Welcome Home

Sabine drove up to the manor and arrived at noon, stopping in front of the new iron gate. The sky was growing dark and lightning flashed. The mansion loomed ahead, a gray brick exterior and dark gable roof. She needed to get inside fast. The storm came quicker than expected.

She stepped out, gravel crunching under her feet, and took in the scent of pinewood and crisp, clean air. She keyed in the provided code, and the gate swung open, letting her in. The manor’s front door—freshly painted black—stood slightly ajar. Sabine frowned, double-checking the appointment notes on her phone. No one else was supposed to be here.

A prickle ran up her spine, but there was a job to do. She marched up to the front doors, her heels clicking on stone. The door squeaked when she pushed it wider, revealing a wide foyer drenched in afternoon light.

Then a blur of moving colors erupted from behind the grand staircase.

"Surprise!" a chorus of voices shouted.

Sabine gasped and staggered back as streamers exploded all around her. A group of people sang her happy birthday.

A man with wild red hair wrapped her in a tight embrace.

"You're late," he said, as if she'd known him forever.

"Hank, don't hog her!" Behind him, a petite woman in violet nudged him for some space and kissed Sabine on the check. "We've been waiting," she murmured, her smile soft but insistent. "We're so glad you made it home for your birthday."

Sabine stuttered. "Um... what?"

She glanced around at the other unfamiliar faces: a grinning teenager with dark, choppy hair, a lanky man in a green sweater, a large black man in sunglasses, and a scruffy older fellow with a cigar in his mouth. None of them looked like buyers—or anyone she’d ever met. The redhead—Hank, the violet-clad woman had called him—was gripping her shoulders, his smile faltering at her obvious confusion.

"Okay," Sabine said slowly, easing herself free. "There's some… mistake here. I’m just here to assess the property."

Her words sounded oddly weak.

The teenager snorted. "Assess what?"

The violet-clad woman slipped a hand into hers and squeezed.

"Oh, Sabine," she sighed, shaking her head with a laugh. "I know you're joking, but you can turn off your real estate brain. We know you're never gonna sell this place."

Sabine’s stomach twisted, wondering if she had the wrong address. She reached for the phone in her purse, only to find that her entire purse was missing. But it had been with her before she opened the door—

"Can't believe you had to travel on your birthday," the woman complained. "You must me tired." She pulled her towards the staircase. "Why don't we help you freshen up? Not much of a party in a business suit."

The teenager skipped after them, humming the birthday song.

"Don't take too long!" the black man crooned.

---

The two women—Margot and Evie, through snippets of conversation—guided her to a large bedroom and told her to wash up in the bathroom. They picked out a summer dress for her to change.

None of this made sense.

The dress Margot pressed into her hands—soft blue cotton, dotted with tiny embroidered flowers—felt alien, yet when she slipped it on in the bathroom, the fabric settled against her skin like it had been tailored for her.

"Perfect," Evie chirped. "Now let's go have some fun!"

Sheets of rain and howling rain were beating against the manor. They led her to a great room, with food and drinks sprawled across the table—a salad bowl, chips, plates piled with sandwiches, sparkling lemonade, a chocolate frosted cake. Everyone laughed, clinked glasses with her, talked over each other with ease. Sabine smiled when they were watching, nodded when they spoke to her, but her mind was reeling. She didn't know these people. She had never been here before.

Right?

Sabine, eventually overwhelmed, excused herself with a weak smile, muttering something about the bathroom. She stepped into another hallway that was dimmer than the rest of the house, walls lined with framed photographs. She ignored the lightning, flashing the windows white. The manor was too big, too unfamiliar, but her feet carried her forward to a powder room.

Maybe this was all some a practical joke, she thought, staring herself in the mirror. With some hospitality thrown in. It wasn't as if they were doing something awful to her, so why not enjoy it?

She left the powder room a calmer woman and moved past the photographers again, at first. But then her gaze snagged on one particular frame.

And stopped dead.

It was a picture of a little girl—no older than seven—sitting perched on a man’s shoulders, her tiny hands gripping his hair while he grinned up at her. She was laughing, her dark bangs ruffled, her cheeks round with baby fat. And the man—broad-shouldered, with an unmistakable face. The same crooked smile. The same scar above his left eyebrow.

Her father.

And that girl was—

Sabine backed away shuddering, blinking again and again in disbelief. There was another photograph of her, age sixteen. And a photograph of her mother!

She stared at the framed memories. She—she remembers chasing a calico cat through these halls. She remembers baking cookies in a giant kitchen. She remembers other birthday parties.

She—

Sabine hurried away.

No. She grew up in San Francisco. Her father was a civil servant who died two years ago. Her mother long gone. She lives in an apartment on—

It's—?

Why... can't she remember her address?

Sabine turned the corner and suddenly walked into Hank.

"Oof! Sabine?" Hank stumbled back, then caught her on reflex. He saw her face, and his expression went from curious to alarmed. "Sabine?"

She wanted to shove him and run away screaming. But instead, she found herself burrowing into his chest with a frightened sob.

What was happening to her?

Cabin Stories

Derek stood on his toes, feeling along the top of the door frame for the key. He jumped at the flash of lightning and immediate bone rattling thunderclap. Emma squealed and Calvin cried even louder.

“Got it!” he shouted with relief.

Derek felt responsible for their current situation. As the oldest, he had been left in charge and should have known better than to go so far from the house with the clouds rolling in. The storm came quicker than expected.

“See if you can find some towels,” Derek nodded at his brother, Billy.

Eight-year-old Emma stared at the deer heads mounted on the wall as Calvin held tightly to her arm.

“Welcome to the hunting cabin,” Derek tried to sound like a dramatic tour guide. “It’s not much to look at, but it’s part of the family.”

“My daddy’s told us about this,” Emma marveled, recalling the stories about her daddy and Uncle Joe hunting with grandpa and sleeping in the cabin.

The day had started off pretty smoothly. Daddy was at work, so Momma asked Derek and Billy to watch their cousins while she went to town. Emma and Calvin were staying with them while their parents were on an anniversary cruise. He and Billy were happy to oblige, especially since it meant putting off cleaning the garage for another day. Besides, how hard could it be to entertain a couple of kids who weren’t old enough to remember their last trip to the woods. It was like cousin summer camp.

The 120-acre property had been in the family for generations. To Derek, it was the perfect home. There were woods and meadows, a creek on the north end and a lake to the southeast. He and Billy had grown up fishing, hunting, dirt bike riding and all the other things a couple of rough and tough boys could ever want. Just like his dad and uncle Henry had done; and Grandpa and his siblings did as well.

It was unusually warm and the humidity felt like a blanket, but the little ones were excited to play outside. They played frisbee for while, but Calvin couldn’t quite get the toss right and grew bored.

“Let’s go fishing,” Derek suggested. “We can go in the rowboat!”

Emma’s eyes grew wide, “Yes!”

“No way!” Calvin stopped his foot. “No boat!”

“Don’t you want to catch some fish?” Billy had never turned down fishing.

Calvin shook his head.

“Do you want to go see the lake?” Derek hoped Calvin would change his mind when they got there.

“Okay” Calvin agreed.

They all loaded into the four-wheeler and embarked on their journey, taking a longer scenic route to the lake. The older boys enjoyed the captive audience, showing off their tire swing and bike ramps along the way.

It was a gentle rain at first, the thunder rolled faintly in the distance. “Nothing to worry about,” Derek assured them as he drove.

Within minutes the sky opened into a deluge, while the lightning and thunder booms seemed to be right on top of them.

“We’re scared!” Emma called, huddled with her little brother, holding on tight as they bounced along the trail.

They needed shelter fast. Derek and Billy looked at each other as if sharing the same thought, saying in unison, “the cabin.”

“Hold on,” Derk shouted, “we’ll be safe soon.”

Finally safe and sound in the cabin, they quickly determined the power was out. At least they had shelter to wait for the storm to pass. Derek texted his parents to let them know where they were.

“I found some towels,” Billy said, emerging from the bathroom.

They dried off as best they could, and Derek found a lantern and a couple of flashlights in the closet. The little stone cabin wasn’t fancy but served its purpose well. Concrete floors, two bunk beds against the far wall. To the left was a small kitchen area. In front of the fireplace was a sitting area with a worn leather sofa and two well used recliners. A large photo album lay on the table in the corner.

Derek saw the fear in Calvin’s eyes as another loud clap of thunder shook the windows. What do they do now?

Emma picked up the photo album, “What’s this?”

Derek smiled, “Cabin stories, what a great idea!”

For the next hour, the cousins huddled together, flipping through the pages. Derek and Billy took turns telling family stories memorialized in the photographs, like when Grandpa got stuck in a tree as a boy, or when their fathers thought they had run away even though Grandma dropped off food every morning. There was Aunt Linda, too, with her boyfriend nobody liked and Great Uncle Charlie who was a legendary fiddle player. There were pictures of little Derek and Billy when they got their first bucks; and Grandma with a giant bass she caught all by herself.

Finally, the rain let up and the thunder faded. Calvin had fallen asleep on the sofa.

“We should head home now,” Derek said, “But we need to do something first.”

“What’s that?” Emma asked.

“A selfie for the book,” Derek said. “Emma and Calvin’s first time at the cabin.”

After waking Calvin, they crowded together in front of the fireplace for the photo.

“I’ll print this at home and we can put it in the book before you go,” Derek said.

“I can’t wait to tell daddy about MY cabin story,” Emma said proudly.

“The first of many stories,” Derek replied as they climbed back into the four-wheeler. “It’s a family tradition!”

The Storm

By Melissa Judith Avila

The storm came quicker than expected.

It came loud. It came hard. It came worse than anyone had ever expected it to.

And there we were, stuck in that storm. Right in the eye of it. And we were out here suffering, while everyone else got to sit quietly in the comfort of their home. They’d soon mourn for us than come for us.

And that was the way of this world. No one questioned it. No one even looked at it. At the destruction. At the hurt. Everyone looks past it as if it was not to care for. We were not to care for. We did not exist.

The smoke packed higher and higher, filling our lungs with something dark and sinful. Maybe it was cancer. Maybe it was hate. Either way we let it in and we let it kill us.

Oh. Was that too harsh for you? Did the mention of death hurt your pretty ears? I’m sorry. Don’t mind it. Cover your ears as the sound of wire and machinery cover our feet and our limbs until we don’t exist. 

Right. We did not exist.

We never existed to you, or to your leaders, or to your gods. We are gears to you, factories to you, work cattle to you. We are not human. We do not exist. We did not exist.

And the lightning strikes us and leaves us blinded and leaves us crippled under shocked metal. The lightning punishes us for the blasphemy that is our existence, because we should not exist. 

And the rain poisons the ground and burns our skin to paint the waters hellish red till they run dry. The waters on land and in the sky rumble and wage war on us until they lift our riverbanks and send our houses drowning, dying.

And the winds that howl round us sweep up our cities, sweep up our citizens, sweep up our children until we don’t exist.

Then the earth crumbles above us and wipes out the memories and tracks of our name.

…

Until we do not exist, because we did not exist.

Everything you make of us is a mockery.

Comedy is a mockery,

Tragedy is a mockery,

Mockery is a mockery,

In the eyes of your preachers and pulpits.

That preach about purity in their pulpits.

That preach about our filth on the pulpits.

That preach to crucify us at the pulpits.

‘And mockery is mockery’ says the preacher.

‘For mockery is mockery’ says the preacher.

‘And they are the mockery’ says the preacher.

We are at the eye of the storm. We are the ones to whom the storm lays bare. And we are the mockery of mockeries.

We mock and we mock and we mock and we mock until eventually the mockery means nothing to the empty ears.

We are the empty ears.

We do not exist.

We did not exist.

…

But why do we have to mention this fact so often? Don’t you know we do not exist? Haven’t you already become numb to us?  In your white apartments stirring your rich hot chocolate living in pure decadence, you never had a need to care for us.

But don’t worry. We’ve already become numb to ourselves. We are in the eye of the storm. We are in the hurt. And we’ve grown so close to the misery that we’ve gone numb to it.

We’ve gone numb to the children and the citizens and the cities being swept away.

We’ve gone numb to the machinery and the wires crushing our bones.

We’ve gone numb to the red waters and the burning rains

Why care when we can work, and drink, and die, and numb it down?

Why care when all we make for you is for your comfort?

Why care when your new algorithms and new tech and new trends can numb down the sounds of our suffering?

Does it matter to anyone anymore? No, because it’s just the way of the world. We all become vanities in the end nonetheless. We all become the vanity of vanities in the end.

Such is the way of the world.

…

The storm came quicker than expected.

It came loud. It came hard. It came worse than anyone had ever expected it to.

But now the storm doesn’t exist anymore. 

The storm has gone now.

The machinery is gone now.

The red waters are gone now.

The burning rain is gone now.

The riverbanks are gone now.

And everyone that was in the eye of the storm is gone now.

The cities are gone now.

The citizens are gone now.

The children are gone now.

Now the storm does not exist.

Because we do not exist.

Now you do not have to worry!

You have swept up our cities, our citizens, our children. And now you can sweep up the evidence of our existence!

Congratulations to you all! Now you can feign your ignorance! Enjoy your lives as if we never mattered at all!

Enjoy your cakes and creams! See all the latest tech! Indulge in the latest trends! Stroll by your fountains and parks! Go out for a day in your cities with your children!

Because now these troubles don't exist. Now these troubles have never existed. Now every citizen is free to enjoy their lives as they please!

And now you can forget our memories. Now you can forget the eye of this storm. Now you can forget the crashes and the cracks. Oh, how terrible it was to hear that!

But not to fear anymore. The storm came quicker than expected, but it does not exist anymore.

Rescued by Grace

Gray. Everything was gray. Stephen Champion sat on the deck and sipped his first coffee of the day. At least his coffee was black. Yesterday's bright blue sky, the sparkling emerald water of the Gulf of Mexico and the sugar-white sand along the Alabama Gulf Coast were all rendered in grayscale this morning. The early morning air felt thick and heavy like a weighted blanket of humidity. 

Stephen noticed how the usual morning sounds of gentle waves lapping the sand and different seabirds squawking in the gentle breeze was replaced with crashing waves, strong wind and no bird sounds. Stephen also heard constant hammering coming from up and down the beach. Experienced homeowners were racing to cover their windows with plywood and get away from their beloved vacation homes before the storm came. 

The other sound Stephen heard came from the P.A. system of a patrol car from the Baldwin County Sheriff’s Department. The amplified voice cut through the heavy air and delivered ominous news: “Attention: This is the Baldwin County Sherif's Department. This is an emergency mandatory evacuation of the Fort Morgan Peninsula. All guests must leave the peninsula before noon today. All residents are strongly advised to go inland as well." The message continued: "Fort Morgan Road will close to all traffic at noon today and will remain closed until authorities declare it safe to return." 

Overnight, the storm brewing in the Gulf of Mexico had changed direction and increased in speed. The massive storm gained strength as it moved across the warm water on its due north path. Instead of a glancing blow to the Alabama coastline, the authorities now were preparing for a direct hit. 

 It was a primitive time, a decade before cell phones and weather apps would deliver such warnings. No television meteorologist had today’s Advanced High Definition Super Storm Tracker First Alert Radar. The weather forecasters gave their best guesses about storm speed, strength and direction, using photos from tracking planes and aviation radar installations on the mainland. Even veteran weathermen were caught by surprise at the increasing speed and altered track of the storm. 

Stephen went back into the small beach house, woke his family and told wife Katie and their two young daughters, “The storm came quicker than expected. It will make landfall somewhere near here today.” His wife looked out to the gulf and asked about driving in the bad weather. He told her about the mandatory evacuation, and they all got busy. Stephen instructed them to pack everything and bring it to the kitchen. He would load everything in the car and they would head home before the storm came ashore. 

The wind-driven rain stung their skin as they raced to the car and climbed in. Most of the neighbors had finished securing their houses and were gone. The little girls were afraid, and Stephen hugged them and promised they would be safe. The little family paused and prayed for a safe journey before Stephen slipped the car into gear and rolled up the driveway.He waited for a break in the steady stream of eastbound traffic leaving the coast to get on the roads that would take them back north. Finally a Good Samaritan, slowed and signaled for Stephen to pull his Plymouth Voyager minivan out into the highway. 

The rain was coming down in angled sheets of water. The leading rain bands of the storm pummeled the cars in the slow moving traffic. 

Stephen was glad they had filled their gas tank a couple of days before. The lines were long and some stations were already out of gas. They would stop when absolutely necessary, The travelers needed to put distance between themselves and the approaching storm. 

It took more than two hours to make fifty miles of progress. Stephen wondered how much rain had fallen. He was not far from I-65 where they could surely make better time. 

But the cars ahead of him were stopping. They were turning around and going back south toward the beach. Suddenly a rain-soaked man pounded on the driver’s side window. He was hoarse, but Stephen heard his raspy voice saying, “You can’t go this way! You’ve got to turn around!”

Stephen protested that he was only going to the interstate. The man shook his head, spraying water droplets. “No! Listen! The bridge is out! You cannot make it this way.” So Stephen turned around like those ahead of him had done, and retreated a few miles to an alternate route to resume their progress toward home. 

By the time they got to the interstate, the children had fallen asleep. Katie had cried and prayed and was now very quiet. As Stephen rolled slowly through the driving rain, he thought about dangers, warnings and deliverance. It reminded him of Noah and his family on the ark after God by his grace saved them from the flood. He pictured Lot and his family fleeing Sodom after angel messenger warned them and pushed them on their way to safety. He remembered how God warned and called Israel to repentance before finally dismantling both Israel and Judah because they refused to repent. Stephen thanked God for the warning from the sheriff’s car. He was grateful for the stranger who saved them from driving into a swollen river. He pondered how Jesus gave Himself up to deliver him from destruction. He silently praised God for the gospel that led him to give up on himself to trust and follow Christ his Savior. 

The entire Fort Morgan Peninsula was underwater from the storm surge by mid-afternoon. When Stephen pulled into their driveway outside Birmingham that night, his eyes filled with tears of joy and gratitude. He was so glad they were warned, that they heeded the warning in time, and that they trusted the message that led them safely home.