Stories we have written:

I think that the "he" is Paul… maybe? I have no clue who the "I" is.

I think the "he" is Paul and the "I" is John Mark. Your story seems to make sense to me.

I think the "he" is Paul and the "I" is John Mark. Your story seems to make sense to me.

I understood it. Great so far. :)

One: Ephesus
“Thank you for inviting me to share your meal, Demetrius.” As Timothy rose from the table, he reached out to his friend, grasping his arm. It was a relief to come to Demetrius’s house, a welcome break from his busy life. Here he could relax, speak or be silent as he chose, without weighing each word. Much as he loved his work—his calling in life—here he was not a pastor, always giving, but a brother: giving and receiving in turn.

Demetrius rose with him. “You must stay a little longer. We can read together from the writings of the apostles and prophets.”

“I have much yet to do today.” Timothy shook his head. “I must visit Damaris and Simon to see their new child, and check on Jason’s progress. I heard a few days ago that our beloved sister Martha is failing, and I really should go pray with her today.” He moved toward the door and bent down to put on his sandals.

“Visit the baby, by all means, but surely Jason will finish copying Paul’s letters without your supervision? And Martha…could you send one of the other elders? You will hardly get home before dark. I would go myself, but I cannot walk so far with this limp.”

Timothy smiled, imagining Demetrius’s close-cropped gray hair and clean-shaven face walking among the flowing beards and tassels worn by Martha’s brothers, sons, and nephews. “You still look like a Roman soldier, you know. Most of the other elders are Gentile too, and might be equally unwelcome in the Jewish sector.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Demetrius, “but I still wish I could help you more.”

“Don’t worry.” Timothy straightened up, reaching for his heavy cloak. “I am not neglecting my reading or study of doctrine, even though today I spend my time on the practical side of pastoring.”

Valentina, Demetrius’s wife, came up and stood next to her husband. “We will see you on the first of the week then, at Simon’s house?”

Timothy nodded. “God bless you both.”

“The Lord Jesus Christ go with you, Timothy.” Demetrius raised his hand in farewell, and Timothy ducked under the door, out into the afternoon sunshine.

Taking a deep breath, he turned toward the docks and the smell of the sea. Though the sun was shining, the winter wind was cold in his face, and he bent his head forward, pushing into it. The sound of the market behind him was muted, and a citizen hurried past him, heading for the gymnasium. As he approached the port, the scent of salt water and rotting fish grew stronger, and he wrinkled his nose against it as he made his way to Damaris’s hut, wondering if her husband would be home at this time of day, or out fishing still.

When he reached the door, propped open to admit more light, he knocked gently on the frame.

“Pastor?” Damaris, appeared in the doorway and beckoned him in. “Why the uncertain sound? You know our house, surely.”

Squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, Timothy responded, “I didn’t want to wake the baby if he was sleeping.” Seeing her husband sitting in the corner, holding the baby wrapped in a blanket, Timothy nodded to him in greeting. A quiet man, he complimented his wife’s more buoyant personality.

“Oh, he is still too young to care much about noise and movement!” Damaris laughed. “Would you like to hold him?” She flitted over to her husband, who held the baby up to her and settled him in her arms.

As Damaris approached him with the child, Timothy stepped away from the door, so that the light would not fall on the newborn’s face. “Should I sit down with him?” He glanced around, looking for another stool.

“No need. Just crook your arm out…there. Keep his neck supported, and the blanket around him, and you’ll be just fine.”

Before he could respond, the baby was in his arms, and the new mother was across the room, asking if she could get him anything to drink.

“I’m fine, thank you.” Timothy shifted his arm, trying to get into a more comfortable position without disturbing the baby. Every time he held a newborn, he was astonished at how light they were. The blanket slipped a little, and the baby wriggled, waving his hand in the air as Timothy pulled the cloth back around, tucking it in against his chest.

“Shh.” He murmured, and jiggled his elbow a little. The tiny forehead and mouth, a moment before wrinkled and puckered with the beginning of a wail, smoothed back into contentment. For a little while he stood, contemplating the new life in his arms, before handing the baby back to his mother with a smile. “I see your little one is doing very well. Congratulations to you and your husband.”

“He is perfect,” Damaris agreed, glancing toward her husband, “and thank you for your prayers for his birth.”

“I will continue to remember all of you in my prayers, that God may grant you health and joy,” said Timothy, lifting his hand in farewell as he turned back to the streets.

“The Lord go with you!” Damaris called after him.

Question for those who are willing to answer it: How would you describe Timothy from this section? What is his character?

Although I would be looking to expand and correct my ideas of his character as I read more, I'd say he strikes me as maybe a little bit on the shy/unsure of himself side. Though he's not someone who is a constant talker, he doesn't particularly struggle communicating with people. He's probably pretty kind-hearted as well.

Looking at the sun, which was now sinking in the west, Timothy quickened his pace, heading towards the Jewish section of town. Demetrius had been right, there was not time to visit both Jason and Martha. The old woman needed his attention more, now that she could not gather with the believers but must wait for them to come to her, so he decided to go to her house today, and wait to speak with Jason until they met at Simon’s house.

It was strange, being half-Jew, half-Greek. To the Romans, he was a Jew, to be mocked for his dark complexion and his nation’s customs, while his own people were suspicious of his Greek face and mannerisms. Still, they did accept his right of birth, and allowed him in their synagogues as one of themselves. He could go into Martha’s house without the entire household needing to ritually purge the uncleanness afterward, as they would be required by law if a Gentile entered. Many Christian Jews no longer followed these ceremonial laws, receiving their Gentile brothers with gladness, but Martha’s son-in-law, who was taking care of her, was not yet a believer, and Timothy knew how he would react to an unclean Gentile visiting her.

“Shalom, Timothy.”

“Peace to you.” Timothy responded automatically, before even registering who had greeted him. “Simon!” The two men clasped hands warmly.

“What brings you to this part of the city, brother?” Simon asked, as he turned to walk alongside Timothy.

“I go to see our sister Martha. Levi tells me she is failing fast, and I thought it might be of comfort to pray with her.”

“A worthy errand. See that you get back to your lodging before dark. The city is none too safe at night.”

“So Demetrius cautioned me when I set out.” Timothy chuckled. “Is it everyone’s duty to make sure I am safe?”

“We must all look out for each other in these dangerous times, Timothy.”

“Then I must hurry, to follow your wise advice. Christ go with you!”

“And with you, my friend.”

Simon turned to resume his walk, and Timothy knocked on the door of Martha’s house. It was an older building, and tall, with a gloomy and stale interior. Several families lived there, sharing the faint breath of fresh air that could be caught on the roof at dusk, among the few green plants that Miriam, Martha’s daughter, had coaxed into life.

The door creaked open, revealing the suspicious eyes and copious beard of Miriam’s husband. “Timothy.” he stood in the doorway, waiting.

“Shalom, Joseph. I come to see your mother-in-law, since I heard she is not well.”

“Enter then.” The man took a reluctant step back. “She’s in there.” He motioned towards the back room.

Silently, Timothy stepped past him, moving through the semi-darkness in the direction indicated, with his hands stretched out to prevent bumping into the walls.

As he came into the room, Martha turned her face toward him, hearing the sound of movement. A small oil lamp illuminated her worn features, and cast a flickering shadow on the opposite wall. Glancing at her face, Timothy saw that she was closer to death than he had expected. He did not know whether she was even conscious of his presence, but he sat down on the wooden stool that stood next to her cot, and laid his hand on her shoulder.

Miriam slipped into the room, holding a bowl of broth and a towel. “She is very weak,” she whispered, “I do not think she will see the sun rise.” She bent over to pour a little of the broth into the old woman’s mouth, wiping her chin between each spoonful with careful love. “There is so little I can do for her now, I hate to leave her alone even for a few minutes. Joseph helps all he can, but he has his trade, and the children need me too.”

“Let me watch for a few hours,” Timothy suggested in a low voice. “I came to pray with her, and I will also stay to see her received into glory with our Saviour. You should rest, to have the strength for the others in your family as well. God will bless you for the love and respect you show your mother.”

“Thank you, Timothy. Call for me if anything changes, please.” Miriam gathered up the bowl of half-eaten soup, and crept out of the room.

With a sigh, Timothy leaned back against the wall.

New life and death, both in a single day, he mused. So the world had always been, since sin entered it. Closing his eyes, he began to pray. For Martha, her family, Damaris and her baby, Simon, Demetrius—one after another he lifted them up, asking the Father to watch over them, to fill them with His Spirit. Through the night he watched and prayed, in rhythm with the shallow breath of a dying body.

This isn't a story, but I wrote it. ^realizes that sounds almost exactly like what Rachel said :P^

Success
Success, it’s such a sparkly but elusive mission. Something you can chase after but never quite catch. Something that Americans hold up to us as the greatest aspiration to have, the greatest thing someone can achieve.

Success is defined in the Webster’s 1828 Dictionary as “The favorable or prosperous termination of any thing attempted; a termination which answers the purpose intended;” (Webster sub-suc) Success is defined by the more modern Merriam-Webster Dictionary as “the fact of getting or achieving wealth, respect, or fame.” (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/success) Beside the fact that we used to employ a greater extent of voluminous verbiage in our definitions, we can also see that the definition has somewhat changed. While success used to be thought of as whether or not you accomplished a certain goal, it is now used as the measuring stick of people’s lives. And what a measuring stick success is. Who gets to determine how much “wealth, respect, or fame” (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/success) you need to get to before you are successful?

This rather vague objective of success is something we’ve all been pushed toward, and, I believe, it has begun to sneak into the Christian worldview. Wanting to find God’s will for your life becomes something more like trying to find how God wants you to become successful. We’re watching and waiting for some great and glorious assignment, looking for some sort of Christianized version of “wealth, respect and fame” (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/success), and overlooking what God has already put before us to do.

What is God’s idea of success, or, more appropriately, what is actual success? I would like to persuade you that the key to true success is faithfulness. The key to true success is faithfulness. This is not only a much simpler definition of success, but something that anyone anywhere can achieve, and God is the one who determines whether or not you have been faithful. I’d like to look at three points as to why I believe faithfulness is the key to true success – and why you should be faithful to serve God right where He has placed you. First, how do you live a successful life of true worth? Second, how do you live a successful life to the glory of God? And finally, how do you live a successful life as a servant of Christ?

So first, how do you live a successful life of true worth?
At the heart of the idea of success is this longing to do something remarkable, to accomplish something with purpose and meaning beyond yourself, something that will last beyond your time on this earth. But striving after the world’s view of success will never achieve any of these things. Perhaps the greatest example of this is Solomon, the king of Israel. He was a man who not only had the abundant wealth, and the most prominent rank and status, but also the unparalleled intelligence and capability to obtain or achieve anything he wanted. As men saw it, Solomon had it all, “wealth, respect, fame.” (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/success) Solomon looked for purpose in work, in building and creating, in possessions and acquiring wealth, in relationships, feasting, mirth, and knowledge. But none of those things brought lasting satisfaction. Looking at all he had lived for, Solomon says in Ecclesiastes 2:11 “Then I looked on all the works that my hands had wrought, and on the labour that I had laboured to do: and, behold, all was vanity and vexation of spirit, and there was no profit under the sun.” (KJV, Ecclesiastes 2:11)

Solomon was the pinnacle of what men call successful, but he himself realized that his success was fleeting, and meaningless. The problem is, whether you are successful or not, you will still die just like everyone else. Solomon’s wealth was given to another, his respect pretty much died out with him, and his fame was forgotten. Wait a minute, we’re talking about Solomon right now, his fame isn’t forgotten. Well, there’s only one slight difficulty with trying to somehow gain immortality by fame, and that is, you’ll only be remembered by people… who are going to die too.

But looking past the emptiness of worldly success to simple faithfulness in the work God has set before us, in this, we can accomplish things that will last beyond our time on earth. Because God has given us victory over death through the sacrifice of Christ, death is not the end, and God will establish our work. As it says in 1 Corinthians 15:58, “Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye stedfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord.” (KJV, 1 Corinthians 15:58) Be faithful in the work of the Lord because this labor is not in vain. Instead of chasing after the shiny bubble of success, this is a life lived from the perspective of glorifying God through every situation. But how can you be faithful in the work of the Lord?

Which brings me to my second point; How do you live a successful life to the glory of God?
Sometimes we have the tendency to think that only big things, like going overseas as a missionary, or starting some kind of ministry, bring glory to God. These are things that some people are called to, things that are very admirable, but just because they fit better into a Christianized “wealth, respect, and fame” (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/success) category than some less great and not quite-so-glorious assignments, does not mean that those are the only kind of things that bring glory to God. We are told in 1 Corinthians 10:31 that, “Whether therefore ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.” (KJV, 1 Corinthians 10:31)

In a Convocation speech at Liberty University, Louie Giglio, who is a pastor, author and speaker, told of a job he used to have, copying medical journals for the CDC. He was copying thousands of pages for hours every day in a tiny room with a noisy printer. He decided that this was his time to worship Jesus in that room, and that no matter how much copying he had to do, he would get it all done and do the very finest job he could. He was determined to glorify God in whatever job he was given.

Though no one cared about his great copying job, no one would talk about he faithfulness and determination for Jesus’ sake, (except me…) he realized this was where God had him for now, and he had decided to do his very best.
When he left, they had to hire three people to do the same job.

God is not only glorified by those biography-worthy things done in His name, but by submitted attitudes and hearts faithful to serve Him in all circumstances, no matter where He has chosen to place you.

So finally, how do you live a successful life as a servant of Christ?
“What is that to thee? follow thou me.” (KJV, John 21:22) These words of Jesus in John 21:22 should summarize all our attitudes as we live our lives as servants to Christ. It shouldn’t matter what the world holds up to us as of the greatest importance, follow Christ. It shouldn’t matter what tasks God has given to others to complete, what is that to you? Follow Christ. Whether you’ve been assigned one of those limelight positions, or maybe no one will ever hear of your name, what is that to you? As a servant, you only need to strive to please your Master by being faithful in the place He has chosen for you.

Do you want more responsibility; are you anxious to do more for your Master? That is wonderful. Be faithful with what He has given you now. If you are not faithful in the little things now, why would He assign you a more taxing position?

I would like to conclude with an observation from the parable of the talents. The master had given his one servant five talents, and another two. Both doubled their original amount, one ending up with ten talents, and the other with four. They were both told the same thing, in Matthew 25:21 and 23, “His lord said unto him, Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord.” (KJV, Matthew 25:21; 23)

What is success as God sees it? He knows you, He knows what areas your talents and capabilities would best serve in, He knows what areas you need to be proved in, He has put you where you are for a reason.

Be faithful to live for something of actual worth, not the glittery allusion of success. Be faithful to glorify God in all circumstances, even when those circumstances aren’t glorious. Be faithful to serve Christ where ever He places you, even if no one is going to takes notice of your faithful service. Because after all, success as God sees it is all that really matters.
 

Source Page
• Webster’s 1828 Dictionary
• http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/success (accessed 3/18/16)
• http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/success (accessed 3/18/16)
• http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/success (accessed 3/18/16)
• http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/success (accessed 3/18/16)
• King James Version, Ecclesiastes 2:11
• King James Version, 1 Corinthians 15:58
• http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/success (accessed 3/18/16)
• King James Version, 1 Corinthians 10:31
• King James Version, John 21:22
• King James Version, Matthew 25:21; 23

^All quoted material from R.M. Ballantyne. Actions and all other bracketed or bolded information is implied by the book or made up according to the fancy of myself. Compiled by yours truly for no reason in particular.^

The Post Haste Trailer

[Sun rising over London's General Post-Office, St. Martin's-le-Grand and the city begins to stir]
In haste; post haste, for thy life, for thy life, for thy life.

They flashed the news of the world over the length and breadth of the land,
pulsating joy and sorrow, surprise, fear, hope, despair, and gladness to thousands of anxious hearts.

A STORY OF LETTERS

[Boy: reading paper to a woman anxious to hear what him]
"Boy-messengers, if they behave themselves, have a chance of promotion to boy-sorterships, indoor-telegraph-messengerships, junior sorterships nd letter carrierships, on their reaching the age of seventeen,
[Boy: looks up from paper]
"and, I suppose, secretaryships, and post master-generalships, with a baronetcy, on their attaining the age of Methuselah. [pause]
It's the very thing for me, mother, so I'll be off tomorrow–"

[Post office worker: rattling off statistics to his astounded hearer]
"…if a few thousands puzzle you so much what will you make of this? The total number of letters, postcards, newspapers, etcetera, that passed through the Post-offices of the Kingdom last year was 1,477,828,200!
"…if you were to lay fourteen hundred and seventy-seven million letters out in a straight line, end to end, the lot would extend…more than three times the circumference of the world."

OF LOVE

[The boy: in worried remarks about his sister]
"It will never do to let her kill herself over the telegraph instrument. She is too delicately formed for such work."

[while girl is at work, looking out window at nothing in particular]
Sorrow had more to do with the change than the telegraph had.

AND REDEMPTION

[Young man: despairingly]
"I've tried before now to break off the accursed habit without success…
"God help me, I've fallen very low!"

[Missionary]
"It is God Who giveth us the victory"

[Girl: looking up, in soft, earnest voice]
"Is true love, then, so easily cured?"

POST HASTE

"Think on these things when next you read the little card that wishes you 'a merry Christmas!'"

OWN IT ON MUSHED UP TREE TODAY

I like it. xD That's one of the few Ballantyne books I've actually read and remember much about. Good one!

^And by the way, if I read your intentions correctly, the correct word is "compiled". ;P xD^

facedesk I thought compiled and wrote collaborated. :P

Happens to the best of us. x)

Do you find that a fair representation that summarizes the idea of the story? ^…It's been about a year sense I read it :P^

Yeah! …I think so. It's been years since I read it too. ^Ahem, so sorry, Emily, but maybe you just tend to forget how to spell some of your words when you've been off of MV for such a long time. xP JK^

No kidding. I keep typing the wrong letters and tripping over my fingers…hitting letters not enough or too many times. =P

Uh-huh. Yeah. Sure. xD xP JK

True story. It's happened to me. =P lol

And it just happened to come out as another legal English word? =P

I deleted all the other times before I posted it. :P

Okay. At least you didn't make any nonexistent words. ;P

I deleted all the other times before I posted it. :P

^ That. xP

Here's a story a wrote for school.
Judah Ben Hur

I am Judah Ben Hur, sent to the gallows for a crime I did not commit. Now I am seeking Messala, who sent my dear mother and sister to jail, to extract revenge from him. Even at this very moment, I am preparing for…Wait! if I told you what, that would ruin the story. Let me start from the beginning.

I grew up in a rich family in Judea, in the town of Jerusalem with my close child-hood friend Messala. We played together. We went to school together. We did every thing together. There was only one problem: Messala was a Roman, and I was a Jew. He wanted to become a famous solider. I was fine with being my father’s heir to the most important house in Jerusalem. When Messala was old enough, around 15, he went to Rome to start his training. Messala quickly rose to the top. He was appointed the leader of the Roman forces back home were he grew up which was in Judea.
When I saw him for the first time in years, I realized how much I had missed my honorary brother. We hugged each other tightly. I invited him inside my home. Messala told me all about his time in Rome, and I told him everything that had happened in Judea while he was gone.
Suddenly, Messala asked me something I did not expect. “Judah, I know you are a very influential person in Jerusalem. It would make my job so much easier if you proclaimed to everyone in the city that the prophesy about Jesus, better known as the Messiah, is fake.”
I was shocked. I told him “No!”. He pleaded with me, saying, “If the people believe their Messiah has not come yet, they will obey the Roman leaders. No one will die because they won’t have a reason to rebel.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Was my childhood friend really asking me to deny everything I believed in, just because it would make his job slightly easier?
“I cannot do it, Messala. I believe that there will be a Messiah, and he will come soon. When he does, I will follow him with all my heart, soul and mind!” 
Messala kept pressing the issue, promising me riches and favors, until he became desperate. He promised that when he ruled over Judea, he would make me the high priest, but I could not bear to hear what he was saying anymore. I started to walk away. Messala followed me all the way to my garden wall. I turned around and said goodbye. After that conversation, we could never be friends again. We were too different; I was an Israelite, and he was a Roman.
The last thing I heard Messala say was, “He who is not a friend to Rome, is Rome’s enemy!”
A month later, there was a great parade in the city announcing the new procurator, Valerius Gratus. My sister Tirzah, and mother Miriam, were watching the proceedings from the rooftop of our home. I moved to the other side to get a better view. As I leaned against the cold red roof, a tile suddenly slipped and fell right on the new procurator’s head, killing him instantly! I went cold with fear and could not move. The entire parade froze. They all looked up at our house. I knew what it looked like: an angry Israelite citizen had assassinated the new procurator! Roman soldiers rushed at our house, knocked down our front door, and swarmed inside. They grabbed my mother! They snatched my sister! They seized me!
Then, Messala walked in. I pleaded with him, begging him to vouch for my innocence. Then Messala said, "What did you do when I pleaded with you? You are an assassin, and you deserve to die." I could see from his eyes, however, that he knew it was a terrible accident. Then I remembered the warning he had given me. 
“He who is not a friend to Rome, is Rome’s enemy.”
Since I was not a Roman citizen, I didn't even get a trial. Since I was young, they decided that rather then executing me, they could use my strength for themselves. 
"He can work out his hatred for Rome chained in the gallows of the Emperors warships."
I spent three long years rowing. I lived through many fierce battles, not knowing if or when I would die.
One night, we sailed into the last battle I would be rowing in, although I did not know it then. Usually, all the slaves rowing would be chained to the floor; if the ship sunk, they would drown with it. Somehow, I had earned the respect of the ship's commander, Quintus Arrius. He had let me go into battle unchained. 
The battle was loud. Fireballs were blazing. It was very dark. Ships were sinking left and right, and we were rowing as fast as we could to stay alive. Suddenly, a ship crashed into the side of the gallows. Water started flooding our my feet. Since I wasn't chained, I jumped up, grabbed the guard's keys, and started unlocking all of the men around me, to give them a fighting chance at life. We all ran to the top deck, where the battle was going on. I saw Quintus Arrius shoved off the deck, plummeting into the water. His heavy armor was causing him to drown. I ran. I jumped. I swam. I took Quintus Arrius and struggled to haul him over a huge piece of driftwood. Finally, I did it. He was unconscious. I was so tired I fell fast asleep beside him on the log. 
In the next month,  Quintus Arrius adopted me as his son, making me a freedman, a Roman citizen, and his heir. I traveled to Jerusalem, hiding behind my new identity. My goal, all these years, had been to return and find my mother and sister. I also sought for revenge. When I found Messala, he had risen though the ranks of the army and became the leader of the Roman forces in Jerusalem and Judea. Messala was astonished! He had assumed I had to be dead, since most criminals died in the gallows after a year of service. I demanded to know what had happened to my mother and sister. He told me they were long dead. My hate for Messala grew more than I could imagine. He has taken everything from me. 
At the moment, I am preparing for a great chariot race. I know that Messala has gambled all of his fortunes on himself winning. If I defeated him, I will have ruined his life like he did mine.  Two years later
I will never forget that chariot race. My team was placed on the far side of the center, so to get ahead, I had to beat everyone else to the turn. I wanted Messala to die. However, right before the race, Messala came up to me and said, ”I am the only man alive who knows the true fate of your mother and sister.” 
I remember thinking,”I dare not endanger his life!” 
We were racing at full speed. One by one, the other racers crashed into each other, killing their horses and breaking their wheels. Somehow, I had avoided most of it.  Finally, I was right behind Messala. He was in the lead because he kept whipping his horses. I had never used a whip on my dear friends, and Messala knew it. Suddenly, he slowed down until his chariot was right next to mine and shouted out, “Lets see what happens when you whip a horse that has no fear of it!” 
In that next moment, a few thing happened at the same time. Messala started whipping my horses, and then he hit me! As he swung to hit again, I grabbed the whip from him. All of a sudden, my horses bolted ahead in fear, sending Messala flying out of his chariot. I did not see what happen next, since I was trying to clam my horses down. We raced past the finish line in first place. Later, I was told that Messala’s own horses ran him over. 
Messala was quickly taken to a nearby room where the doctor tried to save his life. In agony, Messala called for me. The guards brought me in too see him. Messala told me, “When I found out you were alive…. I looked for your mother and sister… I found them in prison, sick with leprosy… Instead of killing them, I sent them to the leper colony.. right outside Jerusalem…. they are living out… a pitiful existence!”
With these angry, spiteful words, Messala breathed his last. 
I had no one to hate anymore. In despair, I went to the leper colony to get my mother and sister and bring them to the great prophet, Jesus Christ. I had heard of his miracles, and hoped he could heal their sickness. 
When we returned to Jerusalem, I found out some terrible news. Jesus had just been crucified on the order of Pontius Pilate. All my life’s dreams and promises were shattered! I could not be happy with my revenge on Messala, and my mother and sister were condemned for life. 
We all cried together bitterly. Suddenly, out of the blue, a earthquake struck the city without warning! It was gone as quickly as it came. As the dust settled, I noticed something amazing! My mother and sister were cured of their leprosy!
I found out from Jesus’s disciples that right before the earthquake, he has said, “Father, please forgive them, for they know not what they do.” 
Then, with his dying breath, he said “It is finished!” 
The earthquake had happened right after that. 
Since that day, our family has followed Jesus the Messiah with all of our hearts. 

I am Judah Ben Hur, and I was sent to the gallows for a crime I did not commit. I sought revenge, but even after I accomplished my goal, I was miserable. 
I was only satisfied after following Jesus the Messiah. He taught me that forgiveness is everything.  The End 

I wrote this for fun a few days ago. (JSYK it's not a true story.) Please tell me if you think I seemed too descriptive in the paragraph about the table. I know some people like it when stories are really descriptive. (I actually don't like it; when I read something that has a paragraph just describing something, I normally skip that paragraph.) But anyway here it is: (please tell me honestly what you think)

GIVING THANKS

Excitement was in the air. I could feel it. Everyone was scurrying around, hurrying with last-minute decorations and food preparations. The delicious smell of the roasted turkey filled the house, and I could almost taste it. I heard the beep of the oven timer, and soon the odor of freshly baked pumpkin pie mingled with that of the turkey. I ran downstairs, almost bumping into Ryan. We both scooted out of the way for each other, thus getting in the way again. Laughing, I let Ryan go past me and then bounced down the rest of the way.
I gasped when I saw the dining room table. It took my breath away, just as it did every year. The table was covered with a red-orange tablecloth. The turkey sat in the center of it on a beautiful platter, and other dishes, such as cranberry sauce and corn, were on both sides of the table in sparkling glass bowls. There were two breadbaskets filled with fresh rolls; one on the right, and one on the left. Soft sticks of butter on matching plates lay beside each basket. Each seat at the table had a beautiful yet plain white plate, with fork and knife beside, and a folded napkin on top. Each place also had an empty glass and a folded card holder with the name of the person whose spot it was on the card inside. Mom was just getting the apple cider out of the fridge and setting it on the table.  In its modern carton with the brightly colored label on one side, it just didn’t seem to fit in with the rest of the food. I requested that she pour it into the fancy pitcher that she kept only for special occasions, and she smilingly agreed.
Bouncing outside, I found Ryan playing basketball with himself. “I can’t wait for Grandma and Grandpa to come. I just love Thanksgiving.” he said.
I agreed. “It’s just wonderful. But why is it called Thanksgiving? We don’t give thanks to anyone, except maybe Mom for the food. Is that what it means?”
Ryan stopped bouncing the ball. “I don’t know. I never really thought about it before. We should try to find out.”
“Come on!” I shouted, running to the house. “Let’s ask Mom!”
Once inside, we found Mom spooning hot mashed potatoes into a bowl. “Mom, why is Thanksgiving called Thanksgiving?”
Mom seemed surprised at the question. “Well, I guess because you give thanks.”
“But to whom? And why?” Mom’s answer didn’t satisfy Ryan.
“Ummm… let’s see here…. Well, I don’t really know.”
“Okay. Let’s ask Dad!” I ran upstairs into Mom and Dad’s room, but no one was there. “You look outside, Ryan. I’ll check the house.” 
Ryan ran outside, and I went all over, looking into rooms. He wasn’t in my room, nor Ryan’s. Not in the living room or the office either. Running down the basement steps, I peeked over the railing. Not down here. Then I heard a shout from Ryan. Going back up, I saw Ryan inside. “Come on, Dad’s out here. I thought you wouldn’t want me to ask without you.”
“Thanks.” We went outside and saw Dad raking leaves. “Dad,” I called. “Why is Thanksgiving called Thanksgiving? Who do we give thanks to? And why?”
“Whom.” Ryan corrected me, laughing.
“Whatever. But why, Dad?”
“Well now, there’s the Pilgrims... You don’t know the story?”
“Dad! We know the story. We just don’t know why it’s called Thanksgiving.”
“Well, why don’t you look in your history books?”
“Sure!” Ryan and I ran to look, but after a few minutes of searching, both of us decided there was nothing in them about the Pilgrims at all. “After all,” said Ryan, “My book this year was French history.” I laughed.
“But how can we find out?”
“I know! Let’s google it!” Ryan ran toward the office and plopped onto the seat by the computer. “What should I search?”
“How about why we celebrate Thanksgiving?”
Ryan typed it in, and soon we found an article about the Pilgrims. After reading it, Ryan clicked it down and ran to tell Mom. “You tell Dad,” he said.
I went outside and found Dad again. “Hey Dad, we found it! Not in our history books, but on the computer. The Pilgrims celebrated it to thank God, because they had been starving and he made their corn grow so they had food. They made a big feast that lasted a week!”
“Really? Well, that’s nice.” Dad seemed a bit uneasy, but I wasn’t done.
“Why don’t we go to church anymore? We stopped a few years ago. Why?”
I could tell Dad was uncomfortable. “We... ah... We do go to church on Christmas, and Easter, and other times too!”
“Dad! The few times a year doesn’t really count. Can’t we go again and thank God like the Pilgrims?”
“I’ll have to talk to Mom about it. But we aren’t starving, anyway.”
“All the more reason to thank Him, right?”
“Ah, I-I guess so. Why don’t you run in and see if you can help your mother?”
I ran inside, and saw Ryan talking to her. “Good job finding it!” she praised. “Would you two like to tell our guests about it when they come?”
“Sure!” We agreed happily.
Soon the company came, and we sat down to eat. Ryan and I told the story together, and everyone thought it was very interesting. I said something about wanting to go to church again, too. Dad must have felt awkward when he said lamely, “We just don’t have time anymore.”
Grandma wasn’t convinced. “I think you could squeeze in time for a couple hours a week. Why don’t you come to our church?”
Dad looked at Mom, who excitedly nodded. She had wanted to keep going to church when we stopped, but hadn't wanted to argue with Dad. “Um, I guess.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We now go to church every week. We have all listened hard, and now are happy Christians, owing it to God! I am also very thankful to Grandma for inviting us. Dad says I helped too, but it was God who made me want to go. We all are members of the church now. Every day now is a Thanksgiving for us!

It sounds pretty good. The description blends nicely into the story and isn't long enough to get annoying.
I've highlighted a few things I noticed as I read through it that you might want to consider changing (disclaimer: I have not graduated yet, so take my advice with a grain of salt.)

Excitement was in the air. I could feel it. Everyone was scurrying around, hurrying with last-minute decorations and food preparations. The delicious smell of the roasted turkey filled the house, and I could almost taste it. I heard the beep of the oven timer, and soon the _odor_ *[I usually think of an odor as a bad smell. I know it can mean both good and bad smells, but, at least to me, it has negative connotations.]* of freshly baked pumpkin pie mingled with that of the turkey. I ran downstairs, almost bumping into Ryan. We both scooted out of the way for each other, thus getting in the way again *[This sentence sounds a little awkward. It's hard to find a good way to word it. Maybe something like "We both scooted to the same side, trying to let the other person pass but only getting in the way again.]*. Laughing, I let Ryan go past me *[Maybe it would be a little clearer how you accomplished this (since you were stuck in the last sentence) if you added "first" right here.]* and then bounced down the rest of the way.
I gasped when I saw the dining room table. It took my breath away, just as it did every year. The table was covered with a red-orange tablecloth. The turkey sat in the center of it on a beautiful platter, and other dishes, such as cranberry sauce and corn, were on both sides of the table in sparkling glass bowls. There were two breadbaskets filled with fresh rolls; one on the right, and one on the left. Soft sticks of butter on matching plates lay beside each basket. Each seat at the table had a beautiful yet plain *[Maybe it would be clearer to say "beautiful yet simple." I don't know. "Plain" and "beautiful" aren't necessarily contradictory, but the words just seem to send different signals. Maybe it's just me.]* white plate, with fork and knife beside, and a folded napkin on top. Each place also had an empty glass and a folded card holder with the name of the person whose spot it was on the card inside. Mom was just getting the apple cider out of the fridge and setting it on the table.  In its modern carton with the brightly colored label on one side, it just didn’t seem to fit in with the rest of the food *[This sentence seems a little awkward. Maybe you could state it more succinctly. For example, "Its mordern carton and brightly colored label just didn't seem to fit in with the rest of the food.]*. I requested that she pour it into the fancy pitcher that she kept only for special occasions, and she smilingly agreed.
Bouncing outside, I found Ryan playing basketball with himself. “I can’t wait for Grandma and Grandpa to come. I just love Thanksgiving.” he said.
I agreed. “It’s just wonderful. But why is it called Thanksgiving? We don’t give thanks to anyone, except maybe Mom for the food. Is that what it means?”
Ryan stopped bouncing the ball. “I don’t know. I never really thought about it before. We should try to find out.”
“Come on!” I shouted, running to the house. “Let’s ask Mom!”
Once inside, we found Mom spooning hot mashed potatoes into a bowl. “Mom, why is Thanksgiving called Thanksgiving?”
Mom seemed surprised at the question. “Well, I guess because you give thanks.”
“But to whom? And why?” Mom’s answer didn’t satisfy Ryan.
“Ummm… let’s see here…. Well, I don’t really know.”
“Okay. Let’s ask Dad!” I ran upstairs into Mom and Dad’s room, but no one was there. “You look outside, Ryan. I’ll check the house.” 
Ryan ran outside, and I went all over, looking into rooms. He wasn’t in my room, nor Ryan’s. Not in the living room or the office either. Running down the basement steps, I peeked over the railing. Not down here. Then I heard a shout from Ryan. Going back up, I saw Ryan inside. “Come on, Dad’s out here. I thought you wouldn’t want me to ask without you.”
“Thanks.” We went outside and saw Dad raking leaves. “Dad,” I called. “Why is Thanksgiving called Thanksgiving? Who do we give thanks to? And why?”
“Whom.” Ryan corrected me, laughing.
“Whatever. But why, Dad?”
“Well now, there’s the Pilgrims... You don’t know the story?”
“Dad! We know the story. We just don’t know why it’s called Thanksgiving.”
“Well, why don’t you look in your history books?”
“Sure!” Ryan and I ran to look, but after a few minutes of searching, both of us decided there was nothing in them about the Pilgrims at all. “After all,” said Ryan, “My book this year was French history.” I laughed.
“But how can we find out?”
“I know! Let’s google it!” Ryan ran toward the office and plopped onto the seat by the computer. “What should I search?”
“How about why we celebrate Thanksgiving?”
Ryan typed it in, and soon we found an article about the Pilgrims. After reading it, Ryan clicked it down and ran to tell Mom. “You tell Dad,” he said.
I went outside and found Dad again. “Hey Dad, we found it! Not in our history books, but on the computer. The Pilgrims celebrated it to thank God, because they had been starving and he made their corn grow so they had food. They made a big feast that lasted a week!”
“Really? Well, that’s nice.” Dad seemed a bit uneasy, but I wasn’t done.
“Why don’t we go to church anymore? We stopped a few years ago. Why?”
I could tell Dad was uncomfortable. “We... ah... We do go to church on Christmas, and Easter, and other times too!”
“Dad! The few times a year doesn’t really count. Can’t we go again and thank God like the Pilgrims?”
“I’ll have to talk to Mom about it. But we aren’t starving, anyway.”
“All the more reason to thank Him, right?”
“Ah, I-I guess so. Why don’t you run in and see if you can help your mother?”
I ran inside, and saw Ryan talking to her. “Good job finding it!” she praised. “Would you two like to tell our guests about it when they come?”
“Sure!” We agreed happily.
Soon the company came, and we sat down to eat. Ryan and I told the story together, and everyone thought it was very interesting. I said something about wanting to go to church again, too. Dad must have felt awkward when he said lamely, “We just don’t have time anymore.”
Grandma wasn’t convinced. “I think you could squeeze in time for a couple hours a week. Why don’t you come to our church?”
Dad looked at Mom, who excitedly nodded. She had wanted to keep going to church when we stopped, but hadn't wanted to argue with Dad. “Um, I guess.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We now go to church every week. We have all listened hard, and now are happy Christians, owing it to God! I am also very thankful to Grandma for inviting us. Dad says I helped too, but it was God who made me want to go. We all are members of the church now. Every day now is a Thanksgiving for us!</blockquote>

Thanks! You noticed a lot of the same stuff I noticed that I didn't quite like, but wasn't able to think of a solution. All of your suggested improvements sound great, thanks! I'll probably do them, or something like them.

As I promised on the May SC, (more specifically to Katrina and Matthew), here a recent short story I wrote. =) My total word count was 2,192 (including the title). The things that happened to Michelle in the story actually happened to my Grandma last year.
Hope you enjoy! And if you see anything that should be edited, feel free to let me know. =)

+You Never Change+

Nothing seemed to be going right. At that moment, Jesse thought that his whole life was upside down.
My life is a tornado! I just don’t understand. Nothing will ever be the same!
Jesse sat in the bleak hospital family room with one main question on his heart.
Why?
His green eyes were bloodshot and their usual sparkle was nowhere to be seen. He stared at the ugly blue vase on the table before him, trying to piece the jumble of the past few days together.
Heaving a sigh, Jesse slowly leaned over and buried his face in his hands. Emily, his wife, wiped a tear from her cheek. She put her arm around him and comfortingly stroked her husband’s shoulder. Emily felt a deep weight in her heart as well. She whispered something in Jesse’s ear, and he reached over and grasped her hand tightly. The two sat thus for several minutes.

The sound of stiff fabric rustling together and footsteps caused Jesse and Emily to glance up. It was the doctor entering the room.
Jesse straightened up quickly and stood, studying the doctor’s face. “Doctor, do you have any news?”
Doctor Wallace examined the two in front of him, taking in their current state of emotions. Jesse, with his sagging shoulders and tousled hair…and Emily, with tearful eyes full of concern and questions.
“Please be honest with us, Doctor Wallace.” Emily hoarsely whispered.
“Well,” the doctor began, swallowing hard. “Your mother came through the surgery fine, and is resting now…But—“ Doctor Wallace paused, not sure how to go on. Placing a hand on Jesse’s shoulder, he continued. “But I’m afraid the infection was there long enough to spread throughout her body, and it’s…causing her system to begin shutting down. I tried everything.” His voice broke as he consoled the couple. “I’m so very sorry.”
Jesse could feel the lump in his throat growing larger and his eyes were stinging. He managed to choke out, “How long does she have?”
“I am afraid Michelle has 48 hours or less.”
The last cord broke within Jesse’s heart and tears ran down his flushed cheeks. “My mother…my mama…” He cried, sinking into his seat.
Emily wept hot tears and hugged her sorrowing husband.
The doctor pitifully watched them a moment before turning and exiting the room, letting them have their much needed privacy.
That really is the least favorite part of my job. Doctor Wallace thought to himself as he walked down the tiled floor, back to his patient. I just hate being the one to break the news of a dying loved one.

“It’s just not fair.” Jesse moaned. “She was fine a few days ago! Still the same sweet mama we love and—“ The words caught in his throat and he wiped his wet cheeks before continuing. “And then she had that fall, and wasn’t doing well, and after going to the hospital we found out her gallbladder had ruptured and now this sudden surgery and—.” The distressed words tumbled out of his mouth. “Now…now she’s going. She’s leaving us. Why? Why does this change have to happen to us? Mama…”
Emily reached out and pulled several tissues from the box on the table next to them. She handed some to Jesse, and blew her own nose. “Honey, I love you. And it’s going to be alright.” She made an attempt to speak. “Keep praying about it. God loves you, too.”
Jesse sniffled and planted a kiss on her damp cheek. Standing, he hurried from the room to go to his dying mother’s bedside in the ICU.

Emily sat limply in her chair for a moment, staring at the floor in deep thought. Lord, give us Your strength. A sigh escaped her lips. Keep shining Your love on us. Emily reached into her pocket for her iPhone, and punched in her password. 1:34 am. I didn’t realize it was so late. She proceeded to group text Jesse’s two brothers and his sister, who were traveling as quickly as possible to get to their mother and the hospital. Jesus, help them to get here in time.
Over the course of the next several hours, the siblings arrived, and the foursome stood together by the bedside of their dear parent. Many tears were shed and prayers offered. Even though Mama was in a state of unconsciousness, they spoke loving words to her, held her hand, and tried to make her comfortable.

Then, the call came.

Fifty-two hours after the doctor broke the heartbreaking news; Michelle passed onto glory…and was joyfully greeted by her Savior.
A private family burial was what she had wanted. Michelle…Mama…was laid to rest beside her husband who had gone before. She was lovingly cherished and remembered at her memorial service. Many caring friends brought flowers, meals, and comforting hugs and words to Jesse, Emily and their family.

And then…normal life resumed; or rather, the “new normal”. Jesse found it extremely difficult coming home in the evenings from work, to find his mother’s room vacant. She will never be there again…I can never speak to her ever again! His heart yearned for her to return. It wasn’t easy to repeatedly answer the question of “Where’s Gramma?” that his three year old daughter, Rosie, asked; while he himself coped with the change.
Change.
The changes weren’t over yet.

A few days after the funeral, Jesse arrived home from work. Walking into the kitchen where Emily was making homemade pizza, he sat down at the table. Emily’s gaze met Jesse’s as he leaned on the table with folded hands. She immediately sensed something was amiss.
“Jesse,” she swallowed. “What’s the matter?”
Jesse’s eyes dropped and he studied his fingernails nervously.
Quickly rinsing her hands of the cheese and drying them, she sat down across from him. “Now, tell me, dear. What happened?”
“Oh, Emily,” he began. “I hate having to tell you this. But,” He clinked the salt and pepper shakers together, not sure how to continue. Looking up into her cerulean blue eyes, he went on. “The company I’m employed with has asked me to relocate from where we are now in Virginia to North Carolina.”
Emily gasped, looking at her husband incredulously.
Jesse nodded. “That means we either have to move and sell this place, or stay here. But that also means I lose my job.”
It took a moment for what Jesse had told her to actually hit her.
Her heart picked up a faster rhythm and her forehead puckered. Emily questioned in a concerned whisper, “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know yet.” Jesse replied, squeezing her hand. “What do you think we should do, honey?”
His wife shook her head. “Well, Jesse, I don’t know either. All this change…” Emily propped her chin in her free hand, giving a half sigh.
The two conversed for the next few minutes about their dilemma. When baby Ian’s cries came from the bedroom, announcing his nap was over, Jesse and Emily stood up. Jesse went to Ian and brought him out to the highchair for a snack of Cheerios.

Jesse was unusually quiet that evening. He had a lot on his mind. After supper and play time, Rosie and Ian were laid down for the night. Jesse and Emily sat together in the living room, enjoying the quiet, books, and their mugs of hot chamomile tea. They also talked about the decision that was facing them: discussing the pros and cons of the two options they had.
After a bit, Emily laid aside the book she was reading, I Dare You, and leaned forward in her tan easy chair. “I think I’m heading to bed. Are you coming?” She asked as she stood up.
“In a little,” Jesse responded, looking up at his wife. “Were you enjoying your book?” He inquired, scratching his nose.
“Oh yes!” Emily answered enthusiastically as she undid her braid and shook out her hair. “Even though I just started it not too long ago, it’s already made me think about how I am living my life, and what lies are out there the devil wants me to believe. I can’t wait to read the rest!”
Jesse nodded with a tired smile on his face. “That’s great! Maybe if you like it that much I’ll read it someday.”
“Are you okay, Jesse?” Emily knew the climax and activities of the past several days were wearing Jesse’s nervous system out. “You need your rest. Please come to bed soon.”
He agreed, telling Emily, “I will, honey. I just…want to do some thinking…” Jesse’s voice trailed off.
Resting her palms on the arm of the recliner, Emily stooped and gave her husband a goodnight kiss.
“Love you, Ems!” Jesse called out gently as she opened the bedroom door, not wanting to wake little Ian sleeping in the room.
Emily looked back over her shoulder and winked, throwing a kiss. He waved back with a faint smile on his face.

The door closed, and Jesse leaned back. He tried to focus on his book again, but the thoughts running through his mind made it basically impossible. Finally, he laid it aside and bent forward in his chair. He squeezed his green eyes shut and ran his fingers through his slightly curly brown hair.
How— I mean, why…why is all this happening? All these changes…I don’t understand. And it hurts. It seems to be just one thing after another!
Jesse propped his elbows on his knees and rested his chin on his folded hands. He took a deep breath.
First it was Mama…so unexpectedly. I still can’t believe it. His eyes grew wet, but he hurriedly wiped them with the back of his hand.
And also there are all the changes in this world. It’s down to Hillary and Trump in the elections, and…and all the issues with abortion and gay marriage…it’s changing so fast and our country is drifting further from God all the time.
Jesse slowly rocked back and forth. Pausing, he noticed a piece of lint on his pant leg and flicked it onto the floor. His thoughts went on.
Then…then it is my job. I don’t know what we’re going to do about this! Are we going to move, or lose our income? Lord, please show me what to do, and please give me peace in these changes!
He felt a prompting to pick up his Bible. Grasping the worn leather cover, he let the pages fall open and quietly flipped through.
Lord, give me a verse. Give me something from You to guide me.
He skimmed the pages and kept praying. Lord, something! I feel so lost in all these changes!

And there it was.

The other verses surrounding this one seemed to fade to the background, as Jesse fixed his eyes on the special words.

For I am the LORD, I change not; therefore ye sons of Jacob are not consumed.
~Malachi 3:6

His eyes welled up with tears again. Although this time, they were not tears of sorrow, but of rejoicing. Jesse read the verse over and over. Gladness filled his heart.
I am the Lord, I change not… He doesn’t change! Yes, Jesus, You never change! You are true to Your Word and promise to never leave me! How could I have forgotten that?!
Jesse clasped the Bible to his chest and bowed his head in thankfulness.
Heavenly Father…thank You for that reminder. Thank You that You never change…You never lie. You are always the same yesterday, today, and forever! Thank You that I can trust in You, because You are faithful. You are the Solid Rock I can stand on…ALL other ground is sinking sand! I know my life is completely crazy right now, and I have some pretty major decisions to make in the midst of my grief. But You are so kind, so faithful to meet me in this storm. I’m so grateful that you NEVER change, and I can count on You, even when all around me is failing. Because You are my Solid Rock, I will not be consumed. I love You, Jesus…

Quietly, Jesse laid his Bible on the coffee table. He stretched, yawned, and stood up. The troubled spirit that had haunted him minutes before had all vanished—he was resting in the confidence of his Savior. Jesse went in the bathroom and picked up his orange toothbrush. He moved the bristles back and forth, back and forth, making toothpaste foam that came and decorated his lips. He was still thinking.
He never changes. Wow. That doesn’t mean the world around me will not change, but it does mean I have a foundation to stand firm on. Of course, yeah, I’m still worried about my job and everything, but I can know my God doesn’t change and He is on my side!
Jesse rinsed his mouth out and dried his face on the towel. He studied his face in the mirror for a moment, and suddenly flashed a silly grin at himself.
“Thank You, Jesus.” He whispered to himself. “Thank You that You never change.”

The End.

Thanks for posting, Rachel! I enjoyed the read!

Enjoyed it, Rachel! Thanks for posting! :)

Great! Glad you all enjoyed it. =)

In reply to Matthew Minica

Enjoyed it, Rachel! Thanks for posting! :)

^^^

Several years ago I wrote a story for a contest… I decided to completely rewrite it since I like the plot, but it wasn't written well. The original name was Rose Jackson and the Sinking Titanic, but that is a lame title. I haven't thought of a good name yet. Here it is:

“Rose!” I groaned and slowly opened my eyes. Mama was standing over my bed, looking worried.
“Why, what is it, Mama?” I asked, only half-awake, and annoyed that Mama had awakened me in the middle of the night.
“We have struck an iceberg.” Mama’s voice trembled slightly.
“What?” I murmured. I wasn’t overly worried, as in my sleepy state I had barely understood what she had said. “Well, don’t worry. The Titanic can’t sink. Think of all those waterproof holds.” I snuggled back under the covers.
“No, Rose, listen to me. The crew is working hard, but the captain told your papa that the ship is going down.”
I sat up straight in bed. I couldn’t believe it. “Mama! What…” I had so many questions, I didn’t know which to ask first.
“No time for questions now,” she said quickly. “You must get up, and help me dress Eddie.”
I stretched and stood up. Quickly stumbling into my clothes, I picked Eddie up from his crib and clothed him with the shirt and pants Mama held out. “Now, come with me to Papa and Trudy.”
We walked out and met Papa in the hall, holding Trudy’s hand. Trudy’s eyes were large, and she looked very scared. We all slowly walked up the stairs to the next level of the ship, receiving life jackets from a ship officer who held them out to us. Papa fastened a small one onto baby Eddie, and I helped Trudy. “Rose, why is the ship tilted?” Trudy held my hand tightly and looked up at me.
“I don’t know,” I simply answered. I had a hard time keeping my balance, as the ship continued slowly titling to one side.
“Come,” said Papa, and led us up to the deck.
The deck was crowded with people. “Come board the life boats! Women and children first!” an officer cried.
Trudy and I followed Papa and Mama toward the officer. Papa took little Eddie, and held him gently for a minute. Then, handing him back to Mama, he turned to me. “Be a good girl,” he said, taking my hands kindly. “Help Mama. Trust God.”
It was then I suddenly realized what was happening. I clung to Papa, and a sob rose to my throat. I choked it down as he turned to Trudy. Kneeling beside her, he whispered a few words and kissed her tenderly. Trudy didn’t seem to understand, but she cried, “Papa, stay with us! I won’t go on that boat without you!”
Papa said nothing, but his eyes showed what was in his heart. He hugged Mama tightly. Mama cried a little, and kissed his scratchy cheek. Then he took one last look at his family. Was that tears I saw? Brave, strong Papa — crying? He hugged us all again, then helped Mama and me into the boat. I wiped away a few tears. Trudy clung to him, and he gently but firmly placed her beside Mama. As the boat pushed off, I saw him wave at us, then turn away.
As the boat got farther and farther away, I watched Papa until he disappeared into the crowd. Mama hugged Trudy and I tightly, and we all cried together. I heard a splitting noise, and looked up. The gigantic “unsinkable” ship cracked in two, and the pieces fell into the sea with a splash. I knew Papa was on it, but I refused to believe it. A choking scream escaped my throat. “No!!!”
I couldn’t see any more, my eyes were so watery. I couldn’t believe what what happening. I shivered from the freezing cold. Mama held onto me, and soon I fell asleep.
When I awoke, I was in a room on a ship, Mama and Trudy standing anxiously beside my bed. I sat up. “Papa?” I cried.
Mama shook her head sadly and turned away, shaking with sobs. Trudy played the part of nurse, patting me gently and saying, “There, there now. Lie back down.” I fell back against the bed. I couldn’t think or move. But suddenly I remembered Papa’s last words to me. “Be a good girl — help Mama — trust God.”
I realized that Mama was probably suffering worse than I was. I decided to do all I could to love and comfort her. I breathed a silent prayer for help, and fell asleep, comforted by the thought that Papa was in heaven.

Oh, btw, please tell me what you think of the story I just posted!

Very, very good!

Is that for my story? If so, thanks! :D

Yes it was. (I mean no it was for someone else) ;)