Friday, December 25, 2009

"The Living Waters" (Part 1 of 2)

It was terrible. Yes, after a while I began to get used to it; though, how “used to it” is possible for one who was a human for half of his life and then transformed in a sickening crunching of bones, stretching of skin, and lengthening of limbs into one of the most despised creatures in all of Creation?

Although…I suppose I did deserve it. The slaughter I have caused, the havoc I have wreaked…I am sorry for it now. But alas, I am paying my debt and it is too late to be repentant.

Trapped here in this lonely valley, with only the birds and small animals for company, I have had plenty of time to reconsider and reconcile with myself. I am no longer in denial—I am no longer angry with myself. I understand the reasons.

I hunger not, so I need not trouble myself with hunting. That is a gift, I suppose. I would have not lasted long if I had to hunt to survive. I could not bear having to kill another creature. The reason for this everlasting “fullness”, you ask? The water is my answer-- the sweet, clear pools. Yet every time I dropped my head to take a sip of the filling liquid I was reminded. If for a time, I was able to forget, it was a blessing. But the blessing vanished when I saw my reflection in that pool. Hideous. The reflection of the very creature I, and so many others, now despise.

Serpent. That word, every time it entered my mind, I was pierced. Pierced with arrows to my heart, arrows that, when they destroyed the flesh and blood, allowed the light of day to shine on my darkened soul, forever stained. Ashamed. That was I. Not angry, but ashamed. I had become the very creature I had killed for. Evil itself, with deception as its fuel, I had allowed to enter my heart. I could try to defend my actions with the arguments I had memorized over the years, but because I no longer believed these arguments myself, it would not have been worth it.
So there I was, trapped. Trapped, with only the dark remembrances of my past hate to haunt me.

One morning, as usual, I went to the pool for a drink. As I lowered my head, I closed my eyes. My snout plunged into the cool liquid and I drank deeply of the filling water. Suddenly, a voice, clear and sweet as the water itself, sang out to me. “Dragon,” the feminine voice trilled. “Why do you drink of this water?”

I lifted my head and opened my eyes. Sitting on a rock at the edge of the pool, was a young girl. She was draped in a white gown that flowed gracefully around her slender body. Her shining chestnut hair was sleek and straight and hung about her like a curtain. A wreath of ivy, every bit as green as her emerald-like eyes, encircled the crown of her head. Small white blossoms dotted the foliage. My heart jumped within my armored breast. Not because of her innocent beauty, but because she was human. Another thinking being, one with whom I could converse. “Who, pray tell, asks this question of me?” I winced inwardly at the sound of my own voice. Harsh and rough, yet slithering and snakelike, I had not heard it in ever so long. After raving about my plight for the first several days of my imprisonment, I had vowed to never speak again. There was no need to. That is, until now.

The girl smiled sweetly and dipped her bare feet into the water. She swirled them around, creating little cyclones with her toes. She gazed into my eyes, her own sparkling. “My name is of no importance. You may call me Child.”

“Very well, Child. I shall answer your question, if only for the honor of speaking with you.” I stretched out on the soft turf, folding my legs up below me. “I drink of the water, because it is my sustenance. When I drink, I am filled and do not hunger. Because of this blessing, I am not required to shed another drop of innocent blood for my own profit.”

“Another drop, my lord?”

I sighed and lay my head down on my crossed forelegs. “Yes, Child. I have shed much blood in my lifetime.”

“Your own, my lord?”

“No, Child. The blood of others; of the innocent such as yourself.”

The girl lowered her head and stared into the water for a moment, then looked back up. She cocked her head to the side and knit her light brow. “I sense a sadness in your voice, sir. Tell me, were you always as you are?”

“A scaled deceiver? Yes. Though I only now wear the visible garments of that livelihood. I was once a man, my only natural protection being skin, hardened from many days of heavy labor in the scorching sun. I rose in the ranks from slave to master, fighting my way to the top with lies, thievery, and stealth. I then took out my rage on others, abusing my power, forcing them to work, building my empire. Many died from exhaustion, still others from the wounds inflicted upon them by my orders.” I sighed and closed my eyes once more. “I can still hear the snapping of the whips and the cries of the children in my dreams.”

“But sir, surely, you could not have known. This was how you were raised, was it not? You were told from your youth to look out for yourself and that you had to fight to win the best.”

I chuckled humorlessly. “Aye, Child. Yet, I knew in my heart that something was amiss. I remember one night when I was a mere lad of seventeen. I lay awake in my bed, a hard mat filled with sand, wondering if all I had ever been taught was false. I had very nearly convinced myself that it was. I slipped off to sleep and restlessly tossed and turned the entire night. The next morning, I awoke to the sound of sharp thwacks, followed by heart-wrenching cries. It was a fellow slave, an acquaintance of mine, being beaten. He was a lazy fellow, one who avoided tasks at every turn. He was dead within the hour. My heart was enraged. I dismissed all thoughts that had passed through my mind the last night. I would not allow that to happen to me. I would work and be successful. I did have to fight to win the best. And,” I opened my eyes. “I did. That is, I thought I did.”

The Child nodded sympathetically and plucked a pretty blossom from the water’s edge. “And how, my lord, did you come to reside in this plated armor?”

I heaved a deep breath. “That is a much more complicated tale, dear girl.”


(to be continued)

Friday, November 20, 2009

Of Chickens and Duck, Part 2 ~ Madeline's Mournings

Poor Peep the Duck (now re-named Madeline) has undergone quite a few hardships since I first told the tale of her and Quack the Chicken. I was going to relate these to you myself, but Madeline felt I wouldn't do it justice. She wanted to tell it herself.


Tragedy. That’s what my life has been. One thing after another, over and over again. True, I have had some moments of cheerful bliss, times of respite between the trials, and I am hoping beyond hope that those days will return once more. My friends, my husband, my children…all figments of the past, mere memories now. Yet, I do have hope. I will not allow myself to slip into the murky waters of despair. I may have to suffer the choppy waves for a while, but I can see the clear, glassy lake ahead.

It was years ago that I first felt the pain of loss. Some of you may have heard how my first friend, my brother of sorts, suffered at the hands of a cruel two-legged beast. He was marred, forced to walk with a limp that rendered him unable to defend himself against this pitiless world. As time went on, he began to slow down and be less and less able to keep up with the others and me as we wandered about. Then, one day, he was gone. Vanished without a trace. I mourned for a time, wondering where he could have gone. The two-legged ones say they had nothing to do with his disappearance, but I have a feeling that they are not as truthful as they seem.

By and by, I finally accepted this and was able to move past.

The next summer, my spirits were lifted at the arrival a new fellow. He was handsome and strong and we fell for each other immediately. My Francis, Francis Drake, he was called. We spent all of our time together and were soon expecting a large brood of children. Patiently I waited, anxious for them to arrive into our world. But that day never came. In the dead of night, over and over again, I was assaulted, and my precious ones were slowly disappearing. The creature that took them from me was much stronger than either of us; we never had a chance. Soon, they were all gone. I was confused for days, and wandered aimlessly, calling out, trying to find them. Of course, that endeavor was fruitless.

Small condolence was made when we adopted four children. They were not like us, but we loved them all the same. Yet, they grew up quickly and I was once again left with an empty nest.

Francis and I made up for it by exploring. We wandered hither and thither, all across the countryside. Something we enjoyed together was water. For the longest time, there was no convenient swimming hole nearby, so we had to make do with splashing about in small pools of water. Though, at last, the two-legged ones decided that we deserved a place large enough to suit our needs.

If you happened to glance our way during that autumn, you most likely could have spotted us, Francis and I, swimming contentedly in the watering hole. And, we were happy then. So joyously happy.

Yet, it, too, was not to last. As if taking my friend and my children were not enough....oh, my dear husband! Why? Why did you have to go? He was murdered. Slain by a beast, perhaps one not unlike he who took my children away. The fiend! The monster! To take the life of the one I held so dear? Why, I ask again. Why?

Alas, my tale is near its end. You may recall my saying that I have hope. How? you ask, when my life has been so wretched? I have hope. Hope that I can make dear Francis's legacy live on. I am once again expecting children. It will be only a matter of weeks before I will know. The two-legged ones are skeptical. "Poor girl," they say. "It will never happen. It's been too long." But I have a feeling...and I have hope.


Monday, November 9, 2009

A Charge to Young Men

This is a similar article, also written by Bryan Davis, but focusing on young men instead of women.

Whether you love books or broadswords, as a young man you are wired for greatness. You want to take a step above the norm and rise high above mediocrity. You desire excellence in all things. From head to heart, you want to be a knight in shining armor.

As a knight, your weapons and armor are many and varied—wisdom from above, unblinking courage, a rock-like steadfastness of spirit, unshakable faith, and swords both physical and spiritual. No matter which weapon you choose, make sure you are battle-ready, trained for the conflicts that lie ahead. This training requires discipline of body, mind, and soul, so that your righteousness through Jesus Christ will shine and never fade.

If you embrace this passion and put it into practice, you will be a bright light in a culture that prefers dimness. Some will be drawn to your light, to your high standards, because they feel within themselves a calling to be more than they are now. Others will be repelled, because they cannot stand the thought that someone is mounting the summit while they have chosen a lower path. These might try to drag you down.

In either case, your example will stand firm. You will lift up those who reach out for help, and you will resist those who try to pull you into their mire. You will be a hero to those needing a champion, and you will be unblemished though detractors hurl invectives.

God is the power behind your steadfastness, and His standards are the code that guides your behavior. Many have marched this path before you. Your foundation has been built with the bricks of men who are unafraid to flex their muscles and is held together by the mortar of masculine courage. With faith in God’s promises, you can follow that code. You can change the world.

How? By living the standard. You will tell the truth in a world of lies, remain loyal in a land of betrayal, and work faithfully in a culture of excuses. Even your friends might think you are overzealous, and in this zeal you might stand alone. Yet your peculiar faithfulness makes you trustworthy, even in the eyes of pretenders. Your loyalty is unquestioned, even among the unfaithful. If a lie of expediency whispers its desire to be told, a horde of lesser men will stampede to tell it. Not you. To speak a falsehood is to spew poison, and you will not allow a drop of venom to leave your tongue, even if offered the treasure of Solomon or threatened with death.

Our culture celebrates the lie. It laughs at the deceptive antics of bumbling fools on television. It elects politicians who tell the most convincing fables. It winks at “white lies” that allow a man to skip an annoying meeting or avoid a tiresome caller by saying, “Oh, I can’t talk to him right now. Tell him I’m out to lunch.”

And with one shady statement, this man falls from being a knight to being a knave. He thinks he’s running with the big dogs, but he’s really wallowing with the pigs.

Although there will always be someone willing to accuse you of wrongdoing, you must be careful never to give your enemies a real reason to question your character. You are called to be a beacon fueled by true purity. You are to reflect to the world what you really are in your heart—holy and pure. Your ability to remain unstained in this culture is the light that will draw other people to the same standard by which you live. Your duty is to keep yourself spotless by abstaining from anything that would soil your reputation. Why? Because the light you shine is easily dimmed in the eyes of others.

Men of lesser nobility fear this standard, yet not because of a specific portion of its grand design or a particular rule of conduct. They fear the specter of a man who actually follows these precepts, for once you prove that such a standard is attainable, those who prefer mediocrity no longer have an excuse for their behavior, and your light exposes them for what they are.

Many of you will choose a young maiden to help you in this quest, someone who will support you with strength of her own, someone who will bind your wounds and whisper words of encouragement as she sends you charging back into battle. Choose carefully—not the woman who attracts with smiles and skin, but rather the woman who proves her heart through service, discernment, and integrity. If she finds joy in worship and hard work, peace in the midst of persecution, and contentment even when her pockets are empty, then she will be the soul mate you need to endure the long and difficult road ahead. Since she embraces the same standard you hold dear, she will lift your arms should they sag in weariness and infuse you with assurance should your confidence falter. Face and form will change through the years, but a saintly woman’s heart will last forever.

So as you go forward as a living example of this standard, pay heed to the counsel of those who have blazed the trail. It is a long journey, filled with potential hazards, but it is one that a young man who lives by the sword of the Spirit will be able to complete, and you will find applause at the end of the road, not only from those who have cheered you along the way, but from God, Himself, who created the code of conduct and fashioned you into the exemplary model He hoped you would be.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

A Charge to Young Women

This article was written by one of my favorite authors, Bryan Davis, and I feel that it is a beautiful example to live up to. He's written a similar one for young men, as well, which I will be posting at a later date. :-)

"She is born with a passion to uplift, empower, and support. She is the mainstay and sail for the captain’s ship. She is the heat in the warrior’s resolve and the salve that heals his wounds. She is the heart that pumps vitality to every joint and sinew. Yes, she is a woman.

Every girl in existence has been lovingly fashioned—from her caring and sensitive brain, to her tender and compassionate hands, to her tireless feet—to be a pillar of strength and resolve. While she might not be a warrior who draws a sword, she is the healer who strengthens the warrior’s hands and heart. Without her, every weapon would drop in futility, every muscular arm would wilt, and every pair of tired legs would shuffle home in defeat, for the heart that drives the warrior forward has stopped beating.

Some young women choose to take up the sword themselves, to step out alone in the midst of darkness to carry a lantern to the lost, to battle oppression and bring relief to the abused and neglected, or to transport life-giving supplies to the destitute wherever they may be. Their partner is the Spirit of Christ, and their sword is His word. They must know Him well if they hope to shine His light and pierce the darkness without the help of an intimate human partner.

Speak the truth. Live the truth. Be the truth. Never let the faithless ones persuade you to abandon any of those three principles. Remember that you are an oracle of fire, as is every faithful follower of our Lord. For all true disciples possess the pure silver, purged of all dross, and the fire of God’s love burns within, an everlasting flame that others, even those who merely give lip-service to the truth, will never comprehend until you are able to pass along that fire from heart to heart.

Many girls will choose to partner with another in this pursuit, hoping to be the light, the energy, and the drive that pulses within the breast of another. Yet, some never discover what it means to be such a heart. They never learn the secret of the captain’s sail or the recipe of the healing salve. Why? Because they listen to a counterfeit call, a trumpet blaring a falsehood—that their beauty is a lure to capture rather than an inspiration to set free. The inner desire to help and support becomes a lust to take and own. The hope to hear words of affirmation that she has been a good and faithful helpmate transforms into a hopeless search for eyes that admire and lips that speak words of appreciation for her outward appearance rather than for the beauty of her soul. And such a search never ends in true satisfaction.

You, however, are listening to your creator’s call, a gentle voice within that whispers reminders of how you were really fashioned, to be a woman of virtue, of inner beauty, of priceless value. The trumpet announces your need to strut, expose, and seduce, while the inner voice sings of ways to dress your soul in virtue—to feed the hungry, cover those laid bare, infuse encouragement into the hearts of the downtrodden, and nurture the victims of poverty, disease, and abandonment.

As a young woman of virtue, you understand what will happen if you heed the trumpet’s call to lure with flesh and flair. You will draw attention, but from whom? Someone who values face and form but not the heart. He will take, use, and abuse. His desire is for his own benefit, because what his eyes perceive is a girl who offers to fulfill the cravings of his body, and he responds, not with love, but with lust for his own satisfaction. And when your flower of youth fades, he will not perceive value in your soul, and you will never achieve the holy union of hearts for which you were created.

If you listen to the creator’s call, you will suffer temporary loss. When you pour out compassion and pity instead of skin and superficiality, you will be considered old-fashioned, out-of-touch, a prude. Yet, within the fair bosom you are saving for a true warrior, you will be nurturing a heart of unspoiled beauty, for it has not been taken at a cheap price. It has not been hardened by a wolf who captures, abuses, and leaves. And with such a heart, you will be able to reach out and be the captain’s sail, the warrior’s reason for drawing his sword, and the soothing salve for hearts less whole than your own.

The heart of a woman is more precious than pearls, and a man of worth sees it as a priceless treasure. He knows that she is the energy that drives his purpose, and without her, the pursuit of his vision for God’s purpose will be sluggish indeed. For the honor of taking that heart to join with him in fulfilling that vision, he will give his life, his heart, and his soul. The woman who has prepared her heart for that adventure will never regret the small price she paid. Scorn fades, and satisfaction blossoms. Contempt crumbles to dust, and contentment rises in its place. Ridicule is forgotten, while refreshment of the soul lives for as long as the heart pumps its life-giving energy.

Whether you take up the sword yourself or choose to unite with a warrior, now is the time to live according to this standard. It might seem that you are walking the path alone, yet, you are never alone. The One who planted the heart within you will never leave your side, and He will continue to sing the song that fashioned you as a woman of virtue. Listen. It is there. You will have to tune out the surrounding noise, but the sounds of love and virtue will never be silenced, if only you know the Singer and His song."

Sunday, November 1, 2009

"The Divine Rescue" -- Short Story no. 1

I wrote this story several months ago to send into a magazine for a "contest" of sorts. I never heard back from them, so I'm assuming they didn't want it. Oh, well. :-) It is based upon Acts 12:1-17. The story itself will probably seem rather rushed or brief, but that's probably because there was an 800 word limit. Sometimes writing short stories takes more skill than writing really long ones.


"The Divine Rescue"

“No, really! Please, just come and see!”

“Rhoda, that is enough!”

Rhoda groaned and tried one more time. “Please John! You have to believe me! The Apostle Peter is really here! I heard him knocking and ran up to the gate. He told me who he was and I came to get you. Please come!”

“It is simply not possible. You must have been imagining things.”

Rhoda sighed again and went to Mary, John’s mother. “The Apostle Peter has returned! Please ma’am, you must believe me!”

“Come now, Rhoda. We are all tired. It must have been something else.” Mary turned back around and resumed her conversation.

Rhoda furrowed her brow and sank down on a nearby bench. She listened to the hum of voices for a moment, and then suddenly a loud knocking came from the front door. John leapt up from the table and hastened out the room and into the front hall. Rhoda followed close behind, jittering with excitement. The loud knocking sounded again.

“See! I told you!”

“Oh, hush. Who knows who that could be?” John slid aside a tiny window in the door and peeked through it. Letting out a gasp, he swung the door open as fast as possible. “Brother!”

“I wondered when someone was going to answer the door!” Peter stepped through the doorway and wrapped John into a manly embrace. Then he turned to Rhoda. “Well, young lady, I was beginning to think you had forgotten about me!”

Rhoda’s face turned beet red. “Sorry, Sir. I suppose I was too excited to answer the door. Then, when no one would believe me, I guess I…” She laughed nervously. “I guess I forgot you were here.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, Miss. Now, where are the others? Have I got a story for them!”

“Right this way. We have been praying together all evening.” John stepped back into the light of the room, Rhoda and Peter trailing behind. Astonished gasps greeted their ears, followed by amazed exclamations.

The people swarmed around Peter, all asking questions at once. “Friends, friends, please,” he said, motioning for them all to be quiet. “I must have your ears for a moment. An amazing thing has taken place tonight, a miracle.”

At this, everyone fell silent. Each person took a seat on a bench or on the floor, eyes and ears trained on the apostle standing before them.

“As you may have heard,” he began. “Our fellow disciple, James, that is, the brother of John, has been killed.”

Gasps rose from the group, but Peter rose his hand to quiet them again. They settled down and he began once more. “This was the doing of Herod. He saw that by murdering John, the people became pleased. So he arrested me as well.

“They placed me in prison, surrounded by four squadrons of soldiers. It seemed that Herod planned to bring me out and kill me before the people- sometime near Passover. Escape didn’t seem likely. Yet, I knew that if it was the Lord’s will for me to die, I was content. I prayed continuously, and many others were praying for me as well.

“Tonight, the night before Herod was to bring me out and kill me, I had a vision. At least, I thought it was a vision. I had been bound by two chains, and placed between two soldiers. There were even guards in front of the prison. Suddenly, a bright light shone, and an Angel of the Lord appeared beside me! He struck me on the side and commanded me to arise. The chains fell off my hands. He said to me, ‘Gird yourself and tie on your sandals.’ I obeyed and followed him out of the prison.

“We passed by the first and second guard posts, and then came to the gate leading to the city. It opened all by itself! Once the Angel of the Lord led me down one of the streets, he disappeared. I finally realized that I had not had a vision, but an angel had truly led me out of prison!

“I came to find you, to tell you of this miraculous thing. Go to James, the son Alphaeus, and tell him and the brethren of these things. I must leave you know, and depart to another place. Remember to pray!” With this he turned and left.

Rhoda stared after him in amazement. She had heard of angels appearing in the old days, the days of Moses and the judges, but to hear it directly from someone who had seen it- she was speechless! The people around her began murmuring to each other and she continued to sit in a daze. Mary came up and nudged her.

“Time for bed, dear. We have a big day tomorrow.”

Friday, October 30, 2009

Starting Over

I've come to realize that when I started this blog over a year ago, I didn't have much of a plan for it, or much motivation. But I think I now have a plan as well as a little more motivation. So to get this off the ground, I suppose I'll start by telling any unfortunate passerby a little about myself. :-P

My name is MacKenzie, and I am a home-educated, Christian young lady. I have a wonderful family, great friends, and a Mighty Savior, all of whom I love dearly.

I still like to run around outside, dressed like a character from whatever book I happen to be reading (or writing) at the time, and fending off the “bad guys” with a trusty wooden sword. I’ve tried many times to make my brother, “fight” with me, but for some reason, he just isn’t interested. So, alas, I am often forced to complete my quests alone, or with a few even younger siblings taking his place ... and that may be the reason that few of them ever get accomplished. :-)

I also really enjoy “living” these adventures out on paper. Reading and writing stories are two ways I can do this. I’m trying to start making myself read a larger variety of things; I've been leaning more towards the "fantasy" genre lately, and I want to "expand my horizons". Does anyone have any suggestions?

As for writing, that is an interest which has just recently begun to take off. I've written short stories in the past, and even started a few novels, but have never really known what to do "next". So, this year, as part of my English curriculum, I am taking a creative writing course, "One Year Adventure Novel" as it is called. The author of this course, Daniel Schwabauer, teaches story. Not grammer or anythinhg like that, but what it is that makes a story a story. According to him, the five elements of any good story are: Someone to Care About (Main character/Hero), Something to Want (the Story Goal), Something to Dread, Something to Suffer, and Something to Learn. By the time I have completed the course, I (and anyone else who is taking it) will have written a complete, 12-chapter adventure novel! I'm pretty excited about that.

As for this blog, I will probably be posting quite a few short scenes and stories aside from "other things", (Not positive what those "things" will be just yet.) I'd really appreciate any comments, feedback, or critiques that anyone has to offer. Sometimes, you just have to be contradicted in order to learn!

Anyhow, the above is just a brief sampling of some of my interests. For a far more "extensive" list, check out my profile. ;-)

Tuesday, October 27, 2009


Hmm...Last post: August 23, 2008....that can't be good.

Well, I'm hoping that this will be a little different. Instead of having a whole year and then some between posts, I'll try to stick with a month or so at the most. (-; I'm still not sure what all I'm going to be putting on here, but ideas will come soon enough, I suppose.