Tuesday, April 26, 2011

The Captive Trilogy: Part 3 - The Rescue

If you've not read part 1 and 2, you'll want to. It would be essential to understanding this. Simply scroll down. This was written in the midst of the Father literally rescuing me from a debilitating struggle and though I am open with sharing what that is, I leave it out of this unedited fictional piece so that each reader can find their journey in it. (P.S.- Please still join me in the rescue of Charles Manly at www.gofundme.com/charlesmanly )

The Rescue

The jingle of tack resounds with the steady rhythm of horse’s hooves beating against the earth. That and the faint swish of fabric rustling against their flanks are the only sounds emitted from their columns. The occasional snort of beast being urged forward echoes out of the darkened glen but beyond this no one speaks. His breath comes in consciously measured intake to maintain a semblance of composure for those that follow as He leans forward urging the riders on. He rides his beast bareback, wasting no time for saddle, his battle honed thighs bracing his body and guiding his mare. Just behind him a maiden clutches his standard astride her horse matching him pace for pace.

An air of expectation thick and warm permeates their surroundings. The mounts ever able to perceive emotions respond eagerly and surge forward at breakneck speed giving the illusion that they ride forth on the wings of the wind. Trained men and woman, each carrying expertly honed weapons according to ability, battle proven each, hasten in the new day riding forward in neat order according to rank and station. Darkness is as day to these eyes as he leads them forward safe and true.

Their leader: his long ebony hair secured at the nape of his neck with a leather thong as appropriate when ridding into battle. His breastplate secured firmly and shining as if recently polished but showing the pings and dents of centuries of combat. His garments secured and girded to ensure agility of movement, are pocked with splashes of ancient blood they will bear for all eternity.

Fierce eyes glazed with anguish, fixed ahead, contain both fire and ice. Love turned violent with desperate longing and pure, just hatred that consumes him. The cries of the captive, each and every one have reached his ears and have been recorded in His annals, the sacred record of the King. And with this remembrance, tears in turn fall down his cheeks, mingling tenderness with fury.

Ahead lays the river falsely known by many to be the extent of his kingdom, though each morsel of land the squatter has poached belongs ultimately to him. He plunges forward and clears the banks opposite with effortless ease. Ahead a wasteland he is not unable to breach. And as they enter the barren crags, known as the valley of death, a mocking laugh escapes his lips.

This lures the slumbering enemy, the sleeping giant known to patrol the crags, into his path. There is no hesitation for horse and rider, as the mare is given its head, stretching forth its neck pressing straight towards stalwart foe. A crescendo, not unlike metal striking bone is heard reverberating off surrounding rock walls. Down goes fallen villain, departed from this world, with a simple word from His mouth. The Lover’s faithful equine leads on, hooves wet with enemy blood and behind him, the fallen-one continually trampled to dust by the army that follows in his wake.

The ensuing obstacle to overcome is the lack of a drawbridge, the only entrance to the fortress and then beyond that, the vast walls rumored to be protected by unbreakable dark magic. The fortification teams with creatures of the night, clutching a motley crew of maces, axes and cross bows.

The hiss of laughter emitted from their midst falls silent as the Lover sings out a command, “Lower the bridge,” and at His word they have to obey.

They scurry forward unwillingly yet unable to desist in fulfilling his simple command, puppets each and every one.

Swiftly the band overtakes the bridge, entering within the outer wall of the ancient structure, known previously as only that which keeps in its victims and detains the unwanted from entering. With a swish of His hand the enemy is overtaken with confusion. Their battle readiness breaks apart as blindness and terror strikes at the heart of their vile unity. At the sound of a mighty trumpet blast, each vile regiment turns on one another delivering fatal blows to their moment before ally.

With a stunning display of agility, the Lover and his war party, scale the great partition, a mere hurdle that stands between the He and his maiden. Bulging muscles extend well placed blows that send the remaining villains scampering away like rats fleeing a tide of fiery wrath. The very sky trembles as they flee the light that devours. The day of their judgment, the one they have long feared, has arrived and they know they cannot endure it. Like dawn spreading upon the fortress, His army moves forward without breaking rank devouring the great city, the vile whore that has taken captive many a fair one.

Fanning out, without number they march on the fortress opening prison doors, rescuing the multitudes who have been enslaved, each one given a choice, should they want to stay within or follow.

But the Lover is single-hearted in his pursuit. Turning neither to the left or to the right, each stride determined and purposeful, deeper into the earth he descends, eager, breathless, nearly giddy. She awaits and he has come. Light goes before him like a mighty sword slicing into the darkness.
With a crash, the magnificent door, a flimsy barrier, flees before his touch leaving only the dark pit between he and his love. He gestures to the plank and it finds its place making way for the Lover to easily reach the captive. His eyes search the rocky shelf she dwells on, seeing only a mass of tattered clothing. But wait, the ever slight rise and fall of chest betrays a living body among the wreckage. It is she and to His eyes she is the most beautiful sight He has ever seen.

Then He is there and she is His, once again in His arms. With fluid grace He strides towards her prison door bringing her to safety. Faintly she registers that He has come. In her emerging consciousness she hears the footsteps of the one who kept her imprisoned, his ripe stench filling her lungs. Without setting her aside, her Rescuer directs one blow to their mutual enemy and he that seemed mighty, the worm that ravaged her soul is swept into that great pit where he will be remembered no more. The place prepared long ago for him and him alone. And in that instant she knows she is free.

Nestled in his arms they begin the ascent, the Lover and His fair one. His kiss to her brow heals the rift of offense between them. He urges a healing sip of the nectar from His pouch and with it the purge of the stench of death from her soul begins. But his words, oh it is His words, whispered like silk over her, that are the true tonic in which she begins to thrive. Each syllable a caress, a balm driving away the lies and imparting a new strength which anchors her soul.

A brief glimpse of the warrior gleans in His eyes as He turns to His standard bearer. “Torch it. No one is ever to be held here again. There will be no more death or dying in this haunt of jackals. This is my command. Do it at once.”

As he turns,a playful smile curves His lips and touches His eyes.

Again to His comrades He says, “We ride ahead. Finish this and meet us on the ‘morrow as we will surely feast together.”

Away they ride enveloped in tender silence. He mute in immeasurable wisdom. She however, silently contemplating how she had ever doubted His love or fretted His return. Each ruminating over their next word, all the while savoring the comfort of each other’s communion.

It was He who broke the silence.

“I’ve waited ready, eager for your rescue these many years. I have plotted and planned it, yet awaited the Command of my Father. You may not be able see the matchless wisdom of His timing now, but you will. I promise that you will. He and I have been ever working, ever fighting, ever eager to come for you. You have continually been on my mind, ever the magnificent prize set before me.”

Anguish glazes His face as He reaches into the front of his shirt grasping a delicate corked bottle made of glass. The ornate vial hangs on a cord around His neck and as He lifts it, the wear marks from where it has long rested are evident in His flesh. With a voice barely above a whisper He leans forward and places one finger under her chin so that her delicate face is beckoned upwards tenderly forced to meet his gaze.

“These are your tears. I’ve collected each one without fail, those of anguish and those from the years before when there was joy. I’ve kept each and every one in remembrance of you.”

Though she’d rehearsed the lines she’d planned to recount to him countless times, only tattered sobs make their way from her inner recesses. With each wail the vile companions she’d embraced are forced to flee, replaced by truth that can only be won in the darkest places of the soul. And He holds her fiercely in his arms and rests her head in the crook of his neck, whispering the words she’d longed to hear all those long lonely days and nights.

Finally, when the tidal wave of emotions had ebbed, she lifted her chin so their gazes lock and can only utter this, “You came for me.”

“I told you I would.” is His only reply.

And the loved one realizes at that moment that her story has merely begun; the journey of realizing she is free and no longer a slave in its infancy.

© Rebecca Dunning 2010

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Help Save Charles Manly

Please repost this, blog it and share it on your social networking sites.  Thanks so much, Rebecca


Dear Friends:

I am writing this unapologetically desperate (yet full of hope) for one of my best friends here in Colorado, Jen Manly. Her son, Charles is circling the drain emotionally and physically and in need of some serious divine intervention.

Reader’s Digest: Due to the safety of her other children, she and her husband are being required to remove him from their home to get help after they have exhausted ALL of their options and finances in every area to bring him rescue. After nothing short of a miracle Charles has been accepted to a Christian long term home called The Good Shepherd, that uses proven Jesus orientated therapy and bonding with horses to bring healing. Due to it having Christ involved they get no state funding and the cost is $55,000, with $11,000 of that needed up front to get him in.

Jen and her husband are cashing in their 401k, selling furniture (that they use) etc. to save their son and it still just scratches the surface. 
I have been captured by the fact that Jesus went “all in” for me. Not only saved my soul, but brought me into relationship with him when ALL was against me. I am unashamedly asking for everyone I know to consider doing the same. I am crying out to the Father for full restoration!


1) PRAY!
2) Give: The website is: www.gofundme.com/charlesmanly.
3) For those in Colorado Springs.  We are holding a garage sale April 22 and 23 (Fri and Sat) from 7am-2pm at 8933 Bellcove Circle, CS, CO 80920.  Please donate items or come on by to shop.  719.287.7074.


Monday, April 4, 2011

Book Give-Away Contest

For the next 14 days …  so now until April 18th, 2011 at 9 pm Mountain time, enter to win a free autographed copy of  either The Real-Life Princess or Beetle Hunter. Your choice.

 A powerful tale about the beauty and identity every girl’s heart can find only when she encounters the One True King.

Meet Zeke- whose imagination is the only thing greater than his love for creepy crawlies, as he and some pals go on a hilarious adventure to hunt for his favorite bug.

It’s easy.  

1)      Go to go to www.rebeccalynndunning.blogspot.com and click “follow” AND go to Amazon and click “like” on Beetle Hunter or The Real-Life Princess. (Or both if you like)


2)      Visit Rebecca’s Facebook Page for Awen House Publishing and click “like” AND Find her on Twitter and “follow”.
************To be entered: Comment on the blog at www.rebeccalynndunning.blogspot.com with your name (your email address will be kept private) and Type in: “I did 1” or “I did 2” and you will be entered to win the book of your choice.   

The winner will be announced April 19, 2011 by 9 am and chosen randomly.  The winner must respond within 7 days of when their name is announced with their mailing address or a new winner will be announced. 
(All information will be kept private and the author will not collect information for future purposes.)
Any questions?  rebecca.awenhouse@gmail.com

Friday, April 1, 2011

The Captive Trilogy: Part 2 - Return to Captivity

Author's Note:  Have you ever "sat on a bed of lies"  or "drowned in your own helplessness, or hopelessness?"-- Perhaps a better question is:  Have you found the One your soul loves in the midst of it?



The outward silence that reigned on the return journey to her prison belied the inner struggle for sanity. It clutched the very breath from her lungs. Drowning on land … that was the overwhelming sensation. Weight … crushing weight. She urged her mind to lose consciousness arguing that it was better than the reality she faced. No cords were needed to bind her by this band of soul-thieves as the occasional smirk on the grotesque lips of her accuser was enough.  Those smug piercing smiles said it all. She needed no verbal reminder that all was lost and her happy ending would never be coming.

“Could you will yourself to cease?” she pondered. For even to die a captive was better than the living failure she’d become. Where were those grand dreams now?  All the hopes for her life and for being known as a friend and a beloved…of reaching out and leaving her mark on the world before she passed into the next?  She’d die alone and unmourned even by her friends and lover.  Forgotten.  Desolate. Alone … always alone.

Then came a knock on the door of her being and she knew she could welcome in new companions. Friends that vowed they wouldn’t leave her in her darkest hour. Something in her opened up and ushered in what seemed to be the only company she would be allowed to keep. A shudder of apathy enveloped her. She received them inwardly and then drank the vile poison of cynicism that was offered to her.  She could vaguely feel the roots of bitterness crowding out desire and hope. Ah, finally the bliss she sought. Her body visibly shrank into its self and then nothingness waltzed across her face. She was no longer that noble lady of the court.  The person she had been was firmly snuffed.

Her enslaver turned with a wicked gleam in his eye. He knew. He’d finally broken her spirit and for that final victory he gloated. A flicker of pain stabbed her conscience that she’d acquiesced to his original plan. But for her it was too late. Somehow she couldn’t muster a care that what she had actually welcomed were his companions into her inner sanctum.

As the riders approached the fortification, the air became bleaker. Vegetation grew sparse until no living thing could be sustained in the vast waste land. Rocks jutted out of the landscape that appeared to have survived a raging fire. No beauty. No color. No sounds of birds or animals scurrying out of their path like she’d heard when she was near that last great barrier and her brief glimpse at freedom.

The very air seemed mixed with a sulfur-like gas that made breathing shallow and raspy and closing her eyes she retreated to the company of her new inner comrades. Then the inevitable, the horses began to ascend and she knew without opening her eyes that they were almost to her prison-home.

In a blink she was yanked from the horse to her unsteady feet as he paused to savor the look of defeat in her eyes. Wisely he forsook a beating, knowing that it could indeed awaken the inner spark of the once fierce warrior woman he had broken.

“Follow,”  he hissed.

Numbly she stumbled along keeping pace, with ripe dankness assaulting her senses, blindly following to the place she knew too well. The stench of human and animal waste, sweat and rot was tangible in the air and acted as beacons directing them deeper into the hold. Minions with lit wooden torches awaited them and a mere glance from their master had them scurrying to open ancient doors in the corridor that led to her final place of rest.

“Father,” they each muttered as they hastily completed their task.

The last door squealed on its hinges and her capturer ordered the plank lowered over the seemingly bottomless pit. Walking across the wooden walkway to the shelf of rock that was hers, she was roughly seized by the chin and forced to look down and saw the reminder of what awaited her if she attempted escape. A single torch was released, sailing downward, spinning and twisting as it made its way to the depths before it was quenched blow with a faint hiss.

“Need I remind you what this place is called?” a falsely cheery voice uttered. 

He waited for no answer.

“The obelisk …  the place of forgetfulness.  Your place.  As you are indeed “The Forgotten.”

Once she was flung onto the rough slab, he fairly danced back across the wooden walk way before it was drawn up again. The crank, which was just on the other side of the deep pit and controlled the plank, was ostentatiously visible. It served as a dangling carrot always out of reach. With that the door slammed covering her in darkness. The only light was an opening in the ceiling some thirty feet above which was presently shrouded by clouds and added a grayish hue to her surroundings.

The convening days and nights existed as a blur. She no longer marked out the days by adding hash marks on the wall with a limestone rock in order to keep her days straight and her mind sharp. The songs she’d composed to keep her spirit soaring no longer formed on her lips. The plays she’d constructed in her mind were no longer thought of to amuse her. Finally, she no longer exercised muscles to maintain strength for the next attempt at escape. Instead she sank into the very depths of the walls that enclosed her.  Blending; entering as one into the darkness.

When the ration of water was brought to add a semblance of dignity to her otherwise ghastly hygiene, she had only the strength to dump the bucket over her head. Efforts to clean her living space had halted with her recapture. Listless, she sat on the throne of her own filth. It was this and her loss of determination that led to the fevers.

Savage fevers rode rough shod over her body and waged war with her senses. Chills hop scotched with branding fire which receded into delirium.  In rare moments of alertness she urged the end to come and shouted out the “Whys” which reverberated on the thick stony walls and remained unanswered. 

“Why did her life turn out this way?  Why did the one who promised rescue break his vow? Why?  Why?  Why? Why? Why?” 

Soon hysterical laughter was her only cell mate, and the sure sign that she’d succumbed to madness. Her prison cell her crypt, the place where her life would end.  No funeral.  No grave.  No epitaph.  Her lover not in attendance.  She a mere pawn in the epic battle between He and her tormentor.  

If you LIKE IT, please SHARE IT, become a FOLLOWER of the blog, and by all means may it encourage you to follow your dreams.