Images are free use and do not require attribution. Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay
What? I Can’t Write Like Stephen King?
D. A. Ratliff
I came across an article that focused on the reasons not to listen to advice from Stephen King. I wondered, why not? Stephen King is a highly successful author and the author of a popular book on the writing process.
When reading articles such as this one, I always remind myself that there is advice and there is opinion. In our quest to improve, writers should always read both to obtain a broad base of information to utilize in our writing.
The author of this article isolates three of Stephen King’s “rules” and proceeds to show how the opposite of his rule can be appropriate. Of course, writing passive sentences or using an adverb or a “five-dollar word” as the author describes can be effective—in the proper context.
What this author fails to mention is that you should use these rule-breaking exceptions in moderation. A plethora (see what I did there?) of passive sentences will eventually bore your readers, too many adjectives, and you create “purple prose,” writing that is too ornate.
As for those “five-dollar words,” I prefer to call that an extensive vocabulary. In the author’s example, her use of complex, long words was entirely appropriate. When writing an educated character or one from the aristocracy, formal dialogue and those “five-dollar and change” words add realism and depth. The same terms used by a character who is uneducated or from a lower socioeconomic level would not feel authentic to your reader. A book laden with too many complex words becomes a textbook and will be difficult for most readers to follow.
This author ends by saying that writers should write anyway that they feel comfortable and break the rules if they are skilled enough.
It seems as though I have heard that advice/opinion before. That statement is what writing is for all of us. We develop our style based on what we have learned and how we arrange words on the page.
I have authored articles on the rules and my opinion of the writing process. However, I want to stress that writers should read everything they can about this art of writing. Take away those ideas, rules, and suggestions that suit your style of writing. This author inferred that if you follow Stephen King’s rules, you will write just like him. No, you won’t. The rules are not his style. How he uses words to convey emotion and create tension is his style.
I offer only one piece of advice here. As I said above, read everything you can about the writing process, read books, and glean from those sources what you need to become the writer you want to be. Always learn the rules first, then you can break them.
In the words of the infamous fashion icon Tim Gunn: Make it work!
In case you are curious about this post… we have a WU! who had business issues interrupt the writing of his WTS.. so we are reserving a post in the January Archives to post his story. Will update as soo as we can!
If you missed host Paul W. Reeves and Deborah Ratliff for Book Reviews — part 4 of a five-part Expert Series, here is the podcast.
WU! Admin Deborah Ratliff reviewed three books on the December 9, 2020 broadcast of “Dr. Paul’s Family Talk” on Impact Radio USA.
The Law of Innocence“. Michael Connelly
“Once a Warrior” Jake Wood
“The Girl Who Lived“. Christopher Greyson
Miss last month’s Book Review segment? Check out the podcast here!
Welcome to IMPACT RADIO USA, where we strive to provide the best in news, talk, sports, and music 24 hours a day, 52 weeks per year. Our goal is to keep you as the most informed and entertained Internet Radio audience.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Please note: the images used are free-use images and do not require attribution.
The Call
Caroline Giammanco
Autumn blew on the breeze as trees waved in a sea of reds, oranges, yellows, and lingering greens. Breathing in the refreshing, earthy smells of a beautiful October morning, Greta Maxwell savored this season. Soon the wind would bring a biting, icy chill, but for now, the world seemed perfect. This was her favorite time of year, and it made her sentimental as she longed for the people she loved.
Her eyes grew misty as she remembered her husband’s favorite line about the bitter cold air of deep winter. “It smells like Canada out there,” he would say, breathing the crisp air into his lungs. Oh, how she missed him. He would return one day. For now, she relied on her own gumption and wits to make it through the days. She never regretted choosing him above all other men, even with the prolonged separations they endured, and she knew their chance meeting had changed the course of her life. He saved her, and that wasn’t something Greta was used to. She’d always been one to save herself.
Her brother’s absence also caused tears to well in her eyes. Yes, it was her choice to leave their homeland of Germany, but weekly phone calls with him just weren’t enough on some days. This was one of those days. Memories flooded back, and she found herself lost in those long-ago days of childhood. In some ways, their youth was commonplace, yet it had its extraordinary moments. The two remained remarkably close regardless of the distance. Truly, no one understood her more than her brother did.
He’s the only person who can relate to what drives me to be who I am today.
She loaded her vehicle and pulled away from her hideaway set deep in the woods. Greta was a hermit in many ways. Bad experiences with strangers—and some family members—as a young girl created scars, and those scars resulted in her desire to live as far away from others as possible.
As with many who suffered abuse as a child, she carried a distrust of people in general. The best way to avoid trouble, in her mind, was to avoid the public once she was safely tucked back into her home each night. She was kind and caring, but none of her distant neighbors knew her well, and she wanted to keep it that way. No one was welcome at her house unless invited, and few were invited.
Ironically, at work, everyone described her as a “people person.” She loved to make others laugh and she eased their burdens when possible. People turned to Greta for moral support when they felt down. Somehow, she empathized with them, no matter their struggle. A heart like that was born of survival. She’d suffered hardships few knew of. Greta refused to make herself the center of conversations. No, she was there to give aid and comfort to others. She fiercely guarded her own sadness and worries.
For several years, as long as anyone could remember, she taught literature at a school in the neighboring county. Watching fine writing impact young minds was one of the most rewarding aspects of her job, and she was quite attached to her school. Coworkers asked from time to time why she wouldn’t move closer to work. Others asked why she didn’t find a job closer to her home. That was nonsense as far as Greta was concerned.
If I love my job, and I love where I live, why would I want to make a change?
Her lengthy commute gave her time to prepare for the day ahead in the mornings and to unwind from a stressful day in the evenings. What was time anyway? She’d learned to become patient, especially with her husband away for so long, and if she was to be alone for now, why not enjoy the sights she encountered during her drive? On this October morning, the miles disappeared behind her, and she thought about the profession she chose.
Oh, how she loved teaching, even if it had changed—for the worse, in her opinion. Being a teacher was simple in her early days of education. Back then, a teacher focused on not only the content but on inspiring her students. Now the world complicated her passion. Too many rules, too much reliance on technology, and too much dependence on test scores had practically ruined the joy of teaching. Yes, negligent parents and lazy students played a part in the downfall of modern-day education. Greta understood that some families failed to foster healthy childhoods. She dealt with the unruly children—those who simply wanted someone to care. Greta relished her time spent with her students. To her, teaching was always about the children. Besides, no matter how many generations passed, children were full of energy, and being around them kept her young.
On this morning, she knew what her school expected of her. Every Tuesday, Greta arrived with platters of tasty treats. People for miles around talked about the fine desserts she created. Some asked her to open her own bakery, but Greta had her reasons for declining.
“How ever did you know how to make these?” Margaret Humphrey stuffed another gooey bite into her mouth. Greta barely had time to set the platter on the table in the teacher’s workroom before Margaret grabbed a handful.
“Oh, I learned how to bake as a young girl back in Germany. It was expected of me.”
“Well, you know I’m a big fan of your desserts. I always admire people who carry on family traditions.”
Greta simply smiled. It wasn’t worth getting into the backstory of her baking skills.
It’s enough to know they enjoy my goodies.
Greta didn’t leave her students out, either. No, she made sure every child had a delicious snack during each class. She was pretty sure some of the upper-classmen took two or three of her electives classes for that very reason. Double- and triple-dipping her pastries was okay as far as Greta was concerned. It made the children happy, and if it got them to take more literature courses, then all the better.
Greta baked for one reason only: She believed in turning bad experiences into positives. For her, baking was designed to bring joy. No one needed to know the price of those recipes.
That night she arrived at her eccentric little home in the woods. People whispered about its unusual architecture, but Greta ignored their comments. The design had a purpose. It reminded her of that house years ago that shaped who she became. Some people run from their ghosts. Others embrace them. Greta chose to embrace hers.
At exactly eight o’clock, as the flames in her fireplace flickered and shadows danced on the walls, Greta called her beloved brother in Stuttgart.
“Hello, Hansel.”
“Ah, my dear Gretel. How I have looked forward to your call.”
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Please note: the images used as prompts are free-use images and do not require attribution.
Uncle Charles
By Rico Lamoureux
“It’s due to go up for auction in two months, but we would be willing to accept an outright option at twenty million.”
Exquisite violin, image for the short story, ‘Uncle Charles’, written by The Flash Fiction Ponder.
From its beautiful contour to its fine detail, the first word to come to mind; exquisite. A true work of master craftsmanship. But Peter, a distinguished older gentleman, hadn’t travelled over a thousand miles for a Stradivarius.
“Exquisite,” Peter replied, “but I’m actually here for another violin you recently came in possession of. I called earlier.”
Slightly perplexed, the dealer of luxury goods glanced at his record book. “Ah, yes, Mr. Lundstrom. One moment, please, I’ll have a look in the back.”
With the utmost of care the Strad was closed up tight and taken away, a couple of minutes later the dealer returning with a tone of distaste. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake, Mr. Lundstrom. This… fiddle, is the only other piece we have at the moment. My sincerest apologies. Sometimes, very rarely, mind you, we unintentionally acquire a less-than-stellar item. Perhaps—”
Peter reached out. “Please, may I?”
This time it was he who displayed such a gentle touch, the poor man’s violin about a hundred and fifty years younger than the Strad yet appearing more weathered. He turned the instrument over and read with a nostalgic whisper the name carved into its back. “Ingalls.”
“Is that the name of the crafter,” the dealer asked. “I’ve never heard of him.”
With such reverence Peter turned the violin back over and just stared. At its body, its neck, its strings. “Crafter of violins, no. Crafter of the man standing before you, yes.”
Beginning to notice the sentimental value Peter was starting to display, the dealer’s salesman nature began to show. “I’m sure we can come to a fair price, Mr. Lundstrom.”
“Indeed, we already have,” Peter replied as he took his eyes off the violin long enough to show he was not one to haggle with. “A grand. Already confirmed over the phone.”
The dealer looked back at his record book, spotted the $1k written within the margins.
“Of course, Mr Lundstrom. May I ask, what makes this piece so special?”
Peter looked to the box the violin called home, lightly running his fingertips over it and the old pillow inside used for cushioning before picking up the bow and softly placing it on the strings of its counterpart.
With closed eyes Peter began to play a few notes, the level of emotion across his face not dared interrupted by the dealer.
He opened his eyes and again affixed them down upon the treasure in his hands.
“This violin, this fiddle, belonged to Charles Ingalls, a man of integrity beyond reproach.
“When I was a mere boy, my father sent me to a rural town known as Walnut Grove for a summer, to get, in his words, ‘a sense of values’. My uncle owned a store out there, so I stayed with him for a few days, but for some reason I can’t recall, more than likely having to do with my mischievous behavior, I was sent to work on his friend Charles’ farm.
Peter Lundstrom from the Little House on the Prairie episode ‘The Stranger’, image for the short story ‘Uncle Charles’, written by The Flash Fiction Ponder.
“Mind you, for a privileged preppy this was no day at the park, calluses and blisters, working from sunup to sundown, it was a world I wasn’t used to. But before long I was shown something else I wasn’t used to; love.
Charles Ingalls playing fiddle, image for the short story ‘Uncle Charles’, written by The Flash Fiction Ponder.
“Although he wasn’t kin, Charles Ingalls, who I started calling Uncle Charles, was more of an uncle, a father, an anything I ever had before this time. And it was in that little house on that prairie where he and his family taught me the value of hard work, true character, love.
The Ingalls Family from Little House on the Prairie, for the short story ‘Uncle Charles’, written by The Flash Fiction Ponder.
“They didn’t have much. In fact at times they hardly had anything at all, Uncle Charles pouring out through this fiddle their hardships which seemed insurmountable, the level of perseverance shown unimaginable, all endured with an eternal optimistic spirit, ending each evening’s gathering with uplifting melodies that would propel one to a hope of a better tomorrow.
“This has within it the soul of The Ingalls Family, my dear boy. Sure it lacks the perfected detail which can be found in one of your Stradivarius’, but this is precisely what makes it special, being an actual embodiment of the human condition.
Chuck Walsh, a writer from South Carolina, called in to discuss his latest release, Black Mingo Creek. From his website:
“I developed a
passion for writing in 2004 after my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. I
decided I wanted to write something to show how much she meant to me. And so, A
Passage Back was born. The book is a tale about Chase Watson, who has an
accident after the death of his mother, sending him back in time to when he was
a boy. It’s a chance to test the question, “Wouldn’t it be great to go
back in time, knowing then what you know now?” From there the writing bug
had me in its grasp, and I haven’t slowed down. I love fiction, and I love to
write stories that are deep in prose and storyline. I truly want the reader to
know intimately each and every character in my books. I want each word,
sentence, paragraph, and chapter to have meaning and purpose. I hope you enjoy
reading my books.”
A product of the Detroit area, Wayne State University, and Eastern Michigan University, Paul Reeves, Ed.D, has spent over 30 years as a professional educator and musician, as well as his work as a radio talk show host and author.
IMPACT RADIO USA provides the best in news, talk, sports, and music 24 hours a day, 52 weeks per year. Launched in the spring of 2017, their goal is to keep you as the most informed Internet Radio audience. Click on the link below for the station’s complete show lineup!
Kim also host her own radio show, “Crushing 40”, live on Thursday at 2:00 pm EDT
(repeated seven days a
week at 2:00 pm EDT)
To hear “Crushing 40” and other great shows in Impact Radio USA go to: https://www.impactradiousa.com Click on LISTEN NOW!
Kimberly Love, an author from Windsor, Ontario, called in to discuss her latest release, “You Taste Like Whiskey and Sunshine”, as well as her upcoming projects and the creative process.
From her Amazon
page, “WHAT MAKES THIS BOOK AWESOME? There’s an evil queen, a demented
father, some amateur boxing and a trailer park story. Even a silver fox makes
an appearance. Why wouldn’t that entice you? If you are looking for something
different from the rest of the books out there, something that might make you
question your sanity then you will love this book. Seriously!
The comedic and
sassy perspective will make you see things differently, and you may even find
yourself laughing out loud. It’s a good story and one that I truly believe
needs to be told. Period. It’s dark, raw and takes you to a door that keeps all
my innermost secrets. I hope that the book makes you laugh, makes you cry, and
inspires you to be the best version of yourself.”
To learn more about Kimberly Love and to order her book, please visit her website at:
A product of the Detroit area, Wayne State University, and Eastern Michigan University, Paul Reeves, Ed.D, has spent over 30 years as a professional educator and musician, as well as his work as a radio talk show host and author.
IMPACT RADIO USA provides the best in news, talk, sports, and music 24 hours a day, 52 weeks per year. Launched in the spring of 2017, their goal is to keep you as the most informed Internet Radio audience. Click on the link below for the station’s complete show lineup!
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Anthem of Man’s Dying Day
By Sarah Anne Steckel
The divine and otherworldly being hovered far up above the bustling seaside metropolitan city, completely unseen to the human eye, as he watched the ant-sized men and women as they scurried to and fro in their menial daily lives. His obsidian wings gently flapped to call forth the twilight and blanket the sky, causing the city lights to rage and burn like fire against its radiant darkness. Clutched firmly in between his hands was a leather-bound tomb, and in his free hand was a quill pen with a single vulture feather; for he wasn’t an ordinary ethereal man but an angel of death, and it was his job to write down the death of man.
Off in the distance there was the low rumbling of thunder, and from his high vantage point he was able to witness the turbulent storm as it rolled in across the eerily calm ocean front. The ocean air grew thick and heavy, as waves that only grew larger and larger began to crash angrily against the somber sandy beach. The maleficent gray clouds masked by the darkness of the night, plump and heavy with rain, opened up their mouths and spewed hail and flooding rain on the civilians down below. Chaos erupted within the streets as individual blocks of power began to experience mass power outages at a single time.
The omnipotent being began writing on the pages of his book, his keen and wary eye on the tsunami that had formed in the center of the ocean, its epic size continuing to rapidly grow as it traveled further inland. The sounds of sirens caused his attention to shift to the humans below him as they screamed and wailed, their city streets already flooding with a mixture of rainwater and sewage. What remained of the city lights flickered and died, leaving the metropolitan metropolis lifeless and dark; the city went eerily silent, the literal calm before the storm.
The tidal wave arched high above the tallest building, casting a shade even in the darkness of night across the entire island. The celestial man gracefully flapped his wings a second time, pausing briefly in his writings to watch the exact moment that the water crested over and descended down on the silent city. A bolt of lightning illuminated the sky with its bright, electrifying blue-hued brilliance, capturing the wave as it struck the tallest skyscraper, the water’s weight toppling the iron-rod building as if it were made of straw.
The humans below screamed and bellowed as the water swallowed entire buildings and blocks whole, dragging them along with their occupants helplessly into the hungry sea. Whatever had remained after the first wave was quickly demolished by the second tidal wave that bludgeoned the already welted and deliberated streets; there was less of a human rebuttal now, their cries and pleas only a murmur in his ear. He made a few more scores in his epic tomb, listening as the rumbling of thunder began to roll north.
The archangelic man smoothly flapped his obsidian wings a final time and closed his book; observing how the once lively and bustling city and all of its scurrying and busy creatures quickly perished. He could feel their restless souls as they still continued to cry on, unwilling to accept the truth that they all had died. He felt no remorse for them, this was a job that he was sent to do, and dutifully he obliged. In silence he placed his vulture quill pen behind his ear and took flight. Just like he arrived, Azrael, the angel of Death, departed the human world unnoticed but sure that he would be called back once again to dutifully record the anthem of man’s dying day.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Any Port in a Storm
By Kenneth Lawson
Two more palm trees came crashing down on the beach as the computer finished final preparations for automatic shutdown. The automated weather station had triggered a shutdown when the rains and winds had hit certain marks.
The solar panels and a small wind turbine, that generated power that ran the inverters and batteries that ran the station, began to shake on their foundations as the winds and rains picked up.
Meanwhile, deep inside the stone and concrete building, an automated computer had been monitoring communications on the tiny island of Leetown, a private island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. The waves began to crash against the outside of the building. Within minutes the tiny island was covered in twenty feet of water which crashed over and through everything. While most of the smaller less well-built buildings lay flat in a matter of minutes, the old stone-and-block building didn’t completely submit to the water. It remained standing.
However, the ancient mortar-and-cement casing did partially give way to the intense weight and pressure of the water as it swept across the small island. Water found its way into every little nook and cranny that had an opening at all, forcing blocks and stones to shift and let in more water. When it was done, three feet of water made itself home throughout the tiny building. Computers and electronics were waterlogged and fried.
Several weeks later, Cole Webber made his way back to the tiny island.
In the weeks following the storm, he had made a financial killing off the data siphoned off the internet and private networks he had been tapping into for several months. The cost to set up the substation had been high. But the need for secrecy was higher. This particular island had been chosen because of its location to the main backbone of the internet running under the ocean and to the nearest land-based server center—thus allowing him direct access to the main trunk traffic of the internet and the ability to piggyback on others who were spying on the internet. Also because it was so far out in the middle of nowhere, it would never occur to them that anyone would set up a hardware system to tap into the servers.
The usefulness of the substation was now past. He had what he needed from it, and with the storm destroying everything, he thought it was time to come in and rip everything out.
As he expected, the island was a total washout. By now most of the water had subsided and found its way back to the ocean. However, there were still pockets where several feet of water sat and the bugs were making themselves at home.
The solar panels and inverters and all of the external hardware that had run the small computer station were in ruins outside the building.
Pushing the door open, he was greeted with water up to his knees. The water came gushing out of the door around his legs. Using his flashlight he looked around inside the small building.
There on the far wall, mounted high, was a single monitor, its cords dangling against the wall. To his surprise, a single light was flashing. The screen had a small blinking oblong dot in the upper left corner. Cole recognized it instantly as a DOS prompt.
Stepping into the room, now covered with slime and mud, he saw computer components lying all over the tables and floor. He approached the one screen still working.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Boxer Briefs
By Enzo Stephens
Everyone knew a real crap-storm was imminent, but the real question in the mind of Greedy O’Shamlin was when.
Because when mattered to Greedy.
Greedy played the odds, always, and since he was a perpetual betting man, he was betting that the raw unbridled fury of nature would take its sweet time making landfall, thereby screwing up all sorts of stuff with limitless tons of dirty water. Whether the water fell from the sky or washed up from the sea, well, it was still dirty, and Greedy really had no affinity for dirty water.
But still …
Because while Greedy loved playing against the Fates, he hated filth more. It’s why he lived alone and it’s why he was quite happy living alone. Simply put, people were filthy.
And so Greedy reveled in the steaming pellets of clean water that pummeled his skin, and yet, a tiny niggle of doubt squirmed around in the reptilian part of his calculating brain.
That doubt had a little but persistent voice that kept repeating stuff like, ‘you need to get outta here, dumb-ass,’ and ‘it’s a freaking Category-5 hurricane, dumb-ass.’
Greedy decided to respond to that small, annoying seed of doubt by lathering his long, blond hair in a wonderful, enriching, lavender shampoo. Tea-tree oils evoked a tingle on his scalp that was quite pleasant.
Alas, the hot-water tank had reached its limit and the streaming shower began to grow tepid in temperature, and so Greedy rinsed his tresses until they squeaked between his pressing fingers.
He tapped the shower control to OFF, slid the opaque glass door open soundlessly, and stepped onto heated marble flooring, eschewing a bath sheet in favor of air drying, and waited for the fog to clear from the vanity mirrors on two walls of his custom bathroom. He really hit a hard workout earlier in the morning with great focus on his triceps, shoulders and quads, and he wanted to see the fruits of his labor.
In the interim, Greedy decided to brush his teeth for the fourth time on this day—a bit excessive, but filth had a way of hanging on stubbornly between one’s teeth. It was when he shut down his sonic toothbrush that he heard a very jarring noise from the exterior of his home, one that certainly warranted further investigation.
He pulled a pair of boxer-briefs from a hook over the door, stepped first his right foot through and—
The jarring noise again! Sounded like parts were being ripped off the house itself, and there was some kind of outrageous roaring going on out there, and right at that second Greedy felt that it was time to stop playing the odds and maybe expedite matters to the point of a rapidly-ensuing personal evacuation.
The grubby cat can fend for itself.
He hoisted that left knee up to jam his left foot through the briefs and the big toe somehow got stuck and then Greedy wobbled, losing his balance, and he reached his hand out to halt his fall but missed the granite vanity completely and saw the unyielding vanity surface rushing up toward his view and then…
Blackness.
Wake up already!
“Huh?” Greedy opened his eyes with the memory of what he saw last vivid in his brain, and he completely expected to be in a hospital or something, or at the least, lying sprawled out on his bathroom floor, thankful for the warm tiled floor.
But that’s not what Greedy saw, not at all. What greeted Greedy’s view was … gray. Like everything was gray. He looked around—absently noting that he had full movement of his neck, which meant that his neck was not broken, and saw gray.
No floor, no ground, no walls, no outside or inside, no ceiling, no sun. Nothing. Just gray. What the—
So, you were doing something pretty stupid there.
“What? Who’s talking?”
Allow me to answer your question with a question. Do you know your name?
“What kind of stupid question is that? Am I paralyzed or something?”
Or something. Now, your name please.
“It’s Greedy O’Sh … wait a minute; hold on a sec.”
Take your time, I’ve got all the time you can imagine.
“Something’s off. I remember my name being ‘Greedy,’ but I remember something else too, something … older?”
Now you’re getting there. Keep working at it.
“Why the fu—”
Don’t allow yourself to get distracted by your circumstance. Your name? WHAT IS YOUR NAME?
“Okay, okay, don’t get your panties all in a bunch—”
When you figure out WHO you are, you’ll realize just how inappropriate that comment is, Child.
And yes, there! Just a tiny little thread right at the edge of Greedy’s memory, an old thing that he didn’t really understand (like quantum physics or women), but he found that little niggling thing and latched onto it tenaciously.
“It’s Jrgshddl.” He shook his head, or at least it felt like he shook his head. “Did I just say that?”
Welcome home, Jrgshddl.
“Wait. Am I … dead?”
Your physical shell is lifeless and will be returned to the earth by fire.
“Oh shi … er, crap! So what is this … place, and who the heck are you?”
You already know the answers to those questions, Jrgshddl.
“Are you … God?”
You know I am.
Greedy/Jrgshddl’s mind reeled. He struggled to absorb and understand everything that happened and that was now happening, but … so many questions! “Okay, God. So what is this place and what’s the plan for me now?”
You should remember that this is just a holding place for you. It’s a place for you to rest and reflect and to understand your place and remember your progression.
“So, like Purgatory.”
You would do well to not ascribe your silly Catholic rituals and fantasies to me, Child.
“Well, I’ve just had my pee-pee slapped by God Himself.”
You no longer have a pee-pee. In fact, you no longer have a physical body.
“I was being figurative, not literal.”
Yes, Jrgshddl, you’ve been like that since I gave you your first spark of life.
“So, um, God? Do you mind if I take some time here to try to get my head wrapped around all this?”
Listen to me now, Child. Your physical shell is gone. Dead. Reduced to ash. You have to let go and do so as soon as you can. Once you let go of your physical trappings, you’ll trigger the ancient memories you’re supposed to trigger, and then we can move on to the next phase for you.
Without a physical environment, Greedy was at a bit of a loss as to what exactly he should do. Pace? That seemed to work for him when he was … alive. Sit down? On what, and where? There’s nothing—
That’s correct, Jrgshddl, there’s nothing. I designed this place like that to make it easier to let go.
“Well you certainly did a fine job.” No response. As Jrgshddl attempted to look around and be confronted by nothingness, he tried to push, or project his mind out from himself and into the nothingness.
Why not? There was nothing else to do. But the odd thing—as if any of this wasn’t odd anyway, was that as Jrgshddl tried to expand his consciousness, the memories of his life as Greedy O’Shamlin seemed to flit away. This was a gradual thing and it continued until Jrgshddl’s mind was soothed and integrated with the surroundings, the surroundings of nothingness.
Jrgshddl?
“Yes, God.”
That’s much better, Jrgshddl. Now we can talk.
“I’m all ears, God.”
I always did enjoy your humor, Child. But now we must be serious. In your life as Greedy O’Shamlin, well, you left a bit to be desired.
“In my defense, nobody’s perfect. Well, nobody, except for you and Jesus.”
Child, there is no need to defend. I know all and I see all. I knew what was in your heart from its first throb until you rejoined me here. I’ve known it for ages, Jrgshddl, and I will know it when you finally pass to the next stage in your evolution.
“Which is what?”
Which is not for you to know yet. But I will say that I gave you an illustration of what’s next for Mankind in my Word, which you call the Bible.
“Riddles! Why not just come out and give up the deets?”
Because you are not yet ready and you have to return.
“Well, I don’t see the problem because I won’t remember all this anyway.”
No, Child, that’s not accurate at all. Allowing a slight bit of remembrance is what helps Mankind to elevate themselves to their next phase. So yes, you will remember just a bit more than last time, and you’ll be that much closer.
“This seems like a colossal time-suck to me. I mean, why all the back and forth, why all the life and then death? Why not just bump us up to that next stage without all this … stuff?”
Jrgshddl, in the world of the living, there is a metal that you pull from the earth. It is beautiful and pure and clean, and Mankind treasures it. It is called ‘silver.’
“Okay, sure. I’ve had some silver.”
Do you think it comes from the earth shiny and beautiful? It does not. To create the beautiful metal, the impurities have to be removed from the ore. That is done through fire, which is called ‘refiner’s fire.’
“Okay, so I’m not really getting all this yet—”
Truly refining that metal takes more than one pass through the refiner’s fire, Child. You, and all of Mankind, are like that ore that’s pulled from the earth—full of wonderful potential and beauty as well as impurities.
“So going back and forth like this will remove impurities?”
Absolutely. So if this ‘pass’ cleanses you of all your impurities, no further refining will be needed and you can move on.
God’s thoughts echoed in Jrgshddl’s mind with the impact of a gong on a distant mountain just as a blast of shockingly cold seawater engulfed him and he sank below the surface of an extremely angry sea.
He kicked his legs and feet frantically and finally broke free of the riotous surf and opened his eyes in shock and then wonder. A raging deluge of rain hammered the ocean, which protested by heaving gigantic surges and surf back at the sky, which responded with insanely powerful winds and jagged bolts of lightning.
And Jrgshddl was right in the middle of it.
He kicked himself in a circle, feeling like a microbe against the heaving vastness of the seas, amazed that he was able to keep his head above water, and spied a red lifeboat with lights flashing fore and aft, bouncing around on surf determined to crush the small craft.
It was durable though—built to withstand a hurricane! He struck out toward the boat, no more than one hundred feet from it and closing in, when he heard voices.
He looked toward the boat, seeing the door ajar; long hair whipping around, and a familiar face etched with frantic worry screaming his name, and he longed to go to her.
“Come on, Jordon, COME ON!”
Jordon?
He knifed through the pounding storm surge, fighting crisscrossing undercurrents that strove to yank him under as exhaustion began stealing over him and then …
Small hands snagged the collar of his shirt and pulled him toward the craft and he pushed and clawed and climbed to be free of the angry hands of the sea until he fell forward on top of the woman who held him violently, clinging with every ounce of desperate strength.
He gasped, shaking saltwater from his mouth that was causing his belly to rumble. “You saved me. You saved my life.”
She kissed him. Deeply with frantic passion. “No way was I letting you go, Jordy. It wasn’t your time, my love.”
Together the two kicked the hatch door shut and held each other as the Category-5 storm raged.
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