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She felt his hot, intermittent breathe run down from his pointy nose down her spine as he positioned himself behind her. The cold, sharp, stainless steel crept its way around her neck and started to cut into her soft skin when it rested. She winced and the beads of sweat that had formed on her forehead and temple began to fall.
In front of her, a youth in his late teens held up a phone and she felt the lens of its camera come alive and even more those of her family, also pierced right through her skin adding to her anguish. Their palpitating eyes said it all; she could feel it but there was nothing she could do and she could not do what the men asked, not even if it would give her the chance to see her family again. Or could she? After all, she served a forgiving Lord. Continue reading “Crazy Pastor”→
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?
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.