The other night I dreamed of a lovely young woman with long brown, wavy hair and a handsome young man. They were in a castle in separate rooms across the hall from each other. The young man had a German Shepherd dog at his side and a rifle. The young woman had rifle, too. (Not a magic wand and no wings either as in the picture on the left.) Evidently, they knew some bad folks were coming and they were ready.
And that’s the dream.
Now what would you do with that?
With a ragged breath, she lifted her eyelids and focused her gaze upon him, her sable eyes brimming with sorrow, but she said nothing.
His heart hammered against his ribs and he found himself also mute as his wits scattered into a jumble of confusion. Do I love her? I only wanted to be a friend. Love is serious. Love is forever. Love means marriage. He gulped hard. Fighting to keep his hand steady, he slid his fingers under her chin and tilted her face upward. Her eyes lowered and her lashes fanned out on her white cheeks. Still stunned, he caressed her pale skin with his thumb in an attempt to bring some color back into it, but her skin remained cold and pallid.
Touching her sent desire colliding into him with a force that disintegrated his usual rigid code of behavior. He leaned forward and swiftly engulfed her in a crushing embrace. Dizziness overwhelmed him as he clung to her. Was it the bump on his head or the woman in his arms?
“I think I need some coffee or something...” She muttered against his chest, “Before I pass out.”
Feeling off-balance himself, Nick released her from his hold and drew in a steady breath. With the dark smudges under her eyes, she didn’t look well. Then he remembered the flattened bagel in his pocket, and he handed it to her.
“Thanks.” Her hand quivered as she took the crumbling bagel from him.
He swallowed and stared at the leaf-strewn earth beneath his feet. All this time he hoped to change her attitude concerning faith, but now... What was he going to do? He did not intend to get involved with her.
But you love her.
She glanced up at him and he caught a glimpse of something almost wistful shining in her eyes. He felt powerless against that look as another surge of longing set his heart thundering.
Her hand reached up to touch the place where the dimple usually appeared in his cheek. “You do care about me. At least, a little?”
Spring would blossom in a few days, but Nick felt it in his heart right there. He tripped over his words, “O-of course I do.” Flustered by his own incoherence, he pulled her close again and their hearts beat together.
A dreadful ache grew in his throat. Love scared him half to death.
A tremulous smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “When we danced last night, it was awesome.”
When we kiss, it's spectacular. He could not stop himself. He leaned forward to brush her lips with his. He felt her stiffen for a moment and fear shot through him, but as his touch came upon her, he found the soft warmth of her breath welcoming him.
With a delicate intimacy, his mouth covered hers and he sank into the slow sweetness of her. He had dreamed of her kisses and had hungered for more of them, but he now found himself filled with an emotion that left him nearly breathless.
Still only #99cents.
I found this penny in the dirt in a median between parking lots. I couldn’t tell whether it was heads up or down because it was so dirty. I came home and scrubbed it. To me it doesn’t matter if the pennies I find are heads up or down. My mother pointed out to me that on every penny it says, “In God We Trust.” So every time I pick up a penny, I am reminded that God handles all the big stuff.
Once when I was teaching, one of my young pupils handed a penny to me. I told her to keep it, but she refused. She said it was a bad luck penny. She found it heads down. I was surprised that a four-year old held such a strong belief in the power of a penny. It is worth one cent no matter which way it lands on the ground.
In the old days, when I was a kid, finding a penny was a treasure because I could go to the store and buy a piece of penny candy. In essence, every found penny in those days was good luck because I could buy something with it. I can still do that today, but it might take a bit more time to save up enough pennies.
The important thing to remember is that a penny doesn’t guarantee good luck or bad luck. That is far beyond the power of a penny. However, giving a bit of thanks is certainly in order. 🙏
So, I write stories of forgiveness and faith in an effort to combat evil. I don't know if it helps, but it helps me. I just finished going through the galley for ANGEL OF THE L TRAIN. There weren't many corrections to make, which was nice. I listened as the computer read it to me first. That is a very effective way to find mistakes. Then I printed out a paper copy of the galley and read it backwards. I found a few more things that needed to be corrected that I didn't find the first time. They were small things. For instance, the word nosy. Or is it nosey? Actually both are acceptable, but the preferred version is nosy--and I used it twice in the manuscript--once as nosy and once as nosey. I think it needs to be consistent.
I don't have a release date yet. But I have some some terrific news to share about the book. I just can't share it yet until all the paperwork is done. Still, it is something to look forward to and lightens my heart.
Stay safe and stay well.
💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕
My snowman didn’t last very long. The weather grew warm and he melted. But like any other artistic endeavor, the joy was in the making. This old grandma remembered all the fun of snow in the past and all the enthusiastic energy that goes into creating. While a handcrafted project may not wind up as the artist envisions it in her mind, the doing is the important part. It’s the same whether you are trying to bake a chocolate cake, paint a seascape, or write a book. It’s important to turn off your inner critic and just do it.
It will make you feel younger. 😄
My parents thought the incident was funny, which is why they repeated the story every now and then.
I'm glad the building is still there after all these years because it reminds me of them.
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| Photo by DanTD |
My heroines are braver than I am, which is a good thing because I usually put them in terrible trouble. I know my limitations, which have increased with age, but I also learned a long time ago that instruction in any subject doesn't necessarily make any student competent. What helps is practice along with a heaping dose of mental strength--often mixed in with the incentive of need. But sometimes, witnessing the success of any endeavor will help in understanding.
For instance, as a teacher, I regularly took classes in First Aid because it was required. I practiced CPR on a dummy and was good at it--at least the instructor said so. But dummies are easy to work with. Helping a genuine human is another matter.
Once, when hubby and I decided to take a trip, I learned a great deal about the Heimlich maneuver. I had been taught how to do it but I never used it. We stopped along the Turnpike for lunch at one of the rest areas. Our pleasant meal was suddenly changed when someone shouted out, "Call 911!"
We looked up to see a woman standing a few tables away with her hands at her throat. She was choking. Everyone in the room stood. The choking woman was tall. Another smaller woman ran up to her and attempted the Heimlich maneuver--without success. I sidled behind hubby and said a prayer.
From far across the other side of the huge room, a state trooper ran to the choking woman. He immediately grabbed her from behind and started the Heimlich maneuver. One, twice, three times. And then a fourth.
It worked. Whatever was stuck in the woman's throat came out and everyone in that room relaxed. The trooper saved that woman's life.
I learned that one thrust of the Heimlich maneuver--even by a state trooper--may not work. Keep trying, Don't give up.
But prayer is a good thing, too.
This is a photo from Christmas 1953. That's me sitting on my mother's lap in the center of the photo. My brother is on the floor on the right. My paternal grandparents are on the left and I think the legs must belong to my uncle because I am sure my father took the picture.
I don't really remember the dollhouse or the baby carriage in the picture, but I'm sure I loved the doll my mother helped me unwrap. I enjoyed pretending to be just like Mommy.Make sure you check out the Indie Authors' Giveaway at https://www.nnlightsbookheaven.com/post/a-rush-of-light-iabe before December 15, 2021.
You can read an excerpt of A RUSH OF LIGHT and enter to win a $25 gift card to Amazon. Don't miss out on this offer.
Burrton Springs, Kansas
August 1, 1876
Death paced close enough for Annie McPherson to smell its rotted breath. A menacing growl rumbled in the beast's throat. The animal bared his teeth when she attempted a tiny step. Perspiration trickled between her shoulder blades. She cocked her head a fraction of an inch, hoping to spot a bystander, but only a small glimpse of a barren street stretched between the tight alleyway. Her heart hammered beneath her polonaise.
Not a single soul in sight. “Where’s help when you need it?”
Her movement and words caused the monstrosity to circle closer. If Annie’d been on speaking terms with God, it would’ve been a good time to send a plea for someone to come to her rescue. But she’d fallen out of practice of praying over the past years, ever since—
She released a silent breath, shifting her foot in the dirt. The deranged creature snarled and snapped, just short of capturing her wrist in his jaws. Annie tried to swallow but her throat muscles refused to contract.
The wolf settled on his haunches, two feet in front of her. A glistening tongue protruded from his face. His beady eyes stared at her, unmoving. Was the beast contemplating how she would taste, like the one in the tale of Little Red Cap she’d read as a child? A shiver ran down Annie’s spine. She had no desire to be wolf chow.
“Easy, fellow. Don’t eat me. I’m sure I’m not very appetizing.”
It was time to take charge of her fate since no assistance was coming. Annie took a step sideways. Her back scraped against the rough boards of the building.
Why had she chosen to saunter through the narrow passageway and follow the jumbled directions the blacksmith had given her after she’d exited the conveyance? The other townsperson she’d asked had stared at her as if she’d spoken a different language, as if the man didn’t understand English when he heard it. Annie hoped he wasn’t an indication of what type of people lived in town. She’d have to make the best of it since returning to New York wasn’t feasible, not after that louse—
An ominous snarl snapped her back to her current situation. How many times had Mama warned her about focusing on the situation at hand? While she’d been woolgathering, the wild animal inched his way closer. He leapt.
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My guest today is Kathleen Neely, a retired elementary principal who enjoys time with family, visiting her two grandsons, traveling, and reading.
She is the author of The Street Singer, Beauty for Ashes, The Least of These, Arms of Freedom, and In Search of True North. Kathleen won second place in a short story contest through ACFW-VA for her short story “The Missing Piece” and an honorable mention for her story “The Dance”. Both were published in a Christmas anthology. Her novel, The Least of These, was awarded first place in the 2015 Fresh Voices contest through Almost an Author. She has numerous devotions published through Christian Devotions.
Kathleen continues to speak to students about writing and publication processes. She is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers.
With each page of the age-old journals, Annie discovers all that unites her with a woman who once lived in her farmhouse. One lived with wealth and one with poverty, but both knew captivity. Both longed to be free.
Miriam yearns to escape her life as a super model. She drops the pseudonym and uses the name she gave up years ago—Annie Gentry. Then she alters her appearance and moves to rural South Carolina to care for her grandmother. Can she live a simple life without recognition? Can she hide a net worth valued in the millions? Love is nowhere in her plans until she meets a man who wants nothing more than Annie Gentry and the simple life he lives.
Charlotte lived in the same farmhouse in the tumultuous 1860’s. The Civil War was over, but for a bi-racial girl, freedom remained elusive. She coveted a life where she wouldn’t bring shame to her family. A life where she could make a difference. As she experiences hope, will it be wrested from her?
The journals stop abruptly with a climactic event, leaving Annie to search for information. What happened to Charlotte? Did her life make a difference? Did she ever find freedom?
The key turned in the lock, but the attic door still required a strong arm to open it. Years of dried paint scraped the door jamb. The bottom rebelled against the threshold, clearly in need of a carpenter to sand it down or re-align it. She propped it open, hit the light switch and immediately met years of stagnant air. A musty smell caught in her throat activating a gag reflex. She coughed, then hoisted the cardboard boxes to shield her nose and mouth. As the still air began to dance in its new freedom, the disturbed dust mites floated in dull light beams. She’d have to deal with this sometime. She’d take the boxes and drop them upstairs. The attic needed a good airing out before she could look around. With the boxes held high in her arms, Annie climbed the steep wooden stairs.
The dim light cast shadows, enough to know that the room wasn’t empty. Annie plopped the boxes down and felt along the wall for another light. Instead, she found a string dangling from a single bulb mounted on the ceiling. She tugged the string and the room came to life revealing a lightly-cluttered attic. Sheets covered surfaces in their attempt to protect them from years of dust. Her initial inclination was to leave this for another day. Or another year. Low priority with all she had to do.
Yet something compelled her to stay. A few boxes and a storage chest. You would expect those in an attic. But a large section of the room held an air of familiarity. Children’s furniture had been stacked against one wall. A wooden table, four chairs, two turned upside down to nest on the other two, and a bookshelf. A carpet, about six-foot square, spread out on the floor in front of the furniture. Why was everything so familiar? She had only visited here twice when she was around five years old. And she was certain she’d never been in the attic. Eleanor would not have allowed it.
Annie opened an old chest that sat on the carpet. She lifted the dusty lid and saw the toys, mostly wood and metal. A toy tea set, a sorry looking stuffed teddy bear, and wooden building blocks with faded alphabet letters. A smaller chest sat beside it. She picked up a yo-yo, the string discolored and stiff, marbles in a cardboard box, a metal spinning top, void of color. These were definitely old, perhaps antiques. She lowered the lid, puzzling over this discovery. Another box held two items, both wrapped in cloth. She lifted one and removed the flannel to discover a baby doll. An image formed in her mind. She had seen this doll. She was certain of it. She could see a vision of the doll sitting on one of the wooden chairs. She knew she’d find another when she unwrapped the other flannel—one with red, curly hair.
As she unpacked the second doll, it all came back to her. A picture. She’d seen the items in a painting at Nana’s home, the home she had in Pittsburgh before she moved to Roswell House Assisted Living. The painting mirrored Andrew Wyeth’s style of down-home realism with rustic details. The table and chairs on the same carpet where Annie stood today, the tea set in the center, and two dolls seated with teacups before them. The gritty window in the background of the picture with its yellow-gold curtains matched the window a few feet away. The gold had faded to a drab shade and held years of dust, but it was the same curtain. The same window. That meant a child’s play area had been in this attic. Why would anyone set up a playroom in an attic? Or perhaps this space served as an artist studio, the dolls and tea set staged for a picture. But another thought marched to her brain. Her grandmother’s words. Those walls hold secrets.
Website – www.KathleenNeely.com
Facebook – www.facebook.com/kathy.neely.98
Twitter - https://twitter.com/NeelyKneely3628
Instagram – www.Instagram.com/KathleenNeelyAuthor
You can find ARMS OF FREEDOM at:
https://www.amazon.com/Arms-Freedom-Kathleen-Neely-ebook/dp/B09FKKTWCX
My guest today is Carol James, an author of inspirational fiction. She loves creating Redemptive Romance. She lives in Lilburn, Georgia, a small town outside of Atlanta, with her husband, Jim, and a perky Jack Russell Terrier, Zoe.
Having always loved intriguing stories with happy endings, she was moved to begin writing to encourage others as she'd been encouraged by the works of other authors of inspirational fiction.
Her debut novel, Rescuing Faith, was an Amazon number one best-seller. Visit her website to sign up for her newsletter to be the first to learn about new releases: www.carol-james.com
Just recently, Carol allowed Zoe to start an instagram page with two of her dog friends. Follow them at 3DogsandtheirAuthors to learn the behind the scenes info about being a writer.
Carol enjoys spending time with her husband, children, and grandchildren, traveling with friends, and serving in the production department at her church. And most days, in the late hours of the night or the wee hours of the morning, she can be found bringing her newest novel to life.
A victim of childhood abuse, Ethne left her father and the small Texas town of Crescent Bluff ten years ago on the night of her high school graduation. She's determined to end the cycle of abuse and believes the only way to do that is remain single. If she has no husband, she'll never have children that can be abused.
Then she meets Daniel Spenser, a handsome doctor with chocolate-kiss eyes. Daniel understands her past in a way no one else does. He's lived it.
Will Daniel be able to help Ethne break the chains of captivity around her heart?
And will God release her from her past, to be free to trust the man she comes to love?
Excerpt for No Longer a Captive
“So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.”
John 8:36
The gravel crunched beneath the tires as Ethne O’Connor steered the box truck onto the shoulder of the narrow country road. Today would be a scorcher. The clock hadn’t yet reached nine in the morning, and already the numbers on her dashboard read ninety-two. The birth of another lovely summer day in Central Texas.
The heat waves rising from the pavement in front of her mirrored the waves of nausea that had steadily intensified since she’d left Fort Worth. She shifted the truck into park, flipped on the emergency flashers, and turned the air conditioning on high. Closing her eyes, she pushed her head back against the seat and begged the cold air to rush across her face and relieve her churning stomach.
She couldn’t believe she was doing this. One May evening ten years ago, with her suitcase already packed in the trunk of her car, she walked across the stage in the high school auditorium, received her diploma, and made a promise to herself, a vow that had never been broken…until today. Sean’s pleading phone call on Monday had changed everything. She was returning home.
The nausea somewhat under control, she shifted the truck into drive, pulled back onto the roadway, and turned off the emergency flashers. One last mile to go. Anticipation was a funny thing. When she wanted something to happen, it took forever to come. If she dreaded an event, it arrived before she knew it. These last several days had gone by way too fast.
Slowing the truck, she turned left and began the journey down a meandering river of asphalt. As she rounded the final curve and her childhood home came into view, she gasped. In the ten years she’d been gone, absolutely nothing had changed. The two-story farm house was still painted white with black shutters. Large Boston ferns hung from under the edges of the front porch and swayed in the ever-present Texas wind. Even the flowers waving in the pots beneath them were the same—purple petunias.
Nine o’clock and no Sean, but she wasn't surprised. Punctuality had never been expected of him. On the other hand, Vaughn had always demanded she be on time. Even early. That requirement had served her well over the years, birthing in her the organizational skills that helped her successfully start and run her business.
She parked the truck at the top of the circular drive, and despite the heat, slipped on her sweater, and inched across the pavement and up onto the porch. She grasped the doorknob. As she expected, it was locked, and she didn’t have a key. Years ago, she’d thrown hers away because she would never need it again. If she’d kept it, she could have at least gone inside and escaped the heat.
She turned and walked toward one of the rocking chairs. A forgotten green turtle with a chipped front leg smiled at her from underneath one of the pots of flowers. She picked it up and slid back the door on its belly. A key fell out into her hand. When she was a little girl, she always believed the key was there for Sean and her—in case they got locked out and Vaughn was still at the office. That was certainly one of the reasons, but when she was eleven, she’d discovered another.
She returned the oblivious little turtle to his home and then inserted the key into the lock. Taking a deep breath, she turned the key and pushed the door open. Cool, silent darkness greeted her as she stepped into the spotless—Vaughn would have it no other way— foyer.
She set the key on the console table beside the door and then tiptoed, for some unexplainable reason, further in. She paused and glanced first toward the living room to her right and then toward Vaughn’s home office to her left. There was only one choice to make. She headed right and walked to the wingback chair next to the fireplace. Sitting, she nestled into the cushions. She pressed her nose against the fabric. Even after all these years, she could imagine the soft fragrance of Mother’s perfume lingering in the ivory brocade.
Heavy draperies hung closed over the living room windows. A shaft of light shot out from the middle space where the panels failed to meet completely and illuminated a flock of dust motes as they floated in the bright morning sun. When she was five, Mother told her the particles were tiny fairies dancing in the sunshine, but they were usually invisible. Only the magic of the sun unveiled them.
One day, Ethne had asked Vaughn if she could borrow his magnifying glass to see the fairies, but he’d refused, saying Mother had filled her head with nonsense. Fairies weren’t real.
Turns out, that was one of the few truthful statements he’d ever made to her. She now knew the ‘fairies’ were nothing more than a combination of dead skin cells, fabric fibers, pollen, and dirt. He was right. Nothing magical about that.
As she walked over to the window and threw open the curtains, the fairies disappeared.
“So, the prodigal sister hath returned.”
She jumped and spun to face the foyer. Her little brother spanned the doorway. He had grown up. The last time she’d seen him at his college graduation three years ago, he was at that stage where the calendar said he was a man, but his body was trying to catch up. He had certainly filled out, and he now sported a short, precisely-trimmed, chestnut beard. His hair, unlike hers, had deepened from bright copper to rich auburn.
“Sean. You’re late,” she snipped. This was not the way she’d envisioned their first meeting after all this time. She took a deep breath, reined in her emotions, and smiled. “Or maybe I’m a little early. I have a reputation for that.” She pulled him into a sisterly hug.
His grin answered hers. “Early, late, whatever. I’m just glad you came. I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever see you again.”
“The road runs both ways, you know.”
“Yeah. Sorry.” He held up the key she’d placed on the console table. “I see you remembered the turtle. I figured I’d find you sitting on the porch in one of the rockers.”
He set a small, black gym bag on the floor. “Where’s your suitcase? Need me to get it out of the truck?”
“I’m not staying here. I’ve got a room in town.”
“Eth, I can see how hard this must be for you.” Tears filled his eyes. “Believe me. I know.”
He really had no idea. The man he knew as Dad was not the same one she knew as Vaughn.
Carol's Links:
Book Links: Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/56pdpzmy
Pelican: https://bit.ly/3lve7NN
B&N: https://tinyurl.com/4jnj8u7p
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/no-longer-a-captive
BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/books/no-longer-a-captive-by-carol-james
GoodReads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/58857487-no-longer-a-captive
