Tales From Another Planet

One million words could not express What one heart holds for you One million small requests That you always followed through Every time and every place Where I felt your sweet embrace Exists for every time to come Within my mind There's no where this love can hide There's nothing my heart can do It's bursting out and breaking through Until I think I'll die if I do Or die if I don't see you One million things to do now Waiting for your return One million broken vows And people I have hurt Everything and everyone Tell me that I can't go on But you show me who I am and  Heal my heart One million more days And yet I still will wait One million tired and poor And just one more You said you'd come back for me Even if you had to leave One million behind And so I know You are one in a million mine

When I'm lost and broken Too afraid to move on Stuck in my past No matter the last Words you said You reached down again today Lifted up my head And when I couldn't speak You touched my lips To free me No more shame You've taken away my pain With Your name No more sin You've given me weapons and Strength to win When I'm poor and undone Empty and feeling down Stuck on myself You knew the cost Sent your Son Saved By Faith alone 

As I grow older, but am still very young I take tiny steps forward, But I'm nowhere near done I can see more clearly, love more dearly, But still so easily Break down and blow up

If there's one thing I've been thinking of more than usual lately, it's the sad and strange fact that all of us are human. We hold some people up to higher standards for whatever reason (pastors, politicians, police, etc.) However, even those most austere and auspicious, are still only people. People with sin. People with personalities and passions. People with ideology and false theology and tendencies and past experiences and misinformation. Isn't it a beautiful and strange thing?

As told by almost 3-year old J.P.C. Daniel came in the sunroom. A chicken crossed the road. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And, some walls. Now, if a chicken crossed the road, he would eat a lamp. And now, the chicken got one of those (pointing to some circles on the keyboard)  and peeked out of his hole and pressed "w". Uh-huh, duvvle u. Now, the chicken would like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And Clifford. He jumps. Now, he does typing. tipo0ujuotyiokihfop;k99iuty9juutyyp0th6yo6ui97ik7uoup7u[0ouhohoki7upio6uji7u A peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Hmmmm, Now, a chicken crossed the road and ate it. Ummm, the chicken had a baby. Yeah, that what I said. And then he pushed numbers. 5885866565555555555554615555555555522222222222222222222222222222222222 The chicken typed. And then he pressed numbers. He got a phone and pressed numbers. He was calling 2222 and then a man hear him. And then, he pressed numbers again. The End That was my last story.

The Case of the Missing Meatballs As narrated by DC One day, I was in the kitchen in my house. And then, I wanted to go into the living room. And then, I gone back into the kitchen, and then I saw my meatballs. They were gone. I’ll give you some clues: His name is Algebra and he was a mean guy. He liked meatballs and he would like 1,000 meatballs, and I had the mix for that. And so he stole the mix. So, I had to buy some more mix, and then he stole the mix again. Again, and again, and again he did that. Then I said, “Crazy typing!” Then I wanted to do that… Fbyugenhnfdnxynycfnyfxyxxxjmnnnnnn We tried to kill Algebra. And then, and then, he almost got dead. But, he actually had a gun, and I died, because he shooted at me. And he shooted at mommy too. And then, he shooted Daddy. And then, he shooted our grandparents. So, Gran and Pa are dead. A fairy came and got Daddy alive, because God helped him. Then the police, which was...

If you're interested in an overly prosaic introduction to The Tower, from a different perspective, then here it is. Teenage angst is quite an intriguing concept. It does make you wonder why all the YA novels seem to be distopian in nature. By- K. A. Reis               The pulse of the desert’s heat reminded her, oddly enough, of the beginnings of her long journey. She reminisced about that experience: the long gray wool coat she had worn to brace against the frigid air outside, the questioning looks on the faces of the receptionists and agents at the long functional counter as she swept one perfectly manicured hand through her long dark hair. The girls and boys in their smug blue uniforms glanced up at her from their files, folders, and phones. As they looked at her, she saw in their faces a mixture of incredulity and admiration. Perhaps they were actually thinking something else, but that was what she saw in her unusually emotional s...

I found this gem from my teenage years, and did some mild editing.  There was a time in my life when I was not quite happy with the person I was. I thought that no matter how educated or sophisticated I was, I was still just another middle class white girl. My parents made enough money for us to live in comfort, but not in style, and I grew up as a penny-pinching product of their tight-fisted lifestyle. For some reason, my younger sister grew up with a much looser pocket, but all will be told in its proper time. For now it is sufficient to say that certain events have changed my perspective of my past, and my hopes and dreams for the future. It was obvious from the first time I picked up a book that I was to be forever a slave of printed words. In the beginning, children’s books had very little appeal to me. I was much more interested in whatever novel was currently causing my mother to ignore me. Fortunately, most of these novels were safe for a little girl’s eyes and act...

All I have belongs to God All He gives me freely All the grace I don't deserve All the love I'm feeling Dancing circles round and round I lift my arms up, falling down Sheltered in His loving arms I feel the scars that saved me Nothing I have belongs to me, But He has given oh so freely Only by grace can I be saved I'm a dying wreck, pulled from the grave Please accept this song of praise The only thing I can give I give my heart, my life, my soul Worth nothing And I say thank You, thank You, thank You But my thanks are empty I sing songs of praise, and lift my open hands All that I can give, You already have Just take me, and all I am

One late spring day, a burst of warmer weather filled the streets of New York City with even more people than usual. Dr. Patrick Armstrong, a noted psychiatrist, and son of a noted psychiatrist, had a cancellation. One of his patients, who had been suffering from severe Seasonal Affectiveness Disorder, decided that it would be a lot cheaper to go to the park and enjoy the sunshine. Dr. Armstrong did charge a small ($50) cancellation fee, but it was still cheaper than an hour’s session, and arguably more pleasant, depending on which patient was arguing.             Dr. Armstrong decided to take a small rest break himself and get some exercise and a cup of joe. Despite the fact that there was a cart-style Starbucks actually in his building, he decided to walk to the larger Starbucks a few blocks away, where the baristas knew him by name, and several patients held a self-help group on Friday nights. When the weather was bad, conven...

This social economy, it ain't workin' out for me I ain't got nothin' to offer anybody No smarts, no skills, ain't got no money Just my hand, my feet, my humility On the other hand, I've got it all figured out My faith, my family, my wisdom, no doubt The theologians and preachers who shout Don't have anything more than my clout But when it comes down to it,       the truth is this, The final trumpet and shouts and      all will be bliss. In heaven - no different by clothes      or by creed, Our houses are built based on      what we believe. No matter what side of the fence       you may fall, Don't let your life pass without      giving your all. All your fears, all your shame, all your doubt,       all your strength, All your pride, all your mind, all your love      in His name.

Going through some of my files recently I realized that I had two very similar storylines going on at the same time. Apparently I updated the story (or redid it based on the same fragment of original writing) at some point, but now I can't decide which version I like better. This is the first chapter of "Fighting Destiny", and I've linked to the previous blog post with "Flashes" as well. Read both, then vote for your favorite! Chapter One The trees were in full bloom in Whitney’s neighborhood, proving the subdivision’s name, White Blossom, to be incredibly apt. Although some might think the name a bit prosaic, the tree lined streets covered in April’s snowfall of flower petals touched Whitney’s heart and lifted her mood. She leaned gently into each turn, enjoying every minute of her short drive, and then pulled a little too quickly into her steep driveway. She never used the cavernous and often spooky garage, so she hopped out of the car, locked the d...

This is officially my 200th blog post, so I thought I'd do a quick run-down of the top 5 blog posts (by page views). Links are included if you happened to miss out or need a refresher. It's hard to believe that this post is already my 200th. I do post frequently, although not always everyday. I've settled into a rhythm of about 4 per week, usually skipping Wednesdays. However, since this is a special occasion, you get an extra blog post just for Hump Day today! Top Five Blog Posts With the most page views by a fairly large margin, we have Cartoon Saving the World  from a Poetry/Fiction Friday post way back in July. I would classify it as an unfinished extremely brief story idea, or maybe it is finished with a choose your own style ending. Coming in at a distant second is  The Problem with a Social Economy. Next we have a tie between  Sick Day  and Roofing Woes . A very close 5th is  Concert Goings  (I keep trying to have my husband guest post about ...

Lately, I've started considering myself a writer. I know, with almost 200 blog posts, wouldn't I have considered myself that a bit earlier? So, I started thinking about what I thought a writer was, and when you can consider yourself a writer. Creativity I used to think that creativity was  a must when it came to being a writer. In my everyday life, I don't really think about myself as a terribly creative person. I can't draw or paint very well, and I'm not great at designing things with my hands. Then, I think about what this blog was originally designed and named for, to give a glimpse into my crazy, strange thought life. For instance, the other night I woke up from a dream in which a kitchen appliance made an appearance. No ordinary kitchen appliance, this gadget could cook an egg and make coffee at the same time! It also had a separate insert if you wanted to make applesauce or apple butter (don't ask me why). So, maybe I am a bit creative. Unfortunat...

God help me think of You best Not going over my to do list Or my who's better than who fest Or my self-centered subconscious When waves of life cross my path And no one knows my name You hold Your face towards me And wipe away my shame No gift of mine No guilty scribe No praise I lift Can cross the rift Until Your blood Grace like a flood Washed me whole Cleansed my soul Made me new And more like You So today I sit here Thinking of You

I got to thinking last night about something I read in the teacher's guide for my Kindergartner's lesson plan over the new few days. It talked about drawing a self portrait and then they would dictate some "inside" character qualities. The point of the art project was to talk about a Bible character (Saul) who was pretty on the outside, but ugly on the inside. And it got me thinking about whether I wanted to teach that to my 5 year old. Because the truth is, that we are all ugly on the inside. Some of us may appear pretty on the inside, because we're nice to others, or we give money or time to various charities. Some of us may appear ugly on the inside because we're angry or sad or selfish. But, the truth is, that not one person on this planet is truly pretty on the inside, at least without Jesus. That's the truth that Jesus argued with the Pharisees about. That's the truth that un-churched Americans argue with "Christians" about. That...

It's easy to remember God when you're going through the darkest pain. You can shout and yell and ask for help and He saves you yet again. Saves you from your doubt and rage and selfish ways. Rescues you from sin and heals your body, soul, and mind. Then, when things are going well and you feel whole and healed, You continue on your own way and ignore what He has done. You thank yourself for all you've earned and neglect what He has given. You check the boxes, sign the checks, and admire all you have. Subtly and sneakily, pride and sin creep in around you. Tempting you and testing you and asking you whether God really said... Did He really say you couldn't do this, or earn it on your own? Do you need Him now, or are you too busy, can't you just keep on? It's difficult to say what God has planned for you. Does He want you to talk to someone, go somewhere, do something? Are you listening to what He says, or doing what you want to do? Think back to...

            Carmen woke early on Saturday morning, breathing a deep, relaxed sigh. Saturdays were the best days of her life. Monday through Friday she articulated, gesticulated, frantically took notes, ran wild missions around town, and slept in her tiny, cramped studio apartment in the city. Reading the dry depositions of a lawyer’s life in addition to all of the physically stressful work kept her up late in the night.             Nearly every Friday afternoon, however, when she felt the strain, pressure, and emotions of the week wearing down her buoyant soul, she turned her thoughts and plans to the one person that she knew could ease the daily grind. She would leave her cell phone in the desk drawer and pack a small traveling bag to go visit Lexia at their country villa.             This morning, like most weekend mornings in the country, C...

After relaxing for awhile with Christine, Karen finally worked up the nerve to call the detective. She dialed the number, expecting to get an answering machine of some kind, or even expecting it to just be the main phone line for the police station. She was somewhat surprised when the detective himself answered the phone. “Hey, this is Pat. What’s up?” “Umm, I’m looking for Detective Patrick Smith?” Karen hated when she sounded like a child on the phone. She tried to be more professional, “I’m returning your phone call regarding the Miles Tanner case.” “Eh, alright. Hold on a second.” In the background, Karen heard his talking with a woman, she wondered

Since I am out of town for a few days, I'm interrupting our normally scheduled chapter of Contemporaries with something a little different. This is a small introduction to a piece I had been working on last year about a woman who has a condition which causes here to hyper-focus on her senses, but seem a bit off in the real world.             I am awake at 6:01 AM. I feel the weak morning sun gently warming my left arm. My right ear is pressed against a firm, silky pillow. I listen to my heartbeat echo slowly, one-an-two-an-three. At 6:03 AM my eyes slowly open. I blink three times, feeling the softness of my lashes brush my skin and the stiffness of sleep in my movements.             I smile as I glimpse the familiar mint green wall. I have repainted it several times, but always the same lightest green to wake up to in the morning. The semi-sheer curtains allow the warmt...