Palin's Obama Endorsement

The New Yorker
butting heads

Palin on Obama

by Philip Gourevitch September 8, 2008

Before she was running against him, Sarah Palin—the governor of Alaska and now the Republican candidate for Vice-President of the United States—thought it was pretty neat that Barack Obama was edging ahead of John McCain in her usually solidly red state. After all, she said, Obama’s campaign was using the same sort of language that she had in her gubernatorial race.

“The theme of our campaign was ‘new energy,’ ” she said recently. “It was no more status quo, no more politics as usual, it was all about change. So then to see that Obama—literally, part of his campaign uses those themes, even, new energy, change, all that, I think, O.K., well, we were a little bit ahead on that.” She also noted, “Something’s kind of changing here in Alaska, too, for being such a red state on the Presidential level. Obama’s doing just fine in polls up here, which is kind of wigging people out, because they’re saying, ‘This hasn’t happened for decades that in polls the D’ ”—the Democratic candidate—“ ‘is doing just fine.’ To me, that’s indicative, too. It’s the no-more-status-quo, it’s change.”

This was two weeks ago, at the statehouse in Juneau...Read more here and then come back to comment.

My Five Fav Killer Titles

This past week I participated in the Problogger Killer Titles Writing Project. Here are my Fave Fives:

1. We Interrupt Your CyberSpace for this Special Report
2. Stop Going to Church
3. Bible proves Obama’s lack of experience, a weak argument
4. 10 Reasons People Don't Like to Read
5. How to Create Characters and make People Love Them

What were yours?

Photo courtesy of asleeponasunbeam

David Mann Coming to Blog Talk Radio

Gregory Turner and Brian J Henderson Host The Abundant Solutions Hour
www.blogtalkradio.com/asemotivation
Call In Number (718) 508-9600
Wednesday, September 3, 2008 9:00 PM EST.
Special Guest, Actor and Singer, David Mann

Filmography

1. Madea Goes to Jail (2009) (post-production) .... Brown
   
2. Meet the Browns (2008) .... Leroy Brown
   ... aka Tyler Perry's Meet the Browns (USA: complete title)
3. "House of Payne" .... Mr. Brown / ... (4 episodes, 2007)
   ... aka Tyler Perry's House of Payne (USA: complete title)
   - Weeping May Endure for a Night (2007) TV episode .... Mr. Brown
   - Sad, Sad Leroy Brown: Part 1 (2007) TV episode .... Mr. Brown
   - Sad, Sad Leroy Brown: Part 2 (2007) TV episode .... Mr. Brown
   - I Can Cry If I Want To (2007) TV episode .... Leroy Brown
4. Meet the Browns (2004) (V) .... Leroy Brown
5. Madea's Class Reunion (2003) (V) .... Leroy Brown
6. I Can Do Bad All by Myself (2002) (V) .... Leroy Brown
7. Madea's Family Reunion (2002) (V) .... Leroy Brown
   

I will be in the blog talk radio chatroom. Hope to see you there!! This should be fun.

4 Wedding Tips 4 the Bachelorette Taking a Work Spouse

(photo courtesy of kitlin)

For those of you who are subscribers of CFB or know me personally then you know about my new found bachelorette freedom, my unsuccessful summer ManFast, and my capers in single Christian parenting. But you may not know that I am a newly wed. Yeah...I got my business hitched. Yep! I have a work spouse and today--surprisingly--I'm glad I do.

What is a work spouse? A coworker/business partner of the opposite sex that works in the same office or industry and complements your career. My boy, Daren Gayle is CEO of ITG Enterprises, a Christian entertainment artist agency, and I work as a...me.

Oftentimes we share clients, projects, faith and ambition. We escort each other to various events(like I escorted him to the Gospel Music Festival pre-conference dinner two weeks ago and last year he escorted me to the Christys Book Awards Banquet.) And when we don't need each other on the business side we are each others support as brothers and sisters in Christ. Believe this or kick rocks-- our friendship is kinda good. More importantly, our coupling adds value to both are businesses.

Why the opposite sex?

I don' t have a clue. I have BFFs, write-or-die chicks and gal pal counterparts, but this arrangement it works. Could be because I have a twin brother and his best friend is his sister. Perhaps our gender difference gives each other a fresh perspective on what we do. I don't know, but what I know is...what he's good at it I don't want to do, but I know how to help him do it better and vice versa.

But there are pitfalls or things to consider if you are thinking about partnering with a business friend of the opposite sex:

1. Honor the friendship.

Good friends are indeed hard to come by. Friends with business benefits are even harder, so take care of your friend. Be honest in all business arrangements. If that means you won't take a client for conflict of interest, then don't do it. And if you're both brothers and sisters in spirit make sure you place yourself in a position to honor and respect his manhood/her womanhood.

Sometimes I am a bit tomboyish or I get a little too girly with my discussion, but the Daren just ignores or chuckles about my constant slips about mascara and lipgloss, then pulls me back into our world.

2. Sync your calendars.

I owe this tip to Daren. He constantly gets on me about keeping him informed of my calendar and any client's calendars that we share. Schedule a time to sit down and share your work calendar and what needs you may need from each other to be successful on your end.

3. Treat him like family.

Daren is a part of my family. Truth be told I just introduced him to my mom and sister. They thought it was about time and long overdue. I talk to Daren so much I assumed my family had already met him. So make sure you introduce your family and spouse/significant other to your biz bud and become a bridge between the two. Put your family first. Set clear work hour boundaries, so that you two don't run over into family time and respect each other's personal space.

But...which leads to tip #4.

4. Prepare and expect to see the White Elephant in your partnership.

When your best business bud is a single guy and you are a single gal, then expect to deal with the white elephant in the room, "Are you two dating?" the question/the look/the expectation. Believe me. You are not alone there are many work spouses and this relationship continues grow. If this question is an issue for you, then you may need to rethink this partnership. Your biz buddy should make things easier for you not worse. And your real spouse should be comfortable and even welcome the partnership. If not, then I suggest you take a step back and fix the problem.

This relationship should be a burden lifter for you and if you're single like me it sure takes the edge off of having to bring a date at events and it really, truly helps you to remember your self worth. You will choose better men to date, because you're not male companionship and you will see how a man should respectfully treat you and not expect anything less.

Now all this talk has me wondering: How many successful work spouses are out there and are there any writing team spouses? Don't get me wrong I don't want to divorce Daren, but...sh... I would love to collaborate on a book with a guy.

Here are the work couples I found some cornball, but fun(feel free to add to the list:)

Scully and Moulder of the Ex-Files. Right?

2. President George W. Bush & Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice (great insync photo)

3. Queen Latifah and Producer Shakim Compere. White Elephant in the Room on that one.

Others?

This post is my submission to the Problogger Killer Post Titles' Writing Project.

Dee Stewart is a writing diva mother, News Editor for Hope for Women Magazine, inspirational book reviewer for Romantic Times Magazine, Atlanta Satellite Bookseller for Mocha Readers Bookstores, and owner of Christian Fiction Blog and The Christian Fiction Network. Her writings have appeared in: Spirit Led Woman, Gospel Today, Good Girl Book Club, The Dabbling Mum, Atlanta Christian Family, Mosaic Literary, Precious Times, Vertical Fix just a few. Visit her at Christian Fiction. Follow her on Twitter at DeeGospel

Vertical Writing and Worship on LinkedIn

Happy Thursday! Today I will be sending out short posts through the Labor Day weekend for my Blackberry and smartphone users. It's easier when it's shorter right. Also I have so many things that I can't couple together. Anyway... if you don't have time to read, you can listen to this post by clicking the arrow below.

Author Rhonda McKnight explores my "vertical writing" concept at BWChristian Lit Blog.

Last month our writer’s group had a craft session on “Vertical Writing”. Dee Stewart, the facilitator defined vertical writing as “the process, whereby the author’s writing either moves the reader toward having a centered communication with God or keeps the reader centered.” I don’t know if vertical writing is an actual term or one she coined herself. I do know it was a powerful lesson; one that reminded many of us that in the midst of spinning our stories, not to forget the purpose God has called us to as writers of Christian fiction. - Rhonda McKnight

This summer I asked a question about work and worship on Linkedin and have received 28 responses so far(still open for your answers.)

Since my work is writing about Christian topics, I continually seek God to guide me as I write. I spend time in the morning in prayer for my work. I listen to praise music as I write. I pause and pray as I go through my workday, remembering that God is enthroned and He is the only place I can know truth. - author, Tricia Goyer

So this concept reaches far beyond just our writing, but worship as a way of life. I hope you stop by BWChristian Lit and share your stories with Rhonda. But before you go quick question: How do you incorporate worship in your life?

Related

• Writing Project: 25 Words on Vertical Writing

• Vertical Promotion Club

• 3 Steps to Self-Editing the Vertical Novel

• Porno with a Jesus Logo: Why Writing Vertical Matters

Trailer Park Tuesday: Michelle Obama at the DNC

Today's Trailer Park Tuesday spotlight is not a trailer, but Michelle Obama's speech at the Democratic National Convention. Comments are open today without moderation. Please remember CFB will not tolerate profanity, or any dialogue that is unbecoming, and definitely no personal attacks. I will share my comments about the speech throughout the day.

Dee
www.deestewart.com

CFB News: CFB Takes over Blog Talk Radio, the DNC, & Hope

CFB News for the Week of August 25, 2008
listen to this post by clicking the arrow bar below

Today our Monday Christian Fiction News Format will be replaced so to speak with CFB News, because Christian Fiction Blog will be spotlighted throughout the blogosphere this week. I wanted to bring these dropzones to your attention, so you can follow me there and be a part of the conversation.

Monday: The Master's Artist Blog (TMA:)

And the Great Summer Novel of 2008 Is...

Yesterday I was talking to a bookseller friend of mine about books, particularly on the part of the Great Summer Novel. I had picked a few at CFB and I fell in like with a few of them. But this one...this one turns summer afternoons into moments of Selah and gives me a clearer vision for the stories my soul wants me to write. This novel, of course is Uwem Akpan's "Say You're One of Them."

Blog Talk Radio

Abundant Life Solutions and The Black Author's Network

Every Monday night at 8pm EST You will find me either on the radio or in the chat room talking Christian Fiction Blog and book marketing promotion at Ella Curry's Black Author's Network BTR Show.

Around 9pm I will hop on over to my buddies Gregory and Brian's Abundant Life Solutions Hour. I am in the chat room hoping to land a question about something. Their topics are so smart.

All Week

Hope for Women Magazine

Covering the Democratic National Convention

All week you can find me at Hope for Women Magazine's Online Community covering the Democratic National Convention. My new friend, Jana la Sorte press manager for the DNC is providing me the faith based coverage of the DNC. Follow me on Twitter or head to the site to stay informed. Tonight we discuss Michelle Obama's keynote speech.

I will be blogging about the Faith and Fiction Retreat all week at Savvy Sista. I will have audioblogs I taped while at the conference and will be talking about the books, the pajama parties, beautiful Destin, Florida, interviews and tips for bookclubs and authors who are plannning to attend book conferences. So check me out there, too.

This week on CFB

Just because I will be everywhere, doesn't mean I won't be here. This week I will be setting up a new contest. interviewing authors, posting Christian Fiction News, The Trailer Park Tuesday, featuring some guest bloggers, uterrz, sharing some new books on my review table. This week I am reviewing Pat Simmon's Talk to Me for Romantic Times Magazine, And Darlene Laney's He Made a Woman for Good Girl Book Club Magazine.

The Christian Fiction Network

Don't forget to join the The Christian Fiction Network. I think we are about 60 strong. That is 60 Christian authors strong. Sharon Ewell Foster, Marilynn Griffith, Stacy Hawkins Adams,Marita Teague, Pam Perry, Linda Beed, Maurice Gray, Christa Allan and the list goes on and on. Don't miss out on the chance to connect and share with your peers.

Weekend Chat: Biden as VP, Olynpics, OPen

So now that CNN's Don King has let the cat out the bag we now know that Senator Biden is the Obama's VP pick.




This weekend The comment box is open for discussion what do you think about Obama's pick, waiting all day yesterday for a text message, the Olympics, whatever. I took off the codes so that more people can comment in real time without all the security hangups. I hope spammers will not take advantage of the situation.

Friday FictionFest: Tyler Perry, Obama, Faith and Fiction Retreat

Wednesday Readup for the week ending August 20, 2008

I have been busy with new things and old things and blogging. I have quite a bit of info for this week's read-up. Enjoy. If you don't have time to read. Click the icon below to listen to this post.

Tyler Perry on ET Watch Here

Tyler talks about his mother, Oprah, Senator Barack Obama and his new movie, which looks so great, The House that Preys. Watch now.

Faith and Fiction Retreat recap

Patricia, Ty and Rhonda have written faith and fiction recaps. Next week I will be sharing my notes, pics, and audio interview at Savvy Sistah blog and will host all the authors from the retreat to a live broadcast chat on Blog Talk Radio's Ella Curry's Black Authors Network Show so subscribe to CFB or follow us on twitter to get those details. You don't want to miss talking with Tiffany Warren, Reshonda Tate Billingsley, Victoria Christopher Murray, Michelle Andrea Bowen, Sherri Lewis, Dwan Abrams, Kendra Norman Bellamy, Bonnie Hopkins, Mikesenoja, Ty Moody, Rhonda McKnight, Patricia Woodside and who else and a bag of chips. This will be fun. Mine are available in audio at Utterz. I will create a squeeze/sneeze page to house it all this weekend. Pics are below for you to enjoy.

ACFW-VIP still Cracking Essence Magazine's Bestseller's List

Woohoo! ACFW Visions in Print founder, Kendra Norman Bellamy sprawls on the September 08 Essence Magazine Bestseller's list with two novels: (4)One Prayer Away and (6) A Love so Strong

Fifth Annual Pen to Paper Literary Symposium

Enjoy live music, clean comedy, massages, desserts and authors from across the nation! Learn what it takes to write, publish and promote your book! Find out how to break into the music industry from national recording artists! Understand what it takes to succeed in arts and entertainment at the Fifth Annual Pen to Paper Literary Symposium!

Guest Speakers include: Best-selling author Dr. Vivi Monroe Congress; Attorney, Agent and Author Avalon Betts-Gaston; Best-selling author Kendra Norman-Bellamy and Publicist Pam Perry of Ministry Marketing Solutions.

Read more, click here



Also starting next week I will be covering the Democratic National Convention for Hope for Women Magazine. Follow me on twitter to get up to the minute info on the Obama Race to the White House.

Guestblog: The Secret for Going Solo (Freelance Writing)

"THE WRITING LIFE

The Secret of Going Solo

by Guest Blogger, Pam Perry, CEO of Ministry Marketing Solutions, Inc.

More and more writers striking out on their own for an array of compelling reasons.


• Some have no choice: they have been downsized, laid off, reorganized, or even fired,.


• Others are “following their bliss,” either by taking the plunge with little forethought and less money or by having stashed away just enough to take a calculated risk for as long as their savings hold out.


• Some brave souls dive in with no other source of income, no prospects on the horizon, and only idealism to keep them afloat.


• Those who are less gutsy, or perhaps more pragmatic, keep their jobs and cautiously stick a toe in the water, writing on the side to see how it feels and if it might some day actually pay the rent.


• A limited number think it through, plan, and get all their ducks in a row, before they launch.


• But, by far, the vast majority of would-be freelancers leap first and contemplate later.


I have been a freelancer on and off for 40 years and working at it full time for almost half that time. Here is what I know about "going solo.
"

It's growth promoting, satisfy­ing, and irresistibly freeing. But it's also a tough way to make a living. The market is built on shifting sands. Whatever is hot one day, is ice cold (read, gone) the next. Clients dry up, staff up, or are bought out. Editors move on. Skills so painstakingly acquired become obsolete.


The name of the game is change. You must continue to adapt, learn, audition, and reinvent yourself. If you don't, you become as outdated and unmarketable as your self-cor­recting Selectric.


Nothing stays the same. The economy, technology, and the business world are changing every moment. You can't afford to be left behind. Read the signs; anticipate market needs, and prepare to meet them. That's the secret of going solo.
"

Trailer Park Tuesday: Book of Lies

This week's Trailer Park Tuesday is Brad Meltzer's The Book of Lies

From Publishers Weekly
Bestseller Meltzer (The Book of Fate) deserves credit for an audacious conceit—wedding the biblical fratricide of Abel by his brother Cain with the unsolved 1932 homicide of the father of Jerry Siegel, the creator of iconic comic book hero Superman—but the results are less than convincing. A highly tenuous link between the two murders revolves around the mysterious weapon Cain (the world's greatest villain) used to kill his brother. One of numerous theories is that the weapon was a divine book containing the secrets of immortality. After coming to the aid of a shooting victim, Calvin Harper, a homeless volunteer working in Fort Lauderdale, Fla., soon finds himself hopelessly caught up in a life-and-death quest for the ancient artifact that includes the obligatory secret societies, Nazi conspiracies, enigmatic villains and cryptographic riddles à la The Da Vinci Code. A glut of two-dimensional characters and a plot riddled with coincidences don't help. (Sept.) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Wildcard: God Gave us Heaven

It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book's FIRST chapter!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:

Lisa Tawn Bergren

and his/her book:

God Gave Us Heaven

WaterBrook Press (August 19, 2008)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Lisa Tawn Bergren is the award-winning author of nearly thirty titles, totaling more than one million books in print. She writes in a broad range of genres, from adult fiction to devotional. God Gave Us Heaven is Lisa’s fourth children’s book, following in the tradition of the best-selling God Gave Us You. She makes her home in Colorado, with her husband, Tim, and their children, Olivia, Emma, and Jack.

Visit the author's website.

ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR:

Laura J. Bryant studied painting, printmaking, and sculpture at the Maryland Institute College of Art in Baltimore. She has illustrated numerous award-winning children’s books, including God Gave Us You, Smudge Bunny, and If You Were My Baby. Laura lives in Asheville, North Carolina.

Visit the illustrator's website.



Poduct Details:

List Price: $10.99
Reading level: Ages 4-8
Hardcover: 40 pages
Publisher: WaterBrook Press (August 19, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1400074460
ISBN-13: 978-1400074464

AND NOW...THE FIRST TWO PAGES:

FIRST: The Book of Names

It's the 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter!

D. Barkley Briggs

and his/her book:

The Book of Names (Legends of Karac Tor)

NavPress Publishing Group (July 15, 2008)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Dean Barkley Briggs is an author, father of eight, and prone to twisting his ankle playing basketball. He grew up reading J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Patricia McKillip, Guy Gavriel Kay, Stephen R. Donaldson, Ursila K. Leguin, Susan Cooper, Madeline L'Engle, Terry Brooks, Andre Norton and Lloyd Alexander (just to name a few)...and generally thinks most fantasy fiction pales in comparison. (Yes, he dabbled in sci-fi, too. Most notably Bradbury, Burroughs and Heinlein).

After losing his wife of 16 years, Briggs decided to tell a tale his four sons could relate to in their own journey through loss. Thus was born The Legends of Karac Tor, a sweeping adventure of four brothers who, while struggling to adjust to life without mom, become enmeshed in the crisis of another world. Along the way they must find their courage, face their pain, and never quit searching for home.

Briggs is remarried to a lovely woman, who previously lost her husband. Together with her four children, their hands are full.

Product Details

List Price: $12.99
Reading level: Young Adult
Paperback: 397 pages
Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (July 15, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 160006227X
ISBN-13: 978-1600062278

Watch the Trailer:




Enter the Contest:




AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

In final days / Come final woes

Doors shall open / Doors shall close

Forgotten curse / Blight the land

Four names, one blood / Fall or stand


If lost the great one / Fallen low

Rises new / Ancient foe

Darkest path / River black

Blade which breaks / Anoint, attack


If once and future / Lord of war,

Queen la Faye / Mighty sword,

Rises ‘gain / As warrior king,

Prepare / For day of reckoning


If Aion’s breath / For music cursed

Sings making things / Made perverse,

Fate shall split / Road in twain

One shall lose / One shall gain


If secret lore / Then be found

Eight plus one / All unbound

Beast shall come / Six must go

Doors shall open / Doors shall close


If buried deep / Hidden seen

Ancient tomb / Midst crimson green

Nine shall bow / Nine more rise

Nine horns blow / Nine stars shine


If falling flame / Burning pure

Ten thousand cries / For mercy heard

Then plagues, peril / Horns of dread

End of days / Land be red


When final days / Bring final woes

Doors shall open / Doors shall close

Fate for one / For all unleashed

Come the Prince / Slay the beast


Cross the water / Isgurd’s way

White horse / Top the waves

Aion, fierce! / Aion, brave!

Aion rides / To save the day


— The Ravna’s Last Riddle



Chapter 1

BLACK BIRDS


The day was gray and cold, mildly damp. Perfect for magic. Strange clouds overhead teased the senses with a fragrance of storm wind and lightning and the faint, clean smell of ozone. Invisible energy sparkled like morning dew on blades of grass.

Standing alone in an empty field on the back end of their new acreage, Hadyn Barlow only saw the clouds. By definition, you can't see what's invisible, and as for smelling magic? Well, let's just say, unlikely. Hadyn saw what was obvious for late November, rural Missouri: leafless trees, dead grass, winter coming on strong. Most of all he saw (and despised) the humongous briar patch in front of him, feeling anew each and every blister and callous earned hacking through its branches.

Making room for cattle next spring, or so he was told; this, even though his dad had never owned a cow in his life. He was a history teacher for crying out loud. A college professor. Hadyn's shoulders slumped. It didn't matter. Everything was different now. Mr. Barlow didn't let his boys curse, but low under his breath, Hadyn did, mildly, just to prove the point. Life stunk. That was the brutal truth.

All true for the most part. Yet standing alone in the field, bundled in flannel, something else prickled his skin—something hidden in the rhythm of the day, at its core—and it wasn't just the chill wind. He couldn't shake it. A sense of something. Out-of-placeness. Faced with a friendless sophomore year, Hadyn knew that feeling all too well. It attacked him every morning, right before school.

But this was something more, more than the usual nervousness and name-calling stuff. His intuition was maddeningly vague. Hadyn sniffed the air, eyeing the field. A fox scampered in the distance. Bobwhites whistled softly. This had been his routine for weeks. Go to school, come home, do chores. Today was no different. Except for the clouds.

He looked upwards, struck again by the strange hues. The colors were still there; kinda creepy. They had lingered since the bus ride home. He had seen it happen with his own eyes, though he didn’t think much of it at the time. Right about the time school let out and the yellow buses began winding home, the skies had opened and spilled. Low banks of clouds came tumbling from the horizon like old woolen blankets. Like that scene from Independence Day, when the alien ships first appeared. Hues of purple, cobalt and charcoal smeared together. Not sky blue. Not normal. Riding on the bus, face pressed against the cold window, he didn’t know what to think. Only that it looked…otherworldly. Like God had put Van Gogh in charge for the day.

Strange.

Earlier, the day hadn’t felt weird. If anything, he had felt relief. Two days until Friday...until Thanksgiving Break. Only two days. He could make it. Standing by the mailbox with his three brothers, waiting for the bus—he couldn’t wait to get his own car—mild winds had stirred from the south, scampering through row after row of brittle stalks in the neighbor’s cornfield across the road. He heard them in the leafless oak and elm of his own yard, hissing with a high, dry laughter. Warm winds, not cold. But about noon, the wind shifted. Again, no big deal for Missouri, always caught in the middle between the gulf streams of Mexico and Canada’s bitter cold. Temperamental weather was normal in these parts.

Yet there it was. From the winding ride home to this very moment, he couldn’t rid himself of that dry-mouthed, queasy feeling. It was more than a shift in wind. It was a shift in energy. Yes, the dark clouds and strange colors reminded him of the thickening air before a big, cracking Midwestern storm, but that wasn’t it. This was different.

Hadyn being Hadyn, more than anything else, wanted to identify the moment. To name it.

Though he didn’t actually verbalize until age three, Hadyn was born with a question mark wrinkled into his brows. Always searching, always studying something. He couldn’t speak a word before then—refused to, his dad always said—yet he knew the letters of the alphabet at a precocious 12 months. When he finally did decide to talk, words gushed. Full sentences. Big vocabulary. Not surprisingly, it was clear early on that Hadyn was one of those types bent toward structure, patterns. He hated incongruities, hated not knowing how to pinpoint the strange twist in sky and mood right in the middle of an otherwise typically dreary day. If it was just nasty weather, name it! What did it feel like? Wet fish guts? Not quite. A full wet diaper? He remembered those well enough from when the twins were little, but no. A three day old slice of cheese?

Yes, that was it. Cold, damp, moldy.

Velveeta, actually, he decided, feeling a small measure of satisfaction. He fumbled for the zipper of his coat as another icy breeze prickled his skin. Yep, another lousy Velveeta day in the life of Hadyn Barlow.

He thought of the roaring wood stove back home. Hot cocoa. Little consolation. Until dusk, the oldest Barlow boy was stuck outside in a field with hatchet and hedge shears. Stuck in a foul mood, stuck with a knot in his throat. Just plain stuck. His task, his life, seemed endless and pointless.

“Just a little bit every day, however much you can manage after school,” his father would remind him. “And don’t look so grumpy. The days are shorter and shorter.”

But not any warmer.

“Grr!” Hadyn grumbled aloud, snapping at the cold in his thoughts. He had chosen to “clear” the massive beast by carving tunnels in it, not just hacking mindlessly. Probably not exactly what Dad had in mind, but, well, to be honest, he didn’t really care. He was the one stuck out here in the cold. He had already carved several tunnels, and reentered the biggest one now, loping and clicking his shears at the endless mess of thorns and branches, alternated by halfhearted swings of the hatchet. The briar patch sprawled a couple hundred feet in every direction, comprised of dense, overgrown nettles, blackberry bushes and cottonweed. Untended for generations, the underbrush was so thick and tall a person could easily get lost in it, especially toward the center, where the land formed a shallow ravine that channeled wet weather rains toward the pond on the lower field. Hadyn guessed the height at the center point would be a good 12 feet or more. Enormous.

Really, it was a ridiculous task. Dad had to know that.

“Why not just burn the thing?” Hadyn had asked him. Burn it, then brush-hog it. Throw a hand grenade in and run.

Mr. Barlow never really answered, just said he wanted him to clear it by hand. After the first day of grumbling and complaining (which proved none too popular with his father), Hadyn started carving tunnels. His plan was to craft a maze out of it, maybe create a place to escape...at least have some fun before his dad made him level the whole thing

Fun? He caught himself, tasting the word like a spoonful of Nyquil. Fun is soccer with the guys back home.

He paused for a moment to wipe his brow. Home was no longer a city, not for four months now. It was a cow pasture. Home had been Independence, the suburb of Kansas City whose chief claim to fame (other than being the birthplace of Harry S. Truman) was that Jesus would return there, at least according to one of numerous Mormon splinter groups. For Hadyn, it was all about skateboards and traffic and rows of houses. Noise. Friends. Now, all that—everything familiar and good—was exactly three hours and nineteen minutes straight across I-70 on the opposite end of the state. Might as well have been on the opposite side of the planet. Home now: three hundred acres in the middle of nowhere, away from all he had ever known.

The town was called Newland. The name seemed like a smack in the face.

New town. New school. New faces. New troubles to deal with. New disappointments. His dad had tried to make a big deal of the “new” thing. This would be a new start for their family, a new chapter, blah, blah, blah. A change, from sadness to hope, he said. Hadyn hated change.

He didn’t want new. He wanted it how it used to be.

How it used to be was happy. Normal. Right. Fair. How it used to be meant they were a family of six, not five. Hadyn felt a familiar pang slice across his chest. He would have traded all the unknown magic in the world for five more minutes with—

Mom...

It had been a year since she died. His mental images of her remained vivid, of a beautiful woman with porcelain smooth skin, naturally blonde, witty, vivacious. All four Barlow brothers shared her spunky attitude, as well as an even mix of their parents’ coloring: mom’s fairness, dad’s darker hair and complexion, the boys somewhere in between. Hadyn, rapidly entering his adult body, was tall for his age, muscular, lean, possessed of a sometimes uncomfortably aristocratic air. Some days his eyes were smoky jade, others, iron gray. But he had Anna’s cleverness.

His parents had been saving money for several years, studying the land all around Newland. Hadyn could not fathom why. What was so special about Podunk, America? But he knew his mom had been happy to think about life in the country. Once upon a time, that was enough. But now? Without her, what was the point? Why couldn’t they have just stayed in Independence? Moving wasn’t going to bring her back. Didn’t Dad know that?

For the second time that afternoon, a tidal wave of loneliness nearly drowned him, left him in a goo of self-pity, the sort of sticky feeling he didn’t want anyone to spoil by cheering him up. He took one more angry swing. Done or not, he was done for the day. Work could wait. Dad would just have to deal with it. Already, he had built a pretty impressive maze, though. Six unconnected tunnels so far.

Like I give a rip about these stupid tunnels, he thought as he crawled from the center toward the mouth of the largest, longest shaft. Or this stupid land, or town, or patch of—his knee jammed against a thorn protruding from the soil—thorny! ridiculous!...

He clenched his jaw, flashing through dozens of choice words, using none. Honoring his dad. Pain streamed as tears down his cheek, and it wasn’t just the thorn in his knee. It was life. Crawling forty more feet, he emerged to face the slowly westering sun melting down the sky. The otherworldly colors he had seen earlier were gone. Only the cold remained. And now, a bleeding, sore knee.

Behind him, he heard heard rustling grass and the high pitched, lilting notes of his brother’s tin whistle. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and grimaced. Ewan, like his mother, was musical. Even more like her, he was sentimental. He often carried the whistle she had brought him as a gift from Ireland. It would, no doubt, have seemed humorous to some, to see him wandering the field, playing a spritely little tune. It only annoyed Hadyn. Thankfully, as Ewan drew closer, the song trailed away.

“Hey, Hadyn.”

Hadyn grunted. “What do you want?”

Ewan shrugged, tucking the flute into his back pocket. He wore blue jeans, and a blue embroidered ball cap, initialed ‘ECB’.

“Wondered how things were going.”

“Dad sent you to help, didn’t he?”

Ewan frowned. “Yep. Got done with my chores sooner than planned.”

“Bummer.”

“Major bummer,” Ewan emphasized. “Looks like you’re near the center, though. That’s pretty cool.”

Hadyn didn’t reply. With only two years between them, the two brothers had always been the closest of friends, the fiercest competitors, the quickest of combatants. They understood each other’s rhythms like no one else in the family. Whereas Hadyn was studied, wise and cautious, Ewan was quick, fearless and comfortable with long odds. No one could make Ewan laugh—gasping-for-air, fall-on-the-ground-cackling—like Hadyn. Likewise, Ewan could frustrate Hadyn to no end, or, with the sheer power of silliness, cheer him up when a sullen moment was about to strike. Not much wanting to be rescued from his mood at the moment, however, Hadyn let his silent response wrap around him like a barrier against further penetration. He didn’t notice that Ewan’s gaze had drifted from the briar patch to the low sky and paused there.

“What do you make of that?” he dimly heard his brother say, distracted, curious. Through the haze of his own thoughts, Hadyn followed Ewan’s line of sight, his pointing finger, straight into the sunset. At first, he saw nothing. Then it was obvious. Several large, black birds were swooping low on the horizon. Even at a distance, it appeared they were headed straight for the two boys, unveering over the slope of the ground, drawing swiftly nearer, a hundred yards or so away. From the sound of their raucous cry, they were like ravens, only larger, throatier, and if possible, blacker.

“Cawl-cawl,” they cried.

Hadyn counted four total, wings outstretched, unflapping, like stealth bombers in formation. There was something organized and determined about their flight. It lacked animal randomness.

“Do they look strange to you?” Ewan asked, cocking his head.

Hadyn pretended to be uninterested. It didn’t last. “What is that in their claws? What’re they carrying?”

“Yeah, I see it. Sticks?”

“Too thick. It would be too heavy. Wouldn’t it?”

“Hard to tell at this angle. Are they heading for us?” Ewan held up his hand to shield his eyes. “Man, they’re fast. What are they?”

“I don’t know, but they’re still—”

“Look out!” Ewan dove to the side, tripping Hadyn in the process. Both boys hit the ground on a roll, turning just in time to see the birds swoop suddenly upward, arcing high into the sky, turn, then turn again. The lead bird, larger than the others, croaked loudly; the other three responded. Over and over, the same phrase, like a demand: “Cawl!”

All four were pitch black, having none of the deep blue sheen of a crow’s feathers, or so it seemed in the failing light. They flew as black slashes in the sky, all wing and beak, not elegant in the air, but fast. Disappearing completely against the lightless eastern expanse, they reappeared again as silhouettes skimming the western horizon. At first it seemed to Hadyn the birds would fly away, as they swept up and out in a wide arc. But the curve of their path soon came full circle. They were attempting another pass. Both boys nervously scooted further outside the angle of the birds’ approach.

“What in the world?” Hadyn said, hatchet raised and ready. It was clearer now in silhouette form. Each bird carried the form of a long, thick tube in their talons.

The brothers hunched on the ground, motionless, muscles tensed, watching as the birds continued their second approach. Hadyn held his breath. The birds didn’t veer, nor aim again for the boys. Instead, they formed a precise, single-file line, a black arrow shooting toward the main tunnel of the thicket. With a final loud croak—“Cawl!”—and not a single flap of wing, all four swooped straight into the hole, one after the other. As they did, each released the object clutched in its talons. The tubes clattered together with a light, tinny sound at the mouth of the tunnel, literally at the boys’ feet. The birds were already beyond sight. Their throaty noise echoed for a moment, evaporating into an obvious silence marked only by the faint breeze of wings passing over broken grass.

Hadyn and Ewan stared first at the tunnel, then at the objects. Then at each other. Then back at the tunnel. In the same instant, each of them leaped toward what the birds had left behind: four thin, black metallic tubes, trimmed with milky white bands at top and bottom.

Hadyn slowly stretched out his hand and picked up a tube. He rolled it between his fingers. It was about the length of Ewan’s Irish whistle, but thicker, maybe the circumference of a quarter. Not heavy at all. In the middle of each tube, finely wrought in scripted gold filigree, the letter ‘A’ appeared.

Ewan lightly shook his tube, listening for clues to its contents. It sounded hollow.

“They didn’t even have us sign for delivery,” he deadpanned. “What do we do with these? They look important.”

“How should I know?” Hadyn said contemptuously, flicking his eyes cautiously toward the tunnel. “Where’d they even go? I mean, really. Are they just hiding back there until we leave?”

“Who cares!” Ewan said. His disgust was obvious. Hadyn’s was being an analyst again. “This isn’t hard, Hadyn. Some big birds dive bombed us. They dropped these cool tubes. It makes no sense. It’s awesome. Totally, factor 10 cool.”

Hadyn mulled it over. “Maybe they’re some sort of carrier pigeon, but...do carrier pigeons even fly anymore?

“Only on Gilligan’s Island. TV Land. Listen to me, you’re just guessing.”

“Have you got a better idea?” Hadyn demanded.

Ewan waited, considered. Hadyn knew he hated being put on the spot like that, in the inferior position. Now it was Ewan’s turn to think.

“Okay, maybe you’re right. Maybe those birds really are carriers of some sort?—” Ewan held up a tube, “—obviously they are. What if they need to carry these things farther still? What if they’re just resting? What if they are trained to do this when they need to rest? Drop their packages, find a hole, rest, then grab their stuff and carry on?”

“So...are you suggesting we flush them out? Cause there is no way I’m going to crawl back there. They can get out later on their own.”

Ewan didn’t reply. Instead he dug into his pocket, pulled out a small flashlight, and scuttled into the tunnel the birds had entered. “Wait here,” he ordered.

“Hey, watch it back there!” Hadyn cautioned. Secretly, he wanted him to go, knew how to punch his brother’s buttons to make it happen. “Those claws looked sharp!”

While he waited for Ewan to return, Hadyn examined the tubes further. He shook one tube, flicked it, smelled another; picked up and twirled the third and fourth tubes. His efforts yielded the same muffled sensation of something barely shifting inside. Maybe a rolled up piece of paper? If the ravens (or crows, or whatever they were) were carriers of some sort, a written message did make the most sense. But who in the world still sent paper messages...by bird? By raven, no less. Hello, email anyone?

Presently, Ewan reappeared, breathing hard.

“They’re gone,” he said simply. “Must have flown out one of the other tunnels.”

Hadyn creased his brow. “No way. None of the tunnels connect yet.”

“They don’t?” Ewan’s eyes widened as it dawned on him that he hadn’t seen any other tunnels. “No...they don’t.”

The two boys stared at one another in silence. Evening enfolded them; soon, darkness. “They must have crawled through the branches,” Hadyn surmised, but he hardly sounded convinced. “Are you sure you didn’t see them?”

Ewan rolled his eyes. “Hello? Big, black flappy things. Yes, I’m sure.” He grabbed one of the tubes, shook it again. “This band looks like ivory, but it’s hard to tell in this light.”

“Reminds me of one of mom’s necklaces.”

Ewan grabbed the end and twisted. “Only one way to find out.”

This time Hadyn didn’t argue or analyze. Curiosity had gotten the best of him. The lid twisted off with surprising ease, followed by a thin hiss of sealed air. Ewan wrinkled his face. “Smells old. Yuck. Turn on your flashlight. Mine is getting weak.”

He tapped the open end against the palm of his left hand. The coiled edge of a piece of thick, cream-colored parchment slipped out. Hadyn leaned in closer. Ewan gingerly teased the scroll out. It had a heavy grain of woven cotton, with rough edges trimmed in gold foil. Both boys let out a long slow breath. Neither the silver moon hung off the treeline, nor the winking stars, provided light enough to clearly see. Hadyn turned on his flashlight as his brother unrolled the parchment. The paper was larger than normal, rich to the touch. Pinning both ends to the ground, both boys read at once the simple message beautifully scripted on the inside in golden ink: “You have been chosen for a life of great purpose. Adventure awaits you in the Hidden Lands.”

“Dude!” Ewan whistled softly. “Looks like something from King Arthur. What in the world are the Hidden Lands?”

Hadyn, who actually loved the lore of King Arthur—and Ewan knew it—was already reaching for another tube. Ewan followed his lead. Within twenty seconds, all four tubes were opened, and four identical parchments lay spread on the ground in the dark, illuminated only by flashlights. Golden ink glimmered, subtly shifting hues. Each bore the exact same message.

“You have been chosen for a life of great purpose. Adventure awaits you in the Hidden Lands.”

Hadyn grabbed the four sheets, quickly rolled them up, and inserted each back into its thin metal sleeve. “We need to head home before Dad gets worried,” he said. “You take two and I’ll take two. Stick them under your shirt and act cool. I have no idea what these are. But for now, they’re our little secret.”

He puffed up for a moment, the older brother. Still out of sorts with the world.

“And none of your games, either, Ewan. I mean it. I’m not in the mood.”

Faith and Fiction Retreat: Ty Moody & Patricia Woodside

I had a blast this weekend. Got to connect face to face with my gal pal, Ty Moody and finally met the funniest blogger I know, Patricia Woodside. Listen to me goof around with these diva chicas.

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I'm Not Crazy, but I Might Be a Carrier

It's the 15th, time for the Non~FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 15th, we will featuring an author and his/her latest non~fiction book's FIRST chapter!

The feature author is:

Charles Marshall

and his book:

I’m Not Crazy, But I Might be a Carrier

Kregel Publications (April 17, 2008)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Charles Marshall began his career onstage as a singer/songwriter. When his singing voice gave out, he turned to stand-up comedy and was much more successful. He is now a nationally syndicated Christian humor columnist and has contributed to Focus on the Family magazine. He is the author of Shattering the Glass Slipper: Destroying Fairy Tale Thinking Before It Destroys You and has filmed two stand-up comedy videos, I'm Just Sayin' and Fully Animated.

Product Details

List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 144 pages
Publisher: Kregel Publications (April 17, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 082543419X
ISBN-13: 978-0825434198

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Chapter 1 Going to the Dogs



My wife and I have been thinking about getting a dog, lately, and discussing what type we might get. For me, there is really only one possibility—and that, of course, is a real dog.

For the uninitiated, there are three basic types of dogs:

1] Real dogs. These are dogs as God originally made them—monstrous, made-for-the-outdoors hunting machines that are perfect for intimidating neighbors and attracting lawsuits.

The ownership rule for guys and dogs is simple: the bigger the dog, the cooler you look. Walk down the street with a Pekingese and you might as well be wearing a tutu.

When you observe a man walking down the street with a massive real-dog, his message to you is clear. “Yes, I’m overcompensating for my insecurities and lack of masculinity but I’ve got a really big dog.”

Now that’s the kind of attitude I can get behind.

2] Mutant rat-dogs, otherwise known as Chihuahuas. These poor creatures are the unintentional result of secret experiments conducted by the Mexican army in a failed attempt to create the ultimate weapon by cross-breeding bats and Great Danes. The only surviving result of these experiments is a group of nervous, angry little rat-dogs that decided to take their revenge on humanity by being annoying on just about every level known to mankind.



If you are approached by one of these aberrations of nature, know that it despises you with a hatred rarely seen outside the Middle East, and that it won’t hesitate to tear your ankles to shreds. These dogs are the piranhas of the canine world and would nuke


mankind tomorrow if they thought they could get away with it. Under no circumstance should one of these animals be allowed to run for public office.

3] Kitty-dogs, which is every kind of dog that does not fall into one of the first two categories. I’m all in favor of this type of dog because, hey, girls have to have dogs, too.

The curse of the kitty-dog is that there are those who take a warped delight in dressing them up like people. Most dogs would rather be subjected to Mexican weapons experiments than go through this type of torture.

I cannot say this in strong enough terms: You should never, ever dress up your dog for any reason whatsoever. Take it from me—even if it were thirty below outside, your dog would rather die with dignity in his own fur coat than live while being seen in a little poochie parka.

If you dress your dog, you need to know two things:

1] The rest of us are making fun of you behind your back.

2] Every day your dog prays for a heaven where he gets to dress you up in humiliating costumes while he and his doggie friends point at you and laugh for all eternity.

If you feel you absolutely must dress an animal, go dress one that at least has a chance of defending itself like a cougar or a wolverine or a Chihuahua.



One of the most amazing things about the three dog types is that for every one of them, there is someone that likes that kind of dog. At this very moment, there are people risking the loss of fingers and eyes while they stroke their vicious little rat-dogs, all for the sake of love.

That’s a mysterious kind of love, isn’t it—the kind that embraces the unlovely, that sees through the imperfect and loves without regard?

Let’s face it, the human heart isn’t very attractive either. Every thought we have is consumed with self. If you peel away the layers of even our most noble deeds and acts of kindness, you will find thoughts that circle back to ourselves like homing pigeons. In our hearts, we are all mutant rat-dogs.

And yet God loves us.

In the Bible, you find that same theme of an indefatigable, undefeatable love reaching out to a vicious, ungrateful humanity over and over again. I’ve found it’s a love well worth pursuing.

And so the great dog debate rages in my household, and I think my wife is coming around to my point of view. But, if by chance, you happen to see me in the neighborhood walking a Pekingese that is wearing a teeny hat and sundress, you may safely assume things did not go my way.

Tiffany Warren on Who's Christian Fiction or Who's Not?

Author, Playwright and Faith and Fiction Retreat Organizer, Tiffany Warren on who is a Christian Fiction author and why many author's don't want the name. Listen below or follow me on Utterz to stay in the know.

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