Paraclete’s Promise- Chapter 5: Light In The Darkness


Chapter 5 wraps up our little hero’s first adventure. If you need to be brought up to speed, I encourage you to visit the previous chapters. If you truly like what you’ve read thus far, why not consider buying a copy of my book. It’s available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Apple. Thanks for sticking by me, friends.

Chapters 1 & 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4


5—Light In The Darkness

The dive helmet proved to be the coolest piece of equipment, of the entire suit. Once he slid the helmet over his head, the familiar computer voice spoke within the helmet’s audio system, as the device automatically ran through a series of diagnostic checks. Inside the bug-eye visors, a checklist scrolled down, accompanying the voice.


Tim’s ears popped as the helmet gently squeezed around his neck; and under his jaw.


Jonah’s voice filled the hidden speakers within the helmet.

“Let’s go. Time’s wasting. I’m setting the wet room to submerge in 20 seconds.”

Tim descended the ladder into the wet room. The inner floor hatch, with the peep hole in the center, slowly closed and sealed with an airtight woosh.

“Wet room submerging in 5, 4, 3, 2,” Jonah counted.

Oval slates along the smooth stainless steel walls opened, sending a flush of sea water into the tiny room. A flash of panic ran up Tim’s spine as the room quickly filled. He groped for something to hold on to, and braced for the cold shock of sea water.

“I never understood why this always frightened you, Tim.” Jonah said. “After dozens of missions, you’re still jumpy when the wet room fills.”

As the water rose over his waist, then his chest, and up to his helmet, Tim closed his eyes and held his breath, waiting for the helmet to spring a leak and fill with salt water. When he couldn’t hold out any longer, he inhaled deep, breathing in cool, clean air. He opened his eyes in time to see Jonah swimming out of the wet room, through the bottom hatch, into the darkness of the sea.

“The water’s not freezing,” he said.

“Of course it is. The suit’s regulating your temperature, you dope. C’mon, let’s go.”

As he followed Jonah through the open hatch, his fingers again performed a series of unknown, but familiar taps, pressing buttons on the left side of his belt. The hatch slowly swung shut locking them outside of the pod’s protective hull. At the same time, Tim’s helmet lit up a brilliant green inside. The shrouded darkness of the sea could now be seen in a green hue that showed everything within a radius of 200 feet, as clearly as daylight topside.

“I see you! I see the cave below. Wow!”

Tim stopped stroking and hovered in place. He spun from side to side, looking every-which-way possible, in awe of the sights to be seen in this strange new world. Everything was alive with activity. Deep sea sharks, 100 feet above the pod, swam around in their own patterns just as the fish at the Coney Island Aquarium had done when he’d gone to the park for his 6th birthday. The base of the mountain was out of sight, but he could still make out bubbles floating up from what must be its bottom.  Jonah hovered a few yards out from Tim’s position, anxiously awaiting his partner.

“Tim, I’ll feel a lot better if you save the sightseeing for later. We’ve got to get the treasure back to the pod.”

“What’s the rush Jonah? I’m just getting used to this. Besides, it’s not going anywhere I don’t think.”

“I’m not worried about the treasure walking off without us, Tim. I’m worried that we’re not the only intelligent creatures alone down here anymore.”

The crocodile; how had he forgotten so soon? Terror settled over Tim again. He was aware of the vast emptiness surrounding them both. That creature could be watching them right this moment, just outside the range of their hyper vision goggles. Tim punched a sequence into his belt’s computer. The system responded.


Against his hips, two tiny triangular slots—like inverted pop tops he’d seen on the table salt canisters Mom bought from the grocery store—suddenly flipped open on the belt. Miniature ports drop down out of the slots. In the far corner of each bug-eye visor, an energy gauge displayed two vertical bars; one for each thrust propeller. Tim’s helmet hummed as the tiny engines prepared to fire.

“Easy on the throttle, Tim. We’ll need to save energy for the journey back up to the pod, while we carry the chest together. Use just enough boost for a quick start, okay?”

“How big is it, Jonah?”

“Well, let’s just say we’re both going to have a time dragging it out of the cave.”

Tim stretched out in a diving pose. He glanced at Jonah, giving him two thumbs-up.

“Thrusters fire,” he said.


The belt tightened against his waist as the thrusters exploded, propelling him through the water at a blinding speed. There was a sudden jerk on the top of his helmet, as the leather flap extended. Tim turned his head left, toward Jonah. His suit responded by changing his trajectory, speeding him toward his partner.

“Watch yourself, Tim!” Jonah yelled over the radio. “Get it together, bro. What’s gotten into you?”

Tim shifted again, turning his head in the direction of the cave below. It was hard to keep his limbs in line with the target at such speeds. Behind the visors, a number display read 70mph and continued climbing. The cave entrance, a distant speck a moment ago, now seemed as large as a Ferris wheel circle.

“Back off of the throttle Tim. We can swim the rest of the way into the cave.”

“Roger than, Jonah. Thrusters stop.”


The two explorers swam for the mountain cave, frequently watching over their shoulders for any signs of movement. Close to the entrance, a light-bulb fish appeared from behind a high crop of mountain rock, startling Tim.

“Stay sharp, Tim. I think this cave might be the beast’s lair. We’re in dangerous territory here, so let’s watch each other’s backs.”

As they swam up the hollowed shaft of the cave, the walls closed in. The ceiling and floor of the cave also condensed. The girth of the huge cave slowly diminished.

“Jonah, I don’t like it. We’ve got nowhere to run if he’s here.” Tim fought against the fear rising within his heart.

I am still with you.

“Who said that?” Tim shouted, as he stopped stroking and spun around.

“Who said what?” Jonah asked. “C’mon, stay with me here. It’s just the two of us.”

“Jonah, someone else has been speaking to me since…well since I woke up back at the control console.”

“I knew it!” Jonah yelled.

“Well who is it? Whoever he is, he’s beginning to creep me out.”

“I knew you fell asleep while I was down here alone! Tim, that crocodile could’ve eaten me alive while you were snoozing up there. You have to watch my back at all times.”

“Jonah, I’m telling you, someone’s been talking to me.”

“Okay, let’s pretend you really are hearing voices besides mine, thousands of feet under the ocean. What are they telling you while we’re busy swimming up an underwater tunnel, in search of lost treasure?”

Tim felt heat in his cheeks; anger rising. What was it that Dad said, back at home? Just then, an idea came to mind.

“That’s it. I’m dreaming. I must’ve gone to sleep at home. Yup that’s it, all right! I fell asleep in the box. None of this is real.”

Tim heard Jonah sigh over the radio.

“Now I’m your imaginary friend. That’s awesome. We’ll see how you feel once we’ve found the chest, Tim. When we return to the surface, you’re going to the doctor to get your brain examined.”

An alarm beeped inside his helmet, directing Tim’s attention toward a wire frame digital diagram showing the terrain of the cave, projected through his visors. The explorers were swimming toward a vertical wall at the back of the cave. As they approached, Tim saw jagged protrusions jutting from the vertical surface.

“Are those steps I see, Jonah?”

“It looks that way, yeah. I think, at one time, this area of the cave was a huge air pocket. You noticed we swam up through the tunnel, to get this far. Maybe, this wall wasn’t always underwater. Someone would have needed a way to get into the upper cave.”

“Upper cave; I thought this was it?”

“No, we’ve got to swim up a ways, before we find the air pocket.”

The vertical turn was easy enough to maneuver. Tim kicked while his padded fingers gripped each jagged step; 18 in all. Jonah reached the top first, climbing out of the water, onto a ledge.

“Watch your step up here,” Jonah said. “The deck is a bit slippery. You won’t need your helmet anymore. The air is a bit stale, but breathable.”

Tim reached up, penetrating the water’s surface for the first time in weeks, his memory told him. Jonah gave a hand, pulling him out of the depths, into a cavernous hollow. Large stalactites and stalagmites of differing shades and colors were everywhere. Off to the far right of the hollow, Tim saw a bright glow emitted behind a large rock wall. Judging by the pathway of trampled and crushed dripstone, Jonah had previously walked in that direction. But the pathway of destruction of the natural formations was far too wide to have been caused by Jonah alone. Tim deactivated the helmet’s hyper vision.

“Jonah, I—”

“Yeah, you see it don’t you? That crocodile’s been in here. I didn’t have to disturb any of the dripstone formations to get to the chest behind that crusted wall. The creature’s been guarding it. Looks like it hasn’t returned, so let’s get what we came for.”

“Roger that,” Tim said. The duo walked further into the cavern, toward the far rock wall. “Sure is spooky in here.”

“Hey, God did not commit to us the spirit of fear,” Jonah recited. Tim smiled wide behind his helmet.

“But of power, love, and sound mind. Thanks, Jonah.”

“Momma’s bible study, every Sunday evening for as long as I can remember. She made me memorize 2 Timothy 1:7, knowing I would someday be an explorer.”

“Dad likes that one, too. He makes us say it every night before bed.”

Tim suddenly missed home. He missed his siblings and his parents. He remembered this was all just a dream, and soon he would wake up. As they approached the wall, he squinted. The golden light on the other side was so bright!

“Jonah, did you leave the box opened when you left the cave?”

“No! I shut the lid; made sure of it, because I had to figure out how we were going to move the whole thing through the water without losing a single piece. I latched the clasp and shoved a small piece of dripstone through the lock hole, to keep the lid shut. As soon as I closed it, the light was locked away inside the chest.”

Tim ran for the wall, with Jonah quick at his heels. The duo rounded the edge of the wall. Standing before them was a large wooden box trimmed in tarnished golden ribbing. Its ancient hinges were rusted from ages of sitting in the damp air. Its wood had taken on a soggy and splintery texture. Barnacles encrusted the bottom of the chest, onto the floor of the cave. Behind the chest, golden light flooded the tiny chamber formed by several close cropped walls and a low ceiling. Tim’s eyes were fixed on the chest, unable to look away.

“It looks just like my toy chest back home, except for the gold stuff along the edges and the old wood. It’s the same.”

Tim brushed a gloved hand over the lid of the chest. A fresh wave of sadness washed over him as he pictured home in his mind.

“Tim, take a look at this.” Jonah stood ten feet behind the chest, hands on hips, gazing at the cave floor. “I promise you, this was not here before. I don’t know where it came from. I’m not even sure of what it is.”

The urgency in Jonah’s voice broke the allure of the chest. Tim slowly walked toward the back of the cave shielding his eyes from the onslaught of brilliant light pulsing from what looked to be a large oval of light in the floor.

“Jonah, what in the world?”

“I just said I don’t know what it is, Tim! It wasn’t here before.”

“Whatever it is,” Tim started, “I feel like I’m supposed to…”

I am with you,

“What?” Jonah asked. “Tim, you’re supposed to what?”

“I don’t know. Feels like it’s calling me, somewhere deep down inside.”

Jonah turned away, walking back toward the chest. Tim heard the latch squeak and the hinges creak in protest; metal on metal grinding. The cave, already alight by the hole in the ground, now blazed a magnificent golden yellow, as Jonah pushed the lid back. There was a loud thunk, as the lid collided with the back of the chest. It was filled to the brim with golden nuggets resembling peanuts, cashews and walnuts.

Tim walked to the chest and scooped a handful of the little nuggets. The duo glanced at one another, before exploding in laughter. Tim stuffed a handful of nuggets into the hidden pockets of his suit, laughing hysterically.

“I can’t believe we found this! We did it, Jonah! We actually found the lost treasure of the pirates of Camoon! Now we have to figure out how—”

A great splash and enormous thump ricocheted off the walls of the cavern, shaking the nuggets within the chest. Tim crouched while Jonah reached for a small stick strapped to his right leg.

“Stay put, Tim. It’s here. I’m going to draw its attention away from the chest, while you make a run for the water. Get to the pod as soon as possible! Do you understand?”

“Jonah, I’m not leaving you behind. We figure out how to go together.”

Jonah thrust the stick out. Two thin shiny blades popped out of both ends of the handle. Inside the visor-goggles of Jonah’s helmet, Tim watched the hyper vision light activate, then turn a shade of red, as Jonah took up an attack stance.

“Seriously Jonah, you’re going to charge that thing! Are you insane? There has to be another way out of this cave without facing it.”

“There isn’t, so wait for my signal. When I yell, go for the water. Trust me, if you’ve got a better idea, I’m all ears.”

A guttural roar alerted them to the creature closing in on their position. Jonah sprinted for the edge of the wall, screaming like a warrior; the double edge spear lifted high above his head. Another monstrous roar resonated through the cave, and Tim heard Jonah screaming in fear as he tore up the opposite end of the cavern. Stalactite and stalagmites crushed into powder under the creature’s advance.

“Now, Tim! I’ll see you on the other side!” Jonah yelled.

There was a sound like metal reflecting off stone. Jonah fought the beast somewhere within the cave! Tim was petrified, once again unable to move. Somehow he mustered the courage to take a shaky step toward the edge of the wall separating the chest’s hiding place from the main cavern. One step became two. Two steps became a slow trot. The trot gained momentum until he was running around the wall straight for the entrance pool.

Come to me, Timothy. I’m still with you.

“No, not again!” Tim yelled. His small hands went to the helmet, trying to cover his ears. “Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?”

Come to me, Timothy.

Tim looked over the devastation of dripstone debris leading toward the darkened end of the cavern. Deep within that darkness arose the sounds of battle and destruction. Tim whispered.

“Combat vison.”

COMBAT VISION ACTIVATED.” The computer responded.

The helmet’s hyper vision lit the visors a brilliant red hue, illuminating the cavern before him. There was Jonah, racing back toward Tim. His broken spear dangled in his right hand, a crack in one of his visor-goggles, a tear in his suit along the left arm. He’d never be able to make the swim back to the pod with a ruptured suit and busted helmet! The freezing water would kill him within minutes. Behind Jonah the crocodile beast slithered snake-like with incredible speed, gaining on him. Shiny blue scales and massive sharp yellow glowing teeth bore down on Jonah.

“I thought I told you to swim! What are you waiting for? Go now!”

“Lord, I don’t know what to do,” Tim screamed, as he looked toward the entrance pool a few yards away. Even if they made the water, the creature would have them captured in the tunnel.

Come to me, Timothy.

Beyond the fear that gripped his heart, Tim found a quiet, peace rising within his spirit. Suddenly, he knew where to go. It made no sense, but he knew it was the right thing to do.

“I told you what to do, Tim,” Jonah barked. “Run for the—”

Tim darted back toward the chest hiding behind the far wall. His heart pounded, His mind couldn’t focus as he ran. He knew he needed to get back to that little hiding place.

“Don’t stop, Jonah! Follow me,” he yelled.

Jonah couldn’t believe what he was seeing, as he banked left to follow his partner back toward the treasure chest. They were going to die down here. He was sure of it. Tim had lost his nerve and his senses. Jonah’s last idea was to make a final stand in the back of the small hiding hollow. He ran with all his might. When he rounded the wall, the beast was so close, Jonah could feel the breeze from its chomping bites push against his back. Tim was airborne, head first, diving.

Tim, rounded the wall, still following the direction of the voice.

That’s it. Come to me, Timothy. I’m still with you.

Without so much as a second thought, he threw himself into an awkward headfirst dive over the opened chest, sailing straight for the pulsing yellow hole in the ground, behind the treasure. Screaming through the air, Tim shut his eyes just as he connected with the light of the hole. Somewhere close behind, echoed the screams of Jonah and the enraged roar of the beast.


So faithful fans, now you have a feel for Timothy and his amazing adventure thus far. What happens next? You’ll have to read the book!



Paraclete’s Promise – Chapter 4: Partners & The Prize


Hi faithful fans. If you have yet to read the previous chapters of my book, I encourage you to visit these posts before reading chapter 4:

Chapters 1&2

Chapter 3

As always, I really appreciate your support and feedback. Paraclete’s Promise: The Fantastic Fantasies Of Timothy is the first book in the Paraclete’s Promise saga. While this book is now available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Apple, the second book is in progress. Enjoy.


4—Partners And The Prize

Tim was petrified; heart pounding, breathing shallow. All around him, bleeps and blips of the electronics on the console sounded off, running through routine pod operation. Static lit through his left ear again.

“Unlock the hatch buddy. I’m on the way up. I don’t think it’s safe to turn on the lights yet, so keep an eye out for me.”

Tim’s heart rate slowed. Shallow breaths became long tugs. His hands steadied.

“Tim, are you there?”

“Roger that; I’m keeping an eye out for you.”

Tim rolled the captain’s chair within reach, and slowly sat down. The soft stretch of the supple leather and pneumatic hiss of the chair’s cylinder, under his weight, were welcomed sounds. He rolled the chair up to the control panel and pressed a sequence of buttons, activating Jonah’s personal tracking device. Just above the control panel, the on screen readout placed Jonah approximately 700 feet away from the pod, and he was moving fast. His heart rate was slightly elevated, but otherwise his vital signs read normal. Tim set his arms against the soft armrests, and reclined. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

How’s your adventure coming along? Much more exciting than a video game, I’ll bet? I’m with you.

Tim was so startled by the voice resonating in his head that he flipped the entire chair over backwards, crashing to the floor. But his trained muscles responded. With a quick roll, he was back up on his feet poised in a defensive stance, feverishly scanning the control room for another person, he hadn’t seen before. He pressed the com-link button as his eyes searched the room, top to bottom.

“What was that Jonah? I didn’t read; over?”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t say anything. Closing in on 250 feet; over?”

“Uh,” Tim faltered for a moment. “Yeah, roger that; 250 feet and closing.”

His eyes fell on the floor monitors to his left. Lying there, almost invisible against the high definition darkness of the ocean, was his bible. In the drab light of the dimly lit control room, the stainless steel hard cover book was a welcomed sight. He picked it up, opened to the last page and read the custom inscription written across the back cover.

To my brave explorer: May the Lord’s word be a shining light when you are surrounded by the darkness of the cold world.

Love Mom.

Tim’s thumb absently parted the pages. Flipping through, he smiled at the scripture he found. Dad once said the Holy Spirit would always watch his back. First Samuel 14:7 was a comforting scripture to have handy, alone in the dark.

“‘Do all that you have in mind,’ his armor-bearer said. ‘Go ahead; I am with you heart and soul.’”

The words washed over his heart. The remnant of his fear seemed to melt away.

“If God is with me, who or what can stand against me?”

Scriptures flooded his mind, strengthening his spirit as he continued to recite miscellaneous lines from different books of the bible. Courage surged within his soul. He remembered bravery comes after great fear.

An alarm beeped, letting him know Jonah was within 50 feet of the pod. Tim set the bible onto the console, and ran through the control room door toward the rear end of the pod. He jumped and dodged miscellaneous cargo and equipment still cluttering the hallway. As he reached the wet room, toward the pod’s rear end, he flipped open a wall panel and punched in a sequence of commands on the illuminated key pad. A loud flush reverberated through the pod. Beneath his feet, a small room filled with ocean salt water. Glancing between the keypad monitor and the sealed peep hole beside his left foot, Tim watched the water level swallow the entire wet room, before closing the water jet ports. The monitor read out blinked a confirmation message across the screen: WET ROOM FILLED.

“All set up here, Jonah. I’m opening the hatch now.”

“Roger that, buddy. I’m at the hatch. Waiting for the pop.”

A large button on the keypad pulsed brilliant red. The monitor read out blinked, and Tim saw an overhead video feed of Jonah wading underneath the pod. A new message scrolled over the video feed: ESCAPE HATCH READY. Tim mashed his palm against the red button. The whole pod shook as the pneumatic cylinders of the hatch swung the three-piece sealed doors out toward the ocean floor. Tim watched Jonah swim up through the opening, then sit down on a stainless steel bench molded into the smooth circular walls of the wet room. Tim smiled as he recognized Jonah’s diving suit. It was amazing to see the body molded flat air tank, the high tech diving helmet with its polarized lens, the retractable flippers and personal water jets protruding from his belt.

“Ready when you are.” Jonah said. “While I decompress, get your suit ready. You’re gonna want to come back down with me.”

“Did you find something good?”

“Oh yeah, I did!”

“Sweet! I’m setting the decompression sequence now. Have a nap for ten minutes.”

“You read my mind, buddy.”

Tim tapped at the keypad. The doors of the escape hatch shushed closed, shifting the pod again. Behind the steel bulkhead to his left, he heard a whooshing sound as the machinery simultaneously pumped the water from the wet room and decompressed the chamber. He watched the monitor read out for a moment, making sure the sequence progressed slowly. As the water pumped out through the jet ports, recessed in the walls of the wet room, oxygen filled the damp room.

“Hey, do me a favor, will ya,” Jonah said. “Try not to decompress me too fast. Last mission, you almost made my head explode.”

Tim laughed, as a memory of Jonah screaming like a baby suddenly filled his mind.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I rushed through the process. Looks like you’re decompressing at a good rate, this time though.”

“Good. Go on and get geared. I’ll keep an eye on the sequence from down here.”

“Roger that, Jonah.”

Tim looked down through the peep hole. Jonah flashed him two thumbs-up. A renewed wave of excitement came over Tim, as he walked up the narrow hallway toward his locker. He gently lifted the latch, slowly opened the vented door and marveled at the sight of his very own dive suit.

“Whoa, sweet,” he whispered.

Tim stroked a finger across the shoulder pad of the suit, hanging from a hefty steel hook. The material felt like soft leather, but was rigid like plastic. The whole one-piece suit seemed to be fashioned out of emerald scales. Each scale shimmered as his finger rubbed down its blunt edge, and pricked his finger, as he trailed back up against the scales. As he pulled the suit out, the hook retracted into the sidewall of the locker and a small compartment opened. A stainless steel shelf slid out of the open hole, with a dive helmet resting atop it.

Tim draped the suit over his shoulder and watched the helmet slowly spin on top of the shelf. Two bug-eye shaped polarized lens, two tiny holes on the nose bridge, and a glowing open slit across the mouth made the helmet look like an alien head, from a comic book. The ears were shaped as small bubbles; speakers for the radio. Across the top of the helmet, he saw a leather fin stretching from the crown to the back of the helmet. Retracted now, it looked like a flat green ponytail. But, Tim knew that fin opened up in the water, to help maneuver his suit while swimming. He lifted the light weight helmet from its spinning stalk, and the shelf retracted into the sidewall of the locker. As the compartment closed, another compartment opened on the opposite sidewall, revealing an air tank shaped like a flattened book bag.

Tim saw a green light pulsing on the yellow metallic surface of the tank.

“Fully charged and ready for use,” he said.

He set the helmet on the floor beside him, and removed the tank from its magnetized charging hub, with his free hand. The compartment closed, and a computer voice chimed.


The locker closed automatically. As the latch clicked shut, a small stainless steel bench slid out from the wall behind Tim. He sat down and climbed into the suit, feet first. The inside was lined with a warm, soft material that felt like silky fur against his body. As he pulled the zipper up to his chin, he gasped as the suit compressed against his body, to form a tight yet comfortable fit.

“Wow, this is so cool.”

Tim lifted the air tank from the bench and slid his left arm through the shoulder strap. The tank seemed to move with a mind of its own, centering itself across his back with an electronic hum. The right shoulder strap automatically flipped over his right collar bone, across his chest, and magnetically connected to the left shoulder strap.

“Whoa,” he yelled.

A retractable belt cinched around his waist, from one side of the tank, to the other. As soon as the belt pulled tight, Tim saw a series of tiny lights strobe across his waist. A computer voice chimed from the belt.


Everything fit perfectly and comfortably, as if the suit had been specially designed for him. He looked at his gloved hands and noticed the rubber webbing between the fingers. He watched the light-show reflecting from his utility belt. He was so enthralled with the technology of the suit, that he didn’t notice Jonah standing directly in front of him.

“Ha! You’re looking at that thing like it’s the first time you’ve ever put it on!”

Tim looked up. His mouth fell agape and his knees suddenly unhinged. He dropped to the floor, never releasing his gaze on Jonah. He could have been staring into a mirror at the moment.

“Hey, are you alright?” Jonah dropped to his knees and reached for Tim, who skirted backward. “Tim, it’s okay. It’s just me; your ole pal, J-Man. Take it easy.”

Tim mumbled as he stared into the hazel eyes of his twin. The wisp of freckles across the bridge of his nose; same bushy black eyebrows; same dimpled cheeks; same haircut; Jonah was the perfect clone. His mind struggled to register what his eyes were seeing.

“Jonah?” he finally mustered.

“Yeah, buddy. That’s the name I was born with.” Jonah flashed a smile. “Breathe slowly.”

Tim shut his eyes and shook his head, silently praying that God would make sense of this whole experience. When he opened them, Jonah stood above him; a gloved hand reaching to pull him up off the floor. Tim slowly reached for his hand. Jonah yanked him from the floor, to his feet and clapped him on the shoulder.

“There ya go! What was that all about, brother?”

“Sorry. I…I was…just…surprised to see me…you…standing there…staring at me.”

“Hey, if you liked my little stealth approach, you’re going to love what I brought back with me.”

Jonah reached for a thigh pocket weaved into the left leg of his suit. As soon as the snap was undone, a yellow glow illuminated the hallway. Jonah reached into the pocket and palmed something that he’d found on his excursion outside of the pod. The glow seemed to radiate from both ends of his closed fist as he raised his arm over his head triumphantly. He tapped a button on his diving belt and the pod’s ceiling lights switched off.

“Wow. Jonah, what is it?” Tim raised a hand to shield his eyes from the light.

“I found it, Tim! I’ve found a whole chest full of these things down there in the cave. I opened that chest and almost went blind from the golden glow of the stuff. I think opening the chest probably alerted the beast, you know? Like he was some sort of watch dog for the stuff or something.”

Tim shielded his eyes with both hands now as he tried to get a closer look at the object.

“Jonah, how in the world did you ever get close enough to grab one?”

“That’s the funny thing,” Jonah said. His eyes were ablaze. “Move in close and you’ll see what I mean.”

Tim moved closer, still cupping both hands over his brow. At the same time, Jonah opened his hand and swung his arm down to waist level. The closer he moved toward Jonah’s hand, the object began to take shape, no longer shrouded by intense light.

“Can you see it? Tim, it’s as if these things were calling for someone to find them. The farther away I was from the opened chest, the brighter they seemed to glow. The closer I stepped toward them, the luster changed from gold to yellow and the glow faded just enough for me to see that they were shaped like—”

“Peanuts? This thing looks like a golden peanut, Jonah. A box full of golden peanuts! We’ve found the lost treasure of the pirates of Camoon!  Let’s go get them all!”

“Yeah, now you’re talking, brother!” As Jonah turned toward the wet room, he flipped the golden peanut through the air, toward Tim. “Your good luck charm. Hang on to it. There’s a lot more, where that one came from.”

Tim shoved the peanut into a small pocket on the arm of his suit. He scooped up the dive helmet from the floor, and quickly followed Jonah to the wet room. Somewhere below them, a lost treasure awaited.

Checking In, Family


Hey there. Did you like Just Ask, Doofus? I hope you enjoyed it. It’s been awhile since I wrote a good fiction short, so that one last night was a joy to watch take shape. I say take shape because a lot of times, that’s just how my writing progresses. I’ve heard of folks jotting down notes, typing outlines, or crafting organized ideas to write a single short story. Meh. My brain doesn’t work that way. Most times, it’s a simple idea that jumpstarts the story within. Before I know it, I’m just going along for the ride. Most times, I’m just as surprised as some of my readers at what comes out through the process. Don’t get me wrong, family. Writing is a process. Writing well is a practiced process.

That’s actually why I’m checking in tonight. Nineteen days ago, I challenged you all to step up your writing game; not so much as an all out competition among one another, rather for the sake of us all growing stronger as Wordsmiths. We can’t grow in our craft if we aren’t writing, right? So this is just a little pep-cheer to stoke that fire, baby!

Maybe this year you’re new to blogging. Well, let me welcome you and say, “Congratulations”! You made the big step in sharing your work! Now, let me further challenge you. There are twelve months in a year. I propose that you make a diligent effort to write and share four posts a month. But that’s not all. I also challenge you to subscribe to or follow at least one new blog every month in 2016. Nothing encourages a writer like support from peers. I plan to follow the blogs of every person who reads and likes this check-in post. I can’t grow in my craft, if I’m not reading and supporting fellow writers. So let’s get moving people! 2016 is in full swing! Expect greater things to happen with your writing this year!

I’m working on another short that I’m planning to share tomorrow. If you liked the last one, I encourage you to check back with me, either late Wednesday or early Thursday. Until then, get those fingers tapping. I need some good stuff to read!

Proverbs 10:4 (NKJV) – “He who has a slack hand becomes poor, but the hand of the diligent makes rich.”

Just Ask, Doofus


Jack and Jill sat on a hilltop staring at a doorway, standing among a vast dandelion field. The stainless steel doorposts and lintel gleamed in the bright summer sunlight. The door was crafted of dark oak; no discerning marks; no ornate carvings etched into its surface; pretty dull actually. It was adorned with a simple satin nickle plated knob; your basic Home Depot $3.97 variety.

Jack–a gym lunk–had circled this door a hundred times over the last few hours, trying his best to figure out why in the world a doorway stood in the middle of a dandelion field, at the top of a hill. The back mirrored the front, and both sides were locked. Despite his great strength, he couldn’t force his way through; couldn’t break off the knob; couldn’t even kick over the whole assembly. Every few minutes, he’d sit down just long enough to allow his anger to reset.

Jill–a quiet, dainty librarian–had simply sat quietly staring at the door and mused over Jack’s antics. Something about the atmosphere of their surroundings was soothing. A light summer breeze lifted her bangs. The yellow sea of dandelions amid the green ocean of summer grass, underneath a perfect blue sky was invigorating. And then, there were the voices resonating from behind the door.

“How the %$#& can you continue sitting there with that stupid smile on your face,” Jack ranted. “You hear them in there calling us! Get off your @$$ and think of way to get in, nerd!”

Jill simply giggled at the laughter echoing beyond the locked door. “Not yet,” she replied. Her voice small and coy.

“Whadaya mean, ‘Not yet’!” Jack yelled. “We’ve been out here forever! You know what? Whatever geek!”

Jack set his feet and squat into a dead-lift stance. Jill raised an eyebrow, as she watched him.

“I’ll get that %$#&*!@ door open,” Jack grunted. He tucked his arms into his sides, inhaled deep and pushed within, straining.

Jill watched as Jack’s tanned apricot complexion shifted toward maroon. His neck sprouted mighty veins. His taut muscles popped sinewy strands underneath his sweaty skin. His face contorted. A mighty wind sifted and uprooted dandelions, grass and chunks of earth around his trembling body. He was enveloped by a ominous purple light, as the chaos circled him like a stationary tornado. Jack roared. The winds stopped, and the debris settled. He dropped to a knee, puffing shallow breaths.

“Now we’re talkin’,” he groaned. Laying on the ground, in a scorched earth-patch before Jack, was a tattered black leather duffle bag. He glanced up at Jill; a smirk curled his lips. “Don’t bother to get up, nerd. I’ll get us in that door in no time, flat. You just sit your pretty little head there, and ol’ Jack’s gonna handle this.”

Jill smiled and shook her head. “Not yet,” she replied.

“Oh no?” Jack laughed. He unzipped the bag, reached deep inside and pulled out a DP-12, double-barrel, pump repeater, tactical 12-gauge shotgun. Jack stood up and racked the weapon.


“I think now.” Jack said, as he squared the weapon against his right shoulder and squeezed the trigger twice.


The shotgun thundered cannon fire. Dust flew through the air. Flames shot from each barrel. Smoking shell casings flew over Jill’s head, as the shots exploded against the oak door, in a brilliant puff of smoke.

“Ha, ha; woo!” Jack  screamed. “Open sesame! Did you see that, lil’ lady? Let’s–”

Jack’s triumphant gloating shrank into morbid unbelief.

“What the %$#&!” he screamed, as the smoke cleared revealing the unblemished door. Jack squared off, and aimed the weapon again.

Jill covered her ears, and shut her eyes. Still, the constant CLACK-CLACK and THOOM-THOOM of the weapon was deafening. When the rancid gun-powder smoke dissipated, the door remained; posts and lintel still gleaming; the oak surface unmarked by the barrage of gunfire. Jill smiled.

“Not yet.”

“Shut up, you geek!” Jack yelled. He launched the shotgun through the air, then rifled through the duffle bag again, muttering curses as his arms sank elbow deep into the mysterious void.

Jill watched the drama unfold with a whimsical smile. She saw Jack’s exasperation melt as his hands clearly wrapped around something heavy, deep within the bag. He stood up and yanked out an M134 gatling machine gun. Its 0.30 caliber bullets ammunition belt disappeared into the void of the duffle bag. Jack hoisted the weapon and ran 10 feet toward the door, dragging the endless belt through the grass.

“Open up, mutha f–”

Jack’s offensive barrage was cut off by the explosion of the weapon’s rapid fire. At point blank range, Jill saw nothing but sparking ricocheting rounds and engulfing white smoke. Despite the protection of her hands, her ears rang as the weapon spit fire and mayhem at the door. Jack’s muscles rippled against the recoil of the awesome weapon. Grass and Dandelions around him were ripped from the ground by the shear force of the gun’s mighty power.

Finally, the last of the ammunition belt snaked its way from the bag through the gun feeder. Jack released the gun and it crashed to the barren earth beneath his feet. As the summer breeze cleared the smoke, Jill smiled once again.

“No! How can this be?! Don’t you say a  %$#&*!@ word, Jill!”


“No! I said shut up! I can open that door! Just you wait!”

Jack stomped back toward the duffle bag, trailing a flurry of obscenities in his wake. Jill slowly stood, and stretched.

Jack?” She called.

“Shut up! Not a word, geek! As soon as I find this RPG 7 rocket launcher, I’m gonna blow that door apart!”

Jill sighed, then turned toward the door. Jack was too busy rummaging through the duffle bag to notice her dainty skirt casually swishing through the easy breeze. As she approached the smooth oak door–not so much as a scratch across its surface–Jill turned back to Jack, with a sympathetic glance.

“Now,” she whispered. Jill lightly rapped three times across the door. A deep soothing voice thundered through the blue sky.


“It’s me, Lord: Jill. I’d very much like to come in and stay with you.” Jill replied.


Jill gently twisted the knob and the door cracked opened, flooding the dandelion field with an indescribably beautiful and radiant light. The voices–once muffled behind the locked door–now sang out a glorious hymn. Jill slipped through the crack, smiling ear to ear. She turned back once, beaming at Jack. Then, slipping through the opening, the door shut behind her.


Jack heard the voice of the Lord thunder across the blue sky and immediately knew who was speaking. Rage and fear surged through his veins, as he shot a glance toward the door.

“No! Wait!” He screamed. “Wait for me!”

Less than fifteen feet away, there was Jill turning the knob. Jack sprang to his feet, but his first step landed in quicksand, where the dandelion field had recently been. The path before him lay in desolation where his weaponry had wrecked havoc across the beautiful field. He struggled to advance. Suddenly, the door cracked open and Jack was blinded and burned by a light brighter than the noonday sun. He wailed.

“Wait for me!”

The harder he struggled, the faster he sank. Just before the sands of sin swallowed him and his eyes submerged, Jack saw Jill smile at him as she slipped through the doorway to heaven.


James 4:2-3 (NKJV) – “You lust and do not have. You murder and covet and cannot obtain. You fight and war. Yet you do not have because you do not ask. You ask and do not receive, because you ask amiss, that you may spend it on your pleasures.”


Write Intentionally


Happy New Year fellow wordsmiths! This year, my church is taking on a new vision for 2016: “Believe For Greater Things”. Personally, I plan to not only put that into practice spiritually, but literally as well; especially where my writing life is concerned. So many of us have writing talent. If we refuse to cultivate that talent, we run the risk of losing it. You know what I’m saying? You’ve heard the old adage—use it or lose it.

For years, I’ve limited my writing to moments when the spirit moved me. Sometimes, I would write for seven days straight. Other times, I would pause for seven months without so much as a 200-word blog post. If I truly plan to make noise within the writing community, my writing can’t be sporadic. I have to write intentionally.

So this year, I challenge my writing friends to do the same: write intentionally, family. Take notes of your surroundings; jot down your emotional state at any given moment; write about your day; blog about that dinner your aunt cooked for the holidays; pen song lyrics. Whatever it is, write it—everyday, write something. Everyday.

Pastor-Dad, have you been putting off the start of your memoirs? Momma Tosha, are you ready to start journaling? Tuck, are you ready to start penning your words of wisdom for your sons? Sherry, ready to start that novel you’ve been dreaming of? Kim, is this the year you begin that book you know you’ve got inside of you? Lindsay, ready for round two of your awesome story-telling? Family, the year is brand new! Let’s get started! Let’s do some writin’!

23 Work at everything you do with all your heart. Work as if you were working for the Lord, not for human masters. 24 Work because you know that you will finally receive as a reward what the Lord wants you to have. You are slaves of the Lord Christ. – Colossians 3:23-24 (NIRV)



The Rollercoaster & Hairbrush


Brushing my thinning hair at the end of the night, is actually my relaxation time. The only concentrated activity on my mind is the constant stroking of the brush against my scalp. As the bristles massage my head, I recap the highlights–and sometimes the lows–of the day. Most times, I think about what was accomplished versus wasted time. In retrospect, my end of the day ritual is a mental coaster ride of hills and valleys.

Got some good Word time in today. John 5 and Genesis 13 were good reads.

A subtle nod confirms that thought.

I looked a little too long at that girl’s butt today.

Scrunched nose chastises my manly weakness.

Cut the boy’s hair; paid the rent; social media rounds: check.

Slight smirk of the lips. Just gave myself a mental high-five.

Skipped out on querying agents today.

Shoulders slump as I loath my fear of failure.

Opened up that email from a random reader, praising my last blog post.

My chest puffs pridefully.

I can’t believe I looked away from that homeless guy, knowing I had spare change in my pocket.

And my chest deflates again…

Jedi mind tricked the boy into studying his books of the bible in a fun activity.

Slight nod of praise.

Gotta get up and spend another day doing a job I don’t enjoy.

The dreaded head bob and sigh.

Throughout this display of mental duality, the brush never skips a beat. Man, the struggle between the spirit and the flesh is real and plays out in subtle ways daily. Oh wretched man that I am.


Friends Remembered: A Tale of the Fallen


When I lost my Mom to cancer back in 2007, I turned to World of Warcraft, as an escape. It was right around the time of its third expansion, “Wrath of the Lich King”. I crafted my own hero and eventually wrote backstory for his inception. This is the story of Fallinchas; risen death knight.


Heat and warmth remain absent from this place as howling winds wail.  Bitter cold restricts snowfall from blanketing the battle hardened lands.  The smell of ash intermingled with rancid decay overwhelm the senses and numb the mind to all things pleasant and comforting.  This is Ice Crown.  The entire region serves as the gateway to a frozen evil unlike any ever experienced.  Only the very brave venture into these lands and only a few ever return with their souls intact.  Despite the unbearable conditions and the dark overcast skies, the sounds of war ring out among the desolate terrains.  From the borders of Crystal Song forest, to the Saronite forged steps of the Citadel, chaos and mayhem ensue as alliance and horde forces engage not only droves of undead and Scourge converts, but Cult of the Damned members as well.

A small band of the Argent Crusade succeeded in penetrating Scourge opposition and had advanced to the great stairway leading toward the entrance to Ice Crown Citadel.  They were ambushed by a rogue group of Horde bandits who had arrived and slaughtered members of the Cult of the Damned.  Though outnumber three-to-one, the ten-man Argent Crusade contingent pressed hard against the enemy, under the leadership of their death knight commander.  This group had resolved not to fall within mere sight of the citadel entrance.

Fallinchas stood fast atop the first massive step, peering upward.  The enemy battalion, flanking from the left and the right, had the advantage of higher ground over his band of alliance.  But impossible odds had never stopped the death knight before, and today would be no different.  He slowly unsheathed his two-handed sword, and raised the weapon to the skies above.  While sizing up the opposition, he rallied his small troop of crusaders.

“We do not stop here,” he commanded while staring into the eyes of his companions.  His cold blue gaze spoke directly into the hearts of each soldier.

“We will not fall to these vagabonds, standing in our path!  Clearly, they operate outside of the treaty binding the Alliance and the Horde together against the Lich King’s combined forces.  Therefore, we show them no mercy! You are honored knights of the Argent Crusade, and our glorious passing will not happen on these steps, this day!  Our destiny lies behind the walls of the citadel.  Take up your arms once again, and silence these Horde dogs!  Their final thoughts and last sights will center on our band of brothers and sisters bent on their total destruction!  Death awaits all who oppose us!”

Fallinchas’ rally cry emboldened the alliance contingent.  With weapons drawn, the ten Argent Crusaders, led by the death knight, stormed the 30-man Horde battalion up the steps, where they collided with the enemy fearlessly.


Fallinchas’ enchanted dancing Mourning Malice blade cut through the air with a blinding force.  Each swipe of the hovering sword sliced deep lacerations into the back-side of a large orc warrior’s plate armor.  There was nothing the beast-man could do to stop the rear flanking onslaught.  For the moment, his full attention focused toward defending himself against the frontal attack of Fallinchas.  This human wielded the physical Mourning Malice blade with skill, the likes of which the orcish warrior had never before encountered.  To make matters worse, the death knight’s blood worms nipped at both armor clad ankles.  The orc tried, in vain, to parry the human’s advances, while evading the worms.  Suddenly, gnashing teeth cut through the warrior’s thick plated wrist-guard, subduing his weapon arm.  The orc warrior stole a desperate glance, immediately right, to find a risen ghoul latched onto his arm, incapacitating his axe.  In that split second, the human death knight struck with horribly accurate speed.  The orc felt a sudden sharp stab to his abdomen, followed by extreme cold piercing and spreading throughout his torso, the freezing cold of the blade dulling the pain.  Eyes wide, the warrior slowly gazed down to find the death knight’s sword buried hilt-deep within his chest.  Orcish strength gave way to darkness as the warrior’s limp body slid free of the freezing blade.  The death knight, had just claimed a Horde victim.

Without pause, Fallinchas trained his sights on the next foe, crossing his path up the stairway.  His left arm flew outward, unleashing the Death Grip on an unsuspecting blood elf paladin, binding her around the neck.  The blood elf was hoist through the freezing air and dropped limp at his feet.  Temporarily dazed by the attack, she collapsed to the frozen steps as Fallinchas followed the initial attack, with an Icy Touch spell.

“Lor’Themar Theron forgive you, sister paladin,” Fallinchas whispered to the blood elf lying at his feet, paralyzed with Frost Fever.  He slowly raised his sword over head then brought the weapon crashing down in a Death Strike, silencing the paladin forever.

Surveying his surroundings, Fallinchas saw that his comrades had decimated the remnant of the horde attackers.  A few crusaders appeared to be wounded, but still able to continue on, as the group’s shaman and priestess of the moon performed their respective duties.  Fallinchas yelled in victorious delight and led the Argent Crusaders charging up the steps of Ice Crown Citadel.  The alliance group reached the top plateau and lifted their combined weaponry in celebration, while facing the massive entrance to the Citadel.

As the group reveled in victory, a troll howl pierced the air from behind and down the steps.  Fallinchas spun on his heels, his weapon at the ready, but he was too late to save Dothranis.  A poison tipped arrow blazed through the air, shot from a hunter’s bow.  The troll had feigned death during the melee and had since stealthy climbed the stairs and maneuvered around the Draenei shaman.  Dothranis screamed in agony as the arrow punctured his back, and protruded through his chest, sending the shaman crumpling to the frozen Saronite plateau.  Fallinchas leaped at the assailant before the troll could reload his bow, slashing with an Obliterate-swing of his sword.  The mortally wounded hunter dropped and roll to the bottom of the great staircase, dead before his body fell still on the frozen ground below.

“Cursed Darkspear Troll!” Fallinchas yelled.

He rushed to the side of his fallen friend.  Dothranis lay still on the plateau, Draenei blood already pooling around his body and beginning to freeze in the frigid air of Ice Crown.  Fallinchas placed a hand over Dothranis’ chest; the other behind his friend’s head.  He desperately glanced at Shala, the contingent’s priestess, who met his gaze with a mournful glance of her own.

“My Lord…he’s gone. The poison’s work was instantaneous,” she whispered.

“Is there nothing we may do to bring our brother back, Shala,” he asked.

“No, my Lord.  May Elune guide his spirit to peace,” she said, as the others gathered around.

Fallinchas stared into the dead frozen eyes of his comrade, fighting to maintain some sense of equanimity.  How had he allowed this to happen?  Dothranis was not five feet away from him; standing by his side just as he had done a thousand times before tonight.  How would he go on knowing he had failed his friend?  Had he allowed his emotions to get the best of him…yet again?  Had he inadvertently killed his best friend, in a selfish burst of greed-driven revenge?  Guilt ridden thoughts swirled through his mind, stirring up ghosts of the past.  The death knight exploded in a burst of rage, screaming to the heavens, shaking his fists at the cracking lightning bolts as they crisscrossed the skies above.  Exhausted, Fallinchas collapsed over the body of Dothranis.  “I have failed you, Dot,” he whispered.  The death knight gently fanned a hand over the Draenei’s stone face, lowering his eyelids, then pulled the fallen Shaman’s tabard over his contorted face.

“Go with honor, my friend Dot.  Light be with you,” Fallinchas murmured.

He closed his eyes and slowly stood over the body of his good friend.  A lone teardrop descended his brown cheek, freezing above his strong jaw.  Fallinchas wiped the blood-splayed Mourning Malice blade against his Ebon Blade tabard-tail, sheathed the weapon, then turned to address the remaining members of his contingent.  He motion for Shala to come closer.  Now was not the time for loved ones to hide their true feelings.  Pulling the night elf priestess tight against his body, she fell into his arms, her warmth granting him a small bit of comfort.  She burst into tears, while pounding a weak fist across his broad chest.

“Be strong, my love,” he whispered, “for our fallen friend, and for our remaining companions.”

He realized the death of Dothranis would demoralize the group.  They would need time to recuperate and refocus on the mission.  As Shala’s sobs began to subside, Fallinchas gently lifted her chin and gazed into her elven eyes.  Again she met the cold blue gaze of his glowing pupils and seemed to understand his thoughts.  Courage my love those eyes seems to say.  She composed herself enough to wipe flowing tears from her cheeks, and rejoined the remaining eight Argent Crusaders standing before their leader.  Fallinchas straighten his stance, rolled his shoulders back, inhale deeply, and peered at each member of his small team.

“Dothranis…was a loyal soldier in the continuous fight against all powers of Darkness, throughout Azeroth.  A devoted Resto-shaman, Dot was an exceptional offensive fighter, and a beloved friend as well.  He saved my life on more than one occasion, and I regret my failure in saving his tonight.”

The death knight lowered his eyes toward the blood soaked Argent Crusade tabard draped across the chest of Dothranis.  Shala gently squeezed his arm, bringing him back to focus.  Regrouping, he continued.

“We each knew the dangers associated with this mission.  We understood that the chances of our successful return were, and are, minuscule at best.  The Alliance chose us to storm the entrance first, because we accepted the impossible odds.  Dothranis was no different than any one of you, or I.  Tonight, we’ve lost a champion to our cause.  We will camp here, at the top of the great steps.  We rest, and honor our fallen brother, before carrying on to face the Lich King.”


Fallinchas’ squire, Tomas Billbrat, never ceased to amaze him.  Whenever summoned, the chipper young boy would faithfully take stock of his surroundings and then offer a positive outlook on the conditions his Lord had called him into.  Shortly after Fallinchas and his band of crusaders had performed an impromptu mourning service for Dothranis, Shala called on the spirit of Elune and released the Draenei’s soul to the spirits of Azeroth.  The Draenei’s body had slowly transformed into floating specks of white dust, leaving his garb and weapons behind.  Fallinchas had blown the squire’s whistle, summoning Tomas, who materialized out of thin air in a puff of purple smoke.  Without so much as a single word from Fallinchas, the young boy immediately collected the shaman’s remaining belongings into his mystic sack of endless pockets.  The items would be returned to the order of the Argent Crusade, upon Tomas’ return to Dalaran.  Tomas admiringly looked up into the eyes of his weary Lord, and Fallinchas returned his look, with a forced smile.

“My Lord…Dot was an honorable friend to you, yes?  I believe his soul will find peace among his forefathers.  Do not grieve for him any longer, sire.  I feel…his struggle has ended.”

Fallinchas patted the young boy’s golden blond head, and knelt on one knee to meet Tomas’ smiling face.

“Young man, you are wise beyond your years, and you always bring me tidings of peace when I need them.  Thank you, Tomas.  How about we erect the tent for the night?  Where would you choose as a suitable spot, among the wreckage and carnage strewn before us?”

Tomas walked among the huddled group of crusaders, smiling salutations to the dwarven warriors, passing words of encouragement to the human paladins, shaking the hands of the gnomish rogues, snapping off a sharp salute to the night elf hunter while offering a snack to his pet Worg, Fangor, and bowing deeply before the night elf priestess of the moon, Shala.  Finally, the young squire pointed to an enormous ancient petrified-wooden catapult positioned far left and away from the great entrance.  Fallinchas nodded his approval then roused the crusaders to begin erecting the frost-weave tent for the night’s camp.

With the tent erected around the base of the abandoned catapult, Tomas produced a camp fire under the center spire of the shelter.  Soon, the aroma of a fish feast and freshly brewed brown-butter mead filled the confined space and invigorated the tired crusaders, as they slowly filed into the large tent and gathered around the bonfire.

Dimpkin, one of the dwarven warriors, had been posted atop the catapult as lookout while the tent was erected.  The smells of freshly cooked fish, coupled with the sweetness of the warm mead wafted through the tent’s exhaust ports, beckoning the dwarf to leave post, and join the others.

“With your permission, my Lord…” he began, as he entered the tent.

“Permission granted, my friend.  Please join us,” Fallinchas said as he waved the dwarf into the circle.  Fallinchas rested cross-legged before the bonfire, and looked to his squire while eating the meal the boy had prepared.  Tomas lay on the frost-weave carpeted floor toward the back of the tent; his pack resting against one the catapult columns.  The young boy was busying himself rubbing the Worg’s belly as he fed the creature.  Fallinchas smiled at the ridiculous sight.  He slowly glanced around the fire to see his remaining companions all settling in and eating.  Casual discussions began floating through the air.  Once again, Tomas had granted Fallinchas’ group a small respite from the dangers and sorrow that lie ahead.

“Tomas, you’ve done a fine job here, young man.  You are free to return to the High Council to report on our progress…and casualty.  Tell the high lord, we plan to advance on the citadel proper at first light.” The young boy stood and bowed deeply.

“I will, sire.  I look forward to your return, my Lord.  Please watch over lady Shala in my absence,” the young squire bantered, causing the circle of crusaders to erupt in spontaneous laughter.

“Get out of here, before I–” Fallinchas started, but was not surprised to see the young squire enveloped in a purple cloud once again.  A trumpet call blared from the center of the cloud, and the puff vanished leaving purple tendrils of smoke dispersing through the air.  Nnimrod, the group’s night-elf hunter, spoke softly.

“That boy never fails to lighten the mood, does he?”

“Aye, that he does,” Dimpkin affirmed.  The dwarf warrior exchanged glances between Shala and Fallinchas across the bonfire, while stuffing fish between the puffy braided whiskers of his mustache covered lips.  Mead dripped sloppily from his whiskers.  “So when was it that ye picked that boy up, my Lord?”

Shala snickered as she grasped Fallinchas’ right hand.  The death knight seemed to recall a thought, and threw his head back into a boisterous laugh, his voice echoing through the large tent.

“Tomas has been my Argent squire for almost two years now.  Dothranis actually waged a bet with Shala, that I’d kill the boy inside of six months of acquiring him, but his ludicrous sense of humor grew on me”.  The crusaders erupted into laughter again.  Fallinchas, looked to Shala and spoke absently.  “She’s always known me, better than I’ve known myself since my return to Stormwind.”

The laughter throughout the tent slowly died, as the crusaders each looked to their leader.  Silence swept through the tent for what seemed like ages before one of the human paladins, Nerra, broke the proverbial ice.

“My Lord…what was it like, to die a paladin…and to be reborn, as a Death Knight?”  As if realizing the gravity of the question, Nerra quickly recanted.  “Forgive my intrusion, my lord,” she said bowing while fumbling her silver goblet of mead.  The drink spilled into the fire, igniting, and sending a burst of blue flame into the warm air.  “I meant no disrespect.  I fear the mead has relaxed my sensibilities a touch.”

“No apologies are necessary Nerra,” Fallinchas said.  The death knight stood and raised his own goblet toward the fire.  The golden cup, with its scarlet ruby-encrusted gems encircling its rim, twinkled by the light of the bonfire.  As Fallinchas stared at his reflection within the polished surface of the goblet, he remembered the day it was given as a gift, from Dothranis.  ‘To remind you, that you will always be a Champion of the Knights of the Silver Hand, dear friend,’ he had said.

Fallinchas sighed.  It was time for him to share his tale, with these loyal followers who stood by his side.  Most of the crusaders had served under his leadership for quite some time.  Yet none, save for Shala, knew his story.  Tonight might be the last time the tight knit group would find peace together.  He owed them his life’s tale.  Fallinchas looked down to his right, at the night elf woman who had remained by his side for all these years.  Shala smiled back at him, seeming to read his mind.

“It is time, my lord,” she whispered.  The crusaders exchanged puzzled looks before settling all eyes on their leader standing broad-shouldered before the fire.

“My friends…you have each stood by me through the toughest encounters imaginable.  Our successes have proven the level of our abilities to our superiors, time and again.  Over the years, I have hand-picked each one of you, because you were the elite among your former affiliates.  I know each of you personally…” he said, training his cold hearted blue stare from one pair of eyes to the next, until he had circled the group.  “Yes, I know you all down to your very core…even you Fangore.  And I am deeply proud of you all.  I am humbled by the reality that tonight may be our last, as one.  So…allow me to…regale you all, with a tale I’m sure many may not know.  But first.”  Fallinchas hefted the large goblet to his lips and drained the mead in five huge gulps.  “For my friend Dothranis: may your soul rest peacefully, until we meet, again.”

The crusaders rose to their feet and toasted in unison, to Dothranis.  As they all sat again, Fallinchas inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and began to speak.

“A lifetime ago, my name was Chasiah Stromgarde.  I was slain by my friend, Arthas Menethil.”


During my childhood, I was raised in the Elwynn Forest valley of Northshire.  My father supported my mother and I by working in the Fargodeep mines, while we tended the farm.  The work was hard for me, as I recall, but provided the ethic I would someday need in later years.  Oft times, my father would teach me the basic art of swordsmanship to help protect the farm from the ever increasing threat of the Defias Brotherhood. 

The summer of my 11th year, my father was slain defending the Fargodeep mines from an invasion of kobolds.  That same season, my mother was killed during a Defias Brotherhood attack on our farm.  I fled the valley, and found myself under the care of the Stormwind Orphan Matron shortly thereafter.

 I remember being adopted by Thamore and Sarah Thomas, at the age of 12.  The Thomas’ had no children of their own, and welcomed me into their home, despite my troubled past.  Rebellion on my part caused strife between my surrogate parents and I, in the beginning.  I was filled with so much rage and hatred toward others, never putting to rest the anger I harbored over the deaths of my parents.  But the Thomas’ were patient in their rearing of me.  Sarah eventually defeated my inward defenses with love and kindness, while Thamore earned my respect with a constant show of quiet strength.  In time, I discovered Mr. Thomas to be an accomplished Paladin; a member of the Order of the Knights of the Silver Hand, no less.  At some point during my first few years with the Thomas’, Thamore discovered my penchant for swordplay.  To counteract the anger nestled deep within me, I began to study and practice the ways of the Paladin under my surrogate father’s tutelage.

At 15, I was sent to Lordaeron, to continue Paladin training, under Sir Uther the Lightbringer.  It was during that time that I became acquainted with the young Prince of the Menethil lineage, Arthas.  He was older than I, by two years, but our relative size and skills quickly conjoined us as competitive and respectful counterparts, during training sessions.  Arthas’ strength was incredible, even at that young age.  As such, he was always one step ahead of me, but the challenge of defeating the prince motivated me to work that much more diligently at my craft.  Rarely did I see the prince outside of training, but the few and far between moments we did spend together, were pleasant.  He was an imposing figure whose very presence demanded immediate respect and full attention.  But he was also very kind as he studied the ways of the Holy Light.  In retrospect…I idolized Arthas, for a time. 

With my studies nearing completion, Sir Uther sent me home to complete my formal Paladin training in Stormwind.  I was present…the day prince Arthas took the Oath of Light, becoming a member of the Order of the Knights of the Silver Hand.  How I envied and admired him.  I yearned to follow in the footsteps of the prince and my father, Thamore. 

By the time of my return to the White City, emissaries and students from the greens of Darnassus to the cavernous hollows of Ironforge, and even the great halls of the Exodar, had taken up residence behind our gloriously high stone walls.  It was during this time that I became acquainted with a young and brash Draenei, training in the ways of the Shaman Order and studying the hidden knowledge of the Light at the Cathedral.  As I recall on the day I made Dothranis, he quarreled with me over a Giantus Apple. 


Fallinchas paused for a moment as he opened his eyes and stared into the flames.  He shut his eyes again, and silently reflected.  The memories flooded his mind like a waterfall, and he relayed every bit of nuance, every smell, every sense of touch and feel of that day to his comrades.  It all seemed as fresh as this very moment in time, for the death knight.

The day was hot and humid, and the fountain spray floating through the air, from the Stormwind central square, did little to cool down the patrons gathered around the vendor carts.  Summer fairs always offered the promise of exquisite imports of food and trinkets normally only found outside the walls of the White City.  At a fruit vendor cart parked just below the steps of the city’s bank, trouble brewed between two young alliance recruits.

“Human if you do not release this apple immediately, I shall not be held responsible for the forthcoming thrashing you shall receive.” Dothranis held a tight grip on the human’s wrist.  Who did this tiny man believe himself to be?  Dothranis easily stood a full six inches above this brown-skinned, spike-haired arrogant young paladin.  The man-child was clearly in outstanding physical shape for a human, but that would not intimidate Dothranis in the least.  He had spied the Giantus Apple, the moment the luscious fruit spilled into the vendor’s trough, from the supply sack.

“See here you Draenei devil, you will release me at once, and choose another apple!  This trough is full of fruit.  You should learn the art of speed, along with your Shamanistic training routine,” Chasiah teased.  His left hand palmed the 12 inch golden yellow apple as he raised his right hand preparing to fire off a judgment-spell against his adversary.  The Draenei was huge, and held tight to Chasiah’s wrist.  His blue chin tendrils seemed to rattle as the Shaman scowled at Chasiah, in frustration.  His left hand was raised in a defensive posture, Chasiah was unfamiliar with.  But the paladin refused to relinquish the rare fruit.  These apples were usually seen in Stormwind only once or twice in a season, and one would be lucky just to see one, let alone have the opportunity to taste its intoxicating sweetness.

Just as the Shaman readied to cast a Static Shock attack, the duo were levitated three feet off the ground, and whisked in opposite directions.  Chasiah was thrown into the fountain, quickly lunging to his feet to draw his weapon, but found himself entangle in his own cloak.  The paladin lost his footing and crashed back into the cool water.  Meanwhile, Dothranis had landed face first into a thicket beside the eastern mailbox, his hoofed-feet flailing through the air as he attempted to free himself.  The apple floated toward and landed neatly into the outstretched palms of a tall, slender purple skinned young night elf priestess.

Fallinchas opened his eyes and rolled them toward Shala.  “You’d stolen the one and only Giantus apple I’ve ever come into close contact with, my lady”, he said as he mocked a choking gesture at the priestess.

“I did my love.  It was the first Giantus apple I had ever seen up close, myself!  While you boys continued to bump chests, I decided to relieve you both of the object causing undue strife.  And lo’ the end result was a forged bond of the ages!”  Shala burst into glorious, contagious laughter and was soon joined by the others.

“That stubborn ox of a Draenei grabbed at my cloak and tugged me free of the fountain in one great pull.  I was in awe of his strength…” Fallinchas mused, “but, I was fully prepared to wage war on him.  That insane Shaman clapped me on the back, and erupted into that high pitched laughter of his.”

Fallinchas and Shala both shot their arms into the air, palms stretched to the heavens, mimicking the Draenei. Together, they shouted, “To the victor, goes the spoils!”

Shala wiped tears of joy from her eyes, recalling that faithful day the three future heroes met one another. “Oh how we all had laughed, my love.  It was truly the beginning of a friendship that would eventually cheat death itself.”  Shala stood before the fire, rocking from side to side; her gentle hands clasped over her heart.

Fallinchas pulled her close, and planted a soft kiss on her cheek, before lifting his goblet toward the fire again. “On the day I took the Oath of the Light to become a Knight of the Silver Hand, Dot presented this goblet to me.  He’d handcrafted it himself.  His jewel-crafting skills were extraordinary.  He placed this beautifully forged chalice into my hands and said to me, ‘Never forget this day. This is what you were born to do.  I give you this goblet to carry wherever your adventures may lead.  The battles may harden your heart to the Light; you may lose yourself to dark times.  This chalice shall be your compass, to remind you, that you will always be a Champion of the Knights of the Silver Hand, dear friend.’  My best friend knew…somehow…he just knew…the times would darken.  He knew I’d need something to always bring me back to where I belong.”

“My Lord, did Dot accompany you in many battles,” asked Peak, one of the contingent’s gnome rogues.  Fallinchas smiled at Peak, as he passed the goblet to the other rogue, Gunther, seated to his left.

“Dot stood by my side for countless encounters, my brothers and sisters,” the death knight announced.  “The Battle of Thorns; he saved my life from an orc’s bludgeon attack.  At the Siege of Honor Hold, orcs outnumbered the two of us by four to one.  Because of Dothranis’ defensive skill, I was able to return to Darnassus: to Shala.”

Staring into the bonfire, watching as the tongues of red and orange danced and the kindling popped, Fallinchas grasped at his Shard of Crystal Forest necklace. Shala placed a comforting hand on his shoulder pauldron. She knew her beloved so well.  She’d never heard him speak of the day that changed their three lives forever.  In her mind, she prayed to Elune, to grant strength and courage to her champion.

“Dot fought by my side, the day the defunct Knights of the Silver Hand faced off against Arthas, during the Scourge invasion of Lordaeron.  My friend watched Chasiah Stromgarde die at the hands of a death knight.  He could not save me, from Arthas.”

Watching the flames dance brought back memories of Lordaeron city ablaze.


Uther’s murder had taken its toll on Chasiah.  Seeing the corpse of his former teacher, lying unceremoniously on the stone pathway, was enough to fill the young paladin with enough hatred to forgo all formal training.  He sought revenge.  Dothranis tried desperately to console Chasiah as the two led a small group of paladin forces through the streets of the city.  Everywhere they turned, the streets of Lordaeron had been overrun by the Scourge as evident by the animated corpses of undead civilians and converted soldiers wreaking havoc among the remnant of survivors.  The whole city was ablaze. Putrid green smoke choked the air, as fire and ash rained from the rooftops.

Chasiah charged fearlessly through the droves of undead, hell-bent on slaying Arthas personally.  If he could just find the death knight, he would avenge Uther’s death.  His small battalion charged up the main throughway, hacking and slashing as they progressed toward the center of the doomed city.  Dothranis supported his commander and friend, but feared the worse.

“Commander Stromgarde, we appear to be deviating from our original objective, sire.  Were we not supposed to search for and rescue any remaining survivors?” Dothranis pleaded.

“I want his head on a spit, Dot!  He’ll pay for killing the King and Uther!  I do not know what foul demon has possessed the prince, but I assure you, I plan to release it,” Chasiah roared.

The battalion had advanced on the city’s square, and prepared to storm the castle, when they were suddenly surrounded by Scourge.  Arthas stood atop the great steps of the castle entrance. The death knight clutched the magical urn containing his father’s ashes in the crook of his left arm.  The Frostmourne blade was raised to the burning skies, in his right hand.

Chasiah broke rank formation and charged through the Scourge-filled square, in a blind rage.  His two-handed blade swiped at anything in his path, as he charged toward Arthas.  The death knight leaped from his perch and bellowed at the paladin.  The Frostmourne blade cut down Scourge in his own path, as he charged the paladin.  Dothranis was caught in crossfire of allied and scourge battle, unable to break free and charge alongside his friend. He screamed out to Chasiah, in anguish.

“Chasiah, NO!  Wait for the battalion! Chas, please…wait for me!”

Chasiah weaved spells, slaughtered undead, and shoved at innocent survivors in his blood raged stampede toward Arthas.  The two combatants collided fiercely; the death knight’s Frostmourne blade shattered Chasiah’s enchanted blade and cut the chained Libram from the paladin’s waist.  It dangled limply from the remaining chain.  The two stood face to face, each taking up familiar defensive stances from their past.  Arthas scowled at the paladin, as he recognized his foe.

“Chasiah Stromgarde!  You dare to face me alone, you pitiful excuse for a paladin!  You were never able to best me in a match, and this encounter is far from practice, my old friend.  I will claim your soul, for your insolent defiance,” Arthas yelled at the paladin.

Chasiah produced a Crest of Lordaeron shield, and an enchanted red-glow short-sword.  The paladin squared his broad shoulders in preparation for a lunging melee attack.  His teeth were clenched, his brow furrowed, muscles tensed, he was prepared to send Arthas Menethill to the afterlife.

“You are a murderous traitor, Arthas!  Damn you for Uther, Lord Terenas, the Alliance, humankind!  I curse the ground you stand on, and I too am aware that this will be no practice, you dog!  Tonight, you die death knight!”

Chasiah lunged at the death knight, with uncanny speed.  For a moment, Arthas was taken by surprise, as the paladin’s blade struck the urn, sending it crashing to the ground beneath his feet.  It rolled a few yards away from the duel, undamaged.

Before Chasiah could strike out a second surprise attack, Arthas gripped the stock of his blade tight with both hands and parried the paladin’s next swing, then lashed out two quick chops, with the Frostmourne.  Both blows found only the surface of the paladin’s shield. He quickly pivoted on his heel, bringing his left leg crashing down into the paladin’s shield with a round-house kick.

Chasiah balanced his weight against the death knight’s brutal kick, but lost grip on the shield.  Before he could regain his grasp, a second kick sent the Crest of Lordaeron skidding along the worn cobblestone pathway. Chasiah immediately cast a Deflection spell, parrying the death knight’s swooping Frostmourne chop.  As Arthas recoiled from the parry, Chasiah swung wildly, cutting the death knight’s plate leg armor.

Arthas hobbled for a split second, and dropped to the injured knee, balancing himself with his right palm on the ground. He tucked his balance-arm, rolling away from the charging paladin.  In two skilled roll-and-bounce moves, the death knight was back on his feet crouching in a defensive position.  The Frostmourne hilt was held low at the waist, projecting the blade across the death knight’s chest, for protection.  The death knight favored his injured right thigh, but dare not take his eyes from the paladin’s.

Chasiah stood poised in an offensive stance; his blade pointed at the death knight; his right hand grasping for the Libram dangling from his hip.  Arthas had been hurt. The paladin spied blood flowing from the cut through the plate.  Chasiah’s demeanor switched from defensive to aggressive; cocky.

“You bleed, Arthas.  Whatever you are now, you are still human.  You will die as one of us, tonight.”

“Nonsense, Stromgarde.  Your weakness has always been your inability to control your emotions.  A fact I remember, all too well.  As I recall, your father Thamore showed the same signs of weakness, the night I killed him in my father’s throne-room!”

From a distance, Dothranis saw the battle ensue, but was still unable to free himself from the never ending onslaught of Scourge.  Dot saw the two fighters standing toe-to-toe.  Arthas appeared to be hurt, while Chasiah positioned himself for another attack. Where was his shield?  Dot couldn’t think straight.  He was concentrating on keeping himself and as many of the remaining battalion alive, as possible.  Then the unthinkable happened.  Dot saw Chasiah burst into a berserk-filled roar and leap toward the death knight.  His trajectory was too high, though.  Had Chasiah aimed to land behind Arthas?

“Oh my word,” the Shaman whispered.

Arthas watched as the paladin screamed a blood curdling curse, then leaped into the air toward him.  A smirk lit the corners of the death knight’s mouth.  This paladin had been a formidable adversary.  Had he not made a fatal mistake, Arthas thought it possible that Chasiah just might have been able to hurt him again.  But he acted emotionally, and given up the dominant defensive position for the chance at ending their battle with a blind leap and rear attack.  As the paladin sailed and flipped over Arthas, the death knight reached out and snatched at the Libram chain dangling in mid air.  And then…the Frostmourne flew.

THE BOND RENEWED              

The small group was stunned.  Nerra sat with her hands covering her tight pressed lips.  Nnimrod’s eyes searched the ground for an unknown object.  Shala stifled sobs deep in her throat.  The rest of the contingent stared unbelievingly at Fallinchas; their mouths agape.  The death knight inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.  He opened his eyes, and peered into the slowly burning flames.

“My Lord…” Nerra started.  But she could not find the words to complete her thought.

“I fell that night, Nerra. I jumped through the air intent on catching Arthas from behind.  But he was smarter than I.  He used my emotional weakness to manipulate me.  To the victor goes the spoils.”

Fallinchas stepped away from the bonfire, and walked toward the tent entrance.  Though his back was to the group, his strong voice resonated in the open space.

“There is a gap in my memory.  I see flashes of light as if the very sky above were ablaze; then…there is nothing.  A darkness I cannot describe; timeless.  The next conscious memory I had, was of standing in front of the Light’s Hope Chapel, in the Eastern Plaguelands.  The death knight, Highlord Darion Morgraine of the Ebon Blade and Tirion Fordring of the Argent Dawn had just succeeded in thwarting the Lich King’s plan to kill Fordring and slaughter all at the Chapel.  The elite force of death knights had been freed, and we returned to the Archerus.  It was there that I slowly came to reclaim bits and pieces, of my former life.”

Fallinchas stared into the palms of his hands, pondering the words spoken.

“I do say my former life, because Chasiah Stromgarde was no more.  I had changed in every way possible.  However, I longed to use my new and…strange…talents and skills for the Alliance.  And…as time marched forward, I regained enough of my former life’s memories to remember those who were once closest to me.”

“You returned to Stormwind my Lord,” Nerra said.

“I returned home, to Stormwind, Nerra. Though my return was obviously not praised, I did find acceptance as an ally, in time.  I had to hone my new skills, and earn the right to carry the banner of the Alliance, once more.  But each new task, brought me that much closer to my ultimate goal:  finding my friends.”

Fallinchas slowly turned to find the whole group standing before him, this side of the bonfire, captivated by his tale.

Dimpkin raised a hand, like a school boy in class.  “Lord Fallin, how long was it lad, before ye tracked down yer lady-friend here?”

“She found me, Dimpkin.  I had been freed from the Lich King for over a year, but not dared to look for Dot or Shala, until I could fully control the new skills and powers I possessed.  In truth…I didn’t know who I was completely.  There were still gaps in my memory.  Flashes of faces long gone, and unrecognizable.”

Shala stepped beside Fallinchas and laid her head on the death knight’s shoulder.  She gently stroked a hand across his chest, as he continued to speak.

“I lay my head on the stump of a tree, one night in Elwynn Forest, staring up into the beauty of a clear star-lit sky.  In those days, I spent much time contemplating the meaning behind my existence.  I heard their footsteps long before they knew, that I knew, they were there.  But I sensed no danger in the two strangers approaching.  In fact…there was an air of familiarity about them.”

Fallinchas reached to Shala’s chin, and pulled gently, raising her eye sight level with his own.

“My love, you brought me back. You found me, in the darkness; you and Dot. He never once considered that I was gone forever, and so you found me.  I cannot express my gratitude for him. His friendship and love are irreplaceable.  I cannot explain how much I love you, Shalanaraya. You have loved me for two lifetimes; I did not, nor do I deserve you.  If I should fall tomorrow, know that I am proud to have loved you and eternally grateful to Elune for bringing you into my lives, both past…and present.”

Silence dominated the atmosphere of the tent, once again.  Fallinchas embraced Shala, holding on tight; her smaller delicate frame melting into his strong arms.  She weeped openly now, and whispered her love for the human.

Dimpkin raised a hand, again.  The group rumbled in quiet laughter.  Fallinchas chuckled as he addressed the dwarf.

“Permission to speak, Dimpkin,” he said.

Dimpkin cleared his throat, and handed the goblet back to Fallinchas.  The dwarf looked to the others, as if nervous with anticipation.  “Beggin’ yer pardon, My Lord, but what did Dot say ta ye, when he found ye lying in the grass under tha tree?”

Fallinchas looked past the crusaders, into the flames of the bonfire.  “He walked right up to me, Dimpkin.  Walked right up to me, and produced this goblet from a burlap sack in his hands.  And he said to me, ‘Don’t ever leave this behind again.  Keep it always, to remind you, that you will always be a Champion of the Knights of the Silver Hand, dear friend’.  I’ve never gone into battle without this goblet, since.”


Fallinchas sat on the frozen Saronite plateau outside the tent, as his band of crusaders slept quietly inside.  His cold blue eyes, and eerie white pupils glowed bright against the cold darkness of Ice Crown. They scanned the entire area from the plateau, up to the cloudy black skies above, and back down to the ravaged terrain below the citadel steps.  The sounds of war raged heavily, all around.  Peaceful; music to his ears.

Despite the loss of his good friend, it was a good night.  The crusaders now knew all there was to know of their leader, and he was fine with that knowledge.  They were ready to face a danger that would surely claim the lives of some, if not all of them.  With any luck, Fallinchas would be able to add the Lich King to the casualties.

He had told Shala the truth, and so redeemed himself in her eyes.  That was enough for him.  Tomorrow, he could die happily, knowing that he’d given all of himself to the ones who mattered, in the here and now.  It was folly to assume they would both make it back together.  But there was hope.  Hope was always there.  For that was what the bond of love produced. Hope.

Yet, behind the glazing of hope lie a familiar burning sensation: rage.  Arthas was within reach, and nothing behind that entrance would stop Fallinchas from squaring off against the Lich King, once again.

The death knight sipped the last of the brown-butter mead, from his goblet.  By now, the drink was old, but the cold air of Ice Crown replaced the natural sweetness with a bitter tang that the death knight had come to relish.  He sipped and thought of lost lives and close companions.

“Goodbye Dot, my friend.  Until we meet again, may you watch over Shala. Protect and keep her.”

One more sip, and the mead had vanished.

“Goodbye Chasiah.  Please forgive me…for things done…and for things yet to do.  You were an honorable paladin; far removed from where I am today.  May the Light always shine on you.”


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Showing The Scenery


Good morning, my fellow wordsmiths! I thought I’d tap a few words out, just to check on you. I find that writing throughout the day keeps me focused on what’s really important to me, even if the subject matter seems mundane.

Right now, I’m sitting on top of a red hardened plastic tool box, stacked atop a weathered blue plastic milk crate. My little make-shift office is nothing more than the hollowed, white metal, rear compartment of my company cargo van. In fact, my desktop is actually a pulled-out gray steel tool drawer. I draped my favorite University Of Michigan sweatshirt over the opened slots to give my lap top a cushy surface. Enya is crooning through the speakers, partially blocking out the ambient chaos of I-94 westbound traffic; did I forget to mention I’m sitting along the side of the road? The sky is cloudy here in Hartford, Michigan and the weather is a cool 68 degrees.

Staring through the windows of the double swing side doors, I see the leaves of the highway shrubbery beginning to turn. Their summer green shades are slowly fading to the burnt oranges, faded yellows and crisp auburns of fall. I glance right, and gazes through the windows of the double swing back doors. Behind me, sparkling black asphalt roadway shimmers as the amber light of my van’s whirling safety bulb reflects off of its new surface. The freshly painted white dashed lines of the lane dividers shine despite the overcast skies. Semi-trucks whizzing by in the right lane shake my van on its sturdy shocks with each passing vehicle.

I once read a quote somewhere that said, “Don’t tell me what the scene looks like. Show me the scenery through the eyes of your words.” Okay, I didn’t really read that somewhere. I just made it up. But, it works for me. Painting scenery is a constant challenge for me, and this brand new quote—which is really nothing more than a personal challenge every time I sit down to write—reminds me to show my readers what the P.O.V. (that’s point of view) looks like.

When I began reading novels, Stephen King was my first choice. In my ignorance, I complained about how slow some of his masterful works started off, before diving into the real action. What I failed to realize was how meticulously Mr. King painted the scenery of each book. He would never bother with simply stating the facts of who a protagonist is. He would never say things like,

“Greg is 50. He’s tired. He smokes three packs of Newports a day.”

Instead, Mr. King would take time to paint a full picture of Greg’s personality; his traits; and his surroundings. By the time you figure out Greg is actually a 50 year old chain smoker with poor health, you’re actually walking in Greg’s shoes! You become a part of Greg’s life. You’re drawn into the story.

Scenery and immersion are key tools in drawing your audience into the story. Sometimes, the best way to work on mastering these tools is to simply describe your current surroundings. Try it out today. In fact, work on it for the remainder of the week. Paint a picture of your surroundings, even if the scenery is drab.

By the way, did you guess that my day job is as a construction worker, or did you cheat and look at the photo? Gotcha…


Just Checking In



How’s it going tonight, wordsmith? How’s the writing coming along? You are still working at it aren’t you?

Now hold on a second. I just saw that shift in your countenance. I’m not gonna sit here at this computer and listen to you make excuses for why you’ve decided to put your writing on hold for awhile. What happened to the passion of last week? Where’s the creativity?

Oh, I see. You’re one of those writers. You know; the, “I’m waiting for inspiration” type. Well…let me let you in on a little secret. If the greats wrote only when inspired, they would have never made their mark in the literary world. Don’t believe me? Write a letter to Stephen King and ask him. You may be surprised at what comes back. I’ll give you another example, closer to home. I don’t even feel like writing right now! It’s true! But, I’m writing to you to find out how your project is coming along because I don’t want to see you fail. At the end of the day, we writers really have to stick together and support one another.

Recently, my assigned marketing representative, at Xulon Press, told me, “People love to interact with people. The best thing you can do to promote your book is to get out there and show your face.” You know, I believe that’s true in our writing as well. People love to read good writing, even when it’s not so good. The key is to get your voice out there. Let the people know who you are, and what you care about. Hey, you may not get many comments, but you’re honing your skills.

Sometimes, I find that writing when I’m not in the mood to do so actually produces the type of stuff people really want to read. It’s real life. I’m just a guy working pay check-to-pay check, just like 90% of the unknown writers in the world. I’m just like you. But, I refuse to give up on this dream no matter how old I grow. I’m gonna ride this dream until the wheels fall off, or until it explodes and changes my life forever. I’m hoping and praying for the latter.

So check in, friend. Pick up your pencil; tap those keys; let your thumbs walk the touchscreen. Write! Tell me how your project is coming along. I’m rooting for you, so don’t give up!

The Story Thus Far


Paraclete’s Promise – Book Trailer

Chapters 1&2

Chapter 3

So, my book has been published on digital outlets such as Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Apple for a little over four months now. It’s funny how our minds instinctively yet erroneously decide how our future will progress. I once heard a Christian joke that went something like this: if you wanna hear God laugh, just tell him your plans for your life. Funny.

A respected published author told me,”Don’t expect to get rich off of a single book. The fact is, most people don’t even earn back their initial investment.” I thought that statement was a bit morbid for my taste, and promptly decided to be the exception to that particular rule. But I gotta tell ya friends, this book business is a lot harder to crack than it seems. I’m learning more each day about the fine-line art of salesmanship associated with today’s self publishing business. And believe me when I tell you, you do need to put on your salesman hat if you expect to make a splash in an already oversaturated business. While I have yet to experience any super-dee-duper success (to date, my book has earned about $550 over roughly 23 copies sold), I’m still pretty optimistic on the chances of it landing in the right hands. I really believe I have a great story. I just have to convince the rest of the world of what I already know.

While I wait for the doors to open, let me share a few things I’ve learned to date. Maybe you’re an aspiring author thinking of going the self publishing route.

  1. Count the cost before you sign on the dotted line. Jesus told us to count the cost of what it meant to follow him. You should do the same when you’re thinking of signing with a self-publishing company. Pay particular attention to what is offered in your purchasing price. Is marketing included? Is the contract exclusive? How trustworthy is the author support team’s response time? Things of this nature could be deal breakers.
  2. Take note that writing the book is only part of the game. Since you’re going it alone, you have to be your own marketing team. That is, unless you have a couple hundred dollars to pay for a marketing package offered by your publisher. The marketing is crucial. I spoke with a “Family Christian Bookstore” manager who told me, “I can usually tell who’s done their marketing research during book signings. Some folks will come in here and sit for four hours, only to sell a single book.” If you’re thinking of going the self publishing route, you’ve got to come up with a successful marketing plan. These days, social media is the easiest route to take, to get the word out about your title. It’s still no guarantee, but it’s a start none the less.
  3. Stay prayed up. Yeah, it may not seem like a note worthy point to you, but believe me; it is. If you have a good story and you truly believe in it, you’d better ask God for direction on a consistent basis. If it’s his will, it will happen. Plus, the business can discourage you pretty quickly, so you need the Lord to strengthen you during the tough times anyway. Stay prayed up.
  4. Don’t be afraid to give something away…for free. This is a really tough point for a lot of people and there are many schools of thought on this subject. Some would argue,”I’m trying to sell this thing. I can’t afford to give it away for free!” Well…if you want people to show interest, you’d better be willing to give ’em at least a little taste of what you’re producing. Did you peep the 3 free chapters I linked up top? Be willing to give a little to gain some friends, who just might talk about your product to their friends, and so on. Domino effect. Trust me, you need it to push your book in a self publishing market.
  5. Don’t feel guilty about asking for reviews. This was tough for me at first. I was giving my book away but not asking anyone to commit to a review. Did you know that Amazon is as popular as it is, not because of its own steam, but because of word of mouth reviews? My friend, book reviews and word of mouth will be your strongest advocates when it comes to your self published works. You need people to get interested. If you have a bunch of positive reviews (even a few negative ones), you’re bound to attract more traffic. Don’t be shy. If you’re giving it away, ask for a review!

I think that’s all I can muster at this late hour. But before I hit the sack, let me encourage you friend. I know how hard it is to get your published work looked at and even taken seriously. But don’t give up. Believe in yourself and your talent.

Recently, I gave a book to John Bevere. He just happened to be in Kalamazoo, Michigan while I was there on work (as in day job) related business. I attended the church service he spoke at, and quietly slipped his assistant a copy of my book, with instructions to give it to John at an opportune time. I regularly harass Mitch Albom over Facebook. He’s either gonna acknowledge me one day, or report me for stalking. Jerry B. Jenkins actually sent me a few notes on some things he would change in my opening sentences of chapter 1. Of course, the book had already been sent to print, but the fact that Mr. Jenkins got back to me was very encouraging. James L. Rubart is awesome at returning Facebook messages and giving encouragement. Hey look, these are heavy hitters in the Christian writing community, who put their pants on one leg at a time just as you and I do. And they got their starts off rocky, just like us. So be encouraged, and never give up on yourself.

Oh, before I pass out, I do invite you to check out my free chapters. Sometimes the best motivation is reading someone else’s work. Stop by and visit me sometime also. You can find me on About.Me