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“I don’t get that kind of admiration every day. Wanna get married?” he asked. The man’s wide nose looked as if it had been broken, and the unruly blonde hair suggested no hint of pretension. When the smile broke over his face, the mischief and irony coalesced into an exploding cigar kind of attractiveness. Jane laughed, shaking her head. “What kind of wild man are you?”
Dianne Kozdrey Bunnell, The Protest
“They were submerged in wild strawberry hunts, swimming and water skiing, horse rides, sing alongs, and nature walks on miles of trails disappearing into the saintly aspens. Awards hung from cabins’ flag poles, and each day ended with camp fire vespers at sunset with Logan’s Bible stories and more singing. The exhausted, happy youngsters were packed, day after day, and long into the night, with sugar-coated cereals, candy, soft drinks, and God.”
Dianne Kozdrey Bunnell, The Protest
“Well, ol’ King Nebuchadnezzar doesn’t like that interpretation. Oh, no!” He mugged, “SO, WHAT DOES HE DO? He decides to build the statue his way, all gold, so his kingdom isn’t threatened, and then commands everyone to come see the statue and show homage by bowing to it. “But there were these three Hebrew kids, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego, who wouldn’t bow to the golden statue. They were sharp-faced, with clear eyes, quick minds, and spirited. These young men were heroes, champions of their Lord. Still heroes to us today.”
Dianne Kozdrey Bunnell, The Protest
“The blaze of the fire lighted their faces, which shone upward at him, excited, waiting. They’re mine! he thought. It has to be the Lord’s anointing. Then he was all over the platform, appealing to the boys, then the girls, “Would you be scared? How about you? Would you bow down?” They giggled and shook their heads. Adored, he was father of them all.”
Dianne Kozdrey Bunnell, The Protest
“Writing is simply another means for truth to escape, besides crawling out the hole it’s eaten in the author’s belly.”
Dianne Kozdrey Bunnell, The Protest
“Sometimes it’s hard to tell who His enemies are. They can be anybody. Your friends at school that lead you off the path of righteousness, teachers that talk about myths, about Darwin and monkeys bein’ your ancestors. Even your own parents, if they cause you to go astray from God.”
Dianne Kozdrey Bunnell, The Protest
“A young girl of fifteen, one of the teen counselors, stood up and in a quavering voice said, “I’ve been bad, I-I’ve been, um, I’ve been bad in the world.” She studied the ground, then, eyes glistening, looked up. “Jesus, forgive me!”
Dianne Kozdrey Bunnell, The Protest
“They’re waiting! Waiting to subject themselves to my will. Waiting for the miracle I can give ’em. They’re mine, now, Father. I can bring ’em to You. He held out both arms, and the wide sleeves of the robe fell back to reveal the black hairs of his bare wrists. The children quieted. The stage lights blinked off, and blackness surrounded him. His voice rang out, a Niagara of emotion. “We’ve all done things we shouldn’t of. But God loves us, each and every one. Even if we don’t deserve it. An’ He kin make us whole again.”
Dianne Kozdrey Bunnell, The Protest
“The girls were his now. They were God’s and they were his. And now, he knew, Jane would be, too.”
Dianne Kozdrey Bunnell, The Protest
“We’ve met,” Bolivar said tersely. “Board meeting not long ago. Almost got me fired for teaching mythology. Thank the gods, his tentacles don’t reach far enough—yet. Joe Campbell and I, scourges of the Christian world.”
Dianne Kozdrey Bunnell, The Protest


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