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Margaret Marr Wings of Thunder |
 My Novels
The Ghosts of Daemon Yarborough Other Interests
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Ex-preacher Kirk David has come back to face his past and put to rest any lingering hope his sister might still be found after disappearing ten years ago. Once he arrives, he realizes God has sent him back for a more pressing reason. He must help a Cherokee Indian, Tom, find a stream blessed by an unknown prophet before a false preacher destroys the town. Lenora Elayne dreams of a savior who comes on wings and thunder to help her save Walnut Grove from an evil man bent on destroying her precious town. God has given her charge over a pregnant teenager whose child will do great things in His name. All Lenora really wants to do is convince people that God loves them no matter what their sin, but her faith is shaky, and she fears she'll fail with the heavy burden placed upon her shoulders. Together Kirk and Lenora find love and a renewed faith in God while trying to unravel seemingly unrelated events rushing toward a battle between darkness and light. September 2005 - ISBN: 1-4137-7779-1 For each copy of Wings of Thunder sold, I'll give 50% of my royalties to Operation Uplink to help supply phone cards for our soldiers! Buy Your Copy Now! Reviews Though knowing a bit more of the backstory would have been interesting, nonetheless, this simple, yet profound story has a very true message. Christians who enjoyed the X - Files will surely enjoy this, for there are some similiar points of comparison. ~Amanda Killgore~ Excerpt Kirk David rode through the town of Walnut Grove, disturbing the quiet, rain-washed Sunday evening with the rumble of his Harley-Davidson Super Glide. The streets were empty and clean--so much cleaner than he remembered them ten years ago. The sidewalks gleamed like polished silver; the shop windows glistened in the late sunlight. Even the burnt orange leaves on the town square's oldest oak tree added a lively look to their death. Kirk shivered. When he pulled to a stop sign, he dropped his heavy black-booted feet to the payment, looked one way, then the other, and caught a movement on Spring Street. Fingers, attached to the shadowy outline of a body, shifted the blinds and lifted one slat. "Living dangerously," he mumbled. No one dared skip church service on Sunday morning in Reverend Hollis Thackery's town. Everyone feared the old, white-haired man more than the Devil. He sucked in enough fire and brimstone to make Hell feel like oceanfront property in Alaska in comparison, and then spewed it onto his poor parishioners. By the time the church doors opened to let them out, the congregation resembled the charred inhabitants of a fire-damaged building. Kirk revved the motor on his Harley loud enough to vibrate the plate-glass on Cindy Kate's Beauty Salon across the intersection, and then took off in a roar down Veterans Boulevard. Time to check in on the old man to see if he's as lively as he was ten years ago, or if he just coughed out smoke these days. The brick church sprawled across an open field where the boulevard ended. Its white steeple reached toward Heaven as if to kiss the face of an angel. When he killed the motor on his bike, the first thing he noticed was the sound of silence, disturbed only by a dry leaf as it skittered across the blacktop parking lot. The loudest noise for what could have been miles, for all Kirk knew. There should have been shouting and singing coming from the church with Hollis Thackery's voice booming above those of the members. It used to be one of those lively churches where the preacher hopped around the pulpit, shouting, clapping his hands, and waving a white handkerchief. Surrender to God or else was the message. Unease traveled along his nerves like spiders scurrying across sand. Something was wrong with this town. Very wrong. Kirk swung his leg over the seat of the Harley and removed his helmet. He looked down at his black leather chaps, his many-zippered jacket, finger-less gloves and the pistol strapped against one hip. He wasn't exactly dressed for Sunday-Go-To-Meeting, but compelled to hear Hollis preach, he strode toward the entrance. The white double doors looked smaller and cleaner, as if someone had added a fresh coat of paint onto the raw wood yesterday. Shoving them open, he stepped inside and slid into a pew near the back. Every head in the church swiveled to cast him a furtive glance, then pivoted back toward the front in unison as if connected by a huge, bizarre turntable. The rustle of clothing the only indication they'd moved at all. One thing hadn't changed. The church benches were still as hard and cold as a slab of rock in winter. Kirk shifted, attempting to get comfortable without much luck. When he looked up at Reverend Thackery, his breath caught in his throat. Is this the same man? It couldn't be. The man who stood behind the pulpit looked as if he'd shrunk a few inches and grew the extra on his upper back. His hair was no longer white, but more the color of snow after it had lain around on the ground for a few days. A voice that used to resonate off the stainless glass windows, now cracked with age. Holy words barely pushed through hollow cheeks and thin lips. The church was as silent as a lazy afternoon during siesta. Kirk frowned as trepidation settled in his heart. Ten years had done this much damage? Thackery's empty gaze focused on Kirk, and for a split second a glimmer of hope sparked to life in the old preacher's watery blue eyes. The old man snuffed out the spark, as if he were afraid someone would see it. |
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bravenet.com
In the quiet town of Walnut
Grove, something evil lurks within the occupants' minds.
Only those dwelling twenty feet below Hattie's Bar and
Grill are safe from the malevolent "holy water"
handed out during Sunday church service. On the outside,
the townsfolk are clean and friendly, but beneath the
surface evil creeps toward an explosive and destructive
end.