Tina Yeager's Blog, page 5

Lethean Shroud: A First Draft Morsel

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Rayanna crushed the gas pedal. The thuds of huge paws struck the trunk and their claws screamed against the cruiser’s paint. After a quarter mile, the snarls and roaring barks faded into the distance behind them. Drifts of fog swept past the windows like phantoms as the squad car barreled through the blind of night.

“Hey,” Officer Bowery croaked from the backseat.

White-knuckled grip frozen to  the wheel, she flicked a glance at the rear-view mirror.

Above his drooping eyes, lines etched his forehead as he grimaced and leaned forward. “Slow down.”

Her joints and muscles locked, even her jaw. Nostrils flaring as she sucked in shallow breaths, her lips barely moved when she spoke. “Can’t.”

He cleared his throat. “They’re gone. Miles back. You’ve got to ease up.”

Mist-veiled darkness filled the side mirrors. She forced herself the swallow the catch in her throat, but shook her head.

“You’ve got to let up on the gas so we don’t wreck. We’re approaching town now.”

She inhaled, prying her foot upward. Her once-frozen limbs broke into trembling.

His voice adopted a deep, velvety tone. “It’s okay, Ann.”

Rayanna darted a look at his grime-streaked reflection.

So he is gonna call me that. Guess lethean beats amnesia-girl.

“H-how much farther is your city?”

With a soft chuckle, he said, “That’s one clue, then.”

“What?”

“None of the townships in over a hundred square miles of here would qualify as a city. So, now we know at least one thing about you.” He leaned back. “You’re not from around here.”

“Where exactly are we going, then?”

*** TO BE CONTINUED ***

The post Lethean Shroud: A First Draft Morsel appeared first on Tyeagerwrites.

Lethean Shroud: A 1st Draft Snippet

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Rayanna jammed the key into the squad car’s ignition. Grantham dove into the seat behind her as voracious snarls neared his doorway and overtook the waking engine’s whine. She twisted to glance back.

The officer croaked, “Go.” Arms smeared in muck and blood, he slammed his door with a crunch and triggered an ear-splitting yelp.

Greasy fur and saliva-strewn jaws of several beasts thrashed against the window, rocking the cruiser. A set of bloodied claws wriggled and oozed in the door frame.

She sucked in shallow breaths.

“Stop gawking and drive!” Grantham swatted the back of her seat.

As grizzly creatures battered the car, she shifted into drive. The rear of the car swung toward the ditch while she stomped the gas pedal. Turf splattered the cruiser’s underbelly as the tires clamored for traction.

A massive beast pounced onto the front end, crushing the hood with its weight. The creature roared and charged at the windshield.

The tires bit onto the road’s asphalt edge. With its floored accelerator, the car lunged onto the blacktop and hurtled the predator against the roof’s front frame. The  tumbling creature cracked onto the windshield.

Rayanna’s sweaty grip whitened as she torqued the wheel. The cruiser fishtailed and threw the creature onto the asphalt.

Grantham’s creaky shouts steamed at her ear from just over the seat back. “Punch it! Go, go!”

“I know!”

With a final swivel, the tires pealed their rubbery skins and flushed the cabin with burning odors. Rayanna’s fists clamped the steering wheel, but her arms trembled as the squad car tore off through the mist-shrouded highway.

 

*** TO BE CONTINUED ***

The post Lethean Shroud: A 1st Draft Snippet appeared first on Tyeagerwrites.

Lethean Shroud: New Draft Snippet

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Pine switches stung Rayanna’s face as hurtled through the steep, brush-strangled path. As if a mountainside gullet choked her downhill. Stifled grunts followed her, in step with the thumps of Grantham’s uneven gait.

But the sinister tirade pursuing them in the darkness kept her from asking about him. Growls. Clawed earth. The crush of forestation. All of it within a few strides of overtaking them.

Her frantic heart threatened to erupt from its cage. Blood pounded against her temples and soles, pulsing her blindly onward through the vine enshrouded canopy.

The sharp gradient leveled abruptly underfoot, and the unseen shift caused Rayanna to stumble forward. But before she dove fully to the doom of prostrating herself on the forest floor, a calloused hand caught her by the arm.

“Few more yards.” Grantham pulled her alongside him.

Fainter shades, like the blue-gray hues of a stormy sea, leaked through the foliage ahead. Grantham released her arm. She darted the final yards across the forest’s threshold. Not into daylight, but rather the cold glints of a late night sky.

A squad car slumped on the road’s shoulder, leaning toward the deep, murky crevice between the wilds and the asphalt.

As she sprinted toward the ditch, a bellow rose at her back.

Gut-wrenched. Human.

She twisted to glance back. At the vacant, weeded field between her and the forest path. “Granth-?”

A succession of loud cracks ended with a yelp. Not human.

Grantham’s shadowy, hulking form emerged from the tree line, limping worse and gripping his arm. “Don’t stop!”

She set her feet sideways to control her scuttle down into the ditch. Splooshed through the muck. Fishy, fungal odors flooded her senses.

As she scrambled up the other side, she called over her shoulder. “Need help?”

“Go!”

She reached the cruiser and yanked the driver’s door open. Trusting for a cop.

“No way.” Heaving, he rose from the ditch and straightened.

A pack of massive beasts charged through the weeds. Bear-sized, yet wolvish, their onyx fur bristled in the chilly night gleam.

Keys jingling in hand, Grantham pointed her to the back seat as he gimped toward the car. “I can drive.”

She tugged the back door’s stubborn handle, then sat in the driver’s seat and hit the unlock button. “No time to wait on your ego. Just get in!”

*** TO BE CONTINUED ***

 

The post Lethean Shroud: New Draft Snippet appeared first on Tyeagerwrites.

Fresh Draft Morsel: Lethean Shroud

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Spindly branches clawed her flailing arms as she stumbled onward. Slowing, Rayanna glanced over her shoulder. “Bowery?”

Hoarse breathing roiled through the forest path. Animal or human? No way to tell.

She sprinted further down the mountainside. The misty tunnel of brush thickened, swallowing the flashlight’s beam before her feet. The blind scramble enhanced each sound and smell.

Her footfalls crunch-skidded on the underbrush. Sweat slicked her neck and trickled against the lining of the officer’s jacket. His scent rose from the jostling collar, fighting the damp oak scents rushing past her in the scramble down the slope. Yet the odor of something bestial and dank wormed its way into her senses, too.

She croaked a thin plea. “Officer Bowery? Grantham?”

Splintering rustles and a roar erupted beside her. She swiveled the light into the crimson eyes of a beast. Fanged jaws bared, a flash of dark fur pounced through the mist at her. Rayanna dove aside. Plunged into a thicket. Needly brambles scraped her face. Her shoulder crashed against the rocky earth.

Two nearby gun shots resounded.

The echo rang in her ears while pain coursed through her body. She rolled onto her back. Curled up through the switches. A grip on her forearm wrenched a scream from her lips.

“It’s me.” A firm tug pulled her upright.

“Officer Bowery?”

“Grantham.” He retrieved the flashlight and handed it back to her. “Can you run?”

Rayanna raked at her hair as she stepped onto the path. “I think so–”

“Then let’s get going.” He gestured with his gun. Howls rippled through the fog-shrouded woods. “There’s more of them out there. A lot more.”

*** TO BE CONTINUED ***

 

 

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Why Starving Word-Artists Need Conferences

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The earth reflects our soul’s need for constant revitalization. Our dry lawn shrivels as a plea for rain’s kiss. But I do not bother to water the grass. I neglect the turf, much like I dismiss the aches of my clay-flesh. My aching eyes strain, but I resolve to keep my gaze fixed on the monitor’s white glare. The muscles along my spine wrench into a bitter position I cannot seem to untwist. Curtains block the playful dance of sunlight out of my office. I force my cramped hands to tamp at the keys. So many words tarry in my bleary head, unwilling to stir forth. But I must not allow myself time away from these projects. Too many lines to craft … too much to accomplish …

At my everyday meal, our kitchen’s blue-black avocados yawn rotten. Much like withered fruit dying on my soul’s vine.

My husband offers a gift of respite. My reluctant fists uncurl from work. Fingertips skid against the edge of my desk as I commit to leave it for a day or two. I embrace my husband’s gift and walk the powdery sands with him at sunset. Coquinas lay as angel wing shapes along the beach near the earth-immersed who breathe between the waves. Sandpipers skitter along the foamy water’s edge to forage a briny feast. As the ocean caresses the shore, the ebb and flow soothes my restless drive to accomplish without refueling. Herein lies nature’s wise counsel of life’s source sustaining life. Living water speaks from this twilight-silvered sea. The Creator whispers His name through the breaking surf. He sings a lullaby of our spirituality’s romantic sustenance. Our source renews life.

And the sandy grains mold together to share the evidence of His touch. Sandpipers dance to His lullaby and praise His provision. Not one bird, but many pace this shore. Tiny and visible components all work together to yield and share this masterpiece of romantic beauty. Here am I to walk, photograph, write, and speak of His art. Not as a lone artist, but one meant to function as part of the Source’s collective work of life renewal. I must give and receive, from the source and with others.

Like the Creator waters the dry sands of my soul, I must turn to life-giving renewal with my fellow artists. Creativity thirsts for flow to summon its spring and gasps for the breath to lift its wings. This week, I look forward to offering and receiving artistic revitalization. I’ll bring surf-stirrings to meet mountain peaks. At the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference, we will gather to hear our Creator’s song and bolster one another to share it with renewed life.

 

Instead of a story tidbit, I’m sharing my podcast interview from the 2018 Florida Christian Writer’s Conference to further illustrate a starving word-artist’s need for community life.

http://www.tyeagerwrites.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/FCWC_Tina_Yaegar-1.mp3

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Lethean Shroud Snippet

A current of rasped breath wove through the inky brush hemming the path. The hoarse panting rose to an eddy of low growls.

Rayanna’s throat squeezed her voice to a rodent-like whisper. “I hear it.” A twig snapped within a few feet of the narrow trail. “What do we do?”

The flashlight beam swept the encompassing thickets. Over a dozen sets of crimson eyes glinted at waist-level, spangling either side of the trail.

Officer Bowery cursed.

With an expletive of her own, she muttered, “Huge.”

“Switch places.” Taking her by the shoulders, he shifted her to the lead. Then he unholstered his pistol.

Rayanna gaped at him. “How many–?”

“Run!” He shoved her with his forearm. “I’ll cover you the best I can.”

She sprint-staggered downhill, following the errant bob of his light beam when it hit the path. Rustling tore through the night-cloaked forest. Snarls deepened the chills pricked on her skin by the icy mist. She stumbled over roots, but grabbed reedy branches to stay aright. The steep path’s momentum threw her onward.

Bowery’s boots thundered behind her. Clawing noises pelted the forest floor.

Accompanying the snap of jaws and a shivering gust across her back, two massive shadows swooped to eclipse the beam. And the boot steps halted.

*** TO BE CONTINUED ***

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Raw Draft Scribblings: Lethean Shroud

 

The leaves shivered around her in a faint breath of icy air. Rayanna drew the borrowed coat to a close around her chest, gathering its worn fabric in her fist. “Lethean?”

Officer Bowery’s flashlight beam bobbed over the uneven terrain ahead. “If you’ve got a better name for yourself, I’m listening.” As the trail wound down the mountainside, the weakening light splashed against trunks on its banks.

“It’s just so philosophical. Not what I’d expect from–”

“From a stupid cop?” His broad shoulders stiffened as he stomped through a thick bed of dry brush.

“No offense, uh, officer.” Rayanna chewed her lip.

He snorted. “Yeah, why would I take offense?”

“Well, you have to admit Greek mythology isn’t a topic most people bring up in random conversation.” She peeled aside a pine branch and sidled around a decayed stump. “So forgive me if I found it odd coming from someone other than a college professor.”

“Hmph. So you assume.” Thorn bushes encroached upon the sides of the trail as it grew steeper, narrowing the path into a crooked, treacherous gullet. “Watch your step.”

“Are you saying you’re a professor and a cop? How could I have been expected to know that, or even guess?” She dared only a few glances up at Bowery’s silhouette as she picked her steps along the root-muscled slope.

“I wouldn’t expect you to know. But assumptions put everyone at risk. Things aren’t always what they seem. People most of all.” He paused.

To halt her downward momentum before crashing into his back, she grabbed the scaly wrist of a young tree. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s exactly my concern.” He spun to face her. “Do you hear that?”

*** TO BE CONTINUED ***

 

The post Raw Draft Scribblings: Lethean Shroud appeared first on Tyeagerwrites.

Snippet of Lethean Shroud

The earthy scent of oaken decay clung in the damp night air. Hints of a disturbing odor wafted through the brush. Dank, feral. Rayanna ducked under a low branch and shuffled downhill, skidding a bit on the moss and leaves underfoot. She nearly collided into the officer as he slowed his pace.

He flicked a quick glance at her. “You really don’t remember a single detail?”

Her voice rattled on the surface of shallow breath. “Who would get lost in a dark forest on purpose?”

“Mmm. Exactly.”

The forest’s chill bit deeper and the fog rose in thickening layers. Rayanna grit her chattering teeth against the intense pain on her raw arms. “It’s s-so cold.”

He flashed the stinging beam of light into her eyes, then lowered it to her neck. “Sorry. I could unload my pockets if you need to borrow my jacket.”

Leafy swishes and a crackle snapped her attention to the shadows beyond their trail. “How far is it?”

“Another couple of miles or so.” The officer gently hung his jacket over her shoulders. “What should I call you?”

“I dunno.” Briny musk and sandalwood scents billowed from the coat around her. The satin lining chafed a bit against her burns. She stiffened at first, but her shoulders shuddered and softened in the embrace of warmth.  “What should I call you? You never said your name.”

“Oh, right.” He extended his hand. “Officer Grantham Bowery.”

She gripped his hand and squinted through the haze of misty darkness at the shadows veiling his face. “I’m, uh …”

“Lethean, like the river of forgetfulness in Greek myth.” Officer Bowery squeezed her hand. “But we could shorten it to Ann.”

 

*** TO BE CONTINUED ***

 

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Another 1st Draft Morsel: Lethean Shroud

Misty tendrils snaked between Rayanna and the officer as they crept down the mountain’s inky, tangled face. Clouds mauled the full moon to further darken their forest swamped trail. They crept after the officer’s bobbing flashlight ray, though low, murky fog swallowed its edges.

Despite a void of words, the forbidden wood refused to leave them in silence. Branches clawed at their shoulders. Leaves stirred whispers into their ears. Just beyond the trunks guarding the path, underbrush snapped in titters and hisses to dog their steps. Things unspoken burned in Rayanna’s ears.

The officer’s voice startled a shudder into her spine. She then sighed, grateful he disrupted the noises of quietude. Until she heard his question.

“So if you were camping out here, where’s your vehicle? I didn’t see any cars on the roadside.” He flicked a glance over his shoulder at her. “At least none that should’ve belonged to you.”

Gory images flashed through her mind. Of the blood-drenched SUV in which she’d awoken. And the police cruiser which had brought her to wreck against this mountainside. Had he seen the inside of the flipped patrol car, where the severed hand of its driver lay in a puddle of ditch water?

“Like  I said, I don’t remember anything before hitting my head. Not even sure of my name. Believe me, I wish I could tell you where I came from.” A frigid spell seized the air. The night’s icy breath prickled through her tattered blouse and burrowed deep into her flesh.

“I’ll make a search for your car in the morning.” He stomped on a dead branch and the crack resounded. “Should offer clues to your identity, too.”

Not likely, since I removed the paperwork from the glove box.

“Oh, you don’t need to go to all that trouble.”

A crisp edge laced his tone, but shadows hid his face as he looked back at her. “Why not?”

She drew in a sharp breath. “I should really look myself. It would help me to retrace things without the bias of others’ impressions. Would you mind waiting until I get these burns treated?”

“Hmm.” He paused to flash the beam at her squinting, shielded eyes. Then he continued on the trail. “I’ll consider it.”

“Thanks.” She folded her arms against her stomach and resisted the shivers clambering up her spine into her jaw.

“I do have other questions.” He hurdled over a fallen grandfather oak which blocked their path. Pests streamed through its half-buried carcass. “No one camps out here. I doubt anyone would’ve come here alone. Who was with you? And more importantly, where are they now?”

She forced a hoarse whisper through her lips. “I don’t know.”

And she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Rayanna’s breath froze at even more sinister questions. Who spilled the missing corpses’ blood? Could it have been her?

 

*** TO BE CONTINUED ***

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Fragrant Outpouring

“Six days before the Passover, Jesus came to Bethany, where Lazarus lived, whom Jesus had raised from the dead. Here a dinner was given in Jesus’ honor. Martha served, while Lazarus was among those reclining at the table with him. Then Mary took about a pint of pure nard, an expensive perfume; she poured it on Jesus’ feet and wiped his feet with her hair. And the house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume” (John 12:1-3).

 

Half the carrot harvest tumbled in the broth around chunks of their only lamb. Rich herb aromas billowed from the stew and pressed smiles into the sisters’ faces.

Mary patted Martha’s back. “You did a beautiful job, as always.”

“What better use of the food? I’d give Him all of it, if only we had more room at the table.” She stepped back from the kettle and peered into the next room. Eyes brimming, she laid a hand on her chest. “My heart leaps like a gazelle at the sight of Lazarus laughing alongside Him out there.”

Mary put an arm around her sister’s shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. “Yes, we know how well the Lord cares for us. God will provide another lamb for Passover.”

As they ladled the extravagant meal into a pot, a refreshing cascade of peace washed over Mary. She felt joy and calm as if a divine breeze cooled her perspiration-drenched skin.

Steam filled Mary’s head covering, infusing her hair with rosemary fragrance as she carried the pot toward the reclining circle of men. Her brother’s charming smile warmed her heart. The familiar faces surrounding him included curious neighbors and cousins. The Teacher’s closest followers dominated the conversation with animated gestures and challenging remarks.

Mary’s gaze secured on one pair of callused feet. Extended from the table, the rough heels bore cracks from miles of travel. Bruises and insect stings framed the sides and toes. The battered, lovely feet of her Master and Teacher. She rested the pot on the table and glanced at His marvelous eyes. In their infinite depths, they seemed to bear a wistful gleam of both joy and care at once. Her Lord.

“Tell Martha she outdid herself,” Lazarus said.

Mary fled the table without responding. She sprinted, not to the kitchen, but to the sleeping quarters she shared with her sister. She grabbed a stick from the table and dropped to her knees at the room’s corner. Five hand-breadths from the wall, she hacked the earthen floor and broke through to the hidden niche beneath it. Mary reached into the cool hollow and wrapped her fingers around the chilled alabaster vessel inside. A treasure meant to seal her in marriage.

She clutched the vessel to her chest and stood, recalling how she once considered this the only thing of value she possessed. Tears careened over the rising apples of her cheeks as she raced into the main room. There they were. The priceless feet of her Lord.

Mary knelt. The conversation buzzed on as the men gave little notice to the one so often drawn to the Master’s feet. The vessel trembled in her grip. Fingers slippery with tears, she broke its neck. The crack of alabaster silenced the room. Her chest burned as she poured her heart out with its contents. Mary drenched every beautiful, bruised inch of those feet with the rich oil. The overflow soaked the tattered hem of His garment. Her eyes blurred as she kissed the blisters on his toes.

More. Her core ached with adoration.

She tore the covering from her head. Untethering her locks, she wrapped them around his soles. Pressing, patting her hair against the magnificent feet of her Savior.

Not everyone enjoyed the overpowering rush of nard at dinnertime. The scent’s strength qualified it to perfume the dead. Most of the guests waited for Jesus’ reaction. Except the one most offended by heartfelt praise. Judas dwelt outside the capacity to appreciate sacrifice, to give or accept divine love, or to understand the fragrance of true discipleship.

The opportunity to pour our heart’s treasures onto the Lord’s feet dawns before us. Our worship will be unique in nature. However it looks for each of us, all genuine adoration flows with abandon. Nothing we could hold back compares in value to the One Who offers Himself so fully to us.

The fragrance of our love and commitment for Christ will fill the air around us. The impact lingers and spreads. No one can deny such a compelling effect, for it seems to cover the stench of death so common in the rest of the world. Not everyone will enjoy or understand it. Some will find our aroma offensive.

When others shame or ridicule our extravagant love for the Lord, we can assure ourselves that we’re in good company. They found Jesus offensive, too.

Let’s pray for tho who remain outside to grow appreciative of sacrifice, to accept divine love in order to pay it forward, and to comprehend at last the divine fragrance of true discipleship. And through all, keep that strong fragrance pouring forth.

 

 

* This post was previously published here in March, 2015 as ‘Strong Fragrance for Christ.’

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