Pockets of Eden Progress
Written:
100%
Revised:
95%
To Publication:
0%
Synopsis
Elias and Amelia could not be further apart in personality, lifestyle or belief.
But one fateful, rainy night, they are thrown together and charged with a sacred mission from God. To bring a remnant of Believers, safely to Eden.
This stand-alone prequel was inspired by the persecuted church in the middle east, and specifically the work of the Open Doors Ministry.
It revolves around the question, what does one do when one’s faith is outlawed?
How are we to be the light in a world that would sooner kill us than receive from us?
What is our obligation, and what is our privilege?
Its timeline explains the beginning of the monsoons that flood the world and gives us a glimpse of the decay of man that leads to the evolution of Whispers of Eden series.
But one fateful, rainy night, they are thrown together and charged with a sacred mission from God. To bring a remnant of Believers, safely to Eden.
This stand-alone prequel was inspired by the persecuted church in the middle east, and specifically the work of the Open Doors Ministry.
It revolves around the question, what does one do when one’s faith is outlawed?
How are we to be the light in a world that would sooner kill us than receive from us?
What is our obligation, and what is our privilege?
Its timeline explains the beginning of the monsoons that flood the world and gives us a glimpse of the decay of man that leads to the evolution of Whispers of Eden series.
First 300...
In the glow of her headlights, the body of a young man lay on the road, motionless in the pouring rain. Amelia gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white, and tried to comprehend how this could have happened.
She couldn’t help thinking that not ten years ago, things might’ve been different.
Ten years ago, she might’ve had breath in her lungs, rather than knots in her stomach, as she drove the streets alone. It might’ve been a nice night—those did use to happen—and as she turned that corner onto East 42nd street, she might’ve seen him, clear as day, staring at her from the sidewalk. Maybe she would’ve offered a polite smile, the kind one gives a stranger in a moment of peaceful congeniality, before driving off, and the moment would have passed as soon as it had arrived.
But as the rain assaulted her windshield with torrential force Amelia knew this moment--the real moment--had been inevitable.
With shaking hands Amelia pawed at her door and pushed it open. The rain drenched her in an instant, its deluge so strong it both choked and blinded her. Thick droplets assaulted her limbs, clamoring against her skull and drowning out all sound. Amelia pulled her jacket over her head, and slowly, she walked to the front of her car.
There the man lay supine in the street, arms back above his head like he was about to make a snow-angel. And perhaps he was. In whatever peaceful, pure, place the unjustly killed go, he could be doing that very thing.
For as Amelia bent down by his side and willed his heart to beat through his chest, she knew without a doubt, that the man was dead.
And that she’d been the one to kill him.
She couldn’t help thinking that not ten years ago, things might’ve been different.
Ten years ago, she might’ve had breath in her lungs, rather than knots in her stomach, as she drove the streets alone. It might’ve been a nice night—those did use to happen—and as she turned that corner onto East 42nd street, she might’ve seen him, clear as day, staring at her from the sidewalk. Maybe she would’ve offered a polite smile, the kind one gives a stranger in a moment of peaceful congeniality, before driving off, and the moment would have passed as soon as it had arrived.
But as the rain assaulted her windshield with torrential force Amelia knew this moment--the real moment--had been inevitable.
With shaking hands Amelia pawed at her door and pushed it open. The rain drenched her in an instant, its deluge so strong it both choked and blinded her. Thick droplets assaulted her limbs, clamoring against her skull and drowning out all sound. Amelia pulled her jacket over her head, and slowly, she walked to the front of her car.
There the man lay supine in the street, arms back above his head like he was about to make a snow-angel. And perhaps he was. In whatever peaceful, pure, place the unjustly killed go, he could be doing that very thing.
For as Amelia bent down by his side and willed his heart to beat through his chest, she knew without a doubt, that the man was dead.
And that she’d been the one to kill him.
