The Tragical Sea

Ok, so this is the strangest story I’ve ever written, not necessarily due to the plot but due to the style I wrote it in… I hope you can understand it—if not, feedback please! 🙂 Parts of it only makes any sense if you read it in light of the fact that a lot of the words are meant to give you more of the feeling of what I’m talking about, rather than me straight-out saying it in the English language. Lol it’s kinda crazy, so don’t be afraid to laugh if you think it’s funny…

Back in time to a land of faraway places…

Known a lady she in a palace she swayed in the spiky mountains by the tragical sea. A queen she strode, as a ruler of high security, chosen to lead this radical land with a cocky range of authority. Beholden to a service of a life, and never to let the brothers run and knock her free. Forward on she soared the towns to work on land but never out. The ocean held bones baking wild, greasy ships in the deepest places. Whales dove to knock the over in went round the citizens.

Long before Brown the king loved by queen he floated his blood at sea. Pesterings fought kingdom to sail but she caught and jailed simpletons. Ocean hangs alone for her dead king.

Dwelled a man young and chilled, raging for adventure far off and free. Before him maiden gone his soul for love swallowed his cheer.

“Wenda, dear,” gave Man,” with me to  ghastly sea, to far-off land, to new and prodigal life full and bright–with me?”

Wenda swelled, “Wholly, no, Queen Hairna faces we to track us so!”

“Escape, yes, we bid ours gone we stake. But no right she fight for stony fate.”

“Chisel bite!” flailed Wenda. “Off into cold not out!”

Man bored in dreams flawed up and trusting on cheek Wenda he peck gentler. “Courses chop running fire my heart one all the feelings–go or no, eternal sun and stars drift as my love shifts constant scratching crumbs. Marry or no, eyes have you never I to fever off from pinnacle gaze.”

Wenda swooped in gasping stare fallen away clenched teeth and hands. Water ices cheeks, freezing pose. Wind and mirth shoot, “Queen Hairna I but rising churned and quaked before. Chisel bite! To tragical sea in haste of dropping calls must I and you–for, yes, loves still me.” Wenda deepens whole, “Stills me love from you, John Barley.”

John glided teeth, “So love is bound in fear—so rest we go in hastily runnings we create.”

Kind they sailed gruntled ship of grandfather John before queen’s time, piking darkest night cloaked grim. John roughed up the rough till fine to bob over swarms of fish and sharks and vitality. Voyaged fair, no rain nor shrieks in dome of earth, yet light from tower caught and stormed the queen.

Ordered she the servants out. Grunting wide in novelties trumping plans of their visits and wielding she their fate self-willing, flaky, puffed, and sore. Efforts flung servants out on tragical sea.

Mothers and fathers woke crazed, searching for couple and crying for charity. Hours traced days flipping into weeks caught none by kingdom servants, the man and maiden bold and jumping out of holes.

Hit rock of land John proud Wenda sore. Scribbling out of wonders, waking to dawn shifting wild and green. Up went they to garden jungle forest, whatever was lying vividly pure—land nourishing so long not seen. Leaping hearts shiny beach man and maiden rushing on.

“Light,” drifted Wenda, petting trees and grinning at oozing sand.

Her arm John pestered shot eyes away from land. “Ship of queen now birthed in sight!” sprang he.

“Chisel bite!” crinkled she. “Pirates, yea—queen? Nay! Feathered up in jewels all day.”

Fingered Man towards tippy flag of queen and quality.

Wenda smudged, then balled fist and eyes. “Queen Hairna bolts at charming days to slay. Hide or dash must we—to flee! Strike over else trumped chins below.”

John charged, “Gaze on at sea of tragical fate. Rants storms to fracture queen and ship!”

Hovered clouds as said no speckled hope but windy dread. Clutched Wenda fierce, harried to John, “Run!”

“Wholly, yea, my dear,” lowered Man, “fly into green, still for me.”

Rushing Wenda wide, “Strut far from queen; now you dash—with me!”

“Nay! Rescue I the queen, for knowledge hoards about the tragical sea barrels in me.”

Narrowness of John cracked Maiden, so boggled now she squelched away.

Nettling rain, graphic light, jutting roars—on heart of John slammed. On grandfather ship to queen’s, dodged he power of storm. Spindling round in alacrity, sailed he the ship, water drowning eyes and legs.

On blinked Wenda shore beneath junky feet but lost from serenity. Glimpsed ship of John dawdling up to ship of queen. Over brushed the storm on Maiden’s sight, fear fled her behind rock. Far to sea stretched John knowledge to queen. Beasty waves splintered speech of John, crippling ships, and widened Maiden to behold.

Turned Queen to crew, “Pluck fast away!” Scuffled they the queen toward land on kingdom ship, forward crashing, breaking ship, but not humanity. Queen and crew hugging land and green pouring relief.

Tragical sea pained remaining vitality, dipping well to center earth—Grandfather’s ship and John the same.

Met Wenda contorting into ghastly illness. Shoulder rattled Queen Hairna gentler. “Plop,” gave she, “on trusty rock with me.”

On did they, Maiden tipsy and frowning. Toward tragical sea they stared, blinded both by washing eyes.

Littled up and crazed, Hairna played, “Man and sea clink together as beasts.”

Wenda chilled, “Chisel bite, my queen—law’s whole deepness feel I now. Grip I the grief you motioned to Brown the king.”

“Law I fixed,” steadied Queen, “but play I now allow. Before me grief gentles, grief fondles. Before me that sea floods into tranquility.”


A Hero for the Highest Cause

snowcapped trees

Photo by Jacek Mleczek on

“There’s a real war out there, you know, you mustn’t risk your life.”

She looked up at me with earnestness in her pale cheeks and round opal eyes. Dark brown cascades rippled over her shoulders. She was too pretty a girl to leave, too pretty to run off and risk my life when I could live happily here with her… but no—I could not think of myself. The lives of hundreds of others were at stake. God had gifted me with the capability of healing the sick and wounded, so I had to use it for His glory.

“I understand your fears, Clarisse, but this is a risk I must take for the Lord. I will risk my life to save the people of France and to share with them the mysteries of God’s grace. And I will risk it for you, beloved—by helping others have the strength to fight this war, so you can be free.”

She breathed in my ear. “Oh, Pierre, I would rather be with you in the coldness of this place than flying on the wings of freedom without you.”

Her voice was worn and ragged from years of adversity. She was not innocent of troubles; she was afraid, because she knew well the capacity they had to hurt her.

I clutched her hand tightly and whispered against it. “I am not going to die, my love. Trust me, I am not going to die.”

“You can never be too sure, though. Can’t you think for once of yourself?” she asked quietly. Her heart thudded against me as I drew her shivering frame close and rested my chin on the top of her head. She continued, “You’ve always been caring for the sick and wounded, but someday you will wear yourself out, you will die. Then what will become of me? Perhaps you don’t mind yourself dying, but really, Pierre, what will I do without you?”

Withdrawing from my arms, she stared fixedly up at me, her chin trembling and silent tears dripping down her cheeks. What would she do?

I studied her carefully, as I tucked her soft hair behind her ears. “You are right, Clarisse—I am not one to bother about myself, but it is simply because I have learned that my life is in the hands of God, and His grace is something to be spread like wildfire. That is the only way all the wars of this world will end: by spreading God’s grace that covers all sin to even the most undeserving. So, beloved, do not be afraid if you find out I have been healing the wounds of the enemy. They don’t deserve it, but neither do any of us. And no person can truly live if they are never completely forgiven.”

I gazed down at her glistening eyes and slim shoulders. “And as for you, dear one, God is always with you, even if I die. He loves you and He cares for you—rely on Him, will you, my love? Will you place your life in His hands while I’m gone, and even when I return?”

“I will, Pierre,” she agreed, her face radiant with a new hope. “You are right—God is in control. He will take care of me while you are off healing the dying people of France. He will take care of you as well.” She smiled tenderly. “You are a good man, Pierre.”

Heat poured into my cheeks. I knew I didn’t deserve that praise. And yet her words gave me a more acute awareness of her love for me. How could I leave her? But I had to—but no. But yes. I determined to untangle myself from the mysteries of love, and I fixed my eyes on the ground, my thoughts on God, the One I’d be a most pitiable man without.

“Then now is when we would say farewell, my love.” I kissed her hand lightly, and then hastened out the door with my burlap sack over my shoulder.


I had to stop. That one word shook me with a feeling so severe I could not make sense of it. If I looked at her one more time, my heart might break from the knowledge of what I had to do. No matter the cost, the pain, no matter how much I loved her—I belonged to the Lord, and it was futile and worthless to think of myself and what I most wanted, when He had a far better plan for me. So I just stood in the doorway with my back to her.

“You will return to me?”

“Yes,” I assured her, “all in the good Lord’s timing. I will come back and marry you. You can be sure of that.” I took another step away.

“Do you promise?” she asked in a small, frail voice.

I looked back at her, just once, for the last time. Her beauty warmed me inside, as it had so many times before.


Collecting my thoughts, I considered telling her what I felt to say, but the truth ended up prying its way out of my mouth. “I can’t promise my return,” I said frankly. “The French Revolution isn’t an organized war—anything could happen. But I do promise I will try my very hardest.”

She nodded slowly, accepting it. “God be with you, Pierre.”

“And He with you, Clarisse.”

I turned away from her before my emotions could overpower the insistent Spirit within me. I straddled the old mare and set her off down the road, departing the fragile young woman all alone in the cold house. Tears sprung from my eyes as I rode through the snow with the sack full of food, medicine, and blankets.

I hadn’t been completely honest with her. No matter what, I was bound to die through this risky procedure of healing the sick and wounded on the streets of Paris, simply because I didn’t have a weapon. I wouldn’t defend myself, no matter what, even if I did have a musket. I wouldn’t shoot at anyone, because God saw them all as wandering souls in desperate need of a Savior—and He had perfect eyesight. Both my allies and enemies would be healed, and God would be glorified through me. But the French Revolution wasn’t an organized war. The enemy would likely fire at me even if I came to heal them. Indeed, the Spirit within me gave me the sense that this would surely happened, and that my time would soon end. I knew I would never see Clarisse again in that cold little house, and neither would we ever marry. But thank God we’d meet in a big warm one, filled with inexplicable light. There, at least, I was guaranteed to see her again, as a sister in Christ, and in a place where I could breathe free air at last.

As I rode nearer to the deafening sound of the gunshots, I prayed that the lives I saved physically would be saved spiritually through the words the Spirit gave me, and that they would discover the big, warm house as well. But for the first time since I had learned about God’s hand on my life, it took great strength to place my thoughts off myself, and place them on the road in front of me that led to the dying people I would heal. Nevertheless, I forced myself to look through God’s eyes, and see the hurt and suffering of the world. I asked for His strength to think of them and their pain, and to forget about my own. For if I did not look through His eyes and ask for His strength, I would fail. And if I failed to turn to His power, I would die trying to do good on my own—or worse, I would die forgetting the hundreds of lives at stake.

I could not think of myself.


“However, I consider my life worth nothing to me; my only aim is to finish the race and complete the task the Lord Jesus has given me—the task of testifying to the good news of God’s grace.” – Acts 20:24 (NIV)

On The Train

I fondle the yellow marigold between my fingers as the rusty train screeches down the track. The sun shines on me through the dark clouds and through the glass window; the wind pulls my hair out of my face.

“I love you,” says a low, murmuring voice. I turn to the stranger on my right, and then whip my head to the seat behind me.

I shake my head, amused with myself. No one is talking to me. I am alone.

I try to remember when the last time I heard those words was. Too long ago. I’m going home now, to my parents who raised me. But home with them is of one kind, while home with my husband is another. I won’t really be home till I die.

“I love you,” says the voice again.

I grip the marigold, and turn hesitantly to the stranger on my left. “Ma’am…?” I say, my voice breaking.

She is a big woman who is idly knitting a scarf in her lap. “Hmm?”

I give a tight smile. “Did you hear some feller say something?” Continue reading

The Girl Who Died

I had heard about him before, about his loyal disciples, strange parables, and mostly of his extraordinary miracles. He was all that everyone talked about nowadays. My father, a synagogue leader, talked about him more than most. Father claimed that this man was the Messiah, the Son of God, the King who would come to save us from our sins. Mother, on the other hand, called the whole thing a bunch of nonsense. Continue reading

Who am I?

“Who are you?” a voice whispers in the dark.

“I am Jennifer. What about you?” I try to smile in case the voice sees me.

“You are not your name.” The voice is hollow and eerie like the wind. It brings a shiver down my spine.

“I… I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Surely you know who you are.” Continue reading

Memories and Pearls

Here is my first post, a short story I wrote a few months ago about life, the ocean, memories, and pearls.

She stood in the sand. She didn’t know why, but she just stood there, unmoving. Gently, the cool tide washed over her bare feet. The wind blew back her hair, the sun embraced her with warmth. Over and over, the sea rushed forward and back, forward and back, salt and sand caught up in its current. Her feet oozed in the wet sand, sinking further and further as the ocean fell into a tossing rhythm over her ankles, and then, gradually, over her knees. She stood motionless, lost in some enchantment. Continue reading