Decided to weed through stories posted under my old name . . . concluded that this was in need of correction. I'm in the process of transferring stories onto my new account, so those who have been here awhile may see quite a few reposts. Sorry.

"He committed no sin, and no deceit was found in his mouth. "When they hurled their insults at him, he did not retaliate; when he suffered, he made no threats. Instead, he entrusted Himself to Him who judges justly. He himself bore our sins in His body on the tree, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; by his wounds you have been healed. For you were like sheep going astray, but now you have returned to the Shepherd and Overseer of your souls." 1 Peter 2:22-25

"Then Jesus told them this parable: "Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Does he not leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, 'Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep" Luke 15: 2-6

Prodigal

A shrill voice could be perceived screeching from several blocks across the muggy desert town, followed ever so adjacently by the shattering resonance from an indefinite origin. The dim streets displayed little signs of life. Every now and then, a paper bag would tumble maladroitly across the broken asphalt, or an empty soda-can would careen down the sloping streets into a pothole, but little else exhibited any evidence of vitality.

The echoing palpitations of a door pounding shut imbued the muted blocks of crumbling houses. A few house wives peered through their windows and snarled at the disturbance before pulling dusty blinds across the sooty glass, impeding any view into their lives.The fading light cast the abandoned streets in an equally abandoned red glow, and the decaying willow trees spread their shadows over the broken sidewalks overgrown with drab weeds and rotted grass. Their hoary limbs manipulated themselves into darkened claws, reaching out to all who may tread too close to their tempting presence. The melancholy caws of crows scavenging the open and tipped garbage cans that lined the streets reverberated throughout the hollow alleys. None noticed the lone figure seep from the broken house, cloaked in a heavy sweatshirt that was pulled over her face. None desired to tread beyond the thin red line of their sheltered existence.

She walked briskly down the sidewalk, careful to not trip on the uneven concrete slabs. Her steps rumbled as the thunder against the empty silence, the silence that had filled her life for years. A flock of crows cocked their heads as she passed by them, twisting around and stepping over the spoiling slop they were picking insistently upon, as if hoping to rescue it from its mundane existence. So much like those in the ancient steeple palace! Dark brown eyes met bright orange with flecks of gold for a brief moment before they disappeared in a mass of feathers, leaving only three raven fluffs and their distant saddened cries of familiar recognition. She scrutinized as the broken and battered feathers fell to the ground and were swept away down the sidewalk by the wind. They scattered and were lost among the rotting garbage.

That is, all but one, which was caught in the leaves of a solo white lily, jutting helplessly from between the jagged tear in the cement. It cradled the delicate object in its petals, rocking the lone feather, daring not to let it flutter away. She stared after the black creatures as they cawed long into the setting twilight sky, wishing she too could fly away. If only she were born with wings . . .

She stumbled on, drunkenly, her destination uncertain, her future torn, and her path broken.

The stench of corroding homes flooded her nostrils, but it bothered her not. It was an all too familiar scent. A slight movement caught her eye as she paced down the street. A young woman stood glaring out the window at this solo figure. She stopped her steps and gazed at the woman in the slightly dilapidated house. The yard, however, was finely kempt, with mowed green grass, red roses lining the walls, and a pine tree standing erect in the center of the rose garden, an odd contrast to the brown structure behind it. The woman was an image of utter perfection. Black hair was pulled up into a neat bun, olive skin was dusted with freckles, and a canary yellow apron was tide about her slender waist. The girl thought of Aphrodite and other temple goddesses until the woman's pupils met her own. They were as cold as a frigid winter, and she turned her head up at the hooded figure, pulled the rosy curtains over the glass panes, and stepped back into her facade.

Who can tell how long she walked?

Some could reason it to be an hour, and others, no more than twenty minutes. But she maintained her steady pace. She never stopped; she dared not to slow her movements.

The houses soon revolutionized from broken slabs of wood to finely painted palaces of vivid tones. Streets were evenly paved in an acheronian hue. The twilight sky cast looming shadows over her steps. Children played merrily in the yard, lost in a fantasy game, but each stopped to gaze wonderingly at the lonely girl wandering aimlessly down the sidewalk.In the yard beside her, children danced in a lurid circle. She listened as they chanted.

"Rain, rain, go away. Come again another day."

But, there was no rain. There was only the cracked pavement and blistered earthen floor. Why are they singing such lies? Stop . . . Their high pitch chanting grew with each verse.

"Rain, rain, go away. Come again another day."

How she wished that storm clouds would gather together as an assailing army upon the land. Perhaps, when the storm clouds opened their wombs and poured their fragrant liquid upon her, her flesh would cease to burn. She shivered despite the heat as the singing grew louder in range. Oh, please, stop . . . Her hands cupped her ears and her eyes strained shut.

"Rain, rain, go away. Come again another day."

"Rain, rain . . ."

Their choruses ceased, and when she glanced up, all eyes of the children pierced into her own. They stood rigid, watching her with the uttermost interest and intensity. Boys with freckles and black hair. Girls with red fire for locks and ribbons of blue. All watched her as they still held the hands of one another.

A petite girl of no more than five slowly toddled up to her, a quizzical look upon her pouty lips. She stopped for a moment and managed a small, bitter grin as she gazed down at the curly blonde haired child.

So innocent . . .

How long before she too would be taken by reality? Would the world claim her? She reached a pale hand out to touch the child's cheek, but the girl pulled back at the icy, clammy touch. The babe recoiled, terror etched within her pupils, and darted away, never noticing the tear as it dripped from one dark eye before it was swiped away by the ratty sleeve of a jacket. As darkness fell the children disappeared, the laughter and songs faded, and she was left to wander the blackened streets. Alone.

What is she searching for?

None can say.

She marched and she marched, occasionally staggering upon eroded tree roots. The wind scraped angrily at her bruised face and she shuddered violently from its biting numbness. The branches of the willows leered upon the trespasser and screeched as they stretched to snatch her, cutting her cheeks and tearing her sleeves. Crimson liquid oozed from her wounds and trickled down her pale face, a lasting reminder of her eternal scars. She shed no tears. She felt no pain. For how could that which does not exist feel? And how can that which does not feel, cry?

She passed a hunched figure mumbling to himself, holding a soiled paper bag in one outstretched hand, exposing the multiple lacerations on his thin arm. Purples, greens, and blues swirled down his arms. His eyes flashed up to hers and she stumbled back, her mind flipping the pages filled with photos of smiling faces and names in alphabetical order. She drooped her head and passed him by, leaving the figure to quiver and speak to whatever demons he had created.

A field.

It too was forgotten. In the middle of the ornate mansions and splendid gardens, behind the willows and across the farthest street, guarded by abandoned buildings once used as a schoolhouse, hidden from view by a rusted chain-linked fence, there rested in a somber silence, a single lot of overgrown weeds and clotted dirt. Each plant was withered and grey, for the sunlight was not allowed to filter into the gloomy clefts. Her morbid form extruded between the minor crack in the fence and she shifted her way through the barbed burrs towards the farthest end of the lot. Dried blood crested her cheeks and a ghastly green hue, swirled with purple, dotted her cheekbones. The clouded beams of moonlight struck her form as she disappeared through the thicket and into the decapitated brick building that had long been dead. None noticed, save for a single crow that perched idly upon the rusty fence before disappearing into the burning sky.

The halls resounded with the chatter of adolescents. Beings of various shades and dimensions blurred into a single massive volume. The tiles shimmered and the walls smelled of fresh paint as she walked down the corridors. Girls of unparalleled beauty touched up their dainty faces in locker mirrors as jocks whooped and hollered as they tossed a leather ball from one teammate to another. Not a single eye looked upon the girl as she made her appearance down the halls, and not a single head turned as she was tossed as a rag into the side lockers, her eyebrow splitting, resulting in a cascade of more scarlet fluid. She rested her cheek upon the metal, her eyelashes caressing her cheekbone lightly in a feathery manner.

Can she feel its coolness?

She wished she could, just once more.

She longed to feel the refreshing chill of metal against her burning skin. She could sense the proverbial heat rise and no matter how wildly she clawed at the moth eaten sweatshirt, it refused to loosen its grip over her shallow figure. She closed her eyes for a split moment.

What does she see? Does she perceive colors?

But her pupils revealed no bright tones to her. No fond pictures flashed before her mind. She simply searched through an endless maze of black hedges, and when she opened her eyes, she was alone in a paint stripped, tile-torn, barren hall.

She is abandoned.

Where does she wander? What is she searching for?

She thought she knew. But she forgot a long while ago. Her reason for searching passed away with her reason for life, her reason for remembrance, and her reason for existence. She reached for a doorknob at the end of the hall, ignoring the long groan it muttered as it yielded to her fingers. She crawled into the oblivion. Into the most caliginous corner she pitifully dragged her body and cowered, her sobs filling the forsaken room.

Here she lays, upon a forsaken floor.

Ruby eyes peer down at her and malicious smirks of yellow decaying teeth grin to each other, feeding off of each pang of sorrow and drinking in every tear. Acute nails stroke her head and she shudders as they caress her cheek. A raspy voice hisses from the darkness, "You are mine."

Cackles fill her ears, burrowing deep into her ear drums, and she wails as nails are grated down the walls. Darkness covers her sights and her flesh prickles as the flames travel up her arm, stretching over her flesh and crawling down her back. The shrieks grow deafening, only to be matched with the cackles of the camouflaged beasts. An army of hands stretch from the darkness to stroke her body, wrapping their limbs about her as a vine. Curved and newly sharpened green and saffron nails carve her skin and tear at her clothes and flesh.

"You're ours," they growl into her ear as her body begins to cease its protest.

Shrouded in robes of crimson and raven velvet, a lone figure steps from the darkness, flanked on each side by his legion of the fallen, his horde of minions, and throng of the damned. He looms over her quaking body as a lion ready to devour its prey. His dragon head swoops down to her face and a single claw scoops her chin and twists her face to meet his own revolting, yet strikingly attractive image. Calloused hands trace the outline of her face and a contemptible grin spreads over the Father of Lie's lips. "You're worthless little one. None care about you, not Him," he thrusts his charred hand into the air, "not the world. Only me. He was not there for you, but I was. Where was He when you cried into your pillow? Where was He when your father left you and your mother? When your mother turned to a bottle for comfort? He was never there for you, but I was my precious girl. I was there for everything!" He circles her small form over and over, spewing his poison into her mind. His eyes slant in a grotesque, animalistic form, and his tongue spews out of his mouth, forked and black.

Stealthily he places a tapering object into her palm, the blade shining in the thick red glow. He spills visions before her eyes, moments when she felt the most agony, and as a prosecutor, he presents the evidence against Him. "He left you. But I saw you cry. Weep! Wail! So pathetic! I know your secrets. You cannot escape me; I am everywhere you go! A wolf does not lose scent of a wounded lamb." Pursing his sharp lips he reaches his hand and opens his fingers before her eyes.

Colors whirl together before settling to form the image of the lovely woman in the window. Her eyes widen and a tear slides down her damp cheek as the picture evaporates to one of a beaten creature lying on the ground of her tidy house, a red stain permeating her shirt whilst a thick bellied man dozed in a chair. "Where was God for her? He left her just as He left you. Come to me!" Growls form low in his throat and his band of thieves recoil into the comfort of the dimness. The image transforms to reveal a lonely figure, mumbling to phantoms that only he sees upon the street corner, holding a now empty brown bag. The Tempter leers intently at her face and draws himself to full height.

"He sat beside you in class. I know." A triumphant smirk tugs at his lips. "It's amazing what skeletons are hiding in the closets. Do you think He will save them?" An old graveyard appears, and in the center rests a rusted concrete headstone, overgrown in weeds and vines with the familiar photo and alphabetical name etched into the stone. The smoke twirls once more to the murmuring boy. She trembles and gasps as his eyes stare into hers, his mouth moving without words. She reaches her hand to touch his face, but it drowns beneath the torrents. "And what of that little girl? Hmm?" The angelic child appears, dancing and twirling in the same circle of fantasy.

"Surely you do not think she would remain untainted forever. Stupid girl! Her time will come soon. But not now. No, now it's time for you to come." Perverse chortles and hallow laughter thicken the atmosphere around her. Thin arms covered with little flesh wrap themselves about her body, scraping and lashing against her skin. Her sobs haunt the oblivion around her and the Prince of Darkness laughs haughtily at her agony.

She pulls the blade closer to her own flesh.

"You are mine," he spits and extends his withered arm to touch her temple, but recoils back with a rancor hiss.

He lunges towards her body, screeching, ready to tear and ravage it apart to get to the soul, but before he can extend a claw to mar her flesh, he is met with an unseen barrier and howls in bitter displeasure. His demons fall from her body and gasp in pain and torment. They drunkenly writhe upon the frosty tiles, their shrieks begging their lord for release.

"Impossible! She is mine," he shouts. "You can't have her. She is mine! I own her soul." The girl peers from beneath the hood of the ratty shirt, the blade falling to the floor in a shallow clatter as she lies watching as a small fragment glimmers as it floats towards the floor. A small white petal falls from the sackcloth tarp and nestles against her trembling hand. "She belongs to Me," a voice whispers.

Beelzebub trembles in malice and spite; a rattling sound forms from deep within his empty chest cavity. "She will fall, and then she will be mine. You cannot hold her forever! I will have her soul!" He draws down his shaking arms and glowers down at the figure of the girl intently watching him. "They are weak. You will see. They believe my lies. One does not matter, for I have so many in my hands who will never even turn their heads at Your name. They are my puppets, naught but kindling for my fire. I dispose of them once they become useless, for they are less than garbage to my purposes. What does this worthless mass of flesh matter to me? I will have others! And You will not win," he screeches, venom dripping from his mouth of fangs as he vanishes into the darkness with his battalion flanking him and cloak of sin swirling and wrapping around his form.

"You will never take this one," a voice whispers as light floods the room in a blinding array.

An old church stands at the corner of the town, boarded up and ignored. In the center of its dusty floors lies the delicate figure of the girl. Her mouth turns into a frown and she mumbles incoherent words before her eyes lift in slits, and rubbing her temples, she scrutinizes her surroundings.

"I know this place," she whispers for the first time as she pushes herself from the creaking floorboards. Gazing about the sanctuary, her eyes fall and rest upon a statue erected down the long rows of pews that were once filled with guests, but now have become the home of cobwebs and spiders. Walking towards the richly carved statue, highlighted by the crisp moonlight, she ignores the groans of the floorboards and gasps as a flock of startled doves flutter amongst the rafters. Reaching the statue, she studies it, every crevice, every scratch, and every wound. 'Tis an ornately sculpted statue of a man she once knew years before. His eyes gaze pleadingly to the sky and his mouth hangs agape, contorted in agony. Large spikes hold Him to the wooden beams. A tiny tear trickles down her cheek and she angrily wipes it away with her dirtied sleeve.

A voice soothes into her ear, "Please, hear My words and heed to them well."

Her eyes narrow and she whispers passionately, "Go bother someone else"

"Come, follow and walk in the path I have cleared for you," He pleads.

"Why bother?"

"You are only harming yourself. It hurts Me to see you cry."

Vehemently she spits," Shut up!"

"I know he has hurt you, and filled your heart with lies. Such pain . . . so vulnerable . . . he crouches in wait to steal your soul. Come with me dear one."

"Go away! I don't need You! I don't need anyone," she sobs, leaning her head against the statue, embracing it and holding it against her bosom. Memories of lonely nights flood her thoughts, and she cries for how lost she feels, for she has wandered so far from the path. A strong hand perches comfortingly on her shoulder and His voice whispers, "I gave my life for you. I suffered for you. Every lash and scar upon My body was for you."

"How come?" she chokes.

"Because I love you. You are my lamb," He speaks, His voice filled with honey.

"Why?" she questions, closing her eyes.

The man chuckles in airy tones and places both hands upon her shoulders. "Because dear child . . . I created you."

She turns her body and stares into the young and wise face of a man, yet He is not a stranger. Dark skin is framed by even darker hair, and His eyes hold the secrets of time, mirroring her reflection. However, the reflection is not of her face, but of her soul, scorchedby cruel words and chained to wrath, distrust, and depression.Reaching the hand of a carpenter to her cheek, He brushes the tears from her eyes and smiles at her. "Will you come back to Me, My lamb? I have searched for you for so very long. Since the hour the veil was torn, I have sought you" His eyes hold the same plea as the statue as He peers right into her eyes, searching every corner of her heart.

"It's too late," she gasps. His brow wrinkles and He grins. "No, it is never too late for my sheep to return to My Father and I." Her brows knit together, and she hisses, "Why did you leave me? Why did you let me go!"

The man sits upon the pew and gazes at the statue, His eyes lingering upon the nails, and He fingers His own wrists. "I allow you to wander so that you may find your way back, and should you become lost, I begin my search." He touches the jagged scars that decorate His head.

"Because of these scars, I have been sealed as your Shepherd. They leave Me not; I continue to bear them every day. You have been bound to me, for I saw you so many years ago. I have watched as you and so many run farther and farther from Me, and I never lift my gaze from you."

She murmurs, "Free-will."

"It is not only your blessing little one, but your curse. It leaves you vulnerable before the great lion should you stray from my gaze," He bobs his head, "I do not know what it is you seek, but I cannot prevent you from wandering to find whatever it is you search so fervently for. However, I never stop searching for you and will always sit and wait for you to come back to Me, for I always hope that you and so many others will one day call to Me just once again, so that I may finally find you. So that I may at last write your name in my Book. Come my child, come back home. Believe in Me just once more."

He reaches out His hand, exposing the deep and tattered holes, still bruised, in both of His wrists. Hesitantly she places her slender fingers into His palm and He grips her hand with the force of a Father holding His daughter', a grip that none can tear. She flings her body and wraps her arms around Him as He promises into her ear, "I knew you would come back. I will not let you go. None can tear you out of My grasp. In the darkest of times I will be right beside you, for many dark moments await you. Do not fret My lamb, for your Shepherd is always watching . . ."

The old church is still and quiet.

She kneels in the center of the aisle, a content and peaceful smile spread across her face as she unfolds her hands and opens her eyes. She rises. Turning from the statue, she pauses as she spots a single white lily on the floor. Scooping it up, she inhales its sweet aroma and savors its perfume. She tugs at the binding burden, her eyes widening as it releases her arms. Pulling the heavy sweatshirt from her body, she flings it to the floor before the alter. She touches the stone statue, allowing the smoothness to kiss her palm once more before placing the white lily beside the tattered shirt. "Thank you," she whispers. Gracefully, she paces down the aisle towards the giant church door, and flinging the door open, she is met with the early notes of the songbirds.

Spreading her arms open wide, she twirls in blissful rapture, laughing as the first drops of the cooling rain touch her forehead, and she bathes in the warmth of the rays of the new dawn as it peaks from behind the cloudy horizon, sending an arch of eternal promise across the parched earth.