Short Fiction: “Healing Faith”

Photo by David Monje on Unsplash
story by Hope Olowo

I crack open the window to my tiny cottage. The sun pours its welcome heat upon me, and the breeze brushes past my face. I smile while gazing upon the street bustling with souls going about their daily activities. Some people burst with laughter, and others frown. Every day holds its own worries. I have lived the last twelve years buried by one particular worry. And even nature holds me in disgust.

My heart skips as a passer-by shoots me a disdainful glance. It is not out of curiosity regarding my confinement but the outpouring of a contempt-filled heart. I withdraw, shutting the window as fast as I can and throw my weight upon it as my knees weaken.

My life has become a liability. But twelve years ago, I was called Blessed. Twelve years ago, I drowned in wealth and health. Twelve years ago, I had it all.

They say, “To get what you want, you must give what you have.” But I have given all only to receive the worst. I even lost the one thing in which I would have rejoiced should wealth have deserted me: the presence of my people.

I slump to the floor in pain. There it is again, all over the floor.

The places I have been . . . the physicians I have seen—none could help. Twelve years ago, Israel called me Blessed, but here I am now, sitting on the ground in a pool of blood and tears. I feel I will drown in this ocean of helplessness and sorrow.

Voices from outside grow louder every minute. The air bears their pleas to the Son of David. I spring to my feet and fling open the window.

Mercy is what I need.

The crowd surrounds Him, the One who gives laughter and healing to the broken-hearted. Of all the physicians there ever was or will ever be, He is the greatest. The sun gleams above him; a smile births within me.

He is what I need. I’ve heard that healing lies within Him and that just His word brings the dead to life. Surely, with a touch of His garment—

I hurry through the door and push through the crowd. Let Israel pour her disgust upon me—my healing is only six feet away.

I stumble and fall against the growing crowd.

My freedom is just a touch away.

Just a touch. . . .

About Hope Olowo

Hope Olowo is an 18-year old writer from Nigeria. One day, Hope came across the Lost Pen Magazine and decided to submit a poem. Though she did not consider herself a writer, she felt stirred to write the poem, which she submitted to the magazine. To see her inspired, beautiful poem “A New Me,” download Lost Pen Magazine Issue 3.


For more inspirational content, please visit our Lost Pen Blog page. To download Lost Pen Magazine, visit our Magazine Issues page.

     

Flash Fiction: Spiritual Warrior

Photo by Mark Frost from Pixabay

 

In my young adult years, I met a couple at my church who ministered to teen runaways at a shelter in downtown Hollywood. The wife told me stories of how the runaways had been enslaved into prostitution. She also told me of many victories over demons. My short work below was previously published in “The Friday Fix” on Medium.com in response to the prompt “Sympathy for the Devil,” a song by The Rolling Stones. May we all put on the full armour of God every day!Jenise Cook, writer and LPM editor

 

 

Spiritual Warrior

She haunts the two o’clock morning darkness of Hollywood Boulevard. Sword in hand, helmet strapped on, shield up, breastplate firmly fitted, feet shod with peace. She paces the street, leading teen-aged runaways to the shelter’s welcoming warmth.

Their stories set her heart ablaze.

She holds no sympathy for the devil.

 

 

 

About Jenise Cook

Cook is a fourth-generation Californian who has called Arizona home for over twelve years. A daughter of the American Southwest, she finds inspiration for her writing and photography in the region’s history, people, and places. Cook earns a living as a corporate writer, editor, and instructional designer. She publishes stories and articles on various online journals including Medium. Her poem “Lifesaver” along with her photograph of the resurrected Christ appear in Issue 1 of Lost Pen Magazine. Visit her website for more information.

 

Flash Fiction: Ascending

Ascending

It’s cold underwater. Holding my breath, watching the bubbles bloat and pop in front of me before rising to the surface, I float in the deep. The sun sparkles from beyond the water’s surface, bright yellow, warm, golden. And I know he is also there, so close and yet so far away.

I hadn’t meant to fall. I’d been walking with that man across a mirror-smooth sea. We’d met on the road, and he’d invited me to follow him, promising that together we would do amazing things. We hadn’t known each other long, but the man spoke plainly and there was no lie in his eye. Besides, I was looking for something to do. And once we started across the sea, the still waters as reflective as glass, I could only become more excited about what was to come. So I followed the man, listened to his words. Basked with him in the sun.

But the waves suddenly arose. They were fierce, merciless. They seemed to have a spirit of their own and clawed at my feet, sloshed over my shoes, tugged at my socks. The waves crashed higher and louder. I looked at the man. All around him the waters were calm. I called for help. He answered but, overcome with dread and spray, I couldn’t hear what he said. As the waters rolled over my head, the last I saw of him were his troubled eyes, watching.

Now, the abyss waits below. Cold radiates from the ocean’s depths, chilling my toes and creeping up my legs. Inch by inch, the freeze envelops my flesh. I am unable to move; I cannot think for the pain. The sea pulls me deeper into its bosom.

Our beautiful journey is over. And so, here, now, I will meet an end fitting for one who fails.

Failure is part of the journey.

Warmth pours down from above, pushing back the cold.  

Did you think that the way forward would always be so smooth?

I was afraid to answer. Something is the steady flow of heat spreading in my chest told me he already knew.

Learn from this, for the way is not always so easy for those who follow me. Now rise, and come to me.

The ice had completely melted away. Unburdened, I kick my legs and ascend.  

 

(c) 2019 Delia Talent (Dyane Forde)

Flash Fiction: Signs of Spring

Signs of Spring

by Madison Wheatly

I’ve lost him. At last.

Jumping a fence, I was swallowed up by shadows of the towering timbers beyond my foster family’s backyard. Overhead, a nor’easter surged, dumping a good foot of snow over central Maine.

It was the worst storm of the year, and I was running away, wearing no boots and only a thin jacket to shield me from the bitter cold. In my rage following an argument with my foster father, I had stormed out of the house without a second thought.

My strength was flagging as I trod over the slick blanket of snow and ice. As the forest thickened, I had to slow to a brisk walk and plan each step with more precision.
But as I walked, I heard something. Boots crunching behind me, a deep voice calling my name.

He’s still following me?!

Against my better judgment, I broke into a jog, clumsily navigating the snow-coated underbrush. I didn’t know whether to be more impressed with or irritated at my foster father for making it this far, but I knew one thing: I wouldn’t let him catch me.

But when an especially deep snowbank devoured my legs like quicksand, I face planted in its biting softness. I fought to regain my footing, but my legs were like jelly. I stood, then slipped on a stone, knocking my head against the bark of a white birch as I flailed and fell.

And there it was again—that steady sound of boots crunching in the snow. Tears stung my eyes as I tried to push back the regret and shame that welled up with every muffled footfall.

I was too weak run anymore, though. When my foster father lifted me up and led me out of the woods, all I could do was complain.

Me: Leave me alone.

Him: Where were you planning on going? You coulda died out here.

Me: Like you care.

Him: You know I do.

The lack of anger in his voice—even after all the vile things I had said to him earlier, even after I had led him into the cold and the dark—made my heart ache. There was only hurt in his words. Deep hurt and sorrow.

I didn’t first learn about God’s love through reading the Bible. I didn’t experience it during church. In my short life, I had been preached at and prayed at, and to no avail. I thought, if God really loved me, He wouldn’t have let me be born to useless parents. He wouldn’t have let the State bounce me from home to home, fake family to fake family.
But as my foster dad led me to my bedroom, piling extra blankets in my arms and bidding me to get some rest while he called the doctor, the icy walls that had choked my spirit began to thaw—gradually, gently. I drifted off to sleep, dreaming that Heavenly arms were carrying me through a bleak, frigid forest.

Me: Like you care.

God: You know I do.

Flash Fiction by Madison Wheatley

This is a repost from the original Delia Talent, Christian Creative blog. It’s contains a testimony and story that moved me so much I wanted to share it again on the new blog so that others could experience it as well.

Click here or the title below to read the post: 

Madison Wheatley, Writer: When God Gives Beauty For Ashes

weeping-in-ramah

 

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