Friday, March 26, 2010

In the Father's Embrace part 1

I must confess that I nearly panicked last night about 10:15 when I realized that today was Friday and I as supposed to post something! What was I going to post? I hadn't written anything for a week or two except an article for the Pickwick and two short description paragraphs. I knew my readers wouldn't be interested in any of those, and then, I remembered I had written a short (or not so short) story a few weeks ago and haven't posted it yet! My record is saved! Once more I can post on a Friday.:) Of course I always seem to come up with something.:)

This story was supposed to be 4+ pages long. It ended up being 6+ pages. I am not really good at math, but that last I figured, 6 was bigger than 4, so my story fit in the assigned length. Right? Mom really liked this story. And I'll admit it was interesting to write. I tried to follow the instructions, but to be honest, I really couldn't tell much difference in the samples I was given of it. Hope you like it anyway. Because it is so long, (three times the length of a Western) I'll give it to you in parts. (That will also give me time to get something else written.:))


Characters: 3 or more (I used 4)
Pages: 4+ (ended up 6+)
Special Instructions: Use dialogue meaningfully

In the Father’s Embrace
Rebekah Morris

The blinding glare of the sun on the snow had given way to a softer glow as the sun slipped farther down into the western sky. The clouds becoming first tinged and then fully colored with pink, contrasted beautifully with the deep blue sky of the east. Everywhere the snow lay in a great blanket of white crystals. The distant crunch of footsteps and the murmur of voices, muffled by scarves and coats, could be heard in the stillness of the coming night.
“I don’t think I can go much farther,” moaned a voice from the folds of a gay red scarf which matched her coat.
“You have to keep going,” came an almost harsh reply from a gray clad figure. “I can see a building of some sorts ahead. We’ll stop there.”
A small brown coated, brown hooded morsel of a person sighed, “Oh, I hope it is a house.”
“Shawn, I’m beyond cold, I’m freezing!” The demanding voice was clad in a royal blue coat. “I won’t go on in this cold! I’m stopping right now!”
“Stay and freeze then.”
“You don’t care--”
“Oh, don’t start to argue,” pleaded the peacemaker in brown. “There is a building up ahead. Can’t you at least wait until we are there out of the wind?”
The blue coated figure started on again, grumbling and muttering.
For several minutes silence fell over the little group staggering and struggling through the snow. Only the crunch of their footsteps were to be heard as the sun sank lower.
With an anguished cry, she of the red coat and scarf stumbled suddenly, lost her footing and fell. For a minute she lay still. Then with great effort she tried to rise, only to fall back with a groan. “I can’t do it,” she whimpered. “I just can’t. Go on and leave me.”
Gently the brown morsel dropped down beside the red heap and wrapped an arm around her. “Of course we won’t leave you. Can you stand at all if Shawn helps you?”
Through the folds of the red scarf came a faint, “I’ll try.” And when a gray arm reached down, she grasped it and pulled herself up.
“Now,” coaxed the brown petite figure, “try to walk.”
Valiantly, yet with hesitation, the try was made only to find that had the gray arm on one side and the brown one on the other not held her fast, she would have fallen. As it was she gave a sharp cry of pain and nearly fainted.
“Would you all hurry up!” exclaimed the blue clad figure in exasperation. “It’s freezing,” and seeming to forget its former declaration, went on, “and I won’t wait any longer!” A few stamps were given as emphasis that the words spoken were not just show.
No answer was returned, however, for all the attention of the others was focused on the red coat.
“She can’t walk, Shawn, and I believe she’s going to faint!”
“I think I can carry her a little ways though not the whole way.”
“What will we do--”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” the reply snapped the sentence off unfinished as the gray arms lifted the form in red and set off once more across the seemingly never ending snow.
With red mittens clinging to his neck a faint voice came to his ears. “I’m sorry.”
His own tone softened as he whispered back, “It wasn’t your fault.”

On and on the exhausted, chilled, and tired travelers trudged. Not talking now, for all their energies were focused on reaching the building before them. Several time the gray clad figure had paused, set down his burden, and stood gasping for breath. And as often as he paused, he started on again. But each time was harder than the last.
The sun which had cast such a glory of pink, gold, purple and blue into the sky, now seemed to have decided that it had had enough of the day and, almost without a second thought, had slid behind the mountains, leaving the group to the glimmering stars and a sliver of a silver moon.
“It’s dark, and there’s no light in the house,” fretted the blue coat.
The brown morsel gave a little laugh albeit it was not full of mirth. “That’s because it is an old barn.”
“A barn! I won’t stay in a barn! I say, it was mean of you, Shawn, to bring us out here just to stay in a barn,” and the petulant blue coat sat down in the snow with crossed arms and a scowl.
“Stay there if you want,” was the cutting retort. “It wasn’t me that led you here. It was your own foolishness. I--”
“Oh, sure, blame it all on me. You’re the oldest and know so much. How was I--”
The argument was cut off by a sweet voice protesting, “Oh, do stop. We are all to blame, but that won’t help matters now. I’m sure the barn will be a very pleasant place to stay out of this wind.”
The blue coat arose and followed after the others though not without disgruntled mutterings.
Soon they came to a barbed wire fence which surrounded the barn. The gate was with some difficulty, because of the tall, frozen grass and the drifts of snow about it, opened enough to let them all pass through.

Come back next week for Part 2

Friday, March 19, 2010

Meleah's Western Part 14

I suppose I should go ahead and post. I forgot it was Friday.:) It is different when you are out of town. But I told you I would post. I was wanting to get a poem written for today, but it didn't happen. I was busy doing other things. Going to used book stores for one thing. We went to four book stores and have over 50 "new" books to take home. I didn't count them all, and as we got more yesterday, we might be closer to 60+.:) Mom and I love books.:)

Well, the poll I had put up here sure was interesting. I had three people tell me they read this blog on Fridays most of the time. But no one reads it any other time. Such is the way of things.

Now, I was debating before I left town on Monday which thing I should bring to post. Should I bring the Western, or "In the Father's Embrace"? It turned out that the Western was easier to do, so sorry, you'll just have to put up with the next part.:)

Part 14

The fire blazed up and sent out a shower of sparks as Ty stirred it up before placing another log on top thus causing the snow on it to melt with a hiss. The day was drawing to a close. The evening meal had just been finished, and Sally and Aunt Leah were washing the last of the dishes. The three men sat around the fire in relative silence enjoying its warmth and Uncle Matt, his pipe. It wasn’t until the cabin was tidied up for the night that Sally and Aunt Leah sat down too. Aunt Leah settled herself and pulled out her knitting.

The day had been quiet. No disturbances had occurred to break the peace, and there had been no talk of trouble. Ty knew that questions would come sometime, and indeed he felt the need of wise counsel before setting off again in his search. Now, as he sat silently thinking, he wondered how this all would end. Would he find his sister? It seemed so hopeless, and yet he had promised his father. And always, in the back of his mind, there lingered a slight worry about those he had fled from. Would they try to follow him? Would they continue to wait for his return? Surely they knew he had been back and then had left again. Would he always be running and hiding from them?

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted. “Well Ty, ya goin’ ta tell them or am I?”
Ty turned with a blank expression on his face and regarded Carson with a puzzled air.
Carson chuckled. “Ya do have a way of not hearin’ the conversation that’s goin’ ‘round ya. I reckon I need ta say it all over again. They’re wantin’ ta know what brought us all out this way.”

Glancing around at the small circle about the fire, Ty stretched his legs and leaning back began the tale of how his father had been taken sick. How he and Carson had been away and had ridden back as quickly as they could. How his father had died leaving Ty the seemingly impossible task of finding a sister he had never heard about. “An’ when I discovered that they were goin’ ta be comin’ to the cabin ta search for me, well, we all jest lit out. Sally wouldn’t stay anywhere but with me though it was a long ride. An’ Carson led us here,” Ty finished up.

Uncle Matt nodded but said not a word. Aunt Leah on the other hand was full of sympathy and clicked her tongue over their troubles. “Ya poor dears! An’ ta think ya rode all that way yesterday an’ in that storm too.” She shook her head. “No wonder ya were all plum tuckered out. Well, ya’ll can jest stay here ‘long’s ya want to.”
“That’s right kind of ya, Aunt Leah,” Ty thanked her.
Uncle Matt spoke up. “Ty, there’s jest one thin’ I reckon I don’t rightly understand. Jest who is them that’s after ya, and why did ya have ta run?”

For a moment Ty was silent. All eyes were fixed on him. Even Carson looked interested, for he had never heard the story. All he had known two years before, when he had ridden up to visit his friend, was that Ty had to get out, so he had taken him when he left.

“Well,” the words came at last though very slowly. “We could jest say I know somethin’ that could well land them all behind bars, an’ I reckon they aim ta keep me quiet. Ya see, we ain’t got no sheriff nor nothin’ out there, an’ well . . ..” Ty left his sentence to die away into silence.
“How many of them are there?” Uncle Matt questioned.
“Oh, I can think a nearly half a dozen, an’ there ain’t a poor shot among ‘em. That’s why I knew we had ta get out. Carson an’ I are good shots an’ Sally can hold her own well’s the next man, but ya see, I ain’t wantin’ ta take justice inta my own hands. It would ha’ come to a shoot-out no doubt ‘bout it. I ain’t never shot a man, an’ would like ta get by without shootin’ any neither if’n I can.”
Once again Uncle Matt nodded. “Can ya tell the law ‘bout them fellows if’n ya was somewhere else?”
“I reckon I could, though it don’t seem’s though it’d do much good seein’ as how the law would be in one place an’ them others some place different.”
Sally spoke up. “Ty, couldn’t ya make them believe that ya wouldn’t say anythin’ ‘bout what ya know?”
Ty shook his head. “Even if they’d believe it, Sally, which they wouldn’t, it wouldn’t be right. I have ta tell if’n I get a chance.”
“It was that bad?”
Ty nodded at Carson. “If it were jest somethin’ little, I don’t reckon they’d be comin’ after me.”
All fell silent for some time as each thought on what Ty had just revealed.

Ty turned and noticed at once the startled, frightened look that had leapt into Sally’s eyes and the sudden quiver of her chin.
“Ty, if they are so determined ta make ya quiet, will they . . . I mean ya don’t think they will . . . would they try ta follow ya?”

The agony of fearful suspense that sounded in every word Sally uttered called out for a swift denial, for an assurance that all would be quite safe away from the cabin. However, Ty knew he had to be truthful. His very soul agonized over the terror he knew his words would cause in his sister’s heart, yet she had to know the danger. She had to know everything was not what one could wish.

Ty laid a hand gently on Sally’s clenched ones and looked her straight in the eye. “I don’t know, Sally. They could try ta find me, an’ I reckon we must always be on our guard.”

Should I keep going?

Friday, March 12, 2010

A Promise

Once again it is Friday Morning. Hmm, I'm wondering if I should do a poll or something to see what day of the week my readers read this. That might be interesting. I know I get on here almost every Friday morning.:) But what about the rest of you?

I have done some writing this week. I finished another short (even though it was seven pages long) story finished, taught writing class and got an assignment posted for Scribblers. It has been rather a busy week. Mom, Sarah and I went to help price boxes and boxes of things for Jimmy on Monday. I priced 38 boxes of puzzles in one morning. Each box had 6 floor puzzles in it. You can do the math. (I only do math when I have to.) Today is going to be busy too. S & I will be cleaning part of the house, and then we have to move all of the things from the new room to other parts of the house because the guy is coming to hang sheet rock tomorrow! Then we have to go babysit tonight. On Monday Mom, Sarah and I will be heading up to KC to spend the week with Grandma. (Grandpa and my aunt will be going to visit my cousin in collage.) But don't worry, I will post something either on Friday morning as usual, or on Thursday evening.

But now I won't make you wait any longer. Here is this weeks story. Enjoy!

Characters: 2 adults -- not a couple
Word count: 1250 - 1500 (ended with 1,376)
Tense: 3rd
Special Instructions: Show don't tell

A Promise
Rebekah Morris

Mrs. Donald sat before the fire in her small but cozy front room. Her knitting needles clicked continuously as she rocked back and forth, back and forth. A steady rain fell outside and the occasional flash of jagged lightning was followed sooner or later by the rumble of thunder.

Mrs. Donald shook her gray head. “I don’t like it,” she murmured half aloud. “It just don’t seem right.” Looking up at the mantel she saw two faces looking down at her. Her needles stopped; even her rocking paused as she studied the two faces. “They looked so much alike an’ now they’re both gone from me,” she drew a deep breath. “My Jed and me would wander the mountainside hand in hand. Timothy was just a little fellow then, always tumblin’ down an’ gettin’ back up again. There weren’t much that could stop them two. Jed, well, the Good Lord gave him a long life by my side. But Timothy,” the voice trailed off as she gazed with tear dimmed eyes at the picture of a young captain in uniform. The figure was straight and handsome. His hat couldn’t hide the proud yet merry look in his eyes nor could the stiff collar quite dispose of the slight tip of the head which was a boyhood habit of the man. The photograph had caught a smile lurking around the corners of the mouth and Mrs. Donald looking at it, half expected to hear him say,
“Don’t worry, Mum, I’ll be comin’ home again. Ya know I promised Pa I’d look after you.”
She gave a sudden smile. “That boy. He never could keep a sober look.” She picked up her knitting once again and began to rock back and forth, back and forth.

When at last the storm ended, Mrs. Donald rose stiffly from her chair. A stream of sunlight came in through a crack in the curtains, and she gently pushed them aside.
There was a line of blue sky in the far distance and though the rain came lightly down still, the sun was pushing its way bravely through the clouds. Hastily she caught up her shawl and said aloud, “I’m going out to look for rainbows, Jed. I’ll be lookin’ for one for you too Timothy. After all, a promise is a promise.”

Her stout boots carried her swiftly away from the cabin. She held the old shawl over her head as she looked about. Eager glances were bestowed in every direction, but no where did she see a rainbow. At the base of a small hill her steps slowed. One hand pushed aside a straying lock of hair. This was the hill where her Jed would take her. This was also the hill on which Timothy had stood looking so smart and determined when he had made his promise to return. For an instant she paused. Could she bear to go up there? She used to go there and read Timothy’s letters. But could she, dare she go now? The telegram’s words flashed through her mind; “Killed in action. Killed in action.” Her feet began moving up the slope almost of their own accord. At the crest of the hill the sunshine suddenly burst forth, bathing the western slopes with light. Mrs. Donald caught her breath as a flash of brilliant color caused her to look up. There before her was the most brilliant rainbow she had ever beheld. Its colors glowed vividly against the darker clouds. And then, just to the side of it, a second one appeared.
“A double rainbow!” she breathed. “I haven’t seen a sight like this since, well, I don’t recall ever seein’ a double with colors as brilliant as these. Why that one goes straight to the ground!” For several minutes Mrs. Donald just gazed at the sight before her. Even after the glow of the colors had faded, she continued standing her thoughts busy.
“A double promise. My Timothy promised me he’d come home from the war an’ I promised him I’d wait for him. Dear Lord, I don’t know how he’s to keep his promise since You called him home, but I reckon maybe it’s the other way ‘round. He’s goin’ to be waitin’ for me to come to him an’ to my Jed. Then I’ll be content. I don’t rightly understand, but I know you meant promises to be kept.” A deep sigh seemed to come from her very soul as slowly she turned away back toward her solitary cabin.

“I’ll be comin’ back, Mum, don’t you worry. Just wait for me. I’ll return. Dearest Mum, didn’t I promise Pa I’d look after you? We Donalds keep our promises.” The words, aye, and the very tone of that dearly loved voice seemed to sound in her ears as she neared the cabin.
She shook her head, her eyes nearly blinded by tears that would come in spite of herself. She must stop this imagining. Her Jed was gone. Her Timothy was gone. She would go to them, but they would not come to her.

“Mum!” Suddenly she felt herself being swept off her feet and held close in an embrace while kisses were being showered over her face. When at last her feet returned to earth she found herself gazing into the face of Timothy!
“But,” she gasped out half in fright, “you’re dead!”
A hearty laugh rang out over the still mountainside followed almost at once by a sigh. “Oh, not you too, Mum.” His arm was around her, and she was being led inside to her rocking chair. “I’ve been told that so many times that I’m getting tired of it. Why the Major kept almost insisting that I was dead. It was difficult to convince him for a time. I don’t know who he thought I was. ‘Captain Donald is dead. He was killed in action at Marne. I saw it with my own eyes.’ That is what he kept tellin’ me.”
Mrs. Donald stared at the young man who had seated himself astride a chair in the old way and leaned his arms across the back of it. “What did you tell him?”
“Tell him?” A chuckle interrupted his speech. “I told him I didn’t feel dead, not one bit of it. ‘If I’m supposed to be dead, Sir,’ I told him. ‘You forgot to inform me.’ An’ he just stared. Why Mum, it took a good three quarters of an hour to convince the Colonel, and the two Lieutenants who came in, and the Major that I was alive.”

Mrs. Donald listened as Timothy told her all about the trouble of convincing everyone he saw that he was alive. Even the men in his unit were skeptical. At last she managed to say,
“I suppose you’re hungry, Timothy.”
“Hungry, Mum? I’m just about starved for your cookin’.” And he sprang to his feet to offer his arm to his mother.

It was later, after they had eaten and Timothy had told of his experience as a prisoner of war and his escape and return to his lines that Mrs. Donald said, reaching across the table to place her worn hand over her son’s hard calloused one, “I went out this evenin’ after the storm to hunt for rainbows, just like your Pa and me used to do,” she paused and gazed into the deep dark eyes before her. “An’ I saw a double rainbow; the biggest and brightest I’ve ever seen.”
Timothy nodded. “I saw them too, Mum and wondered if you were watching them.”
“A rainbow is the sign of promise, Son, an’ a double rainbow, well--”
“Means a double promise, Mum,” Timothy smiled gently. “Your promise and mine.”
“They’ve both been kept now, an’ I reckon we ought to get on our knees an’ thank the Good Lord for lettin’ us keep them.”
Timothy rose soberly. “You’re right, Mum. Pa always said a promise was a sacred thing, and I know it was only by God’s goodness that I kept mine to you.” There were tears in both the mother’s and son’s eyes as they knelt together in the front room with the picture of “My Jed” smiling down on them from the mantel.

Friday, March 5, 2010

An Autumn Path

Welcome to another Friday Fiction.

I had a hard time remembering last night that today was Friday not yesterday. You see, we babysat Krista, James and Joel last evening, and that usually happens on a Friday. So when I want to bed I was really confused. :) But hopefully I'm straightened out now.

Thank you Hank and Abigail for leaving questions about "Meleah's Western." They have already helped me think of where I need to take the story. It is amazing what a simple question or two can do to your creative writing powers.:) Thanks for the push.:)

This story that I'm posting now was rather difficult to write. I don't know if it was just the way I was writing it, or if I was trying too hard to follow the instructions. Whatever it was made it hard. But as you can see, I did get it finished. I'm not sure if I did it right or if it is any good, so I hope you all will tell me what you think.

Characters: 1 adult, 1 child
Word Count: 1500 - 2500 (I did 2007)
Tense: 3rd
Special Instructions: "Omniscient narrator" -- knows and shares characters feelings and thoughts, not just words, action and settings.

Sorry, the picture didn't turn out very well

An Autumn Path
Rebekah Morris

With a long look around him at the trees glowing with brilliant autumn colors above him, their branches meeting and twining together to form a roof of flaming orange and yellow, he paused. The trunks were dark, contrasting sharply with the leaves and the golden brown grasses and ferns about their base. Here and there pine and spruce trees added their dark green to the stunning picture of fall glories causing the young man to catch his breath in wonder and awe. For several minutes he stood in silence.

“It’s beautiful,” he said to himself. “No, that isn’t the right word, it’s too common. Charming, wonderful, glorious,” he shook his head with each word. “I just can’t describe it. The words won’t come. Now Grandfather could--” The young man bit his lip suddenly and blinked back the sudden rush of tears. “No!” he ordered himself firmly. “I will go on. I promised him I would. I’ll go straight down this path and out into the world where men rush hither and yon with hardly a pause for the Creator’s magnificent designs. This will be the first picture I’ll paint.” Sitting down suddenly in the middle of the old rutted path, he gazed steadily at each color and shape so as to fix it forever in his memory. For a time this took all of his concentration, but eventually, as so often happens to even the most dedicated thinkers, his thoughts began to wander. Back they drifted to another autumn day. The young man closed his eyes, lay back with hands clasped under his head and lived that day over again.

“Come on, Sammy, we still have a long way to go before we reach our supper tonight,” the voice was kind, but Sammy looked doubtful. He didn’t know this man, his grandfather, yet here he was going to live with him until he was ‘of age,’ whatever that meant. Slowly Sammy scuffled along in the leaves wishing he was back in the city with his aunt.

Grandfather watched him out of the corner of his eye as he kept on striding forward. This boy of eight had been his late daughter’s only child. Not until this morning had he ever even lain eyes on the boy. How would the lad take to living in the country he wondered. It would certainly take some getting used to for both of them.

The two companions tramped on in silence under the autumn leaves until they came to a small farm house set back at the base of a gentle hill. They had reached home, but the only one to welcome them was a dog who barked and wagged his tail as they came up the lane.
“Here we are, Sammy,” Grandfather said setting the pack he had carried down on the porch.
Sammy looked around him. He was not impressed. He had to live here? Even the dog was looked down on with disdain as it made friendly advances. There weren’t even any houses at all within sight. Sammy didn’t think he would like it. In fact, he made up his mind that he wouldn’t like it.

Picking up the pack once again, Grandfather opened the front door, “Come on,” he gave a jerk of his head. “I’ll show you your room.”
Listlessly, as though not caring if he ever saw his room, the boy followed. Up the narrow winding stairs and into a small but pleasant room he was led. The roof sloped down on one side of it and a brick chimney ran up near the wall. Two small windows with simple muslin curtains looked out over the barnyard and pasture hill. Sammy glanced around. Disgust was written in every look and movement as he unpacked his things after his grandfather had left him. “This is not a room,” he muttered. “This is a closet. Why Aunt Agnes’ cook wouldn’t even think of sleeping here!” Sammy didn’t know his aunt’s cook, but being a spoiled eight-year-old had given him a sense of knowing everything. Yes, I am sorry to say, Sammy was spoiled. His aunt had even called him a spoiled brat at times behind his back and was greatly relieved when his grandfather came to take him.

That was how Sammy came to live with his grandfather, but it wasn’t easy for either one to adjust to the other. Sammy didn’t care about anything on the farm. He cared only for himself. Grandfather saw it was going to be a struggle, but he was determined to try his best at raising his grandson to be a true man.

Only the day after his arrival, Sammy met with a great surprise. Grandfather expected him to work! He was told to bring in some wood for the stove and then to pump water for the cows. Never had he been told to do something he didn’t want to do. Sammy gazed at Grandfather and then turning, stalked out of the house.
Grandfather watched him from the window. “That boy has got to learn to work. Why when I was his age I was milking the cows, bringing in the eggs, as well as fetching wood and water.” For over an hour the older man waited for Sammy to return with the wood. When he failed to return he went out to find him.
“Sammy,” Grandfather spoke quietly but firmly to the boy sitting on a great rock. “I told you to water the cows and bring in wood for the stove. Now get to it.”
“I’m not going to. I don’t have to do anything if I don’t want to, and you can’t do anything about it because I’m eight years old and too big to be punished. Mama said so.” Sammy spoke confidently and with a defiant toss of his head.
“Anyone who talks that way to his elders is too young not to be punished,” was his grandfather’s reply and without another word he led his grandson to the barn. There Sammy received a licking he never forgot. And though it was by no means the last he received, it had it’s effect. For several days he was careful of the words he spoke.

The years slowly rolled by and found Sammy growing to actually enjoy his work, at least most of the time. No longer did he criticize his cozy upstairs room, for he had grown fond of it. There was no school nearby for Sammy to attend, so Grandfather, himself quite well educated, taught Sammy all he knew. Sammy learned rapidly and never tired of listening as Grandfather pulled words out of the air to paint beautiful pictures for his mind’s eye. Grandfather, watching the boy’s eyes glow as he talked, smiled to himself. “That boy is going to make a fine man someday if he doesn’t go out and get spoiled before he is ready.”

One day in early spring, Sammy sat at the kitchen table with his paper and pencils. He was supposed to be working on his arithmetic, but instead his thoughts were on the story Grandfather had just told him. Absentmindedly, he began to sketch what he saw in his mind. Rapidly the picture took shape, and to his great delight, Sammy could actually begin to see before him a little lake nestled in the valley between some high hills. So busy was he that he didn’t hear his grandfather enter the room.
“What are you up to now, Sammy?”
Sammy looked up. His cheeks became scarlet as he attempted to cover his drawing with his hands. “Uh, . . . I . . . uh,” he floundered, his eyes dropping to the table.
Without a word Grandfather held out his hand. What was Sammy trying to hide? Grandfather had begun to place great trust in the boy; was that trust premature?
For an instant Sammy remained still, then slowly, with eyes still down on the table, he placed his drawing in Grandfather’s waiting hand. Would Grandfather be angry? Would this mean another whipping? He hadn’t meant to disobey, he hadn’t even meant to draw. It just almost drew itself. Could he make Grandfather understand? At last, as the silence lengthened into minutes, Sammy glanced up. His grandfather was staring from the picture to Sammy and then back again to the picture.
“Sammy, where did you learn to do this?” Grandfather’s voice held only wonderment in it.
Sammy shrugged. “It just did it itself almost. I could see it in my mind, and my fingers just took it out.”
Grandfather shook head. Never had he seen such marvelous work for someone who had no training. At last he spoke. “You drew this from what I had told you?”
Sammy nodded.
“Get out another piece of paper. Let’s see if you can do it again,” Grandfather directed sinking into a chair while he continued to stare at the picture.
In surprise Sammy obeyed. His arithmetic was shoved gladly out of the way. There would be time for that later.
For several minutes Sammy just sat and listened as his grandfather began talking, then his pencil began to move across the paper. Under his fingers there soon arose a ship with sails unfurled as it rose on the crest of a wave.
Arithmetic was entirely forgotten and for several days Sammy spent hours drawing picture after picture.

A few mornings later, when Sammy came into the kitchen for breakfast, Grandfather sat frowning at the table.
“Sammy,” he ordered, “I have to go into town today. While I am gone you are not to draw anything. You are to work on your arithmetic! Is that clear?” Though his voice sounded stern, he could not hide the twinkle in his eyes.
Sammy grinned. He’d work on his arithmetic.

When Grandfather returned, he brought with him some paints and brushes.
Sammy was thrilled. After a little practice he found he could mix the paints to get whatever color he wanted. He practiced his painting any chance he got and reveled in watching the colors mingle to form mountains, sunsets, flowers and trees. His eagerness was so great that Grandfather took time to show him the beauties of tiny insects, of animals and birds. For a time all Sammy wanted to do was draw or paint, but when he suddenly noticed Grandfather moving more slowly than was his want, he knew his work had to come first.

The years passed. Sammy and Grandfather were content to stay on their small farm together. Theirs was a happy and peaceful life, for they had come to love each other dearly. They seldom left the farm except for church. And their trips to town were so few that they remained strangers to most of the folks there. Sammy had begun to sell his artwork through a friend, yet none who saw him in town would have guessed the talent that lay in his fingers. Grandfather encouraged him to keep working to improve his work, telling him that one day he would have to go out into the world.
“But never forget, Sammy,” he always added. “That God makes the loveliest pictures. Always draw and paint to please Him. Men ought to take more time to notice His artwork, but since they won’t, it is up to you to bring it to their attention.”

A wind sprang up and ruffled the hair of the young man. He sat up. His eyes looked again at the glorious colors about him. Slowly he stood and picked up his pack. “I will go on Grandfather,” he whispered, glancing back at the road behind him. “I will make them see the beauties that God has made.” In his mind’s eye he could see the old farm house and barn and up on the hill a newly formed headstone. “I’ll take God’s loveliness into their homes and business.” He swallowed hard. “I can’t ever thank you again, Grandfather, for taking me in, but I’ll never forget it.” With those last whispered words he set forth down the path of brilliant colors.

The End
Well, what did you think? I can't decide if I like it or not.