Soul Music (With "The Rough Little Bear")

So for the last few weeks or so, I've been on a serious Pat Green/Fall Out Boy/Tally Hall/Reckless Kelly/Ron Jonsons kick as far as music goes. Pat Green and Reckless are my "soul" music, so to speak. The rest is just good stuff. I just can't help it. There's something about those less-famous Country guys that touch my soul. It's definitely my chill music. I don't know how important or relevant that is, but I really wanted to share that.
I've been done with school for about two weeks now. As of about 4:30pm yesterday (Monday), it will have been EXACTLY two weeks. It's nice to be done. It's really nice to be home and spending time with family, but I still miss the school friends. To go from seeing the same crew of guys every day for at least two hours a day, it seemed, to seeing them...never...is a pretty big shock to the system. It would be an understatement to say that I miss the heck out of those folks from Athens (Okay, so they're really from Covington/Treutlen/Cherokee/etc., but I only see them in Athens).
In about a week, I'll be starting my third summer at the church. I really am excited to see what God has planned for that ministry. My personal goal for this summer is to constantly view my "job" as a ministry, and not a job. Because that's what it is. It is ministry work that I happen to get paid for.
Okay. So now I'm just procrastinating. The reason I'm posting tonight (this morning) is because I've got a few things I really want to post, and since I only go one at a time, I figure I might want to get cracking on them. Here is the first half, or so, of a short story entitled, "The Rough Little Bear." Story goes, I was out one night on my way to Blockbuster in Dacula. I drove through that pseudo-subdivision near Hebron and found a torn up little teddy bear in the road. I couldn't just leave it there, so I picked it up and threw it in the back of my car. While I was out that night, I started thinking about that bear and what "his story" was. That led me to write this story, and I have to tell you that it really is one of my favorites. I am probably most proud of this one and "The Miracle" (previously posted) and none others come close. I apologize for any typos, as I was recently editing it on paper, but I do not have that paper on me right now. So, I can't really edit it before this posting. Hopefully I can go back and edit it soon, but I really want to go ahead and post this.
Now, this is a very long story (for a short story, at least), so I apologize already for the extra length. I assure you that it is worth it, and is a good piece of fiction. I hope you enjoy it, for lack of a better word (you'll see what I mean) and, as always, please tell me what you think:

"The Rough Little Bear"

The attic was especially dark today. Clouds blanketed the usually clear sky and warned of coming rain. However, the little girl didn’t care. She ran around playfully picking up different things like clothes and hats and occasionally trying them on. The little girl’s mother watched on in joy as her precious delighted in all that this monument to the past had to offer.
Among the hats and the clothes, the old games and the old pictures, the little girl saw something that seemed out of place, or haphazardly hidden at best. Under piles of rubbish and old mementos, sat a wooden chest with marks of age and gold metal brackets around it. The little girl moved her paws over the rounded top of this wooden box to the rusty clasps that held it forcibly shut. Yet with surprising ease, the little girl creaked open the lock and revealed a hidden world. There were papers and clippings that meant nothing to the girl, but one thing stood out to her immediately. It was a bear.
She gingerly handled the bear. Its appearance gave off the idea that it had seen better days. This rugged bear was missing a leg, a wound restitched to keep the fluffing and stuffing within, and had many soft spots in the fur where his beading was visible. The delight from such frivolities as hats and dresses disappeared and failed to exist in this little girl’s world from that moment on. She fell in love with this gentle beast. She saw him as a child, or a friend. She saw in him the rainy picnic you would have with a brother who didn’t want you to cry because your heart was set on it, and no rain or wind was going to end your dream. She felt that he was the kind of friend who would drink invisible tea from a little pink cup, even though he knew that for a little boy to touch pink was near fatal. This little girl had a new friend.
“Mamma, Mamma!” the girl shouted. “Come look what I found! Isn’t he beautiful?”
The little girl swore she heard her mamma utter something, but was too uninterested to hear it. She was still bewildered by the beauty of her bear.
“Yes, he is. He is very beautiful. Where did you find him?” the mother asked quite knowingly.
“He was in this treasure box over here. I think pirates must have put him up here. He probably got injured in a fight and they wanted him to go rest until he was ready again.” Her mother gave a soft laugh at the notion of pirate teddy. “Where did he come from?”
“Well, what else was in the chest?” Her mother asked in the expected maternal tone, but with a little different worry in it. A worry that, though inherent in the nature of a mother, explores the worst of possibilities a thousand times in a matter of seconds.
“I don’t know. I saw the bear and that was it. Maybe I should go back and look and see! I’ll bet the pirates left him with some treasure to spend in case he got hungry!” She was almost there when the mother stopped her.
“Oh, no. It’s fine. I’ll tell you his story. It’s a really fun one, and you know what? It involves you!” Mother gave a relieved sigh when her daughter turned around and glowed at this latest update.
“Really! I’m in it! Oh! Please tell me! Please! Please! PLEEEEEEASE!” She was excited, to say the least.
“Alright, but you’ll have to sit over here on my lap, okay? Now, it was all right before you were born.”
* * *
A man in his middle thirties drove piously down the highway. He had a church bulletin announcing the latest charitable effort. The local police department and battered women’s shelter were in need of stuffed animals for children who have to ride in the back of police cars so they feel more comfortable, as well as the children down at the shelter. He couldn’t realize how riding in the back of a squad car was so hard for a child to endure. Never mind the fact that they are already dealing with situations years beyond their own understandings.
So, as to help out with this lackluster cause, he threw a stuffed bear in the car on his way to church. There sat a decaying, musty old bear his youngest daughter had most recently let slip into the dog’s pen outside. Since she didn’t want to go get it, and her father didn’t care enough to know, it spent weeks soaking in the rain, the slobber, and the mud. As well, the dog occasionally relieved his daily stresses by shaking the pitiless thing until he was missing a leg, and nearly an arm. The leg was once ingested, and nobody wanted to get it back.
So, to teach his daughter about responsibility and taking care of her toys, he took that bear and told her he was going to give it away to the church. She protested and screamed up and down the kitchen table over her cheerios. Nonetheless, he took it with him.
So, he walked into the church and discreetly placed her bear in the box of toys, then made his way to the pulpit where he planned to deliver his weekly sermon, all while thinking about what kind of bear to buy his little girl that afternoon from the store.

* * *
“My oh my. This is ugly! Come look at this one, Mary.”
“Oh, child, that is awful! We can’t give this to nobody! Throw that one out.”
“Aww, but we don’t have enough this time. We gotta give it to’em.”
“Well at least stitch up that arm, child. It ain’t gone last a day in some kid’s hands like that!”
“Aw you know I don’t have time to do that. We’ll just have to hope a gentle kid gets this one.”
The two women stood over the ugly bear trying to figure out what to do with him. They were in serious need of bears for children, but not enough of the Lord’s people felt it necessary to give to them. With this impending toy drought, the women had no choice but give this bear to someone. So, it went in the pile of toys to be delivered to the battered women’s shelter.
The Saint’s Shelter had been run by gifts and donations by local churches for the last half-century. In other words, it was run down and badly in need of remodeling and resupplying. As Virginia was rolled in, it was plain to her that this place was a hospital by the stark colors on the walls, the colored tabs above the doors, and the central location of desks in every block of rooms. She did find it odd, however, that there were no sounds. She had spent the last few weeks of her life in a county hospital, so Virginia was used to the noises involved in such places: the beeping, the radios and intercoms, the mourning family members, the crying babies, the whining children, and even the occasionally running orderly. Though one might expect her to be happier in this quieter setting, it broke her heart down inside. This place had an empty feel, as if nothing or no one were even there. Such an empty and barren place must be forgettable, she felt, as she must be to appear there herself. This truly was an empty shrine.
Though the silence screamed poor hospital, the room made her feel like she were in a day spa. A shoddy one, perhaps, but certainly not a hospital. Virginia was comforted the least bit by this, but still chose not to open herself to the place just yet. As Virginia sat silently by her bed, the attendants brought her stuff in. In the mad rush, it seemed they were only able to grab some of her more obvious things that were sitting out. They grabbed her cleanest laundry, unfortunately it was all from the cold weather season that had just ended. They grabbed her hygienic supplies which had been sitting out half empty ever since she decided to go with all new brands about a year ago, which she kept in a drawer under the sink. The attendants also managed to grab a sewing kit she happened to remove from a forgotten drawer the last night she was home. None of her objects mattered to her at all. They were just one more distraction and one more reason to leave this place she was bound to stay for an undisclosed time.
Virginia lay in bed for days on end. The sunlight would bounce through the blinds and off her skin onto the walls beyond. She neither cared to dress nor crawl under the sheets. Though she had an hourly watchmen come by, although given that it was a battered women’s shelter, this was always a woman, after a while they just opened the door, said her name, and waited for some sort of recognizing grunt. Virginia wanted nothing to do with these people. She wanted simply to be left alone.
It had been days since her admittance to the place, and no one had seen Virginia move aside from crawling into bed on the first. People assumed she must be drinking water, because she had lasted long past the assumed threshold she could survive without, but it was plain to see she had not eaten since her first incarceration at the County General. After a week and a half, the usual check came and went without an utterance from Virginia. The orderly looked in and, terrified at the possibilities she assumed, shook Virginia excitedly. Rousing the woman from sleep was perhaps the worst decision possible, as this lead to a severe state of shock that, without nourishment, nearly ended her stay at the Saint’s Shelter.
It seems that the lack of food had sent her into a deep, near comatose state of being. After another week under medical watch, and a new plan of forced eating, it was decided that Virginia wear a heart monitor. At all times, someone could check a screen and see how sweet Virginia was doing. After a few nights of monitoring, it became apparent that not all was well with her. The first night, her pulse peaked at well above the expected maximum. The whole nursing staff ran to her room and found Virginia silently, but with a shock of terror on her face, sprawling and shaking on the now sheetless bed. This pattern continued every night, as she relived some untold torture.
The staff began to distance themselves from Virginia, acting as if she were an incurably diseased woman, doomed to die in room 212 of the shelter. Aside from the mandatory health checks and forced feedings, she had no contact with outsiders until a local church delivered boxes of stuffed animals for the children at Saint’s Shelter. Though there were no children on Virginia’s floor, the cart of boxes rolled past her room at least three times a day so the volunteer in charge could eat lunch with her cousin in the offices, and then again for the inevitable bathroom break in the faculty toilets. This was the only time Virginia’s interest peaked outside of herself and her room surrounding.
Day after day, the children would pick off one from the stack. Each child could have a pick at one bear when they brought back a book and read it in full, no help, to the lovely woman who pushed the cart. After a time, each child received a bear. One little boy was especially darling as he read a book about all these types of fish. He had trouble with their names, and the names of many surrounding lakes where they could be found, so she pitied the boy and gave him a bear anyway.
It seemed that not every child would get a bear, until enough donations staggered in to supply the whole corp. of children plus one. See, no matter how sparse the selection became, no child wanted the bear with a missing leg. He just laid in a box at the bottom of her cart, waiting for some special child with forgiving eyes to claim this broken toy.
The staff at Saint’s Shelter was a rotating crowd, depending on days of the week, month, the college students’ class schedules, the volunteer rotations, and church holiday season. However, this one woman who worked the desk, known by most as Charlotte, was a constancy in the fluctuating home. Charlotte, a large black woman with a voice of honey and a heart the size of Lake Hartwell, never seemed to leave Saint’s Shelter. Charlotte’s sister had been beaten to death by her husband not long after his return from Vietnam. Ever since then, she felt a spiritual need to be at the side of those women who were fortunate enough to survive such horrific encounters.
Well, Charlotte had begun to take notice of Virginia after the girl’s first month in the place. This was no discredit to Charlotte it took so long, because Virginia’s antisocial nature made it hard for any but the direct orderly working with her and the uninterested house nurses to notice her. One day, Charlotte ventured in to the girl’s room. There she was, curled up inside her bed. The broken child laying there, a woman in body, paid no attention to this new interruption. Charlotte, however, was equally broken to watch this scene unfold, though nothing happened while she stood there. She then realized that, perhaps, just maybe, something may indeed help the poor girl.
The next time Charlotte saw the cart girl go past Virginia’s room, she also happened to notice the pulse in Virginia’s monitor to increase. Taking a cue that should have been noticed days before by the regular nurses, Charlotte stopped the volunteer. The two then walked softly into Virginia’s room. Strangely, the girl took notice of these two women moving towards her. Then, when she saw the contents of one of the boxes, Virginia showed more life in that one moment by performing an act unheard of from room 212 since her arrival. She sat up by her own will. Sweet Virginia reached out and took from the lowest box, the one that had sat longest and loneliest on the cart. This battered and bruised box held a little, rugged teddy missing his left leg. Something about this delightful animal gripped Virginia. She had to have him. Virginia was speechless for the next ten minutes as the women stood there, smiling to see her finally show emotion. Finally, she managed to eek out a recognizable thank you from an unused and unstretched pair of vocal cords. Charlotte and her friend just smiled back, and slowly walked out the door. They knew enough had been done for the day. Virginia sat and stared at that bear for the next three hours, until she passed out in her bed from over exertion.
Quite some time went by, and sweet Virginia spent every minute of it with her bear. She stopped ignoring the orderly altogether, sometimes going so far as to leak a smile. The girl managed to eat regularly now, and even practiced talking. She was still in a state of self-isolation, but not violence.
Charlotte began visiting her daily, usually just bringing fresh flowers or opening and closing the blinds depending on time of day. She had taken a special interest in the girl. After a few days of this routine, Charlotte began talking to Virginia. They were usually pretty one-sided conversations, excepting the kind smile that began to leak on to Virginia’s face. After about a week of these lunch visits, Virginia started telling her own stories. They didn’t even have to force Virginia to eat anymore. Her old demeanor gave way to genuine kindness and warmth, until this one incident when Charlotte spotted the bear.
“O, child, who gave you that thing?” when she recognized the uncalled for stains. “Here, let me take that and get it cleaned up for you.”
At even the threat of someone touching her bear, Virginia started clawing away. Charlotte, who hadn’t seen her during the hard times, didn’t quite know what to do. Virginia, having curled up in the corner of her room utilizing the bear as a shield, showed no signs of calming down anytime soon. Before Charlotte could say anything or draw attention, she spotted something new about the bear. The place where his missing left leg used to bleed cotton was sewn up and the lower half of his body had been cleaned off. Charlotte delivered a clear smile, somewhat disarming to Virginia, and just walked out the room.
She didn’t know the reason. She didn’t understand why Virginia needed that little bear for comfort, or why she felt the need to care for him, but Charlotte did understand what it really was that had brought the girl back. There was something about that rough, little bear that made sweet Virginia return to the world, and more importantly, return to herself.
“Hey, Candy. Do we have a contact list for Miss Virginia? She’s doing real well, and oughta be ready to get home soon, just so long as nobody touches that bear.”
“Sorry, Charlotte, but she’s on strict no-call terms. It’s too bad, to, because she’s gonna need some family real soon.”
Charlotte was real curious about this now. Expecting something simple and superficial, she continued to enquire. Why’s that for, Candy? We ain’t gotta kick her out, do we?”
“Well, no, but she’s gonna have to move floors.” Sensing her friend’s confusion, “What. Can’t you tell? Charlotte. Girl’s pregnant.”
As it turns out, Virginia was about 12 weeks in to an unknown, unexpected, and ungodly pregnancy. Charlotte’s famously large heart broke all at once, to watch that broken life of her dear Virginia.
The staff had decided not to tell her quite yet. No one could even imagine what impact it could have on her. If Virginia would be so upset about just a little bear, then who knew how this would affect her. They all decided it was for the better, at least for now. All of them knowing how biology worked, though, knew it wouldn’t be long before she could tell it herself.
Up until now, Virginia had been completely shut out from the world beyond Saint’s Shelter. Saint’s Shelter was a long-lived and well-respected establishment, and deservedly so. When someone was placed on no-contact status, as far as the realities of society were concerned, they no longer existed. However, there was no way to keep everything out…nor everything in. A new batch of volunteer’s arrived at the shelter from the local college. The social service requirement on most applications was their best friend at Saint’s as it brought in over half of the rotating help.
One particular volunteer had an inexplicable desire to work with the women of Saint’s. For starters, he was the only man allowed in that semester, due to the highly positive recommendations he came with. As well, there were never enough volunteers to go around, so the occasional man slipped through. Mark Gore was perhaps the most highly recommended candidate they had received in years. He had logged thousands of service hours with his high school key club, as well as countless more with various religious organizations at the University. He held a modest 3.8 GPA, and even tried his hand at a few club sports.
Even so, the women who ran Saint’s shelter were more than a little nervous about his presence. When ever they asked Mark why he chose Saint’s, the conversation nearly instantly died. He would find some other avenue to direct his attention, or would suddenly remember a supply cabinet he’d forgotten to clear out. Charlotte, in particular, was not fond of Mark, which is mainly the reason he was in charge of clearing out the supply cabinets.
Before long, the obvious truth of Virginia’s state was becoming apparent. Charlotte and the director were discussing it when Mark came up, ready to sign-out for the evening. “Charlotte, I understand your wanting to protect her, but we have to tell her. What do you think will happen when she wakes up one day to realize she’s a good many pounds heavier than she was eight months ago and feels something kicking at her chest. She’s a smart girl, even if tragedy has rendered her nearly senseless. She has to know.”
“Virginia is NOT ready, sir. I promise you that. You know all this recovery she’s been making? That is gone the moment she knows. Do you want the scared little girl going through labor, or the young woman? She needs more time.” Charlotte wanted to cry, but knew well enough that her emotions here wouldn’t sway the issue, so she did all she could to hold back.
“I’m sorry, Charlotte, but we have to tell her. Her life and the baby’s life all depend on Virginia better understanding her own state before it becomes even more visible.”
Mark stood back and listened intently, unusually inactive. Charlotte, ready to storm Hell with a fire extinguisher, rounded on him with the force of hurricane in August. “What do you want now, cabinet boy!” She never called him Mark. It was usually something along those lines, occasionally getting more colorful. It really depended on the weather. The early spring days had kept Charlotte in a decidedly better mood overall.
“Excuse me, director, but did you say one of our women is pregnant? I thought that all of the pregnant women were on the first floor?”
“Not this one, Mark. As I’m sure you heard, she doesn’t know yet, and moving her would only aggravate the situation. See, Virginia has never really settled in here due to the nature of her stay, and we decided to keep her on this floor where she has friends like the very well-intended Charlotte.” Mark knew well enough how Charlotte felt about him, so appealing to the director first was a smart move.
“And I still don’t think it’s smart to tell her. She needs more time with me. And don’t you have a cabinet to clean, mop kid?” Given Charlotte’s tone, appealing to the director was a very smart move.
“I tell you what, Charlotte. Why don’t you introduce Mark here to Virginia, with me in the room, and we’ll decide together if she’s ready.”
Given her utter disdain for cabinet boy, Charlotte was decidedly unhappy about the new course of action, but felt compelled to follow the director’s decisions. The three of them walked fatefully on to room 212 of Saint’s Shelter, where lay in waiting two very unexpecting souls. The confident director, angry Charlotte, and strangely nervous Mark approached and opened the doors. Though Mark opened the door for the other two, he was the last in and stood in back.
“Miss Virginia? Are you awake? It’s the director. I’ve come with your friend Charlotte and a new visitor. Would you like to introduce your-”
As he finished the sentence, and Mark stepped from the shadows into view, the poor little girl that Charlotte had tried so hard to protect threw herself on the floor and back into the long evacuated corner of sanctuary, clutching ever harder to that rugged bear.
To this day, the director can’t believe his own retelling of the story. No one had ever seen the big-hearted Charlotte act so fiercely. With every ounce of love in her heart for that little girl, the big woman threw this intruder out the swinging doors and into the wall so hard he was knocked out cold.
* * *
“And so not long after we came home with you, Daddy’s family brought us this little teddy bear to give you as a present. You loved him pretty strong as a baby, so we decided to put him up here until you were a little older and could be gentler with him. I guess I somehow managed to forget about teddy up here. But, here’s the good news. If you want him, teddy’s yours.”
The little girl’s eyes made a hundred movements in two seconds, everything from tears to bulging to simple, wide-open joy as big as the smile exposing her snaggle-toothed mouth. “What’s his name, Mommy? What is it?”
“Whatever you want, Charlotte. Whatever you want.”
“Let’s go Petey. Let’s go show Daddy!”
Little Charlotte ran down the attic stairs in a little-girl’s fury, no matter how many times her mom had told her to go slowly. Her mother spent the next few minutes rifling through the long abandoned trunk. Even though it hadn’t rained in a few days, the ceiling couldn’t keep a few tears from leaking onto the papers and photographs kept away.
“Virginia. You tell her?”
“No. No, Mark. I couldn’t. She isn’t ready.” Virginia couldn’t tell her little girl the true story of that rugged bear, not yet. She wished she never had to tell the girl about where she was really born. She wished she never had to tell Charlotte about where her name really came from, or why she was only allowed to visit one set of grandparents.
“Just like you weren’t ready.”
“One day. One day she’ll get to meet her godmother. One day she’ll get to hear the story about how you came back for me, and about how much I love her. She’ll get to hear about how that little bear brought me through so much, and how taking care of him probably saved my life. Even if I can’t tell her the whole story, she’ll learn some of it. But I swear to you, Mark, I can’t tell her yet. Little girls deserve their innocence. And Heaven forbid I take it from her like it was taken from me. She deserves it.”

The End

So yeah. Now you see what I meant by my uncertainty about using the term, "enjoy." It's a difficult story to enjoy, given the nature of the topics it involves, but still. It's a good one, I think. Please let me know what you think about it, and I look forward to posting more for you "enjoyment" in the future. Thanks!

Adam W.

Phil. 3:12-14

God in CBS Sitcoms and the Merits of "Holy Goldfish"

Sorry it has been so long. I'm sure all zero of you who read this will be glad to see that I have once again updated.
I'm gonna forego the usual fiction this week and just write some interesting things that I've been thinking. First and foremost, I have to say that "How I Met Your Mother" is the most optimistic (or at least "encouraging") show on television. Some folks have offered their reasons to the contrary, but I say that optimism is not dead. The reason is simple. If you've never seen the show, it is all a giant frame story where this guy is telling his kids (in the year 2030) about how he meets their mother back in the present day. I was recently watching a repeat of the show where the main character, Ted, gets left at the altar. Most of you probably know that I am a pretty sentimental guy, though I hide it well, and I felt kinda sad for him.
Interestingly enough, I only felt bad for him for a minute. See, even though he got left at the altar, and that would really suck for the time being, we know the end of the story. He "get's the girl." How cool is that to watch a show and, even in the saddest moments, realize that it all works out for them? I know that in most sitcoms we can assume that things end all happy go-lucky, but in this case, we KNOW it.
Now at first I was really just concerned wit the happy-and-fuzzy feeling that produced, but as time went on, I started to realize the incredible potential of this. As Christians, we "know" the end of the story. I have often said that God is the greatest writer in history (you can see why I'd like that metaphor). Technically speaking, He's the writer OF history, but that's not important right now. Back to the point, the story ends with victory. As is so often the case in my own life, we live as a defeated people, Christians and non-Christians alike. We live like the situations in this world have gotten the best of this, and there is nothing we can do to overcome them. The good news is that it is not the end all. Nothing in this world can overcome our God who has written the end of the story. We may not know the end of it yet, but what we do know is that God has the power of it, and we don't have to fear. We are not defeated. If THAT is not encouraging, I don't know what is.
As for the Part II of this story, let me tell you about the merits of "Holy Goldfish." At BCM this evening, we took communion with the seniors. It's strange to think that next fall, most of the faces that MADE BCM what it was to me for so long will be gone. The people that led our ministry for the last few years will be off leading in other capacities. But in taking communion, we did so with grape juice and goldfish. It amazes me just how much signifigance there is to communion. First of all, as a group, it signified us as a whole. We, as a whole ministry and believers, are one by taking part in the "body of Christ." It doesn't matter what the actual thing is, whether it's white bread, wheat bread, or little fish-shaped fried bread. What matters is that we are honoring and remembering the person of Christ and the body of Christ to which we belong.
However, there are two parts to communion. The second goes with the first, and without the both, it is nothing. While we were taking communion, it occurred to me what it all really means. The blood of Christ is given to us for forgiveness of sins. That is obvious. What is not obvious is that communion is sort of like a contract. In getting the forgiveness of the blood, we "sign ourselves up" for the body of Christ, as well. This means that we get the fellowship with others, but we also get the work for the Kingdom. One of my own personal "struggles" for lack of a better term has been to find my place in God's Kingdom. Although I can't answer that for everyone, I can definitely say this much, that as Christians, God asks us to participate in the work.
It's late, so maybe more on this to come. For now, though, I'm tired.

Adam W.
Phil. 3:12-14

Dawg Tears On a Bittersweet Day

As I'm sure you know by now, Knowshon Moreno and Matthew Stafford have opted out of classes and dining halls for money and training camps. It's a sad day for the Bulldog Nation, as we lose two of the most anticipated and endeared players in recent memory (not to mention two guys that were on the same "graduation" track with me). No more highlights, no more clever "24/7" jokes, and no more feats of super human jumping.
On the bright side, we'll get the passion and energy of Joe Cox next season, which is not shabby at all. I'm pretty excited about it. Let's not forget that he scored the only TDs in a last minute (literally, like 56 seconds on the clock) victory to Colorado in the '06 season and in a (humiliating) loss to Florida this past season. After sitting on the sidelines, he's ready to play. And let's not forget what happened the last time we brought in a RS Senior to take the reins from a beloved and celebrated QB on his way out. We got a little guy known as DJ Shockley and a little thing we like to call the SEC Championship. We're gonna be fine at the Quarterback position, because I think Joe Cox is ready to come out and play like a leader and really be a leader.
However, I'm not so sure about RB. Knowshon had a certain energy and passion for the Red and Black that was astounding. He was excited and ready to play every time his hands touched the ball. We've got some great running backs coming up as far as skill goes, but none of these guys possess quite the intangibles that Knowshon has. We will need some guys to really step up and provide major leadership and passion. The major differences between the '07 Dawgs and the '08 Dawgs (end results not withstanding) were Passion and Health. Health we can deal with. Passion, however, that needs something that simple coaching can't provide. As Larry Munson proudly tells us at the beginning of every sacred Saturday, "There is no tradition more worthy of envy; no institution more worthy of such loyalty, as the University of Georgia." If these words can't get you excited to tame the tigers, skewer the gaytors, swat the pests from NATS, flatten Rocky Top, or even Sink the 'Dores, then you, sir, do not belong in the Bulldog Nation.
So whoever leads the team next season, rest assured that they will be ready to lead us into the next era of Bulldog Pride, and bring about the much awaited glory that is the University of Georgia. Just as Larry concludes his pre-game prayer, I would like to remind everyone that we have a responsibility (Dawg fans, at least, all others are pardoned somewhat) to stand behind them. As Larry said, "Let all the Bulldog faithful rally behind the men who wear the Red and Black, with two words; two simple words which express the sentiments of the entire Bulldog Nation: Go Dawgs!"
(On another note!) I've got no new works this week. I'm starting to settle in for classes, so the transition to school life may hinder fiction posting a few days. However, I just found an old short that I wrote almost three years ago that I kinda want to put up. After I get settled in, we'll see. It may be up as early as tomorrow or as late as Saturday. Thank you for your readership, and please continue to enjoy the products of 42Cobras Publishing. And for those of you who bleed Red and Black, please drop on over to Bernie's Dawg Blawg where he put up a beautiful note on the recent announcement of Staff and 'Shon. For once, Bernie's artistic works outdo my own. Just wait, I'll get back on it soon.
Also, if you don't plan on watching the Nat'l Championship game tomorrow night because you just can't stand to see "Golden Child" Tebow, Coach Urban Meyer ('nuff said), or the Big Jerk of the Big 12 Bob Stoops duke it out for the least interesting matchup in recent memory, I encourage you to go out and pick up your own copy of "The Tales of Georgia Football: Or The Best Stories Ever Told" or "What It Means to be a Dawg" and remember what it felt like five months ago when you swore you'd see Red and Black blanket Miami on this day. It won't be long, folks. It won't be long.
PS. Be glad we don't have a coach like Jagodzinski at BC. I'm glad Mark Richt views Georgia as a home and a career and not just a stepping stone into the NFL. I just can't wait for Urban (blegh) and Stoops to do the same thing. And maybe PJ, too.

Happy New Year! (Featuring "New Years on Rue Bourbon")

Happy New Year everyone! As some of you know, I am currently preparing myself for a trip down to Orlando for New Years. Last year, I was prepping for a train ride to New Orleans. I'll be making the drive tomorrow with my co-captain, Rylan. For a good six-eight hours tomorrow, we'll be driving on down and chilling to some Willie Nelson. Well, a bit. I don't know how much he'll enjoy that.
In honor of the holiday, I'm gonna put up something I wrote last year to commemorate the journey out west to NoLa. I hope y'all enjoy it. In the meantime, please keep us in your prayers, and watch the game. Go DAWGS! Sorry for the lack of biting wit and interesting comment, but I don't have time. See y'all in Mickey Town!

New Year's Eve On Rue Bourbon

The weeping city of New Orleans sits on the banks of the Mississippi River. Most unfortunately for them, these banks tend to get above their limits on occasion, which has caused much suffering for the people living in this Pearl of the Mississippi Delta. Thankfully, the city of New Orleans rose from the proverbial, and in some places quite literal, depths to restore such a beautiful Mecca of the South to its former glory.
An annual tradition in this Paris of the American South is a classic gridiron match-up known as The Sugar Bowl. New Year’s Day in New Orleans usually features fans of the best football team in the South preparing to defend the region from some interloper from another part of the country, either the East coast, the mid-western plains, or in this one particular case, the Hawaiian Islands. My good friend and I partook of a gentle train ride from our home in Atlanta to New Orleans on New Year’s Eve so we could enjoy this elegant contest of football.
These shut-eyed college students we were could never have anticipated the experiences that lay ahead for us in that fair city. Before stepping foot in town, there were Appalachian Americans drinking beer and cajoling up and down the aisles of the train! It was senselessness on rails, I tell you. Yet this was only the beginning.
Being New Year’s Eve, we decided to stretch our usual bed-time of strictly 10pm a little more so we might enjoy our first Midnight on New Year’s. After meandering through the shabby streets littered in trash and conspicuously passed-out individuals, we were starving. So we tried to find food on what we’d heard was the fanciest, most reputable, cleanest place in town: Rue Bourbon. I’d expected the sweet aroma of Creole cooking to waft through the vine draped walls of white and iron-wrought balustrades to my delighted nose, but not the noxious fumes of some unknown substance between battery acid and a thick fog that won’t lift. The smell was suffocating. I later learned it was the smell of alcohol and stogies, things that I’d only rarely seen before, coming from such a prestigious, upstanding Southern university. People crowded on the street by the hundreds, blasting out loud music that led my ears to bleed and tripping all over each other. I had never seen such shameless fondling and random hurling of beads, which I am proud to say I have not seen since. When I thought we’d found safety in a girl I knew from class, she did something I shutter to recall, yet will for the benefit of my reader. She lifted her shirt in front of us. I was startled and appalled, and successfully dodge her to this day, for fear of public blushing.
The worst event of the night was when a man-yes, a man-brushed up against me and took hold of my overcoat. Fortunately, it was a cold night and I had a coat, or else I faint to think of what else he may have gripped. I pushed him away in disgust and kept on walking. I tell you, I am yet to experience so much sin and personal degradation in a month of Sundays as I did on that one street the last night of the year. And I tell you now, if I ever visit that deplorable town again, it will be with armed guard for enough time to see the game and leave. I assure you, I will never spend New Year’s on Rue Bourbon again.

Adam W.

As The World Turns...Without Me (Featuring "The Miracle")

Hey, y'all. It's me again. Sorry it took so long to update. Since the last post, I've finished finals, the Dawgs have finished their season (and on a sad note, I might add), and the rumors of the Hadron Collider destroying the Earth have mostly finished. So, the world goes on as it did and as it has and as it likely will until someone invents something that will follow through on it's promise for complete world destruction.
But do you ever feel like the world moves on without you? As Christmas gets closer, and we get more excited about the coming season, and I am certainly in that number, I feel as if life moves on without me involved. I look around at the lives of people around me and wonder what I'm waiting for. There are those who are married, pregnant, raising their families, people who are in love, people who are in careers, and people who are changing their world. What am I doing? What am I up to, and when will I join the ranks of society? I feel like I'm sitting in stasis right now, and I gotta tell you, it isn't fun. Please keep in mind a couple things as you read this little time waster before I get to latest publication. I do not wish to be married with kids immediately. That is simply an example of people moving on that I wanted to post. And I'm not some anxty teenager sitting in a dark corner with lines on my arm and lines in my hair, but someone who just wonders what is going on. Being in stasis is not fun, but I guess I should just resolve to pray for movement or patience, whichever comes first. I should pray for growth in this time of stasis, because Heaven knows, when the world around keeps moving, and I decide to jump on, growing won't be as easy or nearly as fun. It'll hurt. So I guess I should keep growing now, and wait for stasis to end. I'll keep praying for that. Because it's right to pray for something...
And on that note, I humply present to you another original short by Adam W. Wynn, "The Miracle." This story is interesting in that it comes out of a personal experience, much less dramatic than the one included herein, but in my own twisted way, appropriately similar. I prayed for a miracle, only to receive it in the most unlikely way. I hope you enjoy it. Please feel free to leave comments, and take no notice of the missing Hindi Word of the Week. I didn't feel like including that feature today. No one ever responds to it!

"The Miracle"

Little Jimmy Wilkins prayed for a miracle. He prayed for a miracle every night for three years. There was no reason. There was nothing specific. Little Jimmy Wilkins just figured it was right to pray for something, and since he did not know what else, he prayed for a miracle.
Little Jimmy Wilkins prayed for a miracle every night for three years. And every day for three years, he expected a miracle to arrive. It never did. There was the time his mother’s car was struck by a semi on the highway. Though she lived, the family fell to a terrible financial burden. Then there was the time his sister went to the hospital with cancer. Though she lived, she was never the same again, refusing to speak or love, or let people get close to her. Then of course there was the time his father was fired. He did not live. The strain of all that had happened drove him to park his car with nothing but a gun and a note.
Little Jimmy Wilkins prayed for a miracle every night for three years. Though it never came, he prayed on nonetheless. He prayed for a miracle because it was right to pray for something. After a while, Little Jimmy Wilkins knew that what he needed truly was a miracle. Nothing short of this would save his family. He wanted nothing less than a miracle. Nothing big. Just enough to maybe lift their spirits. Little Jimmy Wilkins was in a dark place.
In the time of his prayers, seemingly everyone had rejected Little Jimmy Wilkins. His sister would not talk to him, as she took an involuntary vow of silence from the world. His mother couldn’t afford to not work and be with the kids. His father would just as soon die as spend time with him. And nobody in the world wanted to love Little Jimmy Wilkins.
Little Jimmy Wilkins was denied a miracle every day for three years. After a while, this got to him. Little Jimmy Wilkins couldn’t stand being ignored. He wanted a sister to talk to, a mother to hug, a father to play with, and a God to listen. More than any, he wanted a hand to touch. There wasn’t a girl in the world he wouldn’t have talked to. Not a girl he wouldn’t have given a chance. But there wasn’t a girl in the world who would ask. Little Jimmy Wilkins was, in every way, alone.
Little Jimmy Wilkins stood atop the Tanner Bridge. After looking out over the river below, Little Jimmy Wilkins decided to make his own miracle. The one thing that never left his mind since that day a few years back when his father died was this. Little Jimmy Wilkins’ father was smiling. The man in the coffin had a wider smile than he ever had before. Most people explained this away by saying that he needed some way to fit the gun in, but he didn’t use his head. He shot his heart. Little Jimmy Wilkins’ father appeared happier dead than he did alive. He smiled.
Little Jimmy Wilkins prayed for a miracle every night for the last three years. In three years, it never came. Little Jimmy Wilkins knew that the time had come to ignore every voice around him and just make his own miracle.
By this time, Little Jimmy Wilkins was Eighteen. The river moved on underneath Little Jimmy Wilkins, unaware of the struggle above. The river moved on to a place that he would never see. The river moved swiftly on back towards the life that Little Jimmy Wilkins willingly left behind.
It was a cold evening, the night that Little Jimmy Wilkins decided. The moving air pushed back the hair on his arm. The cold caused Little Jimmy Wilkins’ eyes to tear. He wasn’t sad. Little Jimmy Wilkins knew what was coming, and for the first time in three years, he laughed. Standing there, arms open wide, ready to move his weight just a little more forward, Little Jimmy Wilkins laughed. This was such a hard laugh that he nearly lost balance and fell backwards. Little Jimmy Wilkins had never felt so free, and never felt so ready for anything. His anticipation was finally gone.
Little Jimmy Wilkins had prayed for a miracle every night for the last three years. But tonight, he knew it would come. Little Jimmy Wilkins no longer anticipated, no longer anxiously sweated, realizing it was all but a step away. There he was, above the tree line, the gray clouds above, ready to wash Little Jimmy Wilkins away from the world, away with the river. People would wake up the next morning to see him in town, just passing by, and something would strike them on Little Jimmy Wilkins’ face they had not seen in three years.
Little Jimmy Wilkins would be smiling.
Little Jimmy Wilkins had prayed for a miracle every night for the last three years. He had been ignored every night for the last three years. He knew that tonight, nothing would ignore him. Little Jimmy Wilkins commanded the attention of the world tonight, as he stood there, arms open wide, eyes readily shut, and feet moving forward.
Little Jimmy Wilkins did not leap. Little Jimmy Wilkins stepped over the edge. The air drowned his lungs, forcing in like a bad realization just now arriving. Once more, Little Jimmy Wilkins prayed. Little Jimmy Wilkins knew it was right to pray for something, and now at the moment of his death, it was even more apt. Little Jimmy Wilkins had prayed for a miracle every night for the last three years. And every night, he had been ignored. What made him think this would be any different?
Little Jimmy Wilkins hit bottom; he looked up. There, Little Jimmy Wilkins saw his father smiling. Not like in the coffin, a smile of release, but anew. A smile of unsure acceptance. It could be inferred that he was glad to see Little Jimmy Wilkins again, but not so glad about the manner in which it was done.
“Father, why did you forsake me?” Little Jimmy Wilkins requested of his father.
“Forsake you I did not, but rather tried to save you. I was not enough for you, and never would be. I wasn’t who you needed,” was the answer so strangely given by father.
“Father, why were you smiling?”
“Between the bang and end, there was an eternity of thought. And in that fierce moment, it occurred to me. This was true folly. But for once, I was glad I wouldn’t be there to accept it. For it was all over. And I’d never deal with it again.”
Little Jimmy Wilkins hit bottom.
Little Jimmy Wilkins was still laughing as the water freed his lungs.

Little Jimmy Wilkins did not die.

Little Jimmy Wilkins was denied his own miracle.
Due to a drought, the river was barely at waist height for Little Jimmy Wilkins. It was just high enough for Little Jimmy Wilkins to break both legs and suffer extensive shock, leading to a lengthy coma.
When Little Jimmy Wilkins woke up, there was a young woman there he’d never seen. This nurse had apparently taken great interest in his case, and decided to devote herself entirely to caring for Little Jimmy Wilkins. She wasn’t unattractive. She was indeed lovely enough that when Little Jimmy Wilkins first saw her, it felt like Heaven. Or just another dream, there was no way to be sure. To put it simply, she was beautiful.
Little Jimmy Wilkins was soon flooded with visitors. It had been three years since he fell asleep. And every night for three years, the town prayed for a miracle. Finally, on this very day, Little Jimmy Wilkins was awake, and their prayers were answered. For the first time, Little Jimmy Wilkins heard sister scream his name. Apparently, the shock of his own actions drove her to cry, and then to speak. For the first time, he felt his mother’s arms wrapped around him. For the first time, Little Jimmy Wilkins knew that father died for him, not to get away.
Little Jimmy Wilkins spent the next few months in the hospital with the nurse. By this time, Little Jimmy Wilkins was twenty-one. And so was she. When she had free time, it was spent with Little Jimmy Wilkins. She would read with him, feed him, and do all the things he could do on his own, but would much rather not. Little Jimmy Wilkins would never walk again.
However, she spent her life with him. For the next three years, Little Jimmy Wilkins grew accustomed to his new pair of legs, the ones that pushed him around. To be frank, he grew quite accustomed to these legs. Finally, they married. Every night after that, for the rest of his life, Little Jimmy Wilkins never once prayed for a miracle, but he knew it was right to pray for something. Instead, Little Jimmy Wilkins spent every night for the rest of his life thanking God for the miracle that was his wife. And his sister. And his mother. And his father. And ever day that God had ever blessed him with, for that indeed was the miracle of Little Jimmy Wilkins.

Well, I hope y'all enjoyed "The Miracle." It is probably one of my favorites. A feature you may or may not have noticed is that most of my works take place in the fictional town of "Horizon." In many ways, Horizon resembles the very real place of Dacula. However, it is also a place of my own creation with it's own particular mannerisms and inhabitants. The best part about Horizon is that it is home. Wherever you are from, my purpose in creating Horizon is to create home. When people look off into the Horizon, where is it they look? I say that they are looking towards home. Whether this is a home they've been to and grown in, or a home they are still searching for, people look towards the place they feel at home. And I hope that Horizon can grow to resemble that place. Thanks, y'all. Have a very MERRY CHRISTMAS, and as we approach this most wonderful of holidays, please do me the honor of remembering the first miracle of Christmas, along with the miracle of Little Jimmy Wilkins. We are blessed for each day we are given, and Christmas Day most of all. Thanks.

Adam W.

Phil. 3:12-14