The confidence the choir exuded was enough to tell anyone that they were really going to kill the song. One could only imagine the number of months they used for rehearsing that particular song. Oh, they have sung this song five times already this year. “Practice makes perfect indeed.”
Previously on The Storyteller's mercy All of a sudden, the bus swerved sharply to the left and then to the right again. Amidst the blaring horns, blinding headlights and piercing screams, I heard a loud collision and then the side of the bus where I was seated began to lift off the ground. Unfortunately, I was not wearing a seat belt so I flew out of my seat. Neither was she.
[Main character’s narration in navy blue text]
Beep. Beep. Beep…
My eyes fluttered opened but I quickly closed it as quickly as I opened it. Wincing and squinting, I tried opening my eyes again only to see a huge white figure standing over me. The person, who was holding a book, seemed to be searching for something in it. My name?
“Is this the afterlife, like heaven?”
The figure looked up and shook the head.
Everything became dark.
Previously on "The Storyteller's Mercy" “You are very WICKED!” She put her feet on the floor and changed her sitting position, one similar to mine just that I had my palm underneath my head and she held her shawl which she had crumpled into a ball on her laps. I allowed the silence to linger. “That is not all,” I said feeling smug.
She raised a brow and turned her head to look at me with an expectant face, although I could see she was a little bit annoyed. I took that as a cue to continue my story.
“So ever since the day the little girl gave her vase away, her father also took his vase out of her reach lest she gave it away too. This annoyed her so much, her relationship with her father became strained. The nanny noticed the tension and tried to help matters in her own way; the nanny would usually send the girl to her father’s shop, which was next door, with his lunch but she would just hand it over to one of the apprentices at the shop so she would not have to see him. The nanny also extended the girl’s bedtime by an hour so that they could have a daddy-daughter time but the daughter would simply stay all by herself in her room. The father also tried to reach out to his daughter to no avail. Subsequent years were no different; times became very dull in their household.”
Previously on "The Storyteller's Mercy" She yawned loudly and quickly turned to see if anyone had seen her, then slowly in my direction. Was that embarrassment I saw written all over her face? Before I could stifle the laughter that threatened to pour out of my mouth, I also yawned. Loudly. We giggled. "Let me tell you a story," I said.
“Wow. The night gets better. I get to hear a bedtime story.”
She dropped her bag to the floor between her legs, lifted a lever at the right side of her seat and simultaneously applied pressure to the backrest. She removed the shawl around her shoulder, spread it and used it to cover the upper part of her body. She then turned to her left side and lifted her knees to her stomach, leaving the lower part of her legs hanging. She finally put her left arm underneath her head. Her movements were all too graceful, he enjoyed watching her.
When Francine Rivers was asked what inspired her to write this Trilogy, her answer was this:
Almost every story I’ve written since becoming Christian has come from a question relating to a struggle in my own faith walk. With “A Voice in the Wind,” that question was “How do you live out your faith among family members and friends who are not at all interested in the gospel?” I became fascinated by the early martyrs and how they had the courage to die for their faith. So I decided to begin the story in AD 69-70 with the chaos and destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple. Through the character of Hadassah, the answer came: it’s not what you say; it’s how you live that has the impact. Also, you don’t need courage ahead of time. God prepares you and supplies you with the courage you need to face difficulties when…
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Previously on "The Storyteller's mercy" My heart beat faster by the minute. Soon, I could not feel it or rather, it had skipped several beats? I clutched my chest. I was dead sure I was dead.
“You aren’t helping matters.” She muttered, “…and to think you are the man.”
“I’m sorry.” I wriggled my toes to be sure I was alive. “I can’t help it. It’s like I’m supposed to be dead.”
“That’s weird. You should seek help.” She frowned.
“A dead man can never seek help.”
“Then relax because I hear dead men rest in peace.”
I shivered. I was sweating profusely. My clothes were drenched in sweat. I was very terrified; I knew I was as good as dead. I had made a request which was declined almost immediately. The young lady sitting beside me felt very uncomfortable. I sensed it but I could not help it.