An Old Saying

     I've recently run into this saying a few times recently: "God helps those who help themselves." The quote is from Benjamin Franklin (not the Bible, as many people would believe). I want to examine this, both in the state it is given and how it can or cannot be applied Biblically.
     My first thought is to look at what it implies, and it's self-explanatory. But something a lot of people take for granted is assumed to be implied: that God only helps those that helps themselves. I have two responses to this. The first is simple: the word only is nowhere to be found in this saying, thus nullifying the idea. If Mr. Franklin wanted to say that, I'm sure he would have put it in. The second idea is that it's not something that applies at all times in every situation. I think that the driving idea behind this is that if you are able to help yourself you really have no right to demand that God help you.
     Let's say that the only was in there. What does that imply? It implies that only those who are able to help themselves will get help from God. That doesn't make much sense, does it? Secondly, there are at least several instances in scripture where it talks about God helping the helpless, either directly or through the body of Christ, the Church.
     As Paul says to the Corinthians, the Lord Jesus spoke to Him on this subject. He said "My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness." What does that mean, though? What Jesus was telling Him, though there may have been other things, is that when we are helpless HIS strength is made perfect. There is no logical argument from there, then, except that He must be helping us. This directly refutes the idea, then, of God not helping those who are helpless. He helps the helpless so that His name may be glorified.

Encouragement

Hello all!
  This is a reminder and an update. I'm sorry that I haven't posted much recently, but I've had to juggle work and school plus homework. At the moment I'm taking English 102 at a community college before going into my second year as a Music Ed. student.
  I want to encourage you to start commenting on things! I would love to see what you all think of the site, the stories, the posts, etc. If you have critiques about how you think it should have gone, whether the characters are cardboard, or whether it seems that the characters seem to be sitting in the middle of a blank room acting as puppets, please post! This allows me to get a good idea of how to write better stories to share with you, as well as showing me how to communicate my ideas clearly.
   Thanks for sticking with me so far! I hope to be able to get a fairly regular stream of fiction posted on this site. If you have any questions/ideas/comments just let me know! I'll be happy to answer!

(There are too many exclamation marks here!!)

The Bloodied Knife

The Bloodied Knife

Jackson Kerr

            Mr. Pierce Richam had been sitting for several minutes now, waiting. It had been a busy day with much running about town. His patience was already growing thin as his appetite increased. He had shouted for Mrs. Dribblewitz several times, with no audible response. Getting up to investigate the matter was not an option. Of all the things he had learned as the master of his home, it was this; if you wanted any respect from servants you could not be a man adept to change.

            The grandfather clock against the wall to his left ticked away the seconds. The table was small, decorated simply, but with taste. A small vase with freshly-cut flowers acted as a centerpiece. Candles were lit, and the light through the windows faded hesitantly, drawing attention to the vase and to shadows cast about the room. It was a reverse prism, the shadows forming shapes like constellations, having any meaning that was put to them.

            Dinner was five minutes late; then ten. Mr. Richam was just about to give in when Mrs. Judy Dribblewitz entered from the kitchen, pushing through the swinging door. The man scarcely knew what to think. Due to the poor design of the house, any rubbish to be disposed of would have to be taken through the dining room out to the back door. Most of the time, the hired help would do this either before or after meals, knowing not to interrupt. But rubbish was not the subject of the matter now.

            When Mrs. Dribblewitz came in she was in obvious distress. Shocked at the sight, Mr. Richam asked her what she held in her hand. Pierce knew what it was, but he needed to hear her say it, as though to confirm what he saw. Flustered, she responded.

            “It’s a knife!”

“But what has it been used for?”

“To heavens if I know! What would a bloodied knife be doing in MY kitchen?” That, madam- Mr. Richam thought to himself- is the question. He tried to broach the matter in a different way.

“Do you mean to tell me you have absolutely no idea what it was doing there?” The red in her face spread to her neck.

“Of course I don’t!” (Mrs. Dribblewitz was no woman to be questioned if you expected silence or submission in return.) “What would I be doing with such a thing?” Mr. Richam knew exactly what someone with a bloodied knife could have done.

Mr. Welter was unhappy. A disorderly house was no house to be in. As he had been known by Mr. Richam’s family for many years, he naturally kept his position as head butler of the house when Pierce’s parents passed away. Pierce fondly referred to Mr. Welter, his trusted servant, as “Alfred”. But his name was Horace.

Horace ignored this continuality and persevered in his duties, making sure that the house was in good order. When all the displays were spotless, all the books in order, and the various other servants busy about the work to be done, Mr. Welter was a happy man.

Mr. Horace Welter was a faithful servant of the Richam family for years. The man often towered over the family at dinner, heeding the master’s every beck and call. Due to a long series of deaths and accidents, however, the family line was reduced to this closely-knit group of the senior Mr. and Mrs. Richam and Pierce, their only son and heir. Horace had been there at both of the parents’ deaths. He assured the mother, the second to pass, that he would take good care of their son and heir.

Order. The universe certainly didn’t provide enough of it, so Mr. Welter had to work harder. But it was just as well, being a sentinel of the house. All was well until disorder crept into his realm. After years of experience, Horace had found never to say “unless”. It was rampant; when you were finally rid of disorder, it crept in by other means. In any form it was always an attack, an affront on what was right and good in a well-ordered house. Disorder was not to be tolerated in any sense of the word.

“Of all the indignities, being questioned as a common criminal-” The maid stopped short at the sudden appearance of Mr. Welter stepping into the room. The man’s large frame filled the doorway. All action halted. Mr. Richam and Mrs. Dribblewitz stared at him. He cleared his throat.

“Is there a problem, sir?” Suddenly Pierce was nervous. Confused, his eyes went to the woman in front of him before returning to the towering butler.

“No, Alfred, there is nothing wrong.” The butler stood hesitating for a moment. It was apparent, though, that he was determined to do something.

“Is the knife troubling you?” His voice was calm and firm, as always. But there seemed to be something else in an undertone of his voice, something beneath the surface. Mr. Richam shook his head, suddenly feeling surrounded by enemies.

“No, but thank you Alfred. I was just waiting for dinner to be served.”  Mr. Richam lowered himself into his seat with dignity, remaining in charge of the situation. “Now Mrs. Dribblewitz, tell me exactly what happened before you… found the knife.” She stood stiffly, glancing occasionally at Mr. Richam. But her attention was directed at Mr. Welter.

It was plain to Horace that Mr. Richam was upset about something. The knife in Mrs. Dribblewitz’s hand was of interest. He pitied the woman, both for her situation and her name. The fact that the blade was tainted a deep red had not escaped his attention; it simply was not a priority. Restoring peace was always a priority.

Seeing that whatever argument happening at the moment would not lead anywhere productive, Mr. Richam nodded at the knife in Judy’s possession, begging an explanation. Mr. Welter made a slight yet unexpected movement toward the woman.

“Mrs. Dribblewitz, I would suggest you continue with your duties.” Glancing between the two men, the cook-maid began to retreat from the room, muttering to herself.

“Wait a minute!” Mr. Richam was on his feet. “Whatever happened to explaining what the thing is about?” he said, gesturing at the woman holding the knife. “We can’t let the matter alone; we don’t know how it came to be this way.” He motioned to a chair. “Have a seat, if you please.”

It would be a terrible waste of words and space to say that the tension could be cut with a knife. Mrs. Dribblewitz shifted uncomfortably, apparently unsure whether to keep her eye on her employer or the butler.

“Sir, I honestly don’t see what this has to do with anything!” Horace’s voice rose in pitch and volume. Both Pierce and the maid were taken aback by this. “Finding out how she found the knife will not help with restoring order to this place. Now Mrs. Dribblewitz, just run along and take care of things! Mr. Richam still has not had his supper yet, as you well know!” Both turned to stare at the butler’s outburst.

“What do you mean Alfred?” The butler regained his nerve and continued.

“I simply mean, sir, that I know you’ve had a long day. I didn’t want any more trouble for you.” After this inexcusable outburst, Mr. Richam watched the man retreat back into a sense of calm. “There should have been nothing to trouble you tonight. Now, m’am if you will please see to dinner, and be sure that the knife is taken care of.” Pierce looked at the man carefully.

“Why does it matter to you so much what is done with the thing? If it is of no consequence, then why do you insist that is should be disposed of?” Mr. Richam’s eyes shifted back to the maid. “Unless he knows that you have murdered someone.” Now all of his attention was on Mrs. Dribblewitz. The woman’s eyes began darting back and forth more quickly now.

“Well, who would I murder? And why?”

“Yes, what motive would she have to commit such a crime? And who would it be against?” The butler’s questioning caught Mr. Richam by surprise. What startled him more were his thoughts; the idea of being surrounded by those who were out to harm him. It was ridiculous, he knew, but he could not control the rampaging emotions and thoughts in his head.

“Enough!”  Pierce wasn’t sure whether he was commanding his thoughts or the butler. “I will hear all that she has to say about the matter. Let nothing further interrupt her.” The butler’s hands flew up.

“But she has nothing to say!”

“She does!” Mr. Richam turned abruptly to the maid. “Let us hear it, ma’m; your account of this evening’s activities, from the start.”

She sighed (whether out of exhaust or defeat, it could not be told) and put her head in her hand for a moment, before beginning.

“I went as I always do to prepare dinner. I had finished a salad, and was ready to take care of the Foie Gras, when I discovered the knife lying on the counter.”

“Did you find anything lying on the counter near it?” She shook her head.

“No, the knife was the only thing out of place.”

“Do you have any thoughts as to where it came from?” The questions came quickly, as a reflex.

“If you’re asking whether it came from here, it’s quite possible.” The knife in her hand was suddenly being handled by an expert at of a craft rather than a victim of accusations. “I use only the best knives in the business. This one is just the same quality as…” She stopped, before she could continue digging her own grave. Mr. Richam studied her, judging her words. She was eyeing him now, as a trapped hare might eye the hounds that have cornered him.

He finished the sentence for her. “…the same as any of the knives in this house.” Pale and suddenly trembling, the maid nodded at his response. “Mrs. Dribblewitz, I’m afraid I don’t know what to say. I’ve trusted you all of these years- to go and do something like this is unthinkable. Who was the victim?” The woman let out what may have been either a squeal or a small shriek.

“What? You can’t still possibly think that I- that I killed someone?” It seemed the idea had never occurred to her.

“But what else can I assume? Unless, of course, you have evidence to the contrary?” Mr. Richam’s face showed no signs of jesting. A movement to his right stopped any further conversation. Another servant stood in the doorway. The servants were trained to have poise and elegance. This was the closest thing to awkwardness Mr. Richam had ever seen in one of them before.

            “Well? What is it?” His sharp tone caught the man off guard. There was a flash, the slightest hint of a flinch that could be read on his face.

“A guest, sir.”

“Well, what are you standing around here for, then? Bring him in!” The man bowed silently, turning away. He scurried, more than anything, out of the room. He returned in a moment with slightly more composure, letting pass-

“Why Archibald!” Mr. Dribblewitz was greeted by his wife with both joy and uncertainty. “What on earth are you doing here?” The plump man shrugged.

“Is there a reason not to be here?” His jovial face showed no signs of knowing the current social atmosphere of the room.

“But I’m working! I’ve told you about this several times now-”

“Oh dear, don’t make a fuss about it!” She continued blathering about how this was not acceptable, and how he would have to leave, but Pierce had another idea. He offered the man a seat, and the man obliged. His girth adjusted itself as he sat. Sitting, for him, seemed more a release than an action. In any case it was obviously something that he was very used to.

“Mr. Dribblewitz, do you have any idea what your wife would be doing with a large knife, roaming about my house?” The woman looked shocked at the audacity to ask such a direct question. She sat across the table from her husband, staring, silently pleading. Mr. Dribblewitz, his joviality unchanged, turned to his wife.

“Dear, don’t you remember? You asked me to get that favorite knife of yours back from Bromley, the butcher.”

Pierce blinked, as the unexpected idea hit his mind.

“You mean to say you took this knife directly from the butcher’s shop?”

“Well, not exactly. He called up, asking whether it would be all right to borrow it. He has a new young man working for him, you know. He says that the lad is supposed to bring his knife with him or leave it at the shop. Unfortunately he didn’t do either, and Bromley called up asking if he might borrow a butcher’s knife from my wife. I pitied him, as he said they were expecting a rush, and sent it to him. When he was finished he must have sent it here, knowing as you work here. So you see, I was not the one to drop the knife off here. It was probably the butcher’s apprentice.”

“But how would it get here without my noticing, unless…” Pierce then remembered the busy day that he had been through and getting back for dinner less than half an hour ago. With that question out of the way there was just one left. “Mr. Dribblewitz, do you have any idea why, exactly, your wife would roam about the house with a butcher knife in the first place?”

“Well,” he said, “no, I don’t. I do know, though, that she has a habit of roaming about, especially when thinking hard or when upset over something.” Judy nodded as did Pierce, seeing that it was a fair assessment.

“The question, then, is why would she be roaming about with this knife rather than working?” There was surprise on Mr. Dribblewitz’s face at the young man’s lack of consideration of the matter.

“Well, what would you do? Decide that you were some sort of detective and track down the murderer that weren’t there?” The stupidity of Mr. Richam’s question was suddenly a slap in his own face. Apparently no one else could argue with that, either, as there was silence for half a minute. Suddenly he broke it all off with a “thank you, that will be all” and sat down to wait for his dinner. Nobody needed to be told to leave.

            “That was close.” Mrs. Dribblewitz now sat in her own quarters. The room was tidy, though had a feeling of being unlived in. There was dust here and there, attesting to little time to herself the woman had. Mr. Welter sat in a chair beside her. Both chairs faced a small fireplace, their backs to the bed and bureau. Horace sighed, leaving his head in his hand as it had been for the last several minutes.

“How could you let that happen?” Looking up, his face glowered with resentment. Her defenses went up.

“How was I to know it would happen?”

“But walking about the house with a knife?” He threw his hands up in frustration. Here and now all sense of professionalism was lost. “And a bloodied one, at that.”

“In any case, there’s no way he could know.”

“But after something like this, don’t you think that it would occur to him?”

“He thinks it was an honest mistake, which it was. Besides, he wouldn’t even think about the inheritance.”

“Well, it shouldn’t occur to him to tell himself the obvious, having no heirs. He could change his will, though, and then where would we be?” There was a lull in the conversation. She crossed to him, and put her hand on his shoulder reassuringly.

“Well, I suppose that we will have to move quickly then.” She stood behind him as he sat and they both remained, staring into the candlelight. They were not preparing, as much as waiting for what was to come. The inevitable would hopefully be in their favor the next time.

© Jackson Kerr, 2012

My Latest Short Story

     For some who are already following my blog, thank you! I am appreciative that some people have already shown interest. If you just feel obligated or aren't actually following, don't feel bad. That's my problem. Either I have expectations that are too high for the general populous or I'm delusional. Either way, I'm all right with it. (And I do not mean to beat the general populous. I'm sure that they're generally fine.)
     I'm writing to announce that I'm almost finished with another short story. The idea is a farce or spoof (I'm not sure which) of the classic murder mystery. It should be up soon, I just have to proofread it again and get a bit more input from my advisor before putting it up. (For those of you wondering, my advisor is, yes, my mother. But she gives good, objective feedback.)
     In any case, check back soon!

P.S. There's not really much point to the post, so I may end up deleting it later. Communication is important, though, and I'd like to think I do a good job at that. Communicating.

Another Poem

In reality, I wrote this one before "Writer's Block". I wanted to give glory to God, and this came out of that.

Worthy

 What could I offer my Lord

Whether told or untold story?

My actions are for no reward,

But only for His glory

I could tell of things I’ve done,

To gain honor, laud and praise.

But that would be no gain on earth;

A fleeting breath describes my days.

I will sing of His goodness

And of His loving mercy

Perhaps through my praise and worship

I’ll show others that He is worthy



This is a summary of what I hope my life is and will be.

Copyright Jackson Kerr, 2012

Working at a Library

     One of the things that I have been blessed with, recently, is the opportunity to work at a library. As a writer and a reader it stimulates my thoughts on the subject when I spend an afternoon surrounded by books. Unfortunately, my problem is simple; the way I have my life set now, I don't have a lot of extra time for books.
     A solution to this problem may be something like reading when I DO have spare time, or... yeah, that's about it.Right now, though, I'm taking an English class at college which requires a lot of reading. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but I don't get to read a lot of what I want to read.
     In any case, working at a library has been an awesome experience. I've heard of some guys get jobs like de-tassling corn, working at a camp (the Outdoors isn't a place I fancy much) and doing other such menial or very physical work.
     The main benefit of this job is that I'm constantly around books and others who love books and who like to write, as I do. During my breaks I often read, whether out of a book of essays for class, a writer's digest book on novel writing (from another library in the area) or from a novel.
     For anyone who finds this and either has a love for writing as I do, or just wants to improve their writing, let me give you a tip. There are two ways of getting better at writing; A. Read some more, or B. Write some more. That's all there is to it! Of course you can work on your skills, practicing, developing plots and characters, but a good part of it is letting your subconcious analyze it.
     But what do I mean by that? I mean that sometimes (for those of you who don't have a parent who studied psycology), the subconcious part of your brain, the part of your brain you can't control, thinks for you. It processes the information that you take in throughout the day, a week, or maybe longer. This is why getting up from a task like writing a paper and going for a walk is so helpful. It allows your subconcious to work, figuring out, for you, exactly what you want to say, or how to approach an issue that you're writing about.
     I remember hearing a story about Thomas Edison. Apparently, when he just couldn't think through something, he would take a nap. He sat in an armchair holding a stone. Beneath his hand holding said stone was a pan. When he began to fall asleep, his mind went into overdrive, thinking about the last thing he had on his mind. When he fell asleep, he also relaxed his muscular control of his hand. This released the stone which landed in the pan with a CLANG! Then he was up and had the answer.
     What I took from this is that when we sleep, our brains process what has happened through our day. That's where dreams come from. It also explains why dreams are often about what has happened to us through the day. Even in popular fiction and in movies, the hero's bad dream is about the crises that he is going through. It is his mind processing all the information that his five senses brought in throughout the day.
     The thing that would bring the right answer to mind was Edison's subconscious working on the issue at hand. Most kids have the idea that if you think really hard intentionally you will come up with an answer. Sometimes this is true, but allowing your brain to do what it was made to do enables us to do great things, like inventing the lightbulb.
     As far as working at libraries is concerned, I ran into a friend of mine at another library not far from mine. I was surprised first by seeing him working there, but more surprised at what he thought of the job. He said that it was better then de-tassling corn (which I think he has done before), but he didn't really seem to enjoy the work.
     I know that it's a difference, probably, of personality, but I'm not sure. I'm not OCD or anything, but I like to organize things sometimes, alphabetically, by size or color, etc. I'm one of those guys who will, for fun, organize his M&Ms into color piles, eating them until there is an even number of each color. Then it's six at a time, as there are six colors, until they're gone.
     I think that organizing things, sometimes, helps me to understand them. For instance, if I hear about political candidates (and I never follow politics, except inadvertently) it's secondhand from my brother, who loves analyzing government. He's going into law, and he'll be good at it. He loves justice. Anyways, when I hear of a political candidate, if I don't know already, I try to figure out what group he goes in, those who are Conservative in their views of government and those who are liberal in such matters.
    

Writer's Block

Within the last week or two I decided that I would like to try writing some poetry. As a writer, I decided that the infamous subject of writer's block would make for an interesting subject for such an attempt. Inspired by the combined lightheartedness and finesse of words of Dr. Seuss, I humbly present the following. By no means, though, do I attempt to compete with who may easily be acclaimed as a master of the subject of poetry.

Writer’s Block

I sat on my couch and thought and thought

Of what to say or write

Perhaps a story or a poem

Would satisfy tonight

But alas! To no avail!

My mind couldn’t comprehend

Where in heavens to begin,

Much less where it all would end

So I sat there, like a lump

A formless lump of clay.

I thought and sat, and thought some more

And wasted the day away

Take heed, dear aspiring writer,

There’s a lesson to be found;

Time, though good, is ill-spent

If words are nowhere written down

So write and write! Though you may find

That nonsense seems to abound

Don’t worry, my friend, within that mass

Good readings may be found

It may seem silly, all that nonsense

But writing those ideas down

Will help with fishing out the good ones

Perhaps funny or profound

Through all, keep on trying

Though sometimes you may travail,

But if you keep on writing

There is no way to fail 

Copyright Jackson Kerr, 2012