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Tag Archives: short story
Posted by tanaramccauley in Short Stories, Songs, and Poetry, Writing and Pursuing Publication
amwriting, author, Christian fiction, congratulations, contest, faith, giveaway, real life, relationships, short story, truth or fiction tuesdays, winner, writer
Thank you to everyone who participated in the Truth or Fiction Tuesdays Short Story Series! The votes have been tallied and a random winner has been electronically selected.
Before I announce the lucky winner, here are the results of each story in order of appearance:
Eyewitness Testimony: Fiction
Starting Over: Fiction
The Atheists, The Agnostic, and The Not Even Sunday Christian: True
Deadly Intuition: True (though there were a couple of fiction elements, they weren't significant enough to alter the events that were based on a true story)
Newly Wed and Hostile: True (and no, I'm not Tina :-))
The Receipt: Fiction
Angel with a Gun: Fiction
And now for the winner of the $25 Amazon e-giftcard:
Congratulations Nichelle Montano! I will be contacting you to confirm which email address you would like the card sent to.
To everyone else, thank you again for your participation. I had a lot of fun with this series and really enjoyed discussing the stories with all of you!
Angel with a Gun – Truth or Fiction Story 7
Posted by tanaramccauley in Faith, Relationships, and Other Topics, Short Stories, Songs, and Poetry, Writing and Pursuing Publication
amwriting, author, books, broken family, Christian fiction, faith, girl, giveaway, guilt, gun, Jesus, mistakes, new beginnings, police officer, reading, relationships, second chances, short story, single parenting, teenagers, troubled youth, truth, vote, writer, writing
We've reached the last installment of Truth or Fiction Tuesdays! If you're new to the series and would like to participate in the giveaway click here for more information.
Angel with a Gun
"Don't worry, okay," Kenny said, "Rod knows what he's doing. We've done it before."
Sienna threw him a sideways glance then looked again over each shoulder. Their little group of four stood in front of room 107 at the Dryson Inn, waiting while Rod dipped into his handful of plastic keycards and tried another one. Sienna rubbed her arms and watched her breath ascend as a cloudy mist, hoping this key failed like the rest.
It didn't.
"Whew! We're in man." Rod's smile stretched between almond-shaped dimples as he walked to the farthest bed and began unloading his backpack. "Let's get this party started."
Sienna hesitated just inside the door. The entire room was dingy–the floor, the walls, even the thin quilts on the lumpy mattresses–as if each cigarette ever lit in the place had vowed to tag the room with its smoke stains and ash scent.
Kenny applied pressure to the small of her back until Sienna approached the other, closer bed and perched on its edge, hugging her purse to her stomach. He sat beside her and pulled her close.
"You cold?" he asked.
She nodded. "You sure we won't get caught in here?"
"Positive," he said. "Rod's got the hook-up on rooms. We've–um–he's done this a million times."
"Yeah, you said that." Sienna pressed her lips together and looked at Kenny.
He tried to laugh through clearing his throat. "It's nothing. We just use these spots to hang out. Besides," he put a finger under her chin, "the last time was over two months ago, before you and I got together."
She rolled her eyes and turned her face away.
"Look at you getting all jealous," Kenny said.
Jealous wasn't the word, more like petrified that the night–which should've landed them at the movies–was headed south on a bullet train.
She gulped and watched Rod light a joint while his girlfriend Lex poured brandy into styrofoam cups.
"Pour us a couple, Lex," Kenny said. He leaned back and tried to pull Sienna with him, but she stayed where she was, hugging her little purse like it was a pole cemented in the ground.
"And cut that heater on. My girl's freezing." He rubbed Sienna's back. "What'd you tell your mom?"
"That I was going to Jennifer's to study."
"On a Friday? Your mom bought that?"
"Yeah, well, right after I told her she got a call from her office about the system crashing. She had to rush out so she didn't question me much."
"Nice," he said. "Baby Bird gets to flap her wings."
Baby Bird wanted to flap her wings all right, but not for the reasons strutting around Kenny's brain. For the first time Sienna found herself wishing her mom had been as vigilant as always.
She looked at Kenny. He wasn't very good-looking. His fun personality and daring ways had attracted her. She realized now why "daring" hadn't made her father's list of admirable qualities in a guy.
Thoughts of her dead father shamed her.
"What are you thinking about?" Kenny asked, tugging on her elbow. "Come here."
She cringed at his touch, hating him for putting her in this position. God, get me out of this. She knew the desperate prayer was futile, she and God hadn't been on speaking terms in over a year.
Just then the door shook with pounding. "Open up! Police!"
The room erupted in activity–Lex poured brandy down the sink, Rod flushed weed and batted at the smoke with pillows, and Kenny peeked out the window. Only Sienna froze where she sat.
"It's really them!" Kenny said.
Rod cursed and paced the small room looking for ways to hide any lingering evidence. He took the brandy bottle from the tin wastebasket and stuffed it under the mattress, then threw his backpack and the keycards in the closet.
"Don't make us kick the door in. Open up!"
"What do I do?" Kenny looked at Rod, his face almost the same color as his white sweater.
Rod sat on the bed and ran a hand over his blonde spikes. "I'm screwed."
More banging.
"Open it already," Rod said, his gruff voice turning angry.
Kenny had barely removed the latch when three officers pushed the door open and entered with guns drawn.
The offenders lifted their hands while the room was checked. Sienna, however, remained faithful to her purse.
One of the officers looked at Rod. "Can't say I'm surprised to see you. Still on probation?"
Rod only glared.
"Well that answers that question." He turned to the officer standing near the window. "Take him, Sanchez."
As Rod was being cuffed, Officer Reed–according to the name on his badge–spoke to Lex. "And you are?"
Lex put her hands on her hips. "Sarah."
"Lie to me again, not-Sarah, and you're going downtown with loverboy. Name and age."
She hesitated only a moment, "Alexia Peterson, seventeen."
"Are you high, Ms. Peterson?" He moved closer. "Yep, she's yours, Wright." Sienna's stomach churned with the quick formality of it all.
When Kenny refused to give his real name, he was cuffed and ready by Sanchez' return.
Then Reed turned to Sienna. "And what about you?"
"My name's Sienna," she said just above a whisper.
"Sienna what?"
"Sienna Takana."
"How old are you, Sienna?"
"I'm fifteen."
"Fifteen." Sienna detected a hint of disappointment in his voice and it forced her to look up. His eyes were surprisingly soft.
"Do your parents know where you are?"
"No sir."
"Ever been arrested, done drugs, or any other kind of trouble?"
He studied her a moment. "Okay, here's what I'll do. If I reach your parents and can get them to pick you up I'll allow it. If not, I'll chauffeur you to where you'll be staying often if you ever do something like this again."
Sienna didn't know which was worse: going to jail and getting bailed out, or having her mother pick her up directly from the no-tell motel.
"What's it gonna be?"
She cleared her throat and gave her mom's number, then suffered through his end of the conversation when he made the call.
"Where's your dad?" he asked after hanging up.
"He died a year ago," she said.
Officer Reed paused. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said finally. "Is that why you're running with that crowd?"
She shrugged, and he continued, "I have a daughter your age. I don't pretend to know what kind of man your dad was, but I'm guessing he wouldn't be too happy. Am I right?"
Sienna avoided thoughts of her dad as much as possible. Suddenly he was alive and fresh in her mind, smiling at her out of his olive face. That he would be grieved was an understatement. She began to weep.
Officer Reed sighed and pulled her into a hug. The embrace–performed by strong arms and a broad shoulder, and scented with some spice version of aftershave–undid her. It was a man's embrace, not unlike her father's, and she clung to it for dear life–melting into it and pouring out her pain upon it.
"I miss him so much," she said, her fists clutching pieces of Officer Reed's uniform.
She cried like that for a time, and Officer Reed held her and told her about what he and his daughter endured after losing his wife some years back. "It took a lot of prayer, but eventually we healed, and–"
"Sienna." Her mother's voice sliced into the moment. Sienna pulled away and wiped her eyes.
"Ms. Takana." Officer Reed stood and introduced himself, then explained what happened.
"Does that mean you aren't pressing charges?" She didn't take her eyes off of her daughter, and Sienna squirmed under the cold stare.
"The owner of the hotel just wants the kids out of here, ma'am. He's not pressing charges."
"Thank you. Let's go Sienna." Despite the sweats and scrunchy-tied hair she had rushed off to work in, Sienna thought her mom had never looked angrier–or more hurt.
"Ms. Takana?"
"Yes?" She looked at Officer Reed for the first time.
"I have a daughter the same age who has experienced the same kind of loss. This isn't protocol, but I'd be happy to have her contact Sienna if that's okay with you. It might…help Sienna deal with some of her grief."
"I'll have to think about that," she said. "Do you have a card or something?"
Officer Reed checked his many pockets before producing the small slip. When he offered it, Sienna noticed that the look on his face mirrored the same expression many men had given her mother since she became a widow. Sienna despised that look…until now.
Her mother took the card, thanked him again, then walked ahead of Sienna with an unspoken command for her to follow.
Sienna looked at the handsome officer one last time and found him watching after them. Her father's smile mingled with the memory of the officer's embrace, and for the first time in a year, in the inner recesses of her heart, she spoke to God.
The Receipt–Truth or Fiction Story 6
amwriting, author, bank error, character, giveaway, honesty, millionare, receipt, relationships, series, short story, test, truth or fiction tuesday, vote, writer
It's almost Truth or Fiction Tuesday! And because tomorrow is election day, I am posting the story early and making it an even shorter read. Hope you enjoy…
Oh, and make sure you get out and vote!
Seventeen dollars and thirty-two cents. That's how much Naira had to her name before she deposited her weekly paycheck of eleven hundred. Now, according to her ATM receipt, her balance was just over twenty million. She rechecked her account number and the eight figures beneath, then slid the sweaty paper across to her boyfriend Jacob, who was busy wolfing down his second bowl of Mongolian barbecue.
One glance almost choked him.
"Wow. You weren't joking."
"Why would I joke about something like this?" Naira drummed her fingers on the laminate tabletop, pausing often to tug at her short, kinky curls and glance around the noisy restaurant. Her bowl, which reeked of garlic and Kung Pao, remained untouched.
"Well, you are quite the prankster, dear. I thought you were just pulling my leg." He polished off another mouthful, then asked in his slight accent, "So what are you going to do?"
Shouldn't he answer that question? Wasn't he the voice of reason in this outfit? Never mind her student loans, tapped out credit cards, and dead-end job at the phone company, the money wasn't hers. She cleared her throat and leaned in. "Give it back…right?"
"I don't know. The bank's going to take it back as soon as they realize their mistake. That doesn't mean you shouldn't grab some of it before they do."
"You're not serious?" The thought had crossed her mind of course. But coming from Jacob–the guy who'd once revisited a drive-thru and waited twenty minutes to return extra hamburgers–it sounded just plain wrong.
"Take enough to quit your job and hide." He pushed away his empty bowl. "Then you can focus on painting."
"That sounds like a great plan. Go on the lam for grand theft, spend years painting my masterpiece, then go to prison after I've surfaced to unveil it. Why didn't I think of that?"
Jacob's full lips parted in a lazy smile made for fantasies. "Thieves do have aliases, Naira." He took her hands, and her toffee-colored fingers instantly paled next to his dark skin. "It's just…I know how strapped you are for cash, and I hate to see you struggle." He sighed. "I'm only halfway through med school, love. I don't know how much longer I can tolerate not being able to help you. It makes me feel unworthy."
Naira frowned. He'd been many things in their two years of dating–on call handyman, karaoke partner, art critic–he was hardly unworthy. With him she had learned to appreciate simple things, especially the love they shared. Was money worth risking that?
"I can't do it." She snatched up the receipt and crumpled it.
"Wait, you sure?"
She nodded. "I'll call the bank first thing in the morning."
"But have you thought of the possibilities?"
"Jacob! I can't believe you're trying to talk me into something I was sure you'd be talking me out of. So I don't have a lot of money?" She twisted spikes into the balled up receipt and lowered her voice. "I'm happy with you. I can't jeopardize that."
Jacob stared, wordless, making Naira wonder if her choice upset him. When he pushed his chair back and stood, she felt a rush of panic.
"Well," he said slowly, reaching into his pocket, "since you won't steal it from me…will you share it with me?" He knelt in front of her and placed a small felt box in her palm. "And will you take my name with it?"
"What?" Words failed her as he lifted the lid and pulled out a thick band with small white stones spiraling in a staircase to a large canary diamond. "Jacob!"
Women in the restaurant, who had popped up like moles when Jacob knelt, gasped as one at the ring.
"Marry me, Naira?"
"The money? Half of my inheritance. Wired from Dubai a week ago. I get the other half when I finish med school. Do you think that'll be enough to carry a pro bono physician and his artist wife to their graying years?" He touched her cheek. "Will you be my wife, Naira?"
She fought past the tears in her throat, threw her arms around him and squeezed until he grunted a laugh.
The tattered receipt fell to the floor.
Deadly Intuition – Truth or Fiction Tuesday Story 4
author, Christian fiction, deadly intuition, giveaway, gun, life or death, prayer, second chances, short story, troubled teenager, truth or fiction tuesday, vote, writer, writing, youth
It's Truth or Fiction Tuesday! To be eligible to win the $25 Amazon gift card remember to cast your vote using the comments box. For detailed instructions click here.
The breeze blew by her with a carefree lilt in it. She tipped her face to the sky and smiled in response to the sun's gentle warmth on her cheek. It was a welcome change to the ruthless desert heat which had lingered beyond its season.
She took the book she'd been trying to read for the past month and cracked it open. The marker had been on page seven so long it would probably leave a permanent crease–thanks to her three children who now dashed through the deserted park like a band of pirates. After another glance at them, she found her spot and tried again to conquer page eight.
She reached chapter two when a shadow interrupted her focus. Its owner was a pedaling teenager, presumably coming from school. She smiled and started to look away, but met his gaze before he moved from her line of vision.
Her internal alarm screeched like a siren.
His bike stopped behind the chunky blue dinosaur where she sat, and her body went stiff. She calculated how long it would take to gather her kids and cross to where her truck sat like an orphan on the street. If his intentions were evil, they didn't have a chance.
"Mommy! Mommy, watch me!" Three-year-old Maya plopped down on the slide, her chubby cheeks flushed and glistening. "But don't catch me, okay."
"Okay, baby." She walked over to where Maya would land in the woodchips, then braved a look at the boy. Maya could have flown at her like a superhero and she wouldn't have noticed.
He was watching her.
She couldn't place what she saw in his eyes–anxiety, determination maybe–but it reinforced her initial sense of foreboding, and filled her mind with terrible scenes made for movies.
Get a grip, Lorraine. She was just being paranoid. She knew from experience that her imagination was boundless when it came to her children's safety. Surely this was one of those times.
But he didn't look away. Lorraine forced herself to stare back and size him up. He was average height, maybe just an inch or two taller than she, with a solid, muscular build. When she was younger–nothing but lank, limbs, and attitude–his height alone would've convinced her she could take him. She didn't dare make such an assumption now, especially with her whole world running about the park on three pairs of short, vulnerable legs.
She appraised his cropped blonde hair, baggy shirt, and skater shorts. He also wore an earbud in one ear, with the other dangling from the front of his shirt. Apart from the hardness of his features and his constant fidgeting, he appeared normal. And, as she continued to stare, he gave a slight smile and finally looked away.
So it was paranoia.
Then why couldn't she shake the dark feeling that defied the beauty of the day? It kept her from rounding up her children, for fear that something terrible would happen if they were huddled together with their backs to him in retreat.
It also kept her thinking of ways to fight and stay alive long enough to save them. She didn't think like that. Why was she thinking like that? Why could he possibly want to hurt them? They didn't know each other. In her many trips to this same park over the years, she'd never even seen him.
She couldn't figure him out, or the ominous vibe that tickled her senses. As she puzzled over it, he mounted his bike, rode to the other side of the playground, got off, and began to pace. He pulled out his MP3 player for a brief look, then shoved it back in his pocket, all the while stealing unsettling glances at her. He repeated this ritual, including the bike trek, several times.
The pacing reminded Lorraine of an agitated tiger, tense and ready to pounce on the first thing within its reach. Coldness spread over her as intuition told her she had made the connection.
She and her little family were within his reach.
She began to pray wordlessly, ignoring the complaints of her older daughter Ria that Nate was throwing woodchips in her hair. Desperate for God to intervene, Lorraine threw up every solution she could think of, including striking the boy dead on the spot if needed–anything to keep him from hurting her babies.
She scanned his oversized clothes again, looking for the bulge of a weapon. She had to get close enough so that she could at least fight him for it. That was their only chance, if God let him live.
All of a sudden he stopped and faced her. Lorraine opened her mouth to scream for help. What came out was a controlled, "Hello."
He blinked and pulled his brows together, confusion replacing the rigid set of his face.
"Hello," Lorraine said again with a weak smile.
"Hi," he said.
"Are you waiting for someone?"
He paused as if he had to think about it, then shook his head. "No."
"Just get out of school?"
"Oh yeah? What grade are you in?"
"I'm a junior." He walked with an unsure step and stopped close enough to touch her. Lorraine struggled to appear relaxed. "I would be a senior but I got held back," he said.
"That's terrible." What a dumb thing to say. "The last years of high school are rough, though. You can't give up. What's your name?"
"Miguel. Or Mike. Either one."
Lorraine searched his face again. "Miguel? You don't look Hispanic."
"I'm not. I'm adopted. My real mom left me when I was one. My dad left when I was four. I was adopted by a Mexican family, so I named myself Miguel. But you can call me Mike."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mike–about your first parents I mean. Are you and your adopted family new to the area?"
"No, just me." His attention was momentarily arrested by a yellow-winged butterfly. "I got in trouble a few years ago, so I've been in foster homes ever since. I've been in this new one about a week."
She chose to forego the obvious question and asked, "How do you like it so far?"
He searched her with plain brown eyes that seemed expert at reading people. "It's okay, I guess. I don't like the school. They're real strict, with metal detectors everywhere. The family seems alright, though. I miss my other family, but I'm not allowed back there."
Once he got going he didn't stop. He proceeded to tell her about his brother going to the army, and how he wanted to follow in his footsteps, or maybe become a Marine. Though Lorraine picked up on the awkward slant to his social skills, she couldn't help being touched by the soft earnest in his voice and how his hostile exterior seemed to drip away as he unloaded his burdens.
He wasn't a dangerous teen after all, just a troubled one.
"Do you like music?" he asked without prelude.
When he rattled off a list of artist names she'd never heard before, he frowned and asked, "Well what do you listen to?"
She laughed. "Christian music mostly. Anything else you probably wouldn't know. I'm about twice your age, Mike."
He looked skeptical for a moment then shrugged. "Well, you might like this then." His thumb whipped around the dial on his MP3 and he offered her the earbud resting on his chest.
Lorraine suppressed her inner germophobe and took it. He needed love, not her ridiculous hang-ups. The song, Stand By Me, was in English but infused with a Latin sound. Lorraine smiled and sang a few lines before handing it back to him.
The sprinklers came on and drew the kids like magnets. Lorraine and Mike talked more, mostly about his dreams and how with hard work he could achieve them, and she relaxed as he soaked up her attention like a happy sponge. He was handsome when he smiled.
A truck drove by, and Mike sagged when he saw it. "That's my foster dad," he said. "Guess I better go."
"Okay," Lorraine was sad to have him leave so soon. She almost forgot she'd been praying for his destruction earlier. The memory made her feel silly.
"See you around," he said. He hesitated, then dropped his heavy arms over her shoulders in a loose hug, and touched her cheek with the quick kiss young boys give their mothers. It broke her heart.
"Be good, Mike," she said. "Work hard."
"I will." He jogged to his bike and tripped just as he reached it.
He recovered quickly, pulling the bike up with him as he stood. He adjusted his shirt, which had lifted during the fall, and Lorraine caught sight of a gun lodged in his waistband.
Her mouth dropped open. Mike, however, didn't notice. He flashed her one last smile–radiant and beautiful–threw his leg over the seat, and pedaled off in the direction he'd come from.
The Atheists, The Agnostic, and The Not Even Sunday Christian – Truth or Fiction Story 3
agnostic, atheist, author, bar, Christian fiction, faith, giveaway, short story, spirituality, true, truth, vote, writers, writing
We sat there–bellied up to the bar no less–debating about the Bible.
The modest pub was a sectioned-off box connected to a restaurant, and it was ours for the night. Different motives led us there. Mine was to ire the date who'd tried to stand me up, despite him being a good guy with a good reason. The two middle-aged Africans were new to the area and checking out the nightlife (or lack thereof), and Alan was working. Everyone else who entered took one look at the empty scene and left without a greeting.
My new friends and I were equally matched in passion, secondhand information, and a steady supply of rhetorical comebacks. The lot of us Bible experts–though none of us had read it.
"But if you look at the scientific proof of evolution…" It was how Brooke started all of his sentences. His voice was like honey. I was tempted more than once to ask him to sing a tribal ditty; but he'd dip into his bag of Darwin, whip out redundant theories and throw in big words no inebriated mind should hear, and I'd lose my train of thought.
He was an enigma to me. I wasn't raised Christian–or any other religious affiliation for that matter–but I'd certainly never met a black atheist before. I probably would've marveled over him all night if not for Johan, the other South African.
Despite all I'd heard about apartheid, the heart of which was racial inequality, it had never occurred to me until then that a South African could be a tall, pale blonde who spoke in an almost Australian accent.
The new knowledge was distracting–and a bit of a blow to what I thought was my intelligent mind–but not so much that I couldn't hold my own in our verbal scuffle.
"Don't get me started about carbon dating," I said. "Oh yeah? And where did that come from?…Okay, so where did that come from?…Say something new, Brooke, say something new."
I rolled my eyes and took occasional swats at the smoke from Johan's chain of cigarettes. We all ducked in and out of heated words and bouts of laughter, and they took turns buying drinks while I silenced my phone every time my no-show called.
Johan detoured from our contest of biased facts and popular verses. "Tell me what makes you so certain of your beliefs," he said through a cloud. He pulled a stack of large bills from his pocket to buy the next round, moving as calm and slow as he talked. I sipped on my Apple Martini and thought hard for an answer.
I didn't have one.
There was never a time I had not believed God existed. It was something I just always…knew. My faith in Christ, however, still in its infant stages, was sparked by something I couldn't explain with the same logic that had run our conversation around the same track all night.
And though time had diminished the initial urgency I'd felt for Christ, I was all of a sudden very aware of it.
And very aware of Him.
I lowered my drink and shut my mouth while Johan looked on with a curious expression.
Alan broke the silence. "You don't really believe in evolution do you? Look dude…" Whenever he said dude he pulled half his mouth up in an actor's smile. "A house has a designer. Four walls and a roof, man. As basic as it gets, and it still has a designer. You mean to tell me you honestly believe that this whole workup we've got going here–galaxies, orbiting planets, gravity, seasons–all this order, and it just happened on its own?"
He wiped the clean spot in front of him with a rag, moved some glasses around, and kept talking. "I'm not gonna go so far as you," his smile told me he was sorry for not committing to my camp, "and say there's a god or anything." He looked back at Brooke, "I just think if you look at it logically, dude, you have to accept that we have a designer out there somewhere."
He'd said something pretty profound, but he still didn't get it.
"If that 'designer' isn't God," I asked Alan after a moment, "then who is he?" He looked like I'd felt when I discovered black atheists and white South Africans.
My phone rang again. This time I answered it. I was no longer interested in a battle of wits and cunning debate. I didn't know much after all, except that I had never fully committed to Whom I knew to be true.
"I have to go," I said when I hung up. And so our religious debate ended without ceremony.
"You'll come back next week?" Brooke stood. "Bring the lucky guy with you."
I smiled without answering.
We parted with the lingering hugs of people who've known each other forever.
"You won't be back will you?" Johan said in my ear when I embraced him last. "I have a feeling I'll never see you again."
And he never did.
Truth or Fiction Tuesdays, With a Giveaway on the Side
author, contest, false, fiction, gift card, giveaway, literature, series, short story, true, truth, vote, win, writing
It's almost time!!!
A couple of weeks ago I posted about upcoming fiction blogging. As promised, the first two chapters of my debut novel were posted here for little over a week, but have since been removed in order to comply with the rules of an upcoming contest I intend to enter.
But no worries. Her red-headed step-cousin is fast on her heels as a replacement.
Want that in English?
I am still going forward with my Truth or Fiction Tuesdays short story series. Beginning…next Tuesday!
That's right. That gives you a chance to win the giveaway, a $25 Amazon gift e-card, in time for the Christmas holiday. Here's how it works:
Each short story (1,500 words or less) posted here October 2nd – November 13th will either be fiction or based on true events.
To be eligible to win you must decide if a story is truth or fiction and cast your vote in that story's comment box. All votes must be received by Friday, November 16th at 11:59 PM. The more you read and participate, the better your chances of winning!
To earn additional entries, share the link on your Twitter, Facebook, or Pinterest account and let me know that you did so in the comments box when you vote.I will publish the results of the winner and the truth/fiction status of the stories by title the weekend following the end of the contest. The winner will then be contacted and sent the gift card via email.
Sound easy enough? Here's the short version: read, vote, share, and you could WIN!
I am looking forward to having a lot of fun with this series, and I'd love for you to join me :-).


Lead archaeologist Kristen N. Baker, left, and former U.S. Army Special Forces medic John Frye, right, lead a team of local workers and History Flight volunteers on Betio, Tarawa Atoll, Republic of Kiribati. May 28, 2015. Photo by Clay Bonnyman Evans/History Flight, Inc.
The grandson of one of the Corps' most ferocious officers killed in the World War II Battle of Tarawa will finally bring his grandfather's remains home, along with those of dozens of other fallen Marines.
More than 70 years ago, Marine 1st Lt. Alexander "Sandy" Bonnyman, Jr. was determined to blast a hole through the deeply entrenched enemy on the tiny island of Betio in the Republic of Kiribati.
With fellow Marines pinned down on the beach during the November 1943 amphibious invasion of the Tarawa Atoll, the 33-year-old led a small engineering team into unfriendly territory forward of the lines to repeatedly assault enemy fortifications. He succeeded, but yet was mortally wounded while fending off an enemy counterattack.
Bonnyman's "dauntless fighting spirit, unrelenting aggressiveness and forceful leadership" led to his posthumous award of the Medal of Honor, according to his citation.
Alexander "Sandy" Bonnyman, Jr. (May 2, 1910 Ð November 22, 1943) was a United States Marine Corps officer who was killed in action at Betio, Tarawa during World War II. A combat engineer, he received the Medal of Honor, Purple Heart, Presidential Unit Citation, Asiatic-Pacific Campaign Medal with three Bronze Stars and the World War II Victory Medal posthumously for his actions during the strategically important assault on a Japanese bombproof shelter during the Battle of Tarawa.
Alexander "Sandy" Bonnyman, Jr. was a Marine who was killed in action during the Battle of Tarawa in World War II. A combat engineer, he was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor for his actions during the strategically important assault on a Japanese bombproof shelter during the Battle of Tarawa.
Yet the remains of Bonnyman and approximately 40 other Marines killed in action during the battle on the tiny island of Betio disappeared as their impromptu burial trench, known as Cemetery 27, was became lost in the wake of the battle.
An American Graves Registration Service team exhumed and repatriated about approximately 500 Marines from the small island in the Central Pacific in 1946, but simply could not find Cemetery 27. Its occupants were officially declared "unrecoverable" by the Quartermaster General's Office in 1949.
"They must have been buried in all the confusion," Clay Bonnyman Evans, Bonnyman's grandson, told Marine Corps Times. "In all probability the grave markers were run over when the Sseabees came ashore."
For 70 seventy years the "lost graves of Tarawa" remained a mystery, but now the fallen Marines — including Bonnyman — are coming home.
"History Flight is extremely pleased to announce the discovery and recovery of historic Cemetery 27 on Betio Island as part of its 10-year, multi-million-dollar effort to recover hundreds of Marines lost to history, their nation and their families in 1943," said founder and director Mark Noah in a press release Sunday.
The non-profit, dedicated to finding and recovering the remains of 84,000 missing American service members, located the burial trench in 2011 and began excavation in March. They have since recovered the remains of at least three dozen fallen Marines.
Working with the Defense POW/MIA Accounting Agency, History Flight has to date recovered the remains of at least 120 troops from Betio previously believed to be "unrecoverable." remains from Betio. They will conduct a forensic review of the remains from Cemetery 27 this month.
"Although we have dental matches to known missing Tarawa Marines for more than half of the recovered individuals, we are seeking DNA reference samples from families of the Tarawa missing," History Flight board secretary Ed Huffine said in a news release.
"We plan to have all of these recovered heroes identified by the end of the summer," Huffine said.
Clay Bonnyman Evans never got to meet his grandfather, but grew up in admiration of his legacy.
When History Flight began calling families to obtain DNA samples of the Marines unaccounted for at Tarawa, Evans jumped at the opportunity to volunteer with the group and flew to Betio to assist in excavations.
"They're a small non-profit, but these guys have done what no one else could do," Evans said. "This is a group that knows how to get things done."
Evans assisted the History Flight archaeological team in excavating Cemetery 27, which was located under a parking lot on Betio.
Evans knew that his grandfather had "extremely distinctive" dental work, including gold teeth. He said he was breathless when Kristin Baker, the History Flight Recovery Team leader, called him over to examine the teeth on an exposed cranium.
"It's gold," Baker told him.
Evans said it's very likely The likelihood is "extremely strong" that the remains are those of the Medal of Honor recipient, but legal verification is still required, according to Evans.
The remains of the three dozen Marines are being transported to the Defense POW/MIA Accounting Agency's DPAA laboratory at Hickman Air Force Base in Hawaii, where a team of specially trained dentists and other experts forensic odontologists and other specialists will work to authenticate their identities.
"We are very grateful for the efforts of Mark Noah and History Flight for the recovery of these Marines lost during the Battle of Tarawa," DPAA director Lt. Gen. Michael S. Linnington said in a press release.
"This is a tremendous example of how private-public partnerships can contribute to our accounting efforts both now and in the future."
After more than seven decades seventy years, Bonnyman's remains will finally travel the almost 7,000 miles to his birthplace in Knoxville, Tennessee, where he will be buried next to his parents and three siblings.
Bonnyman's family intends to conduct a public burial ceremony in late September to celebrate his return home.
"This has been simply incredible," Evans said. "Our family is so, so grateful."