The Prodigal Son

I am the daughter of a King. That makes me a princess. My Father and my friends call me by the name my parents gave me at birth. It doesn’t matter about my surname because that has changed three times.

I’ve had an identity crisis most of my life until my Father met me on the road coming home after wasted and unhappy years spending my birthright.

Most of us identify with the story of the Prodigal Son, or at least have heard the story from the Bible. If you don’t know, it’s the story of a young man from a wealthy family who became dissatisfied with his life of ease and boredom, so he approached his father and asked him to give him his share of the money he would inherit. They called it a “birthright” back in Biblical times. So, off he went to the big city with a wad of money to have a good time. He spent every penny on girlfriends, booze, thrills and everything that money could buy—as long as it held out. Since he didn’t have a job and wasn’t trained for a job in the city, he became broke, and as the days passed, hungrier and hungrier. Things became hard for everyone in the city because the stock market crashed. Many people lost their jobs, but it was terrible for the prodigal son because the only job he could be hired for was slopping the hogs. He tried eating some of the pigs’ slop to keep from starving, but the hogs were having none of that. He was lucky he didn’t get trampled to death by the 300-pound beasts.

Whenever he could catch a few hours sleep, his dreams were wonderful visions of the overflowing breakfast table always available on the farm—and that was just for the hired men. The family dined lavishly. So he jumped in a nearby puddle (there was a drought and the lakes and rivers were all dried up) and tried to wash off the stink and slime as best he could. He headed for the road home, filthy and empty-handed. He was willing to beg his father to take him in as a hired hand.

Trudging along, his eyes cast down, he neared home unable to bear looking at the rolling hills covered with grass. He had seen it in his dreams and he already knew what it would look like. He looked up when he heard shouting. Someone in the distance was waving and shouting with his robe pulled up to run with more freedom. He glanced around to see if anyone saw the runner. In those parts that was a very undignified thing to do.

As the figure came nearer he recognized his…his father! How could it be? At best he expected a few servants to meet him. He was so awed and overwhelmed, he fell to his knees before him, crying and saying he was sorry over and over again. But his father lifted him to his feet, put his arms around him and kissed him on both cheeks, stinky and dirty as he was. Most of us know the rest because it’s the proverbial happy ending. His father threw a big celebration party and welcomed him back into the family.

Wow!

What's the Appeal About Mysteries?

I love to stretch out in my recliner with my cat curled in my lap and crack open the first page of the newest James Patterson mystery. Before I know it, I'm lost in the back alleys of Washington, D.C., or San Francisco hunting for serial killers. I diligently pay attention to clues and my own hunches about the identity, psychological profile, and plot twists and NEVER, NEVER read the ending. My satisfaction comes when I can close the book and say to myself, "Aha! My hunch was right all along!" There is never a boring page.

I often wonder what it is about mysteries that appeals to old and young, male and female. I'll enjoy reading others' thoughts about mystery novels or certain mystery novelists.

Talk later,
Annadee

Hello!

I'm new to the blogging scene. I'm a new young adult fiction writer open to discussion from other writers, teens, and young adults about life in the 21st century, whether it's fabulous or it stinks. If I blog about a topic that tugs your heartstrings or yanks your chain, let's hear about it.

My only request: KEEP IT CLEAN!

Talk to you later.
Annadee