to her room, she waits silently in a chair in the corner. Soon an unlicensed employee comes into the room. The staff person takes my mother’s blood pressure. She instructs her to lie back on the table as an ultrasound is done. All of the staff has been instructed to falsify the ultrasounds to do them at an angle in order for the image of the baby to appear smaller – to make it appear legal.

“There’s the little fetus. We’ll get him out in no time.”

“But he seems much bigger than that. I am seven and a half months pregnant.”

“I’m sure he does seem big.” She reached into an upper cabinet to retrieve some drugs. Mama was shocked to see jars of baby body parts stacked in a row inside the cupboard. “Now be a darling and take these pills.” The staff person made sure Mama swallowed the pills before leaving. The attendant leaves the room while my mother is left there alone for the labor inducing drugs to take effect.

Mama patiently lays alone there for about a half an hour. The noise outside distracts her. She slides off the table and walks to the window to view the protesters below. One man holds a sign with these words from the Bible, “I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse. Therefore choose life…” Deut. 30:19.  It is as if the wind is knocked out of Mama.

Breathe, Mama, breathe!

She returns to the medical table with her heart and her mind in turmoil. Tears come to her eyes. She is changing her mind as she finds the courage within her. Just then the same staff person comes into her room.

“I can’t do this. I have to leave!”

“You can’t leave. We’ve already started the process.”

“I am leaving – just watch me.”

The staff person beat on my mama’s legs saying, “Stop being such a baby! You wanted this done. Let’s get this done and over with!” At that point the staff person is trying to physically restrain my mother to the bed. Mama is screaming in protest. Just then my grandparents bust through the door trailed by clinic staff.

“Get away from my daughter now!” yelled Nana.

My grandparents grab her clothes and jacket; they support Mama on either side as they help her out of the building. When we step outside onto the sidewalk, people start applauding and are in tears. The same middle aged woman comes up to my mama, plants a kiss on her cheek and says, “I was praying for you, darlin’. Thank God you and your baby are all right.”

We are taken to a real hospital. It isn’t my time to be born yet, but when I am, I have a bright future in front of me. I was meant to be here. God doesn’t make mistakes. 

~***~ The End~***~

"You wrote a very touching story filled with emotion, love, and controversy. A very much needed as a wake-up call.  It does a good job showing the tragedy of abortion." - Heather Schuldt

"I just wept reading your story. Please don't ever stop writing; You make an awesome difference. This story is your best." - Charlotte Thorpe