Bryan R. Saye's Blog, page 3

At the Beach (Romance-Themed Short Story)

Welcome back to my Flash Fiction series, where we take a look at my assignments as I pursue my MFA. Here I had to write a Romance-theme short story , which isn't something I've ever done before. If you've read any of my books, there's usually a love interest, but it's never really the main plot of the story.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it! I'd appreciate it if you took some time to throw a comment below and let me know what you think! If there are any opther Genres you'd like me to take a swing at, let me know!

The Gulf of Mexico

July 29, 1942

Johannes stood on the beach, looked out at the sapphire sky, and let the waves wash up over his ankles and calves. As the cool water retreated back into the gulf, it dragged with it the top layer of loose sand, and his feet sunk just that much further into the beach. Other nearby college students laughed as they splashed each other in the water, grown men playing as if they were still children.

Stanley nudged him. “Look.”

Johannes followed his gaze, saw two girls laying on towels on the sand. They wore wide-brimmed sun hats, big-framed circular sunglasses and—

“Swimsuits,” Stanley said. “I told you there’d be girls in swimsuits.”

“It’s summer in Florida, Stanley. Everybody’s in swimsuits.”

“But not everyone looks so good in them!”

Johannes chuckled and looked back out over the water, but Stanley was persistent.

“Come on,” his friend said. “Let’s go talk to them.”

He scoffed. “Go ahead.”

“Alone? I’m no good with girls.”

“Neither am I. Besides, you’ve got two chances. Odds are in your favor.”

“So I can strike out twice? No thanks. Besides, you speak French. Girls love that stuff!”

“Do they?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know! It’s worth a shot.”

“Tu me casses les pieds.”

“See how romantic that sounds?!” Stanley near-shouted, not knowing Johannes had just told him that he was getting on his nerves. He looked again at the girls. “Come on.”

Stanley hooked his arm and pulled him from the water. Even Johannes had to acknowledge the girls were beautiful, and so he put up little resistance beyond that of his feet popping free from their sand-covered prison. Both girls sat up on their elbows as Stanley dragged Johannes to a stop in front of them. Stanley said nothing, only stared, clearly already at a loss for words and waiting for Johannes to speak.

“Yes?” the nearest of the two girls asked. Wavy caramel-colored hair flowed freely from her hat over her yellow sunglasses, and Johannes saw his reflection in her tinted lenses. “Can we help you? Or did you just want a closer look?”

Stanley opened his mouth, coughed suddenly, and both girls laughed at his awkwardness.

“That’s the best you have?” she asked, lowering her glasses and revealing a pair of brown eyes as she looked at each of them in turn. She nodded toward another group of young men; the ones Johannes had heard playing like children before. “Even they got a few words out.”

Stanley still said nothing.

“Boys…” the second girl muttered, then laid back down and pulled her hat over her face. “Let me know when they’re gone.”

“Could you scoot over?” the first asked. “You’re blocking our sun.”

Stanley nudged Johannes—hard—and pushed him forward. The second girl had already forgotten about them, but the first grinned and shifted her focus to Johannes. “It’s your turn, I suppose.”

Johannes returned the smile and locked eyes with her. “J’aimerais être une goutte de sang pour mieux connaître ton cœur.”

“Ha!” she laughed. “That’s a new one.”

“What did he say?” the second girl asked, not bothering to remove her sun hat. By the tone of her voice, she sounded only mildly interested in their conversation.

“He wants to be a drop of my blood,” the first said mockingly, then cupped her hands together over her chest. “To better know my heart!” She looked back at Johannes and batted her eyes at him. “Did I get it right, monsieur?”

Johannes’s jaw hung open, though he found himself instantly admiring her. “You speak French?”

She winked. “A little.”

The second girl chimed in, again not lifting her head. “She’s only majoring in French Literature, dumb-dumb.”

The first girl gave him a coy smile. “It was a nice try,” she said. “You did better than the others. But…aller se faire cuire un œuf.”

Johannes couldn’t help but smile back, even though she’d just told him to get lost. He’d learned French hoping it would help him when he finally got his chance in the war, though now it seemed he needed it for banter. He didn’t mind. “What’s your name?”

She laughed, the sound joyous and wonderful. She seemed genuinely amused, and that made his smile spread all the wider. “You’re losing ground,” she said. “That’s a worse line than the first.”

“I’m Johannes,” he went on. “Will you be at the banquet tonight?”

The second girl laughed, but the first ignored her. “Johannes,” she repeated playfully, a bit of her mocking tone fading. “Is that a German name? I thought you were French.”

Maybe I’ll do better in German, he thought.

“Ich war zuerst Deutscher.”

She raised an eyebrow and, for a moment, seemed as impressed with him as he was with her. “Three languages?”

“Y un poco de Español,” he said, though in truth that one sentence was perhaps half of his Spanish. He reverted back to French. “Serez-vous au banquet?”

“Of course, I’ll be at the banquet,” she said. “I didn’t fly all the way to the Florida just to be hit on by college boys.” She pushed her glasses back up, shielding her eyes and letting Johannes once more see his own reflection. He saw his ridiculously broad smile, didn’t care. “Even if they do speak almost four languages.”

“Puis-je connaître votre nom maintenant?”

For a moment, he didn’t think she was going to give him her name. She laid back down, pulling her sun hat over her face to match her friend. “Marie,” she finally said. “I’ll look forward to seeing you again.” A pause. “Johannes.”

The Hero of Achelois

Welcome back to my Flash Fiction series, where we take a look at my assignments as I puruse my MFA. Here I had to write for a Young Adult audience, and I decided to stick with the same Greek theme that I used previously.

I hope you enjoy it! I'd appreciate it if you took some time to throw a comment below and let me know what you think!

I should have stayed in Argyre, Achelois thought.

But when Hermes, the winged messenger of the gods, brings a message from Zeus saying that there was yet another hero in danger, what can you do?

Trapped on a volcano, no less. I mean, who does that?

The message had come for Artemis, Achelois’ patron, but she’d been gone for weeks. Some vacation with Apollo. At least, that’s what she’d told Achelois before she’d left. When Hermes had arrived on Argyre, the Island of Silver, he’d seen Achelois—alone—and quickly surveyed the island, hoping to find a mature god to give the message to. But it was only her, the adolescent goddess of the moon, and she could almost feel the disappointment on Hermes’ face. She’d never saved a hero before, though she would certainly try.

And probably fail, she thought, standing now on a perch of rock on the mountain where the hero was trapped. She looked warily at the hero below, saw his short sword and shield. There were five others with him, all armed, and they didn’t look like friends. Not that Achelois had any friends herself, being the youngest god on Argyre at only a century old.

“Are you ready yet?” Hermes asked again, his voice edged with impatience.

Achelois scowled at him. “I’m getting there,” she snapped. Lava flowed freely from a crack in the rock, running down the sloping mountain like blood from a wound in Gaia herself. It hit an outcropping and split into two separate rivers of red, surrounding the hero and his five ‘not friends’ before joining again and trapping the six of them on an island of rock. “It’s just…it’s a lot of lava.”

Hermes frowned and held out the pair of winged sandals. “You just have to deliver these. In and out.”

“What about them?” she asked, pointing to the five others surrounding the hero. She heard the crack of bronze on bronze and watched as the hero dodged and cut. One of the five fell in a howl of pain that echoed up the mountain.

“The message only mentioned the hero,” Hermes said. He paused and read it a second time. “Just the sandals, it says. The fight’s up to him.” Hermes turned to her, sternly adding, “You can’t help him in the fight, Achelois. If he dies, he dies. It’ll tick off Zeus if you do anything besides give him the sandals.”

She looked again at the lava, felt a pang of fear. “Why don’t we wait and see if he survives the fight? Then I’ll bring him the sandals.”

Hermes sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hate adolescent gods,” he mumbled.

She snatched the sandals from him. “Fine.”

And with that, she leaped angrily from her perch. Her thin robe caught in the wind, flapping around her like wings on her outstretched arms. She’d never tried flying from this high up—or over lava—and a quick gust pushed her dangerously close to the molten rock. Heat waves wafted at her sandals, and she gave a panicked flap of her arms. Her robe fluttered in the wind, she dipped, one of her feet nearly touching the blazing surface of the cherry-red river. She bobbed back up, flapping like a desperate baby bird, then tumbled to the ground mere feet from the flowing lava.

“That was a bad idea,” she muttered, looking back up to find Hermes already gone.

At least he didn't see.

She dusted off, then scanned the mountain again for the hero. He fought now only a dozen feet away, just over the river of lava. Though the hero had lost his shield, only one of the others was still alive; three were on the ground, and she thought she saw the tip of a spear sticking up from the lava where perhaps one of them had went.

Ouch.

The hero swung his short sword, but his foe ducked the strike, then kicked him hard in chest. He somersaulted backward and landed hard on the rock. One of his hands landed in the lava, and the hero let out a wail of pain. Achelois winced, then watched as he stood, his hand still aflame, and beat the fire out on his tunic.

Tougher than he looks.

She caught of glimpse of his face, of his blue eyes and lightly stubbled chin.

And handsome, too.

She shook the thought from her head, fixed her robe, and leaped once more—this time slow and controlled—and landed softly behind the hero. She hadn’t yet made herself known, so he couldn’t see or hear her. He tucked his burnt hand into his tunic and held his sword ready before him. She didn't know his quest, what was driving him to fight in the first place, but she couldn't help but admire his resiliency.

His foe leaped forward, and they exchanged a quick series of blows. The hero backpedaled and sidestepped, dodging both the bronze blade and the smoldering lava.

Don’t help him, she reminded herself. Just give him the sandals if he wins.

Even as she had the thought, she felt herself following the battle, always within reach, a part her mind conscious of the small dagger of celestial bronze tucked tight against her lower back.

The hero stumbled, his opponent’s sword grazing his left bicep and throwing a spurt of blood. He raised his sword to block, but his foe kicked it away. Achelois watched wide-eyed as it landed in the lava with a plunk, then immediately vanished in a puff of flame. She saw another flash of bronze, felt her feet and arms move. Before she knew what she’d done, she found herself in front of the hero, her dagger buried up to the hilt in the stomach of his foe, her other hand gripping his wrist as his sword wavered above them. He gurgled once, still unable to see what killed him, then tumbled backward on the rock, leaving Achelois with a bloodless dagger in her outstretched hand.

What have I done?

She felt herself become known, felt the veil fade that normally surrounded her, then turned to find the hero looking her in the eyes.

The REAL Minotaur

Here's the first of many upcoming short fiction pieces. As you read this, keep in mind I was given something of a prompt, though it was admittedly pretty open. This is something outside of my normal writing style and setting, which tend toward historical and based in reality instead of fantastical and (in this case) somewhat silly.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Please take some time to throw a comment below and let me know what you think!

“I don’t want to.”

“You have to.”

Carl sighed and looked at his reflection in the water. “I’m sick of doing it.”

“Someone has to do it.”

“Do they?” He touched his horns, his snout, his teeth. “I’m a vegan, you know.”

Daedalus grinned. “I know, Carl.”

“I don’t even wear leather.”

“I know, Carl.”

“Or fur, and it’s cold in this labyrinth. Why’d you make it so drafty?”

“Would you have preferred a fiery pit?”

Carl stepped back from the water and gestured to his upper body. “Bulls don’t eat people,” he went on. “We eat grass. We graze. Why do they keep sending me children?”

“It’s the king’s orders.”

“The king is stupid.”

“Agreed. But that doesn’t change anything. Seven boys, seven girls. You have to ‘eat’ them," Daedalus said, making air quotes as he said "eat."

Carl huffed in frustration. “What are you actually doing with them?”

He shrugged. “Some become blacksmiths. Some tailors. A few priests and merchants. One painter.” He grinned. “I sent a particularly nasty little kid off to Sparta.”

“Sparta?” Carl shivered. “And they think I’m scary.”

“You are scary.” Daedalus gestured to the massive, double-bladed axe resting against the stone wall. The weapon was nearly as tall as he was. “Are you ready?”

Carl frowned and grabbed the axe. “No,” he said. “But I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“You do not. Now show me your scary face.”

He flexed arms that were as round as a soldier’s waist, bent over so his snout was in Daedalus’s face, and roared loud enough to send his only friend stumbling backwards covered in spittle.

“Sorry,” Carl muttered, standing back to his full height.

Daedalus wiped his face. “It’s okay,” he said. “I asked for it.” He nodded toward the exit. “Have fun.”

The two of them stood in the center of the labyrinth, thirty-foot tall walls of stone encircling them. Vines climbed the stone, cresting the tops and curling around the other side. Trees grew up through the very walls, their limbs overhanging the passageways. The walls stood so close together that the dirt and gravel saw little sunlight, leaving the ground cool under Carl’s bare feet. He stared through the only doorway, which was little more than a stone arch so low that he would have to duck to get through.

Carl paused before stepping forward. He looked back toward Daedalus. “You’ll bring me some Athenian grass when I’m done?”

“Yes, Carl.”

He thought about issuing one final complaint, then rested the haft of the axe across his shoulder and sauntered off into the labyrinth, each footfall thudding and echoing through narrow passageways. Fifteen years of wandering these stony walls, and he’d yet to find the exit. Daedalus himself had built it, and even he needed to be lifted out by Pegasus. How he’d trained that beast, Carl had no idea.

People think I’m scary; they’ve never tried to train a winged horse. Stubborn old goat.

A musky scent on the air guided Carl through the labyrinth as he ducked under bent trees, their tangled branches scraping along his horns. The musk was fainter than he was used to, though he followed it still, each step bringing him closer to his prey. He’d been forbidden to speak, instead forced to chase the fourteen children one at a time until Daedalus—riding atop Pegasus above the labyrinth—could scoop them up and whisk them to safety.

Only now, he turned the corner and saw a warrior, armed with a sword and, oddly enough, a length of thread.

That’s new, he thought.

“Halt, foul beast!”

Carl had to fight not to roll his eyes.

“No more shall you feast on the flesh of innocent Athenian children!”

I’m a vegan. I feast on delicious Athenian grass.

A shadow passed overhead, and Carl glanced up to see the distant outline of Pegasus.

“I am Theseus, adventurer and true king of Athens!”

Might be harder to chase him if he isn’t scared of me.

Carl swung the heavy axe, burying one of the blades several inches into the dirt and gravel, then bent down onto all fours and gave a mighty war cry that shook the walls of the labyrinth. The stone rattled, bits of gravel bounced from the ground, and the branches above trembled hard enough to drop leaves.

Theseus, however, was unfazed.

“I will not quake so easily, you putrid beast.”

Putrid? Carl sniffed at his armpits. I washed this morning.

“You are a desecration to this labyrinth,” Theseus went on. “Foul! Abhorrent!”

He really doesn’t like me.

“You are an abomination,” he continued, his voice rising in excitement as he insulted Carl. “A profanity! A repugnant and offensive atrocity! And I shall—”

“Now you’re just being mean,” Carl said.

Theseus froze, and only then did Carl realize he’d spoke aloud.

“Dang it,” he muttered.

“Don’t talk, you fool!” Daedalus cried from somewhere above them.

Theseus looked up, brow knit in confusion, then turned his gaze back onto Carl. “You speak?”

He thought of roaring again, of leaning into this image that Theseus had formed, but he could see that the illusion was shattered. His secret was out, and part of him—a big part of him—was happy about it. For several moments, the two of them just gazed at each other. Eventually, the silence was unbearable.

“I’m a vegan,” Carl said.

Theseus frowned. “What’s a vegan?”

A Quick Update

It's been a while since we talked, so I thought it was about time to give a little life update. The chickens have started laying green eggs (perfect timing with a dozen eggs now $95). We've added guinea pigs to the farm and they've become my new favorite little oinkers. Can we talk about how brave these monsters are? They're literally the size of a Twinkie and they don't fear me.

But, more importantly, I've recently begun taking classes for my Masters of Fine Arts degree at Southern New Hampshire University.

What does all this mean for you?

First, no, I won't be sharing my green eggs. They're mine, get your own chickens. And no, I won't be trying green ham with my green eggs.

But on a more serious note, my schooling won't change things much. I'll still be finishing the Crusader Chronicles. I love exploring Daniel, Amina, and Hendry, and their story is far from over. So you can expect a third installment sometime in the future. Hopefully by the end of the year, but we'll see. More updates to come as I have them. (Self promotion plug: Subscribe if you haven't already for the fastest updates).

One of the great things about going to school for creative writing is that most of my homework is...drum roll...creative writing. And since I often receive prompts or specific requirements about what to write, I have bits of short fiction just laying around that will never make it into one of my books. You can look forward to me dropping them here as time goes on. I'd love to know what you think about these little nuggets of flash fiction. Sometimes it's something waaay out of my comfort zone, but even then it ends up being kind of fun. Honestly, any chance I get to write is fun. I hope it's fun for you, too.

I love exploring Daniel, Amina, and Hendry, and their story is far from over.

Those of you who've followed me from the start know that I've self-published all of my books. The intent behind the MFA is to no longer do this. David's and Daniel's stories (current and future books) will always remain self-published. For those of you who don't know, self-publishing is a ton of work, especially to ensure that you guys receive quality books. I have to be an editor, a cover designer, a book formatter, and much much more. Unfortunately, writer is probably my fourth or fifth title.

I'd like to change that.

So, the goal is traditional publishing in the future. (Any of you know an agent?)

A Question?

I'd like to end this with a question: Aside from Biblical and/or Historical Fiction, what is your favorite genre of fiction to read? Feel free to pick multiple answers.

And that's about it. Thanks for taking the time to listen, and keep an eye out for this little nuggets of flash fiction I'll be dropping in the future.

Also, feel free to drop a comment below and let me know what you think! I'd love to hear from you.

Crusader Chronicles 2: Title Reveal and Blurb

Daniel's back! The sequel to Storm of War is on the way. We may still be a couple months away from a release date, but at least the newest “Unnamed WIP“ (Work In Progress) can move up the chain to “Named WIP.”

Those of you who haven't read Storm of War (shame on you) you can click the image below.

For the rest of us, let's take a look at the blurb for the about-to-be-named WIP:

Nicaea, 1097.

Daniel has gone from a petty thief living in the shadows of Constantinople to a budding squire serving the gruff Sir Hendry. He’s earned his place among the crusaders, proving himself capable during the capture of the impenetrable city, but he is still a meager player in a massive army of princes and lords.

The crusaders have scored the first victory in their quest for Jerusalem, but the holy city still lays thousands of miles away. And though the Saracens have been beaten, they are not defeated. Their horde of mounted archers gathers in the shadows, waiting for the right chance to strike

Unlike Storm of War, the title for this one came relatively easily. You see, not long after the siege of Nicaea (the premise of Storm of War, hint hint), the crusaders split their army in two and traveled toward an abandoned Byzantine military camp. On the way, the first half of the army was met by tens of thousands of mounted Seljuq horse archers. For half a day, the crusaders withstood their incessant hail of arrows.

Ralph of Caen chronicles this fight in the Gesta Tancredi, or the Deeds of Tancred. He describes it this way:

Our men withstood these attacks hoping for a storm to fly in from somewhere and scatter this enormous cloud of missiles. The ranks of their comrades were near, the enemy was everywhere, but there was no aid anywhere.

It was a turning point in the crusade, and I'll not spoil the ending of the battle here. Suffice to say that by the day's end—which saw between five and ten thousand dead—the crusaders had a begrudging respect for the Seljuqs. One eye witness proclaimed:

What man, however experienced and learned, would dare to write of the skill and prowess and courage of the Turks...you could not find stronger or braver or more skillful soldiers.

But what is the name of this battle, and therefore name of the book?

Dorylaeum

I hope you're as excited to read it as I have been to write it. If you haven't already, subscribe HERE for future updates. And stay tuned for a cover reveal in the not-to-distant future.

Storm of War: Prologue

Roland heard the gentle rippling of water, oddly in time with the fluttering of his heart. He’d never been to the Church of the Paralytic or seen the mythical Pool of Bethesda, but this was where he was told the man spent most of his time, so this was where he would go. The church had a low brown-stone arch that led through a narrow corridor and into an open apse, all built atop the ruins of an ancient Byzantine basilica, which itself had been built over the flowing waters of the pool. The priests had told Roland that Christ had healed a paralytic at this pool. He trod slowly, carrying the torn and dusty leather shoes he’d removed before entering the church.

Dramatic and ornate tapestries hung around the curvature of the apse depicting Christ’s crucifixion, his ascension to heaven, and even the crusaders’ sacking of Jerusalem. A narrow window near the roof let in a thin, dust-filled shaft of pale morning light, illuminating one side of the man who knelt at the center of the apse with bowed head and folded hands. He wore a white surcoat with a vibrant yellow cross upon it, and beside him was his sword, a golden brown leather-wrapped hilt jutting from a scabbard of the same color. It had an upswept silvery-steel crossbar and a disc pommel with a bronze center. A small length of knotted and frayed rope hung from the throat of the scabbard.

This was him. Roland was sure of it.

As Roland quietly stepped closer, he heard the gentle whisper of the man’s singing.

“Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est. Simul quoque cum beatis videamus, glorianter vultrum tuum, Christe Deus…”

Roland wanted desperately to speak with the man but feared to interrupt the hymn. He needed this man’s favor, his guidance, his wisdom, and breaking this tranquil near silence was not the way to get it. Roland took another cautious step forward and heard his own bare feet shuffle on the dusty sandstone bricks.

The man shifted, only slightly, and continued to sing.

“Gaudium quod est immensum, atque probum, saecula per infinita saeculorum. Amen.”

The man sighed, long and low and patient, then turned to the tapestry of the crucified Christ and made the sign of the cross, each tap solemn and respectful. He slipped the sword belt around his waist before rising to his feet, then turned to Roland.

His face was as calm as the church around him and just as weathered. A puckered, cross-shaped scar stood stark on his left cheek, and fierce green eyes stared back at Roland with the patience of a teacher, yet fear had frozen Roland’s words in his throat. The man continued to stand in silence. He must know why Roland was there. Why else would a young man, barely sixteen, seek out a knight in Jerusalem?

“I…” Roland tried and failed to swallow the odd lump that had begun to form in his throat. “A-are you Sir Daniel?”

“I am.”

Roland hesitated to say the rest, but he needed to be sure. “Sir Daniel tou Pouthená?”

Sir Daniel of Nowhere, Roland thought. It is not the most flattering of knightly titles. Yet I am not the most flattering of potential squires.

The corner of Sir Daniel’s mouth moved in the smallest of smiles. He didn’t seem to take the title as an insult. “Aye, that’s me.”

“I was told…they said I could find you here.”

“And you have.”

Sweat beaded on Roland’s forehead, and he stood motionless and silent as his heart thudded in his chest.

“What’s your name?”

“R-Roland.”

“From where?”

“Orléans. I mean…south of Orléans.”

“And why have you sought me out, Roland of Orléans?”

“They say you have no squire.”

Sir Daniel’s half smile faded. “I’m not that kind of knight,” he said, stepping by Roland and sitting on one of the stone benches in the nave of the church.

Roland followed yet didn’t sit. He stood in front of Sir Daniel. “Don’t all knights have squires?”

“What do you want?”

He wiped at the sweat. He’d thought that would be obvious by now, yet it appeared Sir Daniel was going to make him say it. “I want to be your squire,” Roland said.

“Why?”

“They say you helped sack Jerusalem,” he said.

“I did.”

“They say—”

“Stop telling me what they say,” he said.

“S-sorry, sir knight,” he stammered. “But…you came from nowhere,” he said.

“I came from Constantinople.”

“I’m told…they say—” He stopped himself short. “I mean, you were a nobody, like me, before you became a knight. That is why they call you Sir Daniel tou Pouthená.”

“If you’re trying to flatter me, you’re doing a poor job.”

Roland’s heart leaped to his throat. “N-no, sir knight. I only…I meant that I wish…” he trailed off, assuming he’d already ruined his chance, yet he saw Sir Daniel smiling.

“Sit down, Roland of Orléans,” he said. “And calm yourself. As I said, I’m not that kind of knight. You can relax.”

Roland sat, drew a deep breath, and let it out in a slow exhale. “I wish to hear your story,” he finally said. “How you came from nothing to become a crusader whose deeds are sung of.”

Sir Daniel grinned. “They sing of me?”

“Well, they speak of you.”

“They do not sing?”

Roland shook his head. “I only meant…they all know you, Sir Daniel. I wish to be known.”

He barked a laugh so suddenly that Roland nearly leaped from the bench. Sir Daniel bent over and continued with a deep belly laugh that echoed through the empty stone church. “You’re a young fool,” he finally said once he had stopped laughing. “Likely as foolish as I was.”

“Will you tell me,” Roland asked. “Will you tell me your story?”

Sir Daniel wiped the tears laughter had brought to his eyes. “Aye,” he said, and that half-smile returned. “Aye, Roland of Orléans. I will tell you my story. Then, if you still wish to sing of my deeds, we shall build you a shield.”

Promise to my Readers

Those of you who follow me on FaceBook have likely seen the images of the research I’ve been performing for my new upcoming book, Storm of War. You’ve probably also seen the blurb here on my website (if you haven't, check it out here). You may have already noted that the timeframe makes this a work of medieval historical fiction instead of Biblical fiction. As a result, Storm of War will have a slightly different tone than my previous novels that followed the life of King David. With this fact, I wanted to make you a few promises, but also make you aware of a few differences before you potentially purchase this book and are disappointed.

First, I promise that Storm of War will remain true to who I am as an author: Someone with a strong desire to write quality fiction while honoring God in that effort. While God is not the center of the story in Storm of War, the morality with which he created us still permeates the book. Daniel's story is not a tale of God's redemption, and God only comes up sparingly throughout the book, yet I still like to think that God's hand is at work in his life.

Second, there will be no sex scenes, no needless swearing, and no glorification of immorality. There will be, like my Biblical fiction, an amount of violence and gore (perhaps a little bit more in Storm of War), as well as several characters who do not align their lives with God's will. These characters’ actions are never glorified as right behavior.

Finally, it must be acknowledged that the First Crusade (and, indeed, all of them) is a touchy subject for a great many reasons. While instigated by Christendom, atrocities were committed on both sides. Since Storm of War is told from the vantage point of a Christian Greek raised in Constantinople, it will obviously be skewed historically, yet I have tried to paint as accurate a picture as I could with the knowledge we have today. The result of this is Christian knights often doing un-Christian things. This could not be avoided without seriously ignoring history. Again, I have made every attempt not to glorify immorality.

In the end, this is a fictional tale with fictional characters (including those few characters who are based on real people). The intent is to tell a good story. I will leave the verdict to you.

Title Reveal

With the finished draft of my next book at the editor, it’s finally time for it to be promoted from “Unnamed WIP“ (Work In Progress) to “Named WIP.” Not a huge promotion, but we all have to start somewhere.

Those of you following my FaceBook have probably already guessed the time and setting of this book. For those that haven’t, here is a short summary of the upcoming work.

Constantinople, 1097.

As an insignificant thief in the underbelly of Constantinople, Daniel wants to matter, to be known. After a botched job forces him to flee the city, he is swept up among the thousands of crusaders as they depart for the Holy Land on their mission to retake Jerusalem. Their first obstacle: Nicaea, an impenetrable city of stone walls and high towers, impervious to assault and immune to siege.

Now a fledgling servant to a gruff Scottish knight, Daniel struggles to fit in among Saracens and Crusaders, princes and priests. Will he find his worth as he learns to live in this new world of blood and death, or will he succumb to the storm of war?

I must admit, I struggled mightily to come up with a title for this one. Then I stumbled upon an account of the Crusaders’ time at Nicaea in a work written by the historian Albert of Aachen (otherwise known as Albert of Aix). He was describing events after a battle in front of the walls of Nicaea, and said, “When the storm of this first battle had settled around Nicaea…” and then he went on to describe other events, some of which are covered in my book and so I won’t mention them here. However, it was this imagery of battle as a storm that stuck with me and finally gave me my title.

Storm of War

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Chess, Coffee, and God: Conversations with an Atheist (Part 4, Faith)

Welcome back to Chess, Coffee, and God: Conversations with an Atheist. This is the fourth in a series of articles recounting conversations I had with an atheist friend of mine while playing chess and drinking coffee. While I have tried to remember the specifics of our conversations, the goal is not literal accuracy, but rather a general recounting of the topics we covered. I have fond memories of my friend and our conversations, so it is my hope that I paint him in a favorable light.

An issue that my friend and I actually shared was the use of the phrase ‘blind faith.’ His complaint was that many Christians blindly believed in God without any kind of evidence or reasoning. His argument, which actually has a great deal of merit, is that many Christians are only Christians because they were raised that way, and not as a result of any real, discernible reason.

The mistake my friend made was to equate ‘blind faith’ with all faith. Even as a Christian, I have never been a fan of ‘blind faith.’ It tends to imply that I should believe in God for no reason, which is not something I believe the Bible teaches. After all, God showed Himself to Abraham, God spoke with Moses, and Jesus walked the earth. Abraham, Moses, and the disciples certainly didn’t believe in God for no reason. Faith is not about blind, irrational belief. Faith is about trusting in God even when life doesn’t make sense.

Back to my friend. He believed that science has replaced scripture, that we should all have trust that science will eventually be able to explain everything. This is not as irrational as it first sounds, since science has certainly been able to explain a great deal of things that religion was used to explain in the past. In his mind, any time a Christian used faith to explain why he continued to believe in God despite evidence to the contrary, the Christian was exhibiting irrational ‘blind faith.’

What made faith make sense to my friend was to simply change the word to trust. Christians trust God, the same way my friend trusts science. Science, eventually, has been able to answer a whole host of questions about the universe. As a result, my friend has a trust in science based upon its track record of finding answers, even though sometimes science doesn't have the answer. He trusts (has faith in) science. Similarly, God has a track record for all of us. We trust (have faith in) God.

For me, God’s track record is both spiritual and physical. God has shown up in my marriage, in my family, in my personal life. And then there's scripture. Time and time again we find physical evidence for what is contained in scripture (such as Hezekiah’s tunnel, link below). But the final blow, for myself, is that I firmly believe in the resurrection (more resources below). As Paul said:

"If Christ has not been raised, then our preaching is in vain and your faith is in vain." — 1 Corinthians 5:14

I’m not trying to argue that my reasons for putting my trust and faith in God are the reasons everyone should. Instead, I’m trying to show that most Christians do not blindly believe in God, even when we use the phrase ‘blind faith.’ We believe in a God who has proven Himself far more times than we deserve, a God who sent his son to live and die and live again. Our faith need not be blind.

How has God shown up in your life? On what does your faith stand? Please comment below to share your thoughts.

For an introduction to this series, click here ---> Introduction

For more on Hezekiah’s Tunnel, click here ---> National Geographic

For a book on the resurrection of Jesus, click here ---> The Case for the Resurrection of Jesus, by Robert Habermas

Chess, Coffee, and God: Conversations with an Atheist (Part 3, Translations continued)

Welcome back to Chess, Coffee, and God: Conversations with an Atheist. This is the third in the series of articles recounting conversations I had with an atheist friend of mine while playing chess and drinking coffee. While I have tried to remember the specifics of our conversations, the goal is not literal accuracy, but rather a general recounting of the topics we covered. I have fond memories of my friend and our conversations, so it is my hope that I paint him in a favorable light.

Last week we discussed translations as they relate to the trustworthiness of the Bible. My friend's objection was summarized like this: “If the Bible has been translated a hundred times over two thousand years, how can we know what it really says?” He's not alone in this objection, as I’ve heard a dozen variations of it when speaking with non-believers from all walks of life. This single objection is really two objections in one. First, how do modern translations come to be? Second, how did the ancient scribes copy their own writings in order to preserve them? The second objection will be discussed in this article. To read about the first objection, please see a previous article written on April 10, 2021 (link below)

In my friend’s mind, Biblical translation was like a game of telephone. A group would line up, and someone would whisper, “Sally likes to go bowling,” into the ear of the first kid in the line. By the end, it morphed into, “Sailing Lake Texoma is boring,” or something even more extreme. The idea is that each time the saying in transmitted from kid to kid, it changes. My friend assumed that Hebrew scribes were essentially a line of people repeating the saying until it morphed into the Bible we have today.

For a long time, the Masoretic Text was the oldest known Hebrew Bible, dating to sometime in the 9th Century AD. Many of the books that compose the Hebrew Bible have their origins at least fourteen hundred years before that. We are quite a ways down the line in our game of telephone. If this were our only text, I could see the problem.

But we also have the Septuagint, the Greek translation of the books of the Old Testament from around the 3rd Century BC. Now, at least, scholars are able to compare the Masoretic Text with the Septuagint to find the best modern translation. The Septuagint allows us to jump back through the years several centuries, albeit in a different language.

Enter the Dead Sea Scrolls. Written around the 1st or 2nd century BC, these were found in caves near Qumran and contain various scrolls of the Hebrew Bible (in Hebrew, not Greek). Now, we are able to jump backwards in our game of telephone to roughly the same time and compare two different languages of the same material (though, admittedly, the Dead Sea Scrolls do not contain the entirety of the Old Testament). Having multiple languages tell the same story has added benefits, as well, almost like we have two lines playing telephone.

So, how did we do? How accurate has our game of telephone been? What we find is a startling amount of agreement between the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Septuagint, and the Masoretic Text. This isn’t to say there aren’t differences. How could there not be, with changes to language and syntax and grammar and the passing of a thousand years?

What this demonstrates, however, is that Jewish scribes were not kids in a line of telephone with no motivation to repeat the saying correctly. They were not repeating, “Sally likes to go bowling,” while giggling at school, but rather they were dedicating their lives to transcribing the words of scripture that they believed were essentially the words of God.

This has been a bit more technical than I anticipated, though I hope that doesn’t scare people away from learning about it. Understanding how we got the Bible we read today is very important. For further reading, see the links below.

Chess, Coffee, and God: Conversations With an Atheist (Part 1, Introduction)

https://www.bryanrsaye.com/post/chess-coffee-and-god-part-1

Chess, Coffee, and God: Conversations With an Atheist (Part 2, Translations)

https://www.bryanrsaye.com/post/chess-coffee-and-god-conversations-with-an-atheist-part-2-translations

Paul D. Wegner’s Journey from Texts to Translations: The Origin and Development of the Bible

https://www.amazon.com/Journey-Texts-Translations-Origin-Development/dp/0801027993/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=history+of+bible+translation&qid=1617928973&sr=8-1