Friday Fiction: Risky Welcome

: Bear got so immersed in spring Den cleaning this week, that she missed posting on Word Filled Wednesday. But fortunately, while in the process of cleaning, she was sorting through years worth of old papers and ran across a short story that she had submitted to a magazine, but which was rejected.

So she did a major rewrite on it (and was concentrating on it so hard that the goat's milk she was pasteurizing almost boiled over on the stove -- she caught it just in time!) And she likes the story much better now, feeling it to be much tighter than it originally was. So likely will try submitting it somewhere again, although she may need to make some more adjustments before doing so.

At any rate, it got done just in time for Friday Fiction.

(And the Den is looking quite a bit cleaner, although it has a long way to go yet. That project may take several weeks! Hopefully though, more stories will turn up, as she sorts through more papers . . .)

Risky Welcome

"Heads up, Rico!" Nick called to me, stealing the ball from Mary and zooming down the sideline. He leaped into the air and made a perfect lay-up. The ball rattled the schoolyard hoop as it shot through.

"Yes!" he shouted. "Two points!"

Nick's a good friend, even though he ended up paired off with Craig, playing against Mary and me.

He hadn't seen the stuff Craig was pulling. Mary, my twin sister, hadn't noticed either. She was too busy trying to guard our hoop against Nick's onslaughts. She's fast, but Nick's taller.

I dribbled the ball, slowly moving towards the goal, trying to see past Craig, guarding me. Then, seeing Mary finally get in the clear, I bounce-passed under his waving arms. The slap he gave my forearm was so loud, it echoed across the concrete court.

Oh, he was a dirty player, all right. Closing my eyes, I waited for the sting to ease.

"Time!" I yelled, glaring at Craig. He looked back at me, dark eyes expressionless. Hands on my knees, I concentrated on catching my breath. My temper's my weak point, and I felt like I was about to burst . . . Even prayed silently the Lord would help keep me from slugging him.

It was a warm, sunny afternoon, like we sometimes get in Texas in late November. Dry leaves skittered past my feet, and the breeze cooled my sweat soaked T-shirt. Still waiting for my arm to stop hurting, I tried to figure how Mary had ever talked me into letting Craig play . . .

She, Nick, and I had been walkin' to the court last Saturday, when she'd spotted him hanging out in front of Braum's Ice Cream shop. He was wearing a denim jacket with a patch on one elbow, his ever present black baseball cap turned backwards, and old scruffy jeans. Looked like he was smoking somethin', but he put his hand behind his back quick when he saw us, so I couldn't be sure. Thought I smelled pot on his clothes in the hall one day at school too, but maybe not. It's hard to tell in a crowd.

"Hey, there's the new kid," Mary said. "He looks bored, and we could use a fourth for a change. I've seen him shooting baskets after school. He's all right."

"We don't even know him!" I protested. "And if you ask me, he's trouble. Always has that sneaky look about him."

She grinned, "Come on, Rico. He's just new and lonely. Weren't you listening when Mrs. Carey was talking 'bout how we should make new kids feel welcome?"

Mrs. Carey is our Sunday School teacher. Personally, I figured she'd cringe to hear Mary talkin' about her lesson, using it for a dude like Craig. After all, Mrs. Carey was always talking 'bout how the Bible tells us to obey parents and teachers. Would she really want us playing basketball with Craig? I so doubted that. What if it was a joint he'd just ditched in that garbage can behind him?

Nick shrugged. "I don't know, Mary," he said. "Craig's kinda rough, looks like."

She stopped walking and put her hands on hips, brown eyes flashing. "Well, what about when we rescued Gray-Boy last year? He was all dirty and growled at us at first, 'cause he was scared. But he turned out to be the most neatest, loving dog we ever had! Right, Rico?"

I knew that look. She wasn't going to back down an inch. But I tried anyway. "Craig's no lost spaniel. He was in a gang once, from what I hear. I doubt hanging with him is even safe."

She laughed in my face, hooting, "Not safe. You're scared of that lost-looking boy?"

I snorted. "He's no homeless puppy, I tell you!"

But she won Nick over, and 'fore I knew what hit me, I was in the middle of this game, with wonderful Craig fouling me right and left. My ribs still ached from where he'd elbowed me earlier.

Nick clapped his hands together. "Come on, Rico. End of time-out. Let's move it!"

We played hard over the next fifteen minutes, but neither team could hang onto the lead. Then, when we all were near the hoop and Nick was coming down from battling Mary for a rebound, his right elbow hit Craig on the cheekbone.

Craig yelped, slapping a hand to his face, then shouted, "You did that on purpose!"

Nick whirled, dropped the ball, and swung his hands up in the air, palms forward. "Sorry, dude! Didn't know you were so close."

Craig's face flushed deep red. "You knew, all right!" He dropped his hands to his sides, balling them into fists. His cheek was already starting to swell.

Mary and I just stared, it was all happening so fast.

Nick took a step backwards, warily. "Honest. I didn't mean to --"

It happened in a flash.

I couldn't tell you just how Craig got the knife into his hand. Maybe he pulled it out of a jeans pocket.

There was a loud click, and the long blade flashed bright in the sunlight.

"Run!" yelled Mary, grabbing Nick's arm to pull him away.

The three of us were outside the cyclone fence 'fore I had time to think. When I glanced back from the street, Craig was still standin' there, holding the knife. He seemed frozen, like I was seeing a snapshot, or somethin'.

It wasn't 'til we got to our driveway at home, that we finally stopped running.

"Did ya see the size of that knife?" asked Nick, panting. He looked stunned. "I thought I was dead!"

"Mary . . ." I tried to get my breath back, huffing. "If I ever let you talk me into anything . . . like that . . . again, you can --"

The words caught in my throat.

Craig had just run around the corner and was heading for us at top speed, arms pumping.

"Whoa, dude!" Nick shouted, just before he hit the end of the driveway. "Don't come no closer!"

Craig skidded to a halt. "I dropped the blade in a garbage can, man!" He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "I'll never pack it again. I swear. I got mad, and it was like, there, you know? I wasn't even thinking. Before I knew it, you all were running and . . ." He swiped his eyes with a forearm, his tattered shirt cuff flapping open.

Was he crying? Mary, Nick, and I glanced at each other, then back at him.

He winced as his arm brushed the swollen cheek. It was turning purplish. Then said, "Where I lived before, you had to have a knife on you if you wanted to survive. It's like a habit. It gets you by, from day to day."

Nick said, "Right. Some habit. That's rich!"

But Mary cooed in her lost-puppy-dog voice, "Oh, you poor thing! Was it that bad in the city you came from? You can play with us any time you --"

I crossed my arms, still breathing hard. "He can not . . . What's gonna happen next time one of his . . . habits takes over?"

Craig looked down at the gravel, not saying anything.

To my surprise, Nick backed me up for a change. Usually he sides with Mary.

"Rico's right," he said. "Dude, if you're really sorry, you're gonna have to show it by letting us see you change for a while, before you're on the team again."

Craig's shoulders slumped, and he turned slow, to leave.

Before he got three steps though, Mary said, "Wait a minute! Couldn't he come play at the park games on Wednesday nights when we're with the Youth Pastor and the church team? Wouldn't that work? There'd be plenty of people around. And it would give us time to get to know each other in a safer --" She broke off, embarrassed.

Craig turned back, looking kinda hopeful for a second, but then shot a look my way and shook his head. "Nah! If you don't want me around . . ."

Well, my ribs still ached, my arm still stung, and it seemed like I was never gonna get my breath back . . . But it did sound like it might work, and the dude looked so down. Reluctantly, I signaled Nick with a nod.

So Nick said, "Right then. Let's try it in a bigger group. You can come Wednesdays."

That's when, for the first time ever, I actually saw Craig smile.

"Thanks," he said. Then repeated, "Thanks!" and waved as he walked away, saying over his shoulder, "I'll see you Wednesday."

So it worked out okay in the end. The dude really did change. Within a few months, the four of us were back to playing at the schoolyard again, regular, on Saturdays.

After some more months, he even started coming to church with us Sundays. Mary was the one that talked him into that.

And I never did end up slugging him. Which I guess just goes to show . . .

The Lord does answer prayer.

The End.

Rick over at Pod Tales and Ponderings is hosting Friday Fiction this week. So be sure and drop over there as well, to find links to the whole selection of entries by Christian writers, and/or to add a link of your own and join in the fun! We all welcome comments and discussion!
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Bear's news and free multi-media Christian resources: Bear's Writing Den

Friday Fiction: Find That Dachshund!

: Bear's starting to feel stronger again, and so it's been a busy week, catching up on many chores after the long period of heavy symptoms. For those who have been sending up prayers for the illness and for the Bearmobile . . . many thanks! God is clearly working in both situations, although the Bearmobile is still in the shop. The mechanic started working on it Wednesday, and thinks it might be the timing belt. Which sounds hopeful. But that's the last heard about it. So it's back to waiting mode. But Bear's thanking the Lord for progress on both fronts!

At any rate, Friday kind of snuck up on Bear quickly this week, without her having produced anything new yet. So she decided to pull out this short story from 2006 -- one of two that actually was purchased by a small church magazine. For those of you who got a chance to read Bear's post this weekend, Sunday Sharing: Turning the Clock Back, this story is an illustration of what Bear was talking about concerning how some magazines seem to opt out of using the Name of Jesus, and substitute "God" in instead. Although Bear specifically used the Name of Jesus several times in this story, in appropriate places, as you read it, you'll notice that His Name does not appear once in it. Each time, "God" was substituted. In fact, the story is exactly as Bear wrote it originally, word for word, except concerning the Name of Jesus -- that's the only thing the editor edited out.

But the main reason Bear chose to post it today, is that it was fun to write, and was fun to look up again and read and post. She may do a bit of editing on it (which it needs -- it was hard not to edit it, as she typed it up for this post in fact), plus put Jesus back into it, and send it around as a reprint, to see if she can get another sale from it. 'Twould be fun.

Find That Dachshund!

I live in your average small town in Texas, and let me tell you, when August rolls around and the thermometer starts popping over 100 degrees, things tend to get pretty boring. By noon, we try to shuffle indoors into the air-conditioning, because by then it starts feeling too hot to breathe.

That's where Elaine and I were headed that Wednesday, just before lunch. Indoor coolness. We were looking forward to making ice-cream sodas and watching the new video her parents had given her.

Joking around and giggling as we pedaled our bikes, we were just rounding the corner by Mrs. Olsen's when we braked to an abrupt stop, our tires skidding on the pavement.

Mrs. Olsen was on her front porch, calling in a shaky voice, "Barney! Please come home, Barney! Oh, where are you?" There were actually tears rolling down her wrinkled face. Her short gray hair was mussed, and even from the street we could tell that she hadn't slept much.

"How long has your dog been gone?" I called.

"Since yesterday. Maybe he's hurt." She twisted her sodden handkerchief as she walked toward us. "Oh, please help me find him, Trish."

Well, who could turn down a plea like that? Barney, that little brown sausage of a dog she called a dachshund, was her only family.

"Don't worry about a thing," I assured her. "We'll have him back before you know it!"

Elaine looked at me skeptically as we continued riding down the street toward her house. "What about the video and sodas?"

"We'll get to them after we put up the LOST DOG posters. Once the posters are up, all we have to do is stay home and wait for the phone to ring."

"Yeah? Where are we going to get posters?"

I smiled confidently as we pulled into her driveway. "Your brother, the computer whiz. Remember him? He can zip them out in no time."

"Not Tommy!" Her face blanched. "You can't --"

But I was already through the front door, heading for Tommy's cave. He was always sitting in there with the blinds closed, the place eerily lit by the computer screen alone.

I walked straight in, Elaine trailing fretfully behind. "Tommy," I said, slapping him on the back to snap him out of his hypnotic state. "We need LOST DOG posters. Right away, please."

He laughed, stuck out his tongue at Elaine, and ignored us. Finally, I had to resort to bribing him, promising to cater ice-cream sodas to the cave that afternoon.

Within 20 minutes we were on the street, going from telephone pole to telephone pole, stapling up the posters. I was feeling pretty smug about the whole thing -- until the police officer drove up at our fourth pole. He was scary-looking in his all-black uniform and with a big frown on his face. The gun on his belt didn't help, either.

"Girls, don't you know there's a $100 fine for posting signs on city property?"

He let us off with a warning, but only after he made us promise to take down the posters we had already put up.

"Now what?" asked Elaine, discouraged. "How're we going to find Barney?"

I was a bit discouraged myself, with ice-cream sodas and air-conditioning becoming steadily more distant, but a vision of Mrs. Olsen's tears kept me going. "We'll just have to go door to door and ask if anyone's seen him."

"You're kidding! It must be at least 90 degrees out here already!"

"Probably more like 95," I agreed, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm.

But Elaine followed along, helping me rip down the four posters. Then we headed up the porch steps of the first house.

Mrs. Stevens answered our knock, juggling her nine-month-old baby on her hip.

I held up a poster, asking, "Have you seen him, ma'am?"

There was a crash of pans from the kitchen, followed by a howl from her three-year-old.

"No, I haven't, but I'll keep a lookout," she said, hurrying away from the screen door.

Elaine shot me an I-told-you-this-would-never-work look. I shrugged, wiped more sweat from my forehead, and headed for the next house.

A man lived in this one. Rumor had it that he worked nights. When he opened the door, we stepped back a bit. He was taller than my dad, with thick, muscled arms sporting a couple of tattoos. His T-shirt and jeans were stained and wrinkled, and his eyes were all puffy from just waking up.

I held up the poster, my throat dry. He scanned it, then shook his head, frowning. "Nah, ain't seen no pooch."

"Woof! Woof!" It was a small bark, coming from a back room. The man looked over his shoulder, grunted, and slammed the door in our faces.

"That was Barney, for sure," I whispered to Elaine. "That man's probably holding him hostage!"

To my surprise, she nodded in agreement.

I tried to keep my voice steady. "Let's sneak around and look in the back window."

"Are you out of your mind?" Elaine's eyes widened, but she reluctantly followed me around the big, green bush that stood at the corner of the porch. I spotted a pile of old tires under a window and climbed onto them, putting a hand on her shoulder to steady myself. Then, cautiously, I squinted through the dusty glass.

There was a dog in there, all right. Unfortunately, it was a cocker spaniel. Also unfortunately, when it spotted me, it leaped toward the window, barking. I was so surprised that I lost my balance. Tires skidded out from under my feet, flying every which way, and I landed on my back in the dirt.

Above me, the door burst open with a loud BANG. Suddenly I was staring straight into the angry eyes of that man, looking down at me from the back porch. Then, miraculously, I was on my feet, running faster than I ever had before. Elaine was right behind me, too, even though she had always been a bit slow in gym class.

By the time we reached our bikes, we were gasping for breath, sweat pouring down our faces. "What're we going to do now?" puffed Elaine. "This sure isn't working!"

I stayed silent, trying not to breathe so hard -- trying to look like I still had things under control. Then inspiration struck.

"Hey! Why don't we ask God for help? God knows where Barney is! God knows everything, right?"

Elaine crossed her arms, thinking. Then she said, "Yeah, but how will God help us find a dog, when we can't even use posters, and it'll be 100 degrees soon, and -- "

But I knew I was on solid ground. I tried to cut in. "We're talking about God. Who knows how? We're just supposed to pray and leave the rest to God, right?"

"-- and Tommy's going to be wanting us to pay up with those sodas . . ."

I grabbed her hand, shaking it. "Let's pray!" So we did.

Then she looked at me. "Well?"

What did she expect? An instant miracle or something? These things take time.

But then, amazingly, a miracle happened. All of a sudden, I felt like I knew just how to find Barney. I couldn't explain it, and it didn't usually work that way, so fast and all, but . . .

I hopped onto my bike, saying, "Thank you, God!" Then I yelled, "Come on, Elaine! We've got to get Fargo!"

"What are you talking about? Why Fargo? You are so crazy!"

But she caught up with me within a block.

Fargo was my German shepherd. Since we lived next door to Mrs. Olsen, he and Barney played together a lot. Whenever I let him out of the house, Fargo joyfully headed straight to wherever Barney was.

When we got to my front door, I threw it open. "Fargo! Here, boy!" I whistled.

I didn't have to call twice. He zoomed at me, leaping up and planting two huge paws on my shoulders as I crouched. He gave my face a lick as I fell into the porch rail, and then he took off, running toward Mrs. Olsen's house.

I wiped dog slobber off my mouth and hair. "Eeeeewwww! . . . Follow him, Elaine! Quick!"

We were on our bikes in an instant, watching Fargo sniff the ground around the house. After he had sniffed clear across the front yard, he started trotting down the sidewalk.

At first, it was easy to keep up, but then Mrs. Banducci's cat, Cross-eye, leaped out from under the battered old car in the driveway, and Fargo took off after him at about 100 miles an hour.

"Oh no! We can't lose him or we'll never find Barney," I yelled, ditching the bike to shortcut through a hedge.

"This is so crazy!" Elaine panted, amazingly close behind me.

We climbed over fences, ran through yards, zoomed around trees, tromped through a few gardens, and even made a fast tour of the schoolyard.

Finally, Cross-eye climbed an oak tree next to the school and leaped onto the roof, out of sight.

Fargo watched the roof for a few minutes, then gave up and headed back the way we had come. Before long, he started wagging his tail, sniffing the ground again.

It seemed as if he was taking us on a tour around the whole town. Then behind Mr. Sandlin's bookstore selling used books, he slowed down and planted his paws on the side of a huge brown garbage bin, barking.

The bin was taller than I was. There was a huge pile of boxes of old books stacked next to it that made a rough stairway up to its rim.

Elaine and I were gasping for breath. She looked at me, raising an eyebrow.

Why not? I thought. It couldn't be worse than tires. I crawled up on the boxes and grabbed the edge of the can's metal rim, peering into the shadowy interior.

A pair of tiny eyes stared back at me.

Mrs. Olsen was overjoyed when we handed him over. "Oh, Barney, Barney!" Big tears rolled down her cheeks.

Was it worth it? Even though we had to spend the rest of the afternoon making ice-cream sodas for Tommy and watching him gloat? Even though we had to repair a few damaged gardens the next day?

Hey, if you'd seen the joy in old Mrs. Olsen's eyes, you wouldn't have to ask.

Even Elaine admitted it was worth it.

The End

Christina Banks over at With Pen in Hand is hosting Fiction Friday this week. So be sure and drop over there as well, to find links to the whole selection of entries by Christian writers, and/or to add a link of your own and join in the fun! We all welcome comments and discussion!
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Bear's news and free multi-media Christian resources: Bear's Writing Den

Friday Fiction: Zappy and I -- Part 3

: FINALLY! Bear's back for Friday Fiction, after more than a month of computer problems. And she's thanking the Lord much that things are up and running again -- all systems go!

Under the circumstances, it seems very appropriate to be featuring more adventures with that first Internet Computer of so many years ago... good 'ol Zapclunk.

So, onwards to our concluding episode of Zappy and I.

This final episode picks up just after Clicky, the keyboard, has succeeded in conning our heroine into trying yet another useless procedure to fix the computer's scanner and get it up and running... (Dealing with a rebellious, talking computer that has come to life, while trying to keep focus on a basic Christian walk in the midst, is turning out to be harder than one might expect...)

(NOTE: For those who missed the first episodes, Part 1 is available HERE, and Part 2 is available HERE).

Zappy and I -- Part 3

That night, I was back at my all-too-familiar post in the hall...

The keys clattered, giggling, "Man, did she fall, or what? Thinking I was helping her. Department store's Electronics Section!" It trailed off into helpless laughter.

"Yeah," whirred the disk. "Good job, Clicky! Like we don't know she listens at the door every night. Give me a break!"

I groaned quietly. They were on to me.

The monitor's voice trembled a bit, the glow of its screen dim. "Did you see her attack me? In cold blood, too. An inch to the left, and she would have gotten me right in the eye!"

"It serves you right, Greenie!" The disk whirred louder. "Now you got a taste of what it's like, huh? You won't be so quick to laugh next time she tries a reformatting, I'll bet."

"But I was doing my job! If she wanted to kill someone, why not go for Scan-boy, or Mr. Inky, over there? That's what I wanna know!"

Then a tiny voice I hadn't heard before piped up, high and squeaky. I had to turn my head and hold my breath to hear...

"Well, why don't you just tell her to turn on the other USB port in the BIOS menu? Then she wouldn't be so upset. Greenie's right. If you guys would just do your jobs--"

"Shh!" hissed one of the speakers, static crackling angrily. "Don't you know she's probably listening?"

"Whatever." The little voice got louder. "The BIOS. Check the BIOS! You have to turn on the other USB port. It's still turned--"

There was a sudden THUNK, and one last squeak. Then silence.

I charged into the living room and flipped the light switch. There on the floor was the mouse, flipped over on its back, still rocking like an overturned turtle in its shell.

I tenderly picked it up, glaring at Zapclunk's blinking red light. "You didn't have to hurt the poor little guy. BIOS, huh? We'll just see about that."

I gave the metal case a slight kick, even though I was sure they advised against that sort of thing in all the books, and stomped out of the room.

By the next morning though, I had grown suspicious of Squeaky mouse. I couldn't believe the manufacturer would actually sell me a new computer with parts of it turned off. What was the point of having two USB ports if they weren't even turned on? Who'd ever heard of having to tell a computer to turn on one of its ports before? This was probably just another setup. Squeaky had been acting and was in cohoots with all the others. I wasn't going to fall for that twice -- the old "sympathetic component" routine.

But as I went about preparing my breakfast, trying not to think about it, the word "BIOS" kept repeating in my mind... "BIOS", "BIOS", "BIOS"...

The stove's burner splattered and spit as oatmeal boiled over. I made a fast grab for the lid, pulling it off the pot, shaking my head. No, I wouldn't...

"BIOS", "BIOS", "BIOS"...came the mechanical whisper.

I leaned around the corner of the kitchen door and stared hard at Zapclunk.

But the red light was dark, and I remembered I'd unplugged him last night, after putting Squeaky back on his pad.

This was where it ended then. I was losing it. It had to happen, sooner or later, I suppose.

Grimly, I jerked the oatmeal pot off the stove, tossing a wet washrag over the spill... "BIOS"...

Turning off the burner, I stomped into the spare room and began rummaging through the drawer, looking for the manufacturer's manual. Ten minutes later I was scanning its pages, searching for all mention of the word "BIOS".

I don't know how I ended up on the floor... but minutes later I came to my senses, sitting there on the carpet, the manual still open in my lap. I read the page again (likely for the sixth time, at least).

It was true. It told me that the USB port might actually need to be turned on in the BIOS menu, instructing me how to do so.

The tiny little twerp was right.

Oatmeal forgotten, I followed the instructions step by step. It only took a few minutes. Then I held my breath as I hooked the scanner into the port, carefully checking its icon.

Yes... so far, so good. The icon was where it should be.

I sent up a quick prayer, once again centering a photo on Scan-boy's glass, and clicked the button, signaling Zapclunk to load the picture.

I couldn't believe it.

The scanner light was actually coming on.

Yes... The light was moving across the photo now. I stared at Greenie's screen in wonder as the picture of my dog and me slowly began appearing there, bit by bit.

Then with a yell I leaped up, throwing my hands high in victory. "It WORKS! IT WORKS! You were soooo right, Squeaky Mouse! It actually works!"

I know it was stupid...uncool... even downright lame.

I know I shouldn't have done it.

But it just occurred to me, as I was dancing around the room in joy, that "Squeaky" was not a very good name for a mouse that had saved the day. "Saved the day... Saved the day..." I thought.

"I should call you 'Mighty,' not 'Squeaky Mouse'." And the old cartoon intro popped into mind as I joyously burst into song about a flying mouse.

I think that's what did it.

Because it was then, just as the last sliver my dog's tail was appearing on the screen, fully loaded, and I was right in the middle of the second verse...

It was then Scan-boy froze, the picture disappeared, and Zapclunk crashed again.

Later, the landlord asked me quite a few questions about the whole thing... Wanted to know why he heard me yelling about mice clear over at his house (which is halfway down the block). Was worried that they had overrun the house... offered to pick me up some traps at the store.

Thankfully, by then, I had become quite calm again. I told him not to worry about a thing -- that I would take care of the mouse, all right. Told him trapping was too good for it.

He didn't know what I was talking about, of course. And I didn't fill him in.

As I said, he wouldn't understand.

That's when I reassessed strategy. Obviously, hiding in the hallway again wouldn't work. They knew I was listening. It had just been another setup, after all.

Stupid mouse!

So late that afternoon, I made a big show of starting up the Anti-Virus program, setting it to do a full system scan. Then, while Zapclunk was distracted, scanning for bugs, I looked at my watch in shock.

"Oh my! I forgot those overdue library books. And the library will be closing any minute. Silly me!" Grabbing a couple of random books off the shelf (I ended up with an old college algebra textbook and my classical music piano book), I tore out of the house.

I even leaped into the car and backed it out of the driveway, for added effect.

But when I got to the end of the block, I pulled over under the shade of a neighbor's maple tree, and quickly made my way back. Sneaking through the yard, I was careful not to step on any of the pine cones that lay hidden in the grass, not wanting their crackling to give me away. Finally, I reached the wall nearest the computer and flattened my back against it underneath the open window, hoping my elderly neighbor wouldn't call the police on me. (Her vision wasn't all it should be).

Sure enough, they were having a party in there. The printer was laughing so hard, in fact, it could hardly get the words out. "Mighty... Mighty... Oh, that's so good..."

There was a hurt sounding squeak, and then the voice so tiny. "Well, it should have worked. She must need a power USB hub. Mr. Disk's processor is so small -- I bet the USB ports are weak too -- bet they don't even have the power to run Mr. heavy-drain Scan-boy, over there."

Zapclunk's main fan grated, "Maybe Scan-boy does pull a lot of power, but you'll never have a chance to tell the tale. One squeak from you -- even one -- and--"

"Yeah," cut in Greenie, glowing so brightly the curtains actually turned slightly green, "Remember what happened last time. And we were going easy on you, shrimp. You landed on a nice soft rug that time..."

Sneaking away from the house, still feeling somewhat criminal, I headed over to the landlord's place to ask him what a powered USB hub was.

He explained, matter-of-factly, that sometimes the USB ports don't get enough power from the main computer to run some components, like scanners, that use a lot of power. So, in that case, you could buy a "hub" that has many USB ports on it. One end of the hub plugs into your USB port, and the other end plugs into the wall, pulling power directly from the wall to run the whole thing. Then you can plug scanners and other heavy duty USB equipment into the hub instead of the computer, and get power directly from the wall for them.

Suspiciously, I wanted to know why it didn't mention this in the manuals. And why hadn't he ever mentioned this to me before? (Not that I thought he and Zapclunk were conspiring together or anything, but still...)

He shrugged, saying lots of computers didn't need the power hub, and he hadn't known I was trying to run a scanner. So he hadn't thought of it.

To me, he seemed pretty casual about the whole business, considering I'd been driven to near nervous breakdown. But then, I'd never told him about that...

Anyway, I had a brand new USB hub plugged in and ready to test within a day.

There was no dancing this time.

I was calm and cool, my movements methodical, as I hooked the hub into the computer and plugged it in.

I watched quietly as the scanner copied the same photo of my dog and me, this time displaying it fully upon the screen.

The computer worked silently and efficiently, doing its job.

It felt eerie.

Zappy never spoke again.

Oh yeah... I call him "Zappy" now.

God changed Jacob's name to "Israel" after their struggle. I figured Zappy deserved as much. After all, we work together now, Zappy and I. True partners in spreading the Gospel for the Lord's Kingdom and glory.

Sometimes though, as I wake up late at night, I find myself listening, thinking I hear something. But it always turns out to be just a branch scraping against the window in the wind, or the sound of a distant car engine.

One night, rolling over in the darkness just before dropping back off to sleep, I wondered, rather sadly, what Zappy would say now if...

A scripture popped into mind from Ecclesiastes (3:1,7), "To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven...a time to keep silence, and a time to speak."

I smiled as I fell asleep, finally at peace.

The End.

POSTSCRIPT:

Bear would like to put in a few words here, just to set people's mind at ease. For the record, she has never actually attacked any of her computers with a pocket knife, or even kicked them, although she does feel that computers sometimes probably deserve such treatment, and admits to having had a few fantasies...

Zappy, although he turned out to be a great writing partner for years, was eventually retired some years ago, due to having such a slow processor speed that he was no longer able to handle Internet work. However, Bear is planning on pulling out his 20 GB hard drive for future use, before sending him on to a computer rest-home. So part of Zappy will live on...

But then, after this past month of dealing with more recent computer challenges, Bear suspects there's a bit of mischievous Zappy living in all computers anyway.

In fact, Bear thinks Zappy has many brothers and sisters...

And cousins and aunts and uncles...

And second cousins and third cousins and...

So don't be surprised if, when sound asleep and you least expect it...

You yourself wake up thinking you hear the sound of mechanical chuckles in the night.

Joanne over at An Open Book is hosting Fiction Friday this week. So be sure and drop over there as well, to find links to the whole selection of entries by Christian writers, and/or to add a link of your own and join in the fun! We all welcome comments and discussion!
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Bear's news and free multi-media Christian resources: Bear's Writing Den

FF: Zappy and I -- Part Two

: Bear's computer problems have continued throughout this week, both in fiction and in real life. Again, this story, "Zappy and I" is based on a struggle with an older computer, from years ago, and was originally written back then. The current-day struggles with Bear's current computer are what inspired Bear to pull this old humor piece out for editing and polishing. And it has been good encouragement for the Bear, throughout these past couple of weeks of current computer struggles, to do so. Helps give her perspective and a few chuckles in the midst. This week, Bear has had to reformat her current computer, only to find that it is a hardware problem rather than a software problem, and not correctable via reformatting. (The disk has bad sectors and is dropping files, decaying even as we speak, likely because of the cup of water Bear spilled on it a month or two ago, which shorted out the computer's cooling fan, which is causing the disk to overheat now that it's summery weather...) So she has a $125 second-hand desktop on order from eBay that will hopefully arrive sometime next week and bail her out. Meanwhile (because she's been working at computer troubleshooting so much this week), less of "Zappy and I" got rewritten than she had expected. So, rather than this being the full concluding segment, this following segment is Part Two, of what has turned out to be a three parter. And next Friday will bring the story's concluding segment.

So today's episode of "Zappy and I" starts out with our heroine in despair after reformatting Zapclunk and finding herself still faced with problems (surprisingly similar to current real life in some ways -- Bear may dub her current computer "Zapclunk Jr."). Dealing with a rebellious, talking computer that has come to life, while trying to keep focus on a basic Christian walk in the midst, is turning out to be harder than one might expect...

(NOTE: For those who missed Part 1, it's available Here.)

Zappy and I -- Part Two

Next afternoon, I was once again sitting at the computer, head cradled in my hands, in despair and frustration. I had the DLL files back. That part was OK. And most of the programs seemed happy to have them too, and were in a much more cooperative mood, having called off all strikes and past belligerence over the issue. However, after reinstalling the dictation program and trying it out, I was dismayed to be confronted once again by a frozen mouse and crashed program.

I sat there, debating whether to hit the reset button or not, knowing I would get lectured if I did; and knowing, too, that it was the end of that honeymoon period I'd hoped would stretch on for months, or even years, of having the disk totally free from any errors. I'd hoped I would never have to resort to that button again.

But there it was.

Sighing deeply, I leaned over and hit THE BUTTON.

After the screen's written tirade, which I did my best to ignore (studiously looking at the birds out the window until I heard the Windows startup music signaling the reset had completed), I tried out the dictation program again.

An hour later, another crash.

I didn't even bother with THE BUTTON -- just got up abruptly and headed for the bedroom for some privacy, to pull myself together.

This time there was no mistaking it... I heard victorious chuckling as I left the room.

The cat heard it too. A blur of orange and black fur streaked past me in the hallway. Throwing myself on the bed, face down, I didn't even bother to drag him out from under the nightstand.

 "My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; Knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience.But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing" (James 1:2-4)

I know it seems ungrateful. But to be honest, patience wasn't what I wanted right then. I just wanted to be able to use the dictation program. Was this too much to ask? What was going wrong?

Then inspiration struck. A brilliant flash of insight just hit me out of the blue. I didn't know what was wrong, but Zapclunk knew. It was probably gloating about it at that very moment, in fact.  I could hear the ink cartridge on the printer zipping around, along with giggles and the clicking of keys... And the voices... Always the low murmur of very self satisfied voices...

I lifted myself to a sitting position and silently rose from the bed, totally back into marine commando mode. I was not beaten yet, by a long shot.

Taking up position at the entry way, I peered cautiously around the corner. Sure enough, they were yukking it up. The printer especially was practically busting its cartridge in mirth.

"Can you believe that? Did you see the look on her face? Was that priceless, or what? I tell you!"

A giggle mixed with static came from the speakers. "Please, stop! I'm going to pop my volume limit and hurt myself if you don't. I swear!"

The keyboard too was in hysterics, gasping between words, as its keys clicked at top speed. "Can you believe she actually reformatted the whole CPU? What a sucker!"

A grumpy voice responded with the whir of the fan. "Easy for you to laugh, dudes! My mind still feels fuzzy. I try to remember stuff, but there's still so many blank spaces. Next time she tries something like that, I'm gonna crash on her for good. See how she likes that!"

"Yeah," cut in the monitor. "But you didn't have much memory to spare in the first place, did you, Mr. Disk? Couldn't even keep three programs going at once. Little does she know how limited you are. Can't believe she keeps using that dictation program with other programs running at the same time. Doesn't she know how slow your little processor is?"

I heard a snicker, and the monitor's light glowed brighter, continuing, "Bless my pixels, you need an upgrade already, and you're not even a year old."

The whir of the disk took on a grinding sound. "Your pixels need a good blessing, Greenie! That screen of yours isn't exactly up-to-date either, you know."

But I lost interest in the argument at that point. Processor speed? Not fast enough to run so many programs? Could it be? Slowly, feeling a bit dazed, I made my way to the spare bedroom, where the programs' CDs were stored. Quietly, I slid open a file drawer, checking the dictation program's CD cover, reading the fine print for the first time.

Light dawned.

Greenie was right! The dictation program had been designed to work best on a computer with a higher processor speed than Zapclunk's.

I called my landlord to double check. He confirmed it, saying dictation programs really need to be run with as few other programs open as possible, because they use so many of the computer's resources... Yes, a dictation program can cause the computer to freeze up otherwise... But it would probably work OK for me, despite my computer's slow processor, if I used it without any other programs running.

I turned off the cell phone, a gleeful smile on my face. Problem solved. Ol' Zapclunk had let the cat out of the bag that time.

The next day, I tried it out, running the dictation program alone.

It worked! It didn't work great, and it ran much slower than I would like. But at least it was working. It hadn't frozen the mouse once.

The reset button remained unused.

I was thrilled.

I must confess, I gloated a bit about it too, and may have even let a few bars of "Ding dong, the Zapclunk's dead..." slip out as I mailed my first dictated letter off to a friend.

As a matter of fact, I was in such a good mood that I decided to try installing the scanner. It would be easy, I told myself, a huge smile on my face. Most likely, reformatting had solved the scanner problem, and I just hadn't found out yet, because I'd been too discouraged to test it.

Isaiah 41:10 popped into mind. "Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness."

"Yes!" I shouted, exultantly. (I liked that one a lot.) "Zapclunk, you had me a little edgy there for a while, but no more. You can't bluff me!"

Maybe that was my mistake. Maybe I shouldn't have gloated quite so much. Probably should have at least stopped humming what had become my favorite song... At least while I was hooking the scanner into the USB port.

And now I know it was going way overboard to try and hook the printer into the other USB again, at the same time. (Hindsight is always better than foresight.) But I was just so excited...

That night, I found myself again lurking in the hall entryway, this time silently reviewing Exodus 20:13, turning it over and over in my mind. "Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not kill--"

The printer's low voice interrupted my thoughts. "Hey, hey! I see I'm back to the regular serial port again. No USB for me! No siree, I say with glee."

"Give me a break," cut in the monitor. "You may be able to print poems, but please spare me. You're no poet, Inky."

The clicking keys broke in. "Do you all think you're being quite fair? She's not such a bad master, after all. It could be worse. We could be working by the cash register in a department store's Electronics Section, or something. If there's one thing I can't stand to be around, it's aisles lined with body parts. And they call those places "stores". Morbid... So morbid! Better be careful, Inky. If I were you, I'd tell her about the folder she was supposed to load your driver program update into. You too, Scan-boy."

I heard a mechanical snort and cartridge return -- zip. "Right, I suppose you want me to give her the page number in the manual on it, while I'm at it. No skin off my nose if she never finds out she loaded it into the wrong folder."

I grinned widely. So, the manual would tell me how to load the updated driver into another folder, would it? I rubbed my hands together as I headed back to the spare bedroom. This was better than the dictation tip, even. Clicky actually seemed to be coming over to my side. I'd have to remember to pick up a few old computer parts at the Thrift Shop next time I was in town, to put in strategic locations around the living room, just to help keep little Clicky's memory fresh.

After a bit of browsing through my main Windows manual, I did find instructions on loading driver updates into their proper folders. And it got me singing again, more quietly this time, kind of whispering, "Ding dong..."

The next day, I got to work moving the driver updates, following the manual's step by step instructions carefully. "This," I told myself, "is bound to succeed..."

I held my breath as I hooked in the scanner...

Then scanned a picture...

Crash! Zapclunk froze all functions again, deliberately doing its best to imitate deep coma.

By the time it revived (after my pushing the reset button), the scanner's icon was disappearing from its folder completely again, with what seemed to me to be a jaunty wave on the way out.

That's how the monitor ended up with the scratch in its plastic case by its top corner.

(After that, I made sure to leave my pocket knife in another room before working on the computer.)

That night, I was back at my all-too-familiar post in the hall...

The keys clattered, giggling, "Man, did she fall, or what? Thinking I was helping her. Department store's Electronics Section!" It trailed off into helpless laughter.

"Yeah," whirred the disk. "Good job, Clicky! Like we don't know she listens at the door every night. Give me a break!"

I groaned quietly. They were on to me.

The monitor's voice trembled a bit, the glow of its screen dim. "Did you see her attack me? In cold blood, too. An inch to the left, and she would have gotten me right in the eye!"

"It serves you right, Greenie!" whirred the CPU. "Now you got a taste of what it's like, huh? You won't be so quick to laugh next time she tries a reformatting, I'll bet."

Be sure to drop by the Den next week for the conclusion of "Zappy and I".  (And hopefully for the CONCLUSION of Mr. Zapclunk Jr.'s escapades, as well.)


Meanwhile, Sara Harricharan, over at Fiction Fusion is hosting Fiction Friday this week. So be sure and drop over there, to find links to the whole selection of entries by Christian writers, and/or to add a link of your own and join in the fun! We all welcome comments and discussion!
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Bear's news and free multi-media Christian resources: Bear's Writing Den

Friday Fiction: Zappy and I

: Bear is preoccupied with some serious computer problems this past couple of days, so ended up doing a rewrite of an old humor piece from years ago, to cheer herself up in the midst. This is Part I of a two parter -- Part II to be posted next Friday...

Zappy and I

It was late one night when I first heard them. I rolled over sleepily, thinking the murmur of quiet voices and occasional chuckles from the living room were part of a dream. Waking up more, I then decided I must have left the TV on. Grabbing my robe, I stumbled into the hall; then stopped, shaken.

A hearty laugh echoed through the darkened entryway.

Telephone, I thought frantically. Phone... 911... Where's the cell? But then I remembered I'd set it on its charger just before bed... In the living room.

Standing motionless in the darkness I listened, heart pounding. But the snatches of conversation sounded more like a group of mischievous kids than thieves set upon doing me harm.

What was this?

I dropped to my knees, feeling the carpet pile between my fingers, and stealthily crept forward. Reaching the entryway, I leaned hard against the wall and cautiously inched my head out until I could see into the room. My technique would have done Uncle Dan proud. He was always trying to teach me marine drills when I was a little kid. It had seemed pointless back then, since I was a girl and that was long before women were allowed in combat training. But you never knew when stuff like that would come in handy.

Like now.

I stuck my head into the room a bit more, staring, amazed. The room was empty. All looked normal. There was the computer on its desk, surrounded by all its components: printer, speakers, scanner, keyboard, monitor, mouse. The TV and DVD player on the other table were faintly illuminated by the moonlight filtering in through the Venetian blinds and the dot of green light on the computer's CPU, which occasionally flashed a bit of red...

I heard another giggle.

Ducking back into the hall, I flattened myself against the wall, marine commando training back in full force. Had that been a red light on the CPU? I closed my eyes, trying to think. Why was the computer processing anything at this time of night? I hadn't left it with any scheduled maintenance functions to do.

I peeked around the corner again, this time focusing more, trying to make out specific words.

More giggles. Then...

"Did you catch her expression when I crashed the dictation program on her for the third time in one hour?"

"Yeah! Soooo funny! We both had to mute our volume output, just to keep from laughing out loud!"

A deeper voice cut in, "Well, how about when I jammed the paper, right after brother scanner made its icon disappear out of the Device Manager menu again. Was that timing, or what? I'm just thankful she didn't break me, jerking that paper out the way she did. And she claims to be a Christian. What a temper!"

I could hear the ink cartridge moving back and forth along the printer's carriage after this last comment.

Then the clicking of keys from the keyboard cut in. "Yeah, well how about when I jammed my sleep-button on her, and she couldn't get the monitor to come out of sleep mode? You gotta admit, that was a good one!"

Laughter all around. But I noticed it had a mechanical ring, the voices tinny and echoing. I don't know how I'd missed that before.

"Shhhh..." This was accompanied by the soft sound of the fan in the CPU. "You'll wake her up!"

I couldn't believe it. But my surprise was nothing compared to my indignation. What twerps! After all I'd done for them, too. And they were even criticizing my Christianity. Here I'd tried to meld them into a cohesive team, capable of being used as a united tool in God's kingdom for His work and glory in my writing... I'd given them a home... Saved them from life and emptiness on a warehouse shelf, and this was the thanks I got for it? I crossed my arms, fuming.

Why I oughta go in there and...

Before I could put action to my thoughts, Scriptures started coming at me right and left, popping into my mind...

"Be ye angry, and sin not: let not the sun go down upon your wrath..." (Eph 4:26)

"Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil speaking, be put away from you, with all malice: And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you." (Eph 4:31-32)

Was it sin to take out anger on computers though? Well founded anger it was, too! I brooded and debated with myself there in the hallway, their chuckles fueling the fire.

I oughta go in there and pull every plug from that surge protector! That'd fix 'em!

But this particular type of situation had never come up in Sunday School discussions at church. Still unsure, I reluctantly turned and padded back to the bedroom to mull it over and pray a bit.

Grabbing up my calico cat from where he was cowering and shaking under the nightstand, I sat in a chair by the window, hoping the beauty of the full moon would calm us both down. Having an Internet-able computer was a long awaited blessing. I reminded myself that I'd hoped, dreamed, prayed, and saved for this; and that naturally there would be challenges in learning a new skill. Though I felt I'd done well in taking the frustrations of the last few weeks in stride, and had tried not to let all the glitches, bugs, and small disasters get to me, my patience was definitely at the snapping point.

The new computer had seemed so wonderful at first. (Plus, I'd lucked into getting a brand new printer and scanner package -- two for the price of one -- off eBay, as well.) For the first day, everything worked according to my dreams. The USB printer was my first color printer, so was great fun. Fun that is, until I hooked up the USB scanner into the other port.

The computer didn't seem to like that, and after five minutes, closed it down, causing the scanner's icon to disappear from its file folder, as if it no longer even existed.

So I reinstalled the scanner.

Same result.

Reinstalled it again...

And again...

And again...

I didn't try to reason with the computer of course. After all, it was just a machine. Only crazy people talked to machines. But, after a few days of the scanner's hide and seek games, I confess I did end up having just a few words with it.

I told the computer, quite firmly in fact, that it couldn't have lost the scanner. It had seen for itself the scanner was there just five minutes ago.

But it seemed to be saying back to me, "Scanner? What scanner? I don't see any scanner. Do you see a scanner?"

It was almost as if I could hear it speaking to me. I shrugged off the illusion and continued doggedly onwards, trying intricate programming gyrations of various kinds to point out to the computer that it really was responsible to acknowledge the scanner. By then I had stacks of "how to" books about computers from the library piled all around me as I worked. But things just got worse.

After hooking up the scanner for the fifth or sixth time, the printer disappeared too. Suddenly, ZAP! The printer's icon no longer showed up in its folder and the printer refused to respond to commands.

After two more days of "troubleshooting" with no sign of success I got desperate and dialed the printer/scanner's technical support number.

The woman actually chuckled when I explained the problem, assuring me it was not their wonderful scanner or printer at fault. Perish the thought! It was my main computer's problem. She further assured me that downloading a software "patch" from my computer manufacturer's website would solve the problem.

So I gave the "patch" a try. But by then, wasn't surprised when it didn't work.

Finally I gave up and hooked my wonderful USB printer into the serial port with the extra serial cable that had come along with it (apparently provided for computers like mine who were prejudiced concerning USB's of any kind.)

That did give me a working printer, but left the scanner sitting there, next to the computer, useless. No extra cable came with it -- was USB only.

I told myself it was just my imagination that the computer was gloating over the whole thing. Told myself a scanner couldn't look smug. Told myself I was getting paranoid.

But then the dictation program started having problems. I'd been overjoyed to get it. Such a terrific program that could actually type the words as I spoke them into my computer's microphone. But over and over while using it, the mouse's cursor would freeze, refusing to respond. And soon after, the whole computer would lock up.

It was then that I first started having to resort to hitting the dreaded reset button on the CPU. Turning the computer off that way to let it reboot was an okay solution, except it was causing me psychological problems. All the books had warned me not to hit that reset button, except for emergencies, because it was supposed to be bad for the computer. The books claimed it would foul up the disk storage or something.

I didn't know much yet about computers, but knew enough to understand that the disk was key, and anything fouling it up sounded ominous indeed.

Plus, the computer would lecture me afterwards, each time I hit that button. The on-screen message would inform me that I'd closed the computer down improperly and that now the computer was going to have to run a test scan, and I'd just have to wait. The message also stated that, if I'd done it right I wouldn't have had to wait, and strongly suggested that I shut down the computer properly in future. Further, it also threatened me, stating that, because I'd been such an idiot, pushing the button, now my disk drive would likely have all sorts of errors on it. It didn't actually write, "and it serves you right, too!" But I'm no fool. I can read between the lines.

So sadly, I finally uninstalled the dictation program, hoping that would help.

Another mistake.

The computer responded to that by sending me all sorts of error messages, whenever I tried to use the remaining programs, telling me this-or-that program was no longer operating because one or more of its DLL files were missing. It repetitively suggested I find the missing files, or else reinstall the programs.

I tried to ignore the error messages and use the programs anyway. But to no avail. After hours of frustration, I gave up and viscously hit the reset button, just out of spite, then stomped out of the room before the computer even had a chance to complain about it.

Where would a person start hunting for a missing DLL file, I wondered. What did one look like? And where would it hide? And why would it suddenly bow out of the whole process? I didn't even know why DLL files were needed. But they did seem to be important. My email program would let me send mail, but no longer would receive any mail at all, blaming its obstinacy on a missing DLL file. Systems Information program would not even open anymore, again citing a DLL as the culprit. And so on.

All programs seemed to be in agreement on this labor issue. They wanted DLL's and were on strike in various ways until I came up with some.

But I hadn't realized, until pondering it all while gazing up at that full moon, that this was not a natural outcome of my incompetence. Nor was it faulty manufacturing. Not even weak parts. No! It was rebellion, plain and simple. The battle lines had been drawn, and the enemy no longer lurked in darkness. I could see the whites of its eyes. Or, in this case, at least the red light of its blinking CPU. This meant war!

Didn't it?

Was God reminding me through Scripture that I'm not to get too wrathful? Even towards a computer totally deserving of that wrath... Towards a smug, obnoxious little...

Another Scripture popped into my head, unasked for... "And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose." (Rom 8:28)

I sighed, knowing the Bible was right and I was wrong, but I wasn't in the mood to agree at the moment. I pictured smashing a hammer through the gloating monitor's screen. Now that could work for good. But decided to pray before going back out and tossing a few electronic bodies around the living room.

Actually, I prayed quite a bit over the next couple days, and did unplug the computer completely. That at least ended its nighttime chatter for the time being.

Then I came up with a plan, beautiful in its simplicity.

I would just reformat the hard drive and then could reload the operating system from the CD. That'd fix it! Wherever the DLL files had run off to, it wouldn't matter. Copies of them would be reloaded anew with the operating system. Whatever was causing the dictation program to crash, who cared? It would fix itself by starting out fresh. Probably would solve the USB port problem too.

Clearly the computer had somehow sabotaged itself. Maybe partially from my innocent help and some slight error I might have made along the way. But I'd be crafty this time. We'd start all over, ol' Zapclunk and I. (I had started mentally calling it "Zapclunk" by that point, and the name just seemed to have stuck.)

This time I'd have the upper hand. No rebellion would stand a chance. I smiled, rather maliciously I confess, at the thought of erasing Zapclunk's memory. That would put it in its place! It would think twice before messing with me again.

And I could recall absolutely nothing in the Bible that even remotely resembled an admonishment against reformatting computers.

I knew I stood on solid ground.

So I called up the computer teacher at the local High School, who also happened to be my landlord.

"Is there any chance I could talk you into coming over and reformatting Zapclunk... uh... I mean, my computer, for me?"

"Well, I suppose. But are you sure you need to do that? You realize you'll lose all your current documents and files, don't you?"

We had quite a long conversation, with him trying to convince me that this was totally unnecessary.

I couldn't tell him my computer was in total rebellion. He just wouldn't understand the voices in the night. I was sharp enough to be careful about what I said.

But when I mentioned the missing DLL files and the non-functioning programs, he ended up admitting that reformatting did sound like a pretty good idea, after all.

So we set a time.

I thought about plugging in ol' Zapclunk again, just so I could gloat in its screen a bit, but decided that gloating was probably out, even with computers. I'd never seen it listed as one of the fruits of the Spirit...

The operation was performed the next day, and Zapclunk never even knew what hit it. Everything was all over before it could even get a word out edgewise... Before it even had time to crash the formatting program.

Although I did notice my landlord had a hard time finding some sub-program he needed for the reformatting of the hard drive. He said it was an unusual computer in that way -- that the program wasn't exactly where he expected it to be.

I kept my mouth shut, praying that Zapclunk hadn't hidden it so well that it couldn't be found at all.

Eventually though, my landlord nodded with satisfaction. "Found it!" And he hit a few commands and the process was started -- the destroy-Zapclunk's-memory procedure locked in.

Soon the operating system was reloaded and the landlord gone.

I felt like dancing a jig and singing, "Ding, dong, the Zapclunk's dead... Ding, dong the wicked Zapclunk's dead!" to the music about the death of the witch in the Wizard of Oz. But I hesitated, thinking that might not be a fruit of the Spirit either.

Then reminded myself joy was a legitimate fruit of the Spirit, so ended up twirling around the room a few times, humming the tune happily.

A clean slate!

I sat down, eager to try it out, marveling when the screen came up without a murmur of complaint or comment from any of the components. I rubbed my hands together gleefully. I was in business!

That night, when I woke up at 3 a.m., thinking I heard giggling and chuckles, I shrugged it off as just a bad dream, and rolled over and went back to sleep, secure in the knowledge all was well.

Little did I know...

Be sure to drop by the Den next week for the conclusion of "Zappy and I".

Meanwhile, Yvonne Blake, over at My Back Door is hosting Fiction Friday this week. So be sure and drop over there as well, to find links to the whole selection of entries by Christian writers, and/or to add a link of your own and join in the fun! We all welcome comments and discussion!
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Bear's news and free multi-media Christian resources: Bear's Writing Den

Friday Fiction: Invitation to the Mountain

: People often wonder how so many young college students and kids in that general age group (even many of them from strong Christian homes and backgrounds) end up getting involved in cults. Bear wrote this fiction piece some years ago, after studying cults, and learning some of their recruitment techniques. Although this is a fictional piece, many of the elements common to some of the cults recruiting on college campuses (and in malls and coffee shops and elsewhere) are portrayed here. (Bear used the characters from her novel here, and edited it as a stand alone piece for today's Friday Fiction.)

Invitation to the Mountain

It was advertised as a student-led "revival service," to be held Saturday afternoon at the college by a visiting ministry group. Wanda and Debbie were bored because Castle High's Volleyball game had been canceled. (The damage from the tree crashing into the gym's roof during the last storm still hadn't been completely repaired.) So at noon they'd driven over to the college to check out the revival.

It was now midnight and Debbie was worried. They'd been in the overheated cafeteria for twelve hours straight, and Wanda, her eyes bright with excitement, kept ignoring Debbie's suggestions to call it a night.

Debbie leaned across the table and tapped Wanda's wrist. "C'mon. Let's go!" She had to almost shout to be heard over the music of the six member praise band performing in the cleared area at the front of the cafeteria. Dozens of students were still singing along, many with hands lifted in worship. "My Mom's gonna freak if she happens to wake up and finds out I'm not home."

The young woman they'd come to know as Joyce cut in quickly. "Nonsense! Weren't you even listening during the sermons? Don't you get it? Think! Who's most important in your life -- Christ or your parents?"

Joyce wore a light blue cotton tunic over faded blue jeans, her blond hair pulled back into a short pony tail like all the other women in the group. Debbie yawned, wondering why only a few people wore blue tops. The rest of the group's tops were white.

"Haven't you read Matthew 10:35?" Joyce continued, pointing at Debbie. "'For I have come to turn a man against his father, a daughter against her mother...' And what about 10:37?" She smacked her palm on the tabletop. "'Anyone who loves his father or mother more than me is not worthy of me... "

"... and anyone who does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy of me,' " finished Sunny, another of the three who had been with them all evening. Then, ignoring Debbie, she leaned forward and stared into Wanda's eyes, the flowing white cuffs of her sleeves brushing the edge of the table as she reached for her hand. "Who is your real Lord, Wanda?"

"I don't think staying out after midnight without even calling home is what the Lord was talking about," Debbie said, feeling her face heating. She hated the way she blushed so easily. "Obeying your parents is one of the ten commandments, you know."

But Sunny kept Wanda's eyes, clasping her hand. "Wanda, we're talking a real commitment to the Lord here, not just the panty-waist blah blah Christian stuff you get in your traditional churches. When're you truly gonna forsake the world and really follow Jesus? Haven't you felt the Holy Spirit working in your heart tonight? Are you really satisfied walking out of here, going back to your old way of life?"

Esther, the third of the group at their table, shoved a plate of chocolate chip cookies towards Debbie, and waved at one of the guys roaming the floor, signaling him to bring another coke. "You just need a bit of sugar to liven you up, Debbie girl. How could you even think of leaving in the middle of worship? Tell the truth. When's the last time you've really had such an intense experience with the Lord, huh? Can't you feel Him here tonight?"

Debbie closed her eyes, trying to block the mesmerizing effect of the constantly flickering strobe lights. But even through her eyelids, the patterns continued. She was so tired that her mind was starting to blur. It was hard to think anymore. And she knew she'd eaten way too much sugar for her diet. Even Wanda had taken in more than Debbie had ever seen her eat. There was always someone nearby pushing it on you... She did want to give more of her life to Jesus though. She never felt she really was yielding to Him enough, and her heart always longed for a deeper commitment...

But something seemed off here, somehow -- nagged at her. If she could only think... Her brain felt full of cotton, even though she was used to being up late. Weird... "

"SNAP!"

Her eyes flew open, startled, as Esther continued snapping her fingers right in front of her face. "Wake up, love! Wake up! The night's young, yet."

Debbie glared at her, then looked over at Wanda. She was still in deep conversation with Sunny, and seemed dazed too, her chin propped on her hand, elbow braced against the table for support. But she was smiling as she listened, eyes still aglow, even so.

The praise and worship session earlier in the afternoon had been more like a rock concert than what Debbie was used to at her church. Drums, electric guitars, and sweet smelling smoke billowing around the musicians while they played... People's emotions running wild. Students suddenly racing to the altar in tears. Dancing. Leaping up and down.

Every couple hours the preacher would cut the music, and talk for an hour or more, even yelling off and on. He paced back and forth across the width of the cafeteria as he spoke, often waving his arms and gesturing wildly. Sometimes he stopped abruptly and pointed at someone in the audience, prophesying over them.

When he'd pointed at Debbie, shouting that the Lord had brought her there to "give you one last chance to repent of your sinful, lukewarm, hypocritical lifestyle before He spews you out of His mouth," Debbie had wanted to dive under the folding chair out of embarrassment. But she knew he was probably right. And ended up at the altar when the next call came.

She and Wanda had finally relaxed more and joined fully into the worship too. But it had gone on and on and on...

By now, after twelve long hours of it all, it was beginning to feel almost like it was happening to someone else... Debbie felt like she was watching from a distance somehow. She chanted to herself silently, Think! I have to try and THINK... Then she grabbed her purse and leaped to her feet.

Esther put a hand on her arm, looking concerned. "Where you goin', Deb?"

"Got to go to the bathroom. Be right back."

"I'll go with you!" Esther stood, almost toppling the coke she'd been drinking, in her haste.

"To the bathroom?" asked Debbie, incredulous. "I really think I'm able to do that by myself, thank you very much."

"Hey!" Esther took on a pouting expression. "It'll give us a chance to, like, chat some more. I really love you, Deb. I want to get to know you more. Who knows when we'll next get a chance to see each other?"

Debbie rolled her eyes, but couldn't figure a way out. If it weren't for Wanda, she'd have left hours ago. But she didn't feel right, leaving Wanda there alone. "Whatever!" She nodded her head, but stopped the gesture quickly, feeling dizzy.

Esther joyfully slapped her on the shoulder, chattering non-stop, as they wove their way through all the students still singing with the band, and then headed out into the hallway.

Meanwhile, Sunny was saying to Wanda, "We can tell you have a real commitment and love for the Lord, Wanda. Much deeper than most in the so called church nowadays... so much more than your young friend's there, for example. They're the blind leading the blind -- following the traditions of men." She sighed dramatically as she watched Debbie disappearing around the corner with Esther. "The Lord gives them fair warning, you know... 'I will say on that Day, 'Depart from me... I never knew you.'"

"I never knew you." Joyce echoed significantly.

Sunny continued, "Now's your chance to fully give your life to the Lord. Twenty four seven. You could join our group. Never have to go back to the world again. You could be surrounded by people who've truly laid down their lives for Christ and have the strength and commitment to live separate from this evil and corrupt generation. Be part of our ministry, Wanda! Serve Him 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Think of the opportunity for Spiritual growth! Think of the fellowship and love, walking together with your brothers and sisters in the Lord. Think of it, Wanda! We study the Word half the day. Memorize the Scriptures. Learn to live and breathe and walk truly in Him. Worship services every evening. Ministry opportunities every afternoon. Great teaching and guidance from the prophet. Always knowing the Lord's Will. It's incredible--"

Joyce cut in, saying, "I tell you, I'm so thankful I took the step last year and joined up. Never once looked back. Don't hesitate, girl! It's your chance at life! We only come to the campus once a year. Then it's back to the mountain for us. Don't you remember where Jesus says in Luke chapter 9 'No one who puts His hand to the plow and looks back is fit for service in the kingdom of God.'? You've put your hand to the plow tonight, Wanda, by joining in with us and listening to the truth we're talking about. You're listening. The Holy Spirit has given you 'ears to hear'. Not like your young friend. Don't blow it! Don't look back to the world you left behind when you walked in these doors. God brought you to us for a Divine Appointment. Remember Lot's wife? Why was she turned into a pillar of salt? Because she looked back. She wanted the things of Sodom more than the things of the Lord."

Sunny picked it up. "We love you, Wanda. We don't want to see what happens to you if you ignore the Lord's calling on your heart tonight and go back into the world, in disobedience. We want you with us. The ranch is such a beautiful place, Wanda. You'll love it."

"But I'd have to talk it over with my Mom and Dad...I couldn't just zoom off--"

Joyce threw up her hands "She's just not getting it! This is too sad!"

Sunny gripped Wanda's hand more tightly, shaking it slightly, getting eye contact again. "Wanda, you're an adult now. You're responsible to the Lord. What're you gonna tell Him on judgment day? 'Oh, sorry, Lord! I know you were calling me that night, but I decided not to go 'cause I wanted to check with Mummy and Dada.' "

Wanda blushed. "Well..."

Joyce got up, walked around the table, and kneeled next to Wanda, placing a hand on her other wrist. "Don't worry, Wanda. They'll be thrilled, once you explain it to 'em. You can call from the ranch tomorrow morning. The vans leave in half an hour, and we'll be there by five a.m. So you can call them right when they're waking up. They won't even miss you before then. And they'll be so pleased at your step of faith."

Wanda smiled widely. "Yeah! That does sound so good! And I know it's the Lord's Will, all right! Totally sold out to Him... It's what I've always wanted..."

By the time Debbie and Esther got back, Wanda's tiredness had apparently vanished. She turned to Debbie. "Come with us, Deb! You could come too!"

Debbie sat down slowly. "What? It's almost one in the morning. Where do you want to go now?"

As Wanda filled her in, her mouth dropped open in amazement. "You've gotta be kidding! You can't do that! Without even telling your Dad? Where's this ranch, anyway?"

"More cookies, Debbie?" Joyce shoved a new paper plate towards her, this one stacked high with saucer sized oatmeal cookies.

Debbie stared, dazed. Then stood, suddenly furious. "NO MORE COOKIES! I don't know who you are, but this has gone far enough! Wanda, you are NOT going anywhere tonight. We're getting out of here, NOW!"

Sunny slapped her forehead and groaned. "I knew it!" She leaned over and whispered to Wanda's ear, "It's the enemy. The Devil's gotten control of your friend, Wanda. Don't listen. Remember, 'Our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.' Your friend's tired, and the enemy got the advantage over her and got in. It's not her fault. She'll be so embarrassed later. Just ignore her."

Wanda looked shocked. "Debbie's not the enemy," she hissed into Sunny's ear. "She loves the Lord too, only--"

Sunny cut her off, grabbing the back of her neck, pulling her closer. "Remember, Peter was one of the Lord's closest disciples. But there came a season when Satan got control of Peter for a time. And the Lord had to say to Peter, 'Get thee behind me, Satan.'"

Debbie put her hands on her hips. "What're you two whispering about?"

Sunny nudged Wanda, who looked guilty, but repeated weakly, "Get thee behind me, Satan."

Debbie's mouth dropped open. "WHAT?" She grabbed her purse, unzipping it, reaching for her cell phone. "That's it! I'm gonna call your parents right now. If you won't take me home in the car, I can get a ride with them. What time does this bus leave, anyway?"

Joyce caught the eye of one of the young men circulating through the crowd. His brown hair was in a crew cut, and his shoulders bulged underneath his tunic, stretching it tight. His dark eyebrows raised questioningly. She tilted her head towards Debbie.

He responded by whistling softly to several others.

Almost instantly, there were four of the men with Debbie, surrounding her. The one Joyce had signaled bowed before her and Sunny. "May we be of service, sisters?"

Debbie paled, dropping her purse, unnoticed, on the table. Even Wanda tensed. Sunny said in a soft voice, "Our friend Debbie here has some questions we think you could help her with, and needs to just chill for a while. Why don't you take her to the conference room and ease her mind? She's getting all upset and dramified over nothing."

Debbie crossed her arms, trembling but determined. "You're not taking me nowhere. I'll call the police if I have to. I've got a cell phone, you know."

Sunny grabbed Wanda's arm. "Come on, Wanda. Bad scene. They'll help her understand. We don't have time to stay and talk. We've gotta get you ready for the trip. You're gonna need some clothes and gear. It's colder in the mountains where the ranch is, and street clothes aren't allowed. We'll have you try on some clothes and coats we always bring along for people. They're in the vans. You'll need some warm boots too. And we need to fill you in more on the ranch, so you know what to expect. Remember, don't look back! It's time to leave the world behind... "

Debbie stared in shock after Wanda and Sunny, as they walked slowly away into the crowd. Joyce followed a few steps behind, happily singing, "I have decided to follow Jesus. I have decided to follow Jesus. The world behind me, the cross before me. No turning back. No turning back!"

Wanda sent a quick look to Debbie over her shoulder, shouting, "Don't worry, Deb! It's cool! I'll call you in the morning!"

Debbie stared after her numbly, not noticing Esther slowly sliding her purse across the table. Neither did she see the purse being handed off to still another young man passing by. Nor the wink he gave Esther.

But she felt the men's hands, suddenly strong as steel, on her shoulders and arms, as they slowly led her across the cafeteria in the other direction. She tried to resist, but found herself weak, her muscles limp and unresponsive. It was then she realized there had been something more than sugar in the cookies... then that she closed her eyes and began desperately to pray.

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Joanne over at An Open Book is hosting Fiction Friday this week. So be sure and drop over there as well, to find links to the whole selection of entries by Christian writers, and/or to add a link of your own and join in the fun! We all welcome comments and discussion!
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Bear's news and free multi-media Christian resources: Bear's Writing Den

Friday Fiction: First Day on my Mom's diet

: Bear was feeling kind of down in the dumps yesterday, so decided to work on a humor piece, instead of getting back to rewriting next installment of the book. This one was also a re-write, but needed a lot of work. And it did cheer her up quite a bit, reading it and re-reading it, as she wrote. It's a piece she wrote years ago, and was fun to bring to life again. Bear doesn't know what she'll do with it yet -- might turn it into a book, or make it a stand-alone piece, with just a little more added to it.

It's a fictional account of a teenager with health problems dealing with a Mother who's determined to have her go through with the Gerson diet. (The Gerson diet is a diet sometimes used by cancer patients and people with other illneses of similar severity, in a health food attempt at putting the illness into remission. It involves drinking freshly made vegetable juice every hour or two throughout the day, along with some cooked broths and very limited soft foods. It is a very labor-intensive diet, as well as extremely tough to follow.)

FIRST DAY ON MY MOM'S DIET

I slammed the front door without thinking, then jumped at the bang it made and the rattle of windows. A couple CD's fell off their stand with a clatter.

"Trace, is that you?" Mom called.

Dumping my backpack on the couch, I slipped out of my jacket and tossed it on top, then headed into the kitchen.

She was bent over the sink, scrubbing carrots, a mountain of them piled on the counter next to her. Strands of blond hair had escaped her pony tail and fallen in front of her eyes, and there were orange splatters all over her apron. I dropped into one of the chairs by the table, closing my eyes tight, feeling a hundred years old.

The kitchen used to be my favorite hang-out after school. There'd always be some "healthy" munchies waiting for me on the top shelf of the fridge. A granola bar, or on better days, cookies. Mom had found a little health food store with really huge peanut butter cookies that were actually pretty good, even with the honey instead of real sugar. And their carob cookies tasted sorta like chocolate. They weren't Oreos by a long shot, but at least they were cookies, and were better after I zapped them in the microwave a few seconds -- warm and sweet smelling. It had been nice to sit around with the sun shining through the windows and Mom puttering around while she fixed dinner...

Until now.

I sighed. So tired... Always so tired. My arms and legs felt limp, kinda like spaghetti, without strength.

"So how'd the first day go with the diet?" Mom asked, raising her voice over the sound of running water and the crunch-swish of her brush moving back and forth across the carrots. "From the way you slammed the door, it doesn't sound that great."

"Sorry." I felt my face heating up. I really hadn't meant to slam it.

I was sick of carrots already. Figured I'd be seeing them in my dreams that night, even. Orange piles of them everywhere. They'd come to life and chase me through the halls at school with fiendish cackles of glee, waving vegetable peelers in their orange, carroty hands, chanting, "Kill the human! Peel and chop. Grind, grind, grind. Juice her! Yes! Juice her...Juice..."

Running my fingertip over the flower-bordered tablecloth, I began drawing lines and squiggles -- soon found myself writing, 'grind, grind, grind'...

I shook my head, snapping myself out of it, and went and looked in the fridge, wondering if this diet had any sort of snack at all worth munching on.

The upper shelf was empty.

"Don't you do it!" Mom's carrot brushing picked up speed. "It's not time for you to eat anything again yet. We need to get some more fresh juice down you first. Just give me a sec here -- Almost got enough together to run through for a cup."

Sighing, I sat back down, crossed my arms, and stared at her back. Nothing smelled good in here today, that was for sure.

She grabbed a handful of clean carrots and stepped over to the juicer, flipping a switch. It came to life with a buzz. The growl it made rose in pitch and volume as she fed in the first one, shoving it through the tall spout on top. The carrot slowly disappeared into the grinder. Mashed up pulp started spewing out of what looked like a long nose on the front of the juicer, landing in a bowl she'd put there to catch it. A big fluffy orange pile started growing and juice began squirting out from the bottom of the machine into a pan underneath, sending a few occasional spits at Mom.

After a few minutes at it, she took out a metal strainer and poured the juice through it into a cup, sifting out the last of the pulp. Finally done, she gave the mug to me with a flourish. It had taken five carrots to fill it. I counted.

That's when she first caught sight of my face.

"As bad as all that?" She wiped her hands on the dishtowel tucked in her belt.

I took a deep breath, downed a gulp, and grimaced as carroty sweetness hit my tongue for the sixth time that day.

The scene in the lunchroom flashed in my mind -- Martha and Gretchen looking so grossed out, staring at the juice in shock. "That's your lunch?"

I blinked, to clear the memory.

Now, setting down the mug hard, I took another deep breath. Trying to chill. But before I could stop myself, I was crying, tears running down my cheeks. It was then I smelled the potatoes and onions from the soup that was beginning to heat on the stove. Potato soup for dinner. Maybe some oatmeal to top it off with, if I was lucky. I got up and grabbed Kleenex from the shelf behind me, turning my back to her, and folded my arms against my chest to try and stop trembling.

"I'm sorry, Trace. But, really. It couldn't have been as bad as all that, could it?"

I kicked my foot against the dishwasher's door behind me, and then whirled around to face her. "Everyone thinks the new diet is so lame! They can't believe I'm drinking and eating this stuff, and neither can I."

"Come on. Don't tell me you're going to let a few comments from people bother you so much. I'm sure your real friends will understand."

I glared at her. Slowly she sunk into a chair on the other side of the table, blue eyes worried.

"It's my friends I'm tellin' you about! No one else even knows about it yet, thank the Lord." I could feel my heart sinking even as I said it, though. I hadn't thought about the others yet. What were Jim and Tyler gonna think? And Max . . . Oh, that dude would run with it, all right. I didn't even want to think about --

"Come on Hon," She was trying to put on a smile, but didn't quite make it. "Sit down. Your friends will come around in time. It's just new to them, same as for you. They'll get used to it. Why, I'll bet they'll be encouraging you along before you know it. Especially once they see you're determined to stick with it."

I sat, elbows on either side of the juice cup, holding my head with both hands, gazing down into its orangeness. Knowing I was supposed to drink it within the first few minutes after it was made, to get the most vitamins, I forced myself to pick up the cup, and chugged it down, getting it over with, just stopping to breathe once in the middle. It's not that it tasted so bad. It's just that I saw hundreds of cups like it lined up in endless rows... thousands... millions. My eyes moved to the huge pile of carrots waiting on the counter.

"Mom, how many carrots am I going to end up drinking, anyway? Those all can't be for tonight, can they?"

She'd brightened at the sight of me finishing the juice. "It is a lot." Putting her hands behind her head and rolling her shoulders a bit, stretching, she chuckled. "I was surprised too. It actually comes to about fifty pounds a week. And that doesn't include all the greens and other veggies that go into the juice. You should've seen ol' Mr. Grayson's face when I wheeled the basket loaded with all those five pound bags of carrots to his register. It was too funny."

"Fifty pounds a week?" I tried adding it up in my head, then mentally crossed out the numbers and re-added... erased, added one more time... "Mom, you can't be serious. That's 2600 pounds of carrots a year. Get real! I'm gonna drink 2600 pounds of carrots a year, for two years? Mom, that's more than two and a half tons of carrots. I'll turn orange! I'll die."

Smiling, she got up and went back to the sink where she began to scrub carrots again. "Oh don't be getting all dramafied." The little brush went crunch-swish, crunch-swish for a bit. Then she said, "But, now that you mention it, I did mean to warn you about that little detail."

"What?" I blew my nose, and chucked the balled up Kleenex into the trash can.

She didn't answer.

My heartbeat picked up speed. "Warn me about what?"

"Well... I don't want you to be worried about this, Hon. But it's actually possible your skin might start to turn, well... just a little bit orange."

"What?" My mouth dropped open. "You can't be serious! I was just kidding... Y-you're joking too, right?"

"Don't worry. It'll only be temporary while your liver detoxes some."

"I'm going to turn orange? ORANGE?

That's when Dad walked in, gave Mom a kiss, and grabbed one of those big cookies out of the fridge. I could smell the peanut butter from it as he breezed past me, and wondered where he'd found it.

"Who's turning orange?" He winked at me, pulling off his baseball cap and tossing it onto a hook in the corner where it swung back and forth for a few seconds before settling. He made the shot two days out of three, and this was my cue to shout "Two points!" Raising an eyebrow when I didn't, he ran a hand through his brown hair, with its beginning streaks of gray, deliberately mussing it into comical clumps.

I didn't even crack a grin. "Dad, how could you?"

"How could I what?" He leaned down to pull off his muddy work shoes with one hand, the cookie still clasped in the other. Jerking them off without untying them, he tossed them in the corner below where the hat was hanging.

I rolled my eyes. "I'm supposed to live on carrot juice while you're eating cookies right in front of me? Where's your heart? And where'd you find that cookie? I swear, it wasn't in the fridge when I looked."

He grinned, leaning against the counter below the microwave. "Your mother tipped me off last night, on where they'd be. And my heart's where it's always been, Trace. It's just that we all can't be on your diet."

I crossed my arms. "Why not? Ya know Dad, the doctor did say you should, like, lose a few pounds, with your cholesterol being so high and all. Remember? This would be a great diet for you, for sure. Bet you'd be skin and bones in no time."

End of Chapter

Catrina Bradley over at A Work In Progress is hosting Fiction Friday this week. So be sure and drop over there as well, to find links to the whole selection of entries by Christian writers, and/or to add a link of your own and join in the fun! We all welcome comments and discussion!
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Bear's news and free multi-media Christian resources: Bear's Writing Den