I'm not sure that I've talked about it much, but I majored in creative writing in college. And graduated cum laude, with honors, thankyouverymuch.
But when I graduated, I (and probably most of the people who knew me) wondered what the heck I was going to do with a liberal arts degree in that subject. I thought I wasn't likely very good, so what was the point in trying to write, right? So I pushed writing to the side and tried to pursue more practical avenues.
Except here I am, lots more years later than I feel comfortable with, writing. Trying to make a career of it. Finding myself more and more on the page -- of my own words, and of others'. It's kind of awesome. Writing is in my blood. I couldn't get rid of it, even when I tried.
And this week, I made a discovery that is so exciting to me -- I found one of the short stories I wrote during my college days.
You see, I made zero effort to hang onto any of the things I wrote before 2005. I thought it didn't matter.
Until it did, until I came back to writing again and again. Until I wished that I'd saved some things.
. Accidentally saved, but saved nonetheless. It is my favorite piece of writing from the work I did in college. Safe.
Whew.
SO, all that to say . . . I love this short story, and I've published it for Kindle. It's usually $0.99 (because Amazon won't let me make it perpetually free), but
. It's a funny story about the resurrection of Lazarus, and I'd love love love for you to check it out. Here's a peek (you can also download this same preview on Goodreads,
I always thought that when you died, that
was the end, fine,
do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred didrachmas. I was wrong.
I'm not talking about the afterlife,
either. I've learned -- from very reliable sources, I might add –
that there is something
after we all die, but that's not the issue. The issue is that I
always figured that once you die, that's it. One minute you're here,
the next you're not. What the "next" part is, I was not
sure, but I had always been positive that you die only once. However
horrible or painful it may be, it's a one-time-only deal.
When I lay dying -- of leprosy, which is
rather unpleasant -- I felt a bit apprehensive about the actual
moment of passing over. My sisters, Mary and Martha, had assured me
that I'd go to Heaven once the Savior did his work and all that, but
that wasn't what I was worried about. I was most concerned with the
physical act of dying. I'd think about getting to Heaven once I was
on the other side.
So, after months of lying in
excruciating pain, my skin slowly being eaten away, the leprosy
finally won, and I died. The sickness had torn into me with an
alarming appetite, until it was difficult to breathe or even blink.
When I died, my last breath was a long awaited sigh of relief.
I don't remember much from after my
death, it's all become very dim and gray now. One thing I do recall,
though, is how comfortable it was. I didn't care about anything or
anybody. I didn’t even care about myself. It was like sleeping in
the softest feather bed in the world, or taking the longest, most
luxurious bubble bath without the water ever getting cold. Fears and
doubts and notions about my own well-being faded away. There was no
need for worry, everything was clearly under seamless management.
From time to time, hazy figures would pass through my view, as if I
saw them through a fog, but I didn't pay them any attention. I was
warm and cozy, and couldn't feel a thing beyond that. It was quite
lovely.
A slow and lazy distress bubbled up
within me when one of the figures became distinct from the hazy
background. It took me a few moments to even understand or recognize
this new development, and when I did, I heard a vaguely familiar
musical voice.
"Lazarus," it said, "come
out!"
Come out? In my benumbed and blissful
state, I could barely comprehend the words, or that they were words
at all, much less consider obeying them. Next thing I knew, there
came a rushing sound, and I could feel a pall wind blowing through my
idyllic comfort, sending goose bumps down the arms and chest that I
had nearly forgotten were a part of me. It stopped, and I found
myself lying in a dark place. Dark, but not the previous comfortable
darkness of my limbo state. This felt cold and unwelcoming. I
shivered.
I remained as I was for a few minutes,
hoping to pass back into my earlier oblivion. I thought that if I
ignored it all, perhaps the new developments would fade away like the
trailing end of a storm. Unfortunately, I only became more aware
that I was lying on something hard and cold. My spine began to throb
against the unyielding surface beneath me as a damp chill began to
seep through my skin.
I sat up, feeling rough cloth scratch
against my raw flesh. I couldn't see anything, as if I was
blindfolded. With stiff arms, I reached up and patted my face.
Something was covering it. I tried to pull it away, but it was
wrapped around my head. Slowly, joints cracking in dismay, I found
an end of the cloth tucked behind my ear and unwound it.
I was sitting on a ledge in a small
cave. The ceiling was low and pebbled, but the walls were smooth for
the most part. My sore eyes stared at the dry reeds covering the
sandy floor, at the perfume bottle resting next to the ledge, at the
dirty swatch of linen draped across my hands. Investigating further,
I found that my entire body was enveloped in linen that smelled
vaguely of decay. Something in my mind began to tick, trying to work
out what these things meant, as my heart starting beating faster,
thumping against my ribs. This place seemed uncomfortably familiar.
It came to me. I had been in a place
like this before. When my parents' last child was born dead, they
had wrapped him in cloth and laid him in a small cave near the
grazing fields where I used to take our sheep herd to feed. A cave
like the one I was in.
A man cleared his throat behind me. I
jerked my head around, muscles beginning to warm into a reality of
dull and pulsing aches.
"Jesus!" I yelped, heart
beating too fast. He stood in the large crack that was the entrance
to the cave, eyebrow crooked.
"Come on,"
Jesus hissed. "You're screwing up my miracle."