All posts by Sharon Hinck

Serving the Story

Faith and Arts

 
“A book comes and says, ‘Write me.’ My job is to try to serve it to the best of my ability, which is never good enough, but all I can do is listen to it, do what it tells me and collaborate.” — Madeleine L’Engle

Lord, do You have stories for us to tell? Inspire, equip, and help us listen. Let us serve the story and thus serve You. Amen.

Blessings!

Sharon Hinck
author of The Deliverer
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Bonus Scene 3 – The Restorer’s Son

Bonus Scenes, The Restorer's Son

The Restorer’s Son – Bonus Scene

In which Jameth faces the complications caused by Tag’s family.

After Chapter 7

Jameth:

Kieran slipped out into the quiet early morning streets along with the strange boy he’d accumulated on his latest misadventure. I closed the door behind them and scrubbed at my beard with both hands, wishing I could scratch away the frustration burning beneath my skin. Bad enough that Tag’s family still disapproved of our decision to live in Lyric. When I made a life pledge to her, I accepted her outspoken family was part of the bundle. I braced myself for strong opinions, loud disagreements, and the chaos at Tag’s family gatherings. But this! Council guards searching homes, Lyric in an uproar, and Kieran endangering our family by coming to us for help. Why hadn’t I thrown him out the moment I got home yesterday?

A soft hand touched mine and pulled it away from my face. Tagatha nestled up against me, each soft curve coaxing the tightness from my muscles. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know you didn’t want to get involved.”

I sighed. “I don’t have anything against him.”

Tag handed me a steaming mug of clavo, then wrapped an arm around my waist, staying so close I could smell the grassy fresh-air scent of her hair. “Since when?”

A chuckle rumbled in my chest. “You’re right. He’s caused trouble as long as I’ve known your family. I’m tired of seeing Tristan and Kendra, or your parents, picking up the pieces. And now I’ve done the same thing. Do you know what they’re saying he did?”

“Shh.” She gently guided the mug toward my mouth.

I drank, letting the warmth coax the anger from me. Tagatha knew exactly how to change my course when my temper wanted to rise. She could probably charm a better price out of a Terramin stone dealer.

“We did the right thing,” Tag said as she rubbed slow circles on my back. “Come on. I tried a new bread stew for breakfast. You’ll love it.” I let my muscles relax and allowed her continual optimism to distract me through breakfast.

Too bad I couldn’t bring her to work to keep whispering reassurances. My apprentice at the warehouse greeted me with a breathless account of the latest rumors. Council guardians stopped by twice and questioned me. When I came home for lunch, someone lurked in the alley across from our house.

Give me a transport full of crates to stack, or stone to quarry, or a hard bargain to strike with a greedy trader. That was solid ground. Keeping secrets, feeling scrutiny, wondering how to protect my family in the midst of the confusing stories circulating in Lyric—that was sucking the life from me like a Shamgar mud pit.

The next morning, Tagatha and I rose early so we’d have some time before the children demanded our attention. Sitting at the old wood table, we held hands and whispered prayers to the One. Tagatha of the generous heart prayed for the safety of Kieran and Jake. I couldn’t bring myself to ask blessings on the man who had put our family in danger. Still, I was able to murmur an earnest plea for our protection.

Was it a test of my faith, or the One’s strange sense of humor? As I finished my prayer, an ominous pounding shook our door. Tagatha gasped and turned pale.

“Stay here. I’ll take care of it.” I marched to the door and yanked it open, hoping to stop further noise so the children wouldn’t wake up.

The two Council Guards standing in the doorway had hard-edged faces, cold eyes, and a completely different demeanor than the guardians I knew. One of them pushed past me into our front room.
My fists clenched and I sized them up. I should knock their scrawny heads together and toss them out the door. Tagatha squeaked a protest as one of them strode into her kitchen and rummaged in the cubbies.

“We have orders to search your home,” said the guard who stayed near me at the door.

I forced my arms against my sides, fighting the temptation to take a swing at him. “Fine. But—”

A terrified cry came from the children’s room. Tamara ran out toward me and clung to my legs, sobbing. My chest tightened and heat crept up my neck. “What were you expecting to find in my children’s room?”

I gathered up my daughter and soothed her. Tagatha came out carrying Luc who stared at the guard with round eyes. Tag’s eyes were almost as wide and scared. I bristled, every instinct primed to protect my family.

The Council Guard drew his sword. A sword drawn against me in my own home! Rage glued my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Before I could roar a command for them to get out, he spoke terse words that knocked the breath from my lungs.

“We also have orders to arrest you both for aiding an enemy of the clans. The Council is considering banishment. Come with us.”

The wail that rose from Tag’s throat will haunt me the rest of my days. I couldn’t reassure her. Even if I fought the guards, where could we go? If we ran we’d be no better than banished anyway. “The children.” I choked the words out. “Let us find a neighbor to care for them until a messenger gets word to our family.”

The guard jerked a nod and led us outside, the children still in night tunics, clinging to us in panic.
Family obligation had been the cause of this disaster, but family was also my only comfort. If necessary, Tara and Payton would take in their grandchildren. Or Tristan and Kendra would raise them as their own. Tag met my eyes and raised her brows, waiting for guidance.

I forced confidence into my voice. “We’ll speak with the Council and get this straightened out.”

My beautiful Tagatha fought back tears so she wouldn’t add to our children’s confusion and fear. She’d always been the glow of first light, fresh, hopeful, as if there were no such thing as night. But the lines of her face had all changed, the way the walls of the city changed late in the day as dusk fell. It broke my heart to see the gray cold of night coloring her spirit. Even if the best outcome happened and we returned to our home and children and normal life, would she ever have the same clear innocent light again?

—

You can read more of the story in The Restorer’s Son.
Blessings!
Sharon Hinck

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Art is Born

“Art is born when the temporary touches the eternal.”– G.K. Chesterton

May the touch of our Eternal Creator inspire our art today.

Blessings!
Sharon Hinck

My faith is not what I write about or what I paint about, but it is the light by which I see.
Flannery O’Conner

– See more at: http://www.christianimagination.com/quotes/#sthash.BjpOpFkL.dpuf

My faith is not what I write about or what I paint about, but it is the light by which I see.
Flannery O’Conner

– See more at: http://www.christianimagination.com/quotes/#sthash.BjpOpFkL.dpuf

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Baking New Stories

Flecked pottery with a blue band, my cookie jar settles in place with a substantial clatter. When I lift the lid I catch the salty-sweet scent of peanut-butter cookies that once filled the container.

Today only crumbs remain.

Some days my writing life feels like an empty cookie jar, full of rich, calorie-laden memories but nothing I can sink my teeth into. It’s time to bake a new batch of cookies. Time to fill the jar again.

Gingersnaps? Chocolate chip? Snicker-doodles? The decisions hover above the vacant page.

It would be easier to grab store-bought cookies. Safe, generic, mass-produced.

As I get out my mixing bowl I think of all the people who make better cookies than I do. Sweeter, prettier, more creative, more carefully decorated.

Should I add more sugar, or less? How much baking soda do I need for the story to lift off the page? Will anyone notice if I slip a little wheatgerm into the plot? Which spices should I add to my dialogue?

The cookie jar is waiting. Do I have another story in me? Can I fill it again?

===========

Are you a writer? Composer? Painter? Which cookie type would you use to typify your artistic work? Please tell us about the kind of art you do and what sort of cookie it brings to mind.

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Our Shepherd

Devotional Musings, Prayer

“What do you think? If a man owns a hundred sheep, and one of them wanders away, will he not leave the ninety-nine on the hills and go to look for the one that wandered off?” Matthew 18:12 (NIV)

Dear Faithful Shepherd, I am so prone to wander. Thank you for pursuing me, rescuing me, and carrying me home. Amen.

Blessings!
Sharon Hinck
author of The Deliverer

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Bonus Scene 2 – The Restorer’s Son

Bonus Scenes, The Restorer's Son

The Restorer’s Son Bonus Scene –

in which Jake peeks into Susan’s journal and finds more than he was expecting.

–>

After Chapter 5
Jake:
Good grief. What was the big deal? It wasn’t like the attic held state secrets, or that I’d mess up some fancy rug clumping around in my dirty tennis shoes. Mom and Dad weren’t even around, so it wouldn’t hurt anyone if I popped upstairs to see the new room. I might even find my baseball-card shoebox that had disappeared after one of Mom’s cleaning binges.
Throwing a quick glance over my shoulder, I scrambled up the ladder. I got the whole deal about how she needed some privacy once in awhile. Jon and Anne were into everything. I had to barricade my door to keep them out of my stuff. I’d only take a quick look around and she’d never know.
The reality was more boring than I’d expected. A few bins and boxes and a dusty old chair. The notebook looked new, though. Probably a journal. Mom had talked about starting one.
I stepped closer. Had she written about me? I’d overheard her once on the phone complaining to a friend about how hard it was to be a parent. The words had startled me. Sure, my three younger siblings were a handful, but did she really see me as a burden? Those years of doctors and hospitals . . . I’d never really thought about how it felt from her side. I was busy dealing with the experience from my end. And now that I was getting ready for college, what was she thinking of me? Did she believe I was ready? Did she think I’d be a success? 
I picked up the book. Just one quick peek and I’d put it right back. If she had written something about me, I had a right to know, right?
Instead of juicy info, I found some boring notes about her Bible study. I turned a page and grinned. She’d drawn a pencil sketch. Cool. I didn’t know she could draw. On a whim, I scrawled a little note inside. Sure, it gave away my trespassing, but she’d laugh when she saw it. She had a good sense of humor . . . most days. 
I dropped the journal and ducked to search deeper under the eaves. My missing shoebox could be tucked back in the shadows. 
A prickle danced across my skin, an uncomfortable sensation like an electric razor. The hum built and vibrated inside my skull. Maybe Dad had made a mistake wiring the lights. I glanced down to be sure I wasn’t standing on any metal ductwork. Something electrical was buzzing, but I couldn’t figure out why it resonated so powerfully in my body. I shook my head a few times and stumbled forward, wincing against the rising ache behind my eyeballs. I grabbed my head as if to keep it from exploding and squeezed my eyes shut. Lightning sparkled across the insides of my eyelids. Was I having a stroke or something? 
A sudden whoosh of air engulfed me, along with a small pop of pressure releasing, as if I’d pushed my way through a particularly stubborn revolving door. I pulled my hands away from my face but saw only darkness. Flailing my arms in all directions, I couldn’t find the rafters or boxes or my way back to the ladder. Did strokes cause blindness? I stumbled a few steps and finally found a hard surface. Something solid and round, like a twisting beam, spiraled upward beyond what I could touch. Impossible. The attic roof wasn’t that high. My legs went rubbery, and I stumbled a few steps. Come on, Jake, keep breathing.
Panic built with each gasp. I tried for a slow deep breath, and inhaled an unfamiliar spicy scent, a combination of pine and cinnamon and fresh-cut grass. “Help?” My voice carried in thin, open air. I couldn’t ignore the evidence any longer. I wasn’t in the attic.
I moaned and clung to the beam that felt like a tree trunk. I couldn’t be too far from home. Maybe the nature reserve near our house? Someone would find me eventually. With the decision to hold on and wait for help, the rushing pulse of my heartbeat steadied.
A snuffling noise to my left threw my heart into a gallop again. Wolf? Coyote? Bobcat? Whatever outdoor wilderness I’d found myself in, did it hold predators? I couldn’t just stand here, blind, disoriented, waiting to be attacked. A gravelly growl to my right raised the hairs on my neck. I pushed off from the trunk and moved away from the sounds. The uneven ground underfoot further convinced me that I was outside somewhere. For hours I stumbled aimlessly, in total blackness, terrified that the world had disappeared and I was completely and forever alone. Each time I’d sink to the ground to rest, some strange sound would propel me forward again. 
 After what seemed like years, my straining eyes caught the contour of hills. Was my vision returning? A few minutes later, I stared at the sky and realized dawn was breaking. I wasn’t blind. I’d just been stumbling around in the night—but a night like I’d never seen before. No moon or stars, no distant city lights.
With the relief of being able to see, a hint of wonder swelled under my ribs. A smooth, rolling, gray-green golf course stretched out from the clump of trees. In the distance, tall white towers rose above a strange curvy wall with a gray, featureless sky overhead. I choked back a laugh. It looked just like a scene from one of my video games. I glanced up nervously, expecting some animated dragon to swoop toward me. 
Man, oh, man. Back when I had chemo, they’d warned me of some strange side effects, but could hallucinations show up all these years later? Where was I? And more importantly, what was I supposed to do next?
After swallowing hard, I coaxed my lungs to work again. I took a few more steps, cautiously testing a small circle of earth around me. Would lava creatures burst through the nearby rocks and attack? If I stepped in the wrong place, would quicksand swallow me into the ground? 
I was thinking like a video game again. My gaze trailed to the city in the distance. If this were a video game, the logical next step would be to head toward the city, collecting coins and tokens to boost my score. Unfortunately, I didn’t see either. But if I stood near the empty grove much longer, I’d probably grow roots and turn into one of the weird twisty-trunked trees. Gingerly testing each step, I finally decided the odd, mossy ground would remain firm, so I broke into a jog toward the city. I only hoped this hallucination didn’t mean the cancer was back, or that it had spread to my brain.
—
The rest of Jake’s adventure is found in The Restorer’s Son. 
Blessings!


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Sneak Peek – The Deliverer

The Deliverer
One morning a melody woke me, drifting in from the sliver of window above my head. A long-whistle trilled and skipped through a playful chorus. My soul rose up in answer.

There was a time,

A time rich with days,

Before sad and lonely songs were sung.

There was a day,

A day rich with time,

Before men fought and beetles stung
—Linette in The Deliverer by Sharon Hinck


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