khrystleraineduste

Posts Tagged ‘imagination

~ …Dreams are gossamer threads bound with iridescent rainbows and reflected in golden clouds; they let us reach for the unattainable and believe we will touch it… they hold our spirit and remind us to chase the vision… We admire those who attain greatness and strive to follow in their footsteps… ~ krd…

(You may have seen that before… it’s in my WordPress profile as well… thank you for remembering!)

 

Beautiful Artwork...

Beautiful Artwork…

I am female, which means as all males of this era will insist I am the weaker sex. Ha! These men would be nothing if their mothers hadn’t taught them to be brave, heroic, honest and honourable and their fathers taught them skills. They, or at least the ones raised up in a caring environment, will doff their cap or come to the aid of a lady in distress…

Then there are those whose upbringing was of a more personal nature: eat-or-be-eaten. The world is filled with these miscreants, who will smile at you and, when you lower your eyes, they’ll shove a carving knife through your heart…

Still I am in charge of my smallholding; a pittance of the Grande Kingdom, to the North of Wolcast, where I was born. Removed to the plains South of Wolcast when my uncle seized power, his blade still dripping with my father, the King’s blood. Many, who stood bravely by my side, refusing to surrender or pay allegiance to the usurper of the throne, paid with their lives, their screams still haunting me; their homes burned, their families murdered.

Offered the holding in the region of Norweld, a small stone hovel, really, I grasped at it. Determined to re-build and make my uncle pay for his treachery…

I wish to build my Master City, Iridescent Rivers, into a rich and thriving merchant hub, where squabbles and petty crimes are intolerable. Where news can flow and persons can find respite. Join me in my quest… for you will find I am loyal, trustworthy and generous; but woe to the traveller bent on destruction and harm, for no quarter will be shown…

*the plot begins to churn…*

*hugs*…
luv khrys…

Soooooo… whatcha think? LOL… I imagine I will be toast in 5-days… but the novel idea (or maybe simply a story) shall grow for many sleepless nights, drats and double-drats!

I wish to give credit for the photo, unfortunately the details appear to be locked in my other computer… if its yours and you object, please inform me, I will delete!

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  • don’t know why this bullet will not go away… Probably punishment for my shameless promotion… lol

 

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Illyriad… A great place to waste your day… I am apparently building a ‘kingdom’ – I called it Iridescent Rivers… I have 7-days before they let the warriors test my strength, until then I am supposedly safe from attack… So, basically, I have 7-days (real-time) before I die… Ought to be interesting… take care… *hugs* luv khrys… 

“Hi there. Don’t mind me…” (Flitting about anxiously peering out deep casements, watching the siege unfold.)

“I’m khrystle-raine. I was drawn into this world by a very seductive app photo and compelling need to play a game that was more mind consuming than lining three objects up and watching them disappear from the game board.

“I installed the app, along with several others, although three-quarters are already in the garbage… *delete*…

“Whoa! Watch yourself.” (Pulling you away from the window, letting the thick leather curtain fall back into place, before stooping to retrieve the arrow that nearly ended this interview.) “Please, do be careful.

“Now, as I was saying, after settling myself down, I clicked on the app. Appliance? I still don’t know what app stands for, but it starts a program or takes you to a website where you argue with the gatekeeper for nearly an hour, before you realise the gate keeper was right, you were wrong; it doesn’t matter if you were correct, the gate keeper has the FINAL word.

“You figure out what it is the gate keeper is asking for and you comply and, instantly you are transported to this imaginary time and world that kind of combines tenth-century through sixteenth-century and imaginary trials and tribulations along with real (faux) scenarios, diplomacy; trade; higher learning, etc…

“Yikes!” (An arrow pushes past the curtain as a gust of wind lifts it.) “Maybe we should move to the inner room.

“Now, the gatekeeper introduces you to a very kind Invisible-Wizard who urges you to accept the offer of a tutorial, which, you really ought to take advantage of.” (Shooting arrows, or whatever I’m capable of…I haven’t really entered the combat zone yet…)

“The tutorial lets you know you ain’t getting out alive.” (Short laugh) Actually, I highly recommend the tutorial. Without it, you would be hopelessly lost instead of mildly flummoxed.

“There are a million things that need to be taken care of and suddenly, I’M in charge? (Not sure who’s bright idea that was…) I learned my appointment was/is as a lowly Governor. Director; Ruler; Administrator; Head; Superintendent; Regulator; Controller… Are you getting this? Those batteries will not last long here. There is no electricity to recharge; I hope you brought a pencil and notepad.

“Good gracious… Didn’t I have a peace treaty with you???” (shouting uselessly out the doorway at the stonewalls, expecting my soft-spoken voice to drift the mile or so between where the army-captain stood and where I cowered, swishing skirts muttering about modern clothing for women.)

Turning back to you, “It’s true you know, I struck a peace treaty my second day here, even though I was under the protection of the ‘gawds’ for seven-days; a rainbow covered my lands, protecting me from all who meant harm. On the eighth day, the veil lifted and I saw, camped around me hoards, ready to destroy my carefully constructed, tenuously poised fiefdom.

“Some I made treaties with, some proudly marched in as saviours, protecting my lands, others sent spies and saboteurs to destroy and confuse me. I have many people counting on me to save them from death or prison. I intend to win. Please excuse me. I will be back; you should be safe here. Please don’t leave; I don’t need to be wondering where you’ve gotten yourself.” (Gather up whatever weapons/potions/stuff I am able, creep from the room closing the thick wooden door and with my back pressed against the icy-cold stonewall of the steep, damp, dark staircase, cautiously slip down to the melee…) 

SO… Should (can?!?) I turn this into a novel?!? Currently it is not even an outline; just an idea…

*hugs* …luv khrys.

PS: (Of course it means research… don’t know too much about other centuries…don’t know nuthin’ really…lol)

PPS: I can’t help you get past the gatekeeper; I still don’t know what I did right or wrong…

PPPS: ULTRA-IMPORTANT, IF it hasn’t already done so: GO HERE…WordPress NEWS... Kinda something I thought would be frontpage news… but there ya go… (Now, can someone tell me WHERE the ‘update’ button on my DASHBOARD is, please?)

This is a story I wrote years ago when the plight of orphan-teens plagued my conscience. Being an orphan myself, I feel rather strongly about the need for homes for older children as well as babies and toddlers. It is what it is…

Family Reunion

Family Reunion

Looking around the upper patio and gardens, Mrs. Forresst smiled as literally hundreds of youngsters, aged one-and-a-half all the way up to thirty-three years old, played contentedly; if a little noisily. Shifting her view slightly, she could see the large Olympic-sized, grotto-styled swimming pool with its crystal water sparkling in the blazing sunshine with the kids, splashing their feet, waiting until their lunch settled. 

Laughter and giggles were the order of the day; ordered especially for this reunion. 

For as long as she could remember, Brooke, (aka Mrs. Forresst), had enjoyed the happy sounds of children. A car accident, that took the life of her husband of only three weeks, had left her unable to conceive, and had just about destroyed her will to live. Only twenty years young, left very well to do; she felt completely empty. 

She thought back on that first year, of all the misery and heartache she allowed to swallow up her sweet, sunny, mischievous soul.  

They had just returned from the funeral, her friends and family not knowing quite what to say or do for her. 

It was only a week since the crash. She could see the dark cloud hover over her head, like a cartoon character. Misery and selfish pity were the order of the day. She couldn’t see how she could go on living, not now; not when John, her childhood sweetheart, lay decaying in a dark, cold, wooden box deep in the damp earth. Tears followed her every waking moment. She took many pills and found herself losing her thoughts in wine and liqueur. 

She stopped letting her friends visit. She became a recluse, refusing to clean herself up or care about the house. The maids were beside themselves! 

Then, one day, the sun began to shine again. The world didn’t seem quite so menacing, nor did it appear that she couldn’t go on without John. “Maybe I lost the best part of myself, and maybe I’ll never be able to have kids, but the good Lord must have some other plan in mind for me!” 

It was almost nine months, to the day, of the accident. Brooke woke up from her long lethargy. She found a cleanish dress; cut some of the horribly overgrown roses from the driveway and drove herself to the gravesite to talk her plans over with John. 

She was finally at peace. She had finally grieved her husband. She had finally forgiven him for leaving her. She wasn’t quite sure what she needed to do, but she was sure that there was some purpose that had her name written all over it. 

Her friends had been thrilled. Here she was, back again! Willing to have luncheon and go shopping. Eager to get involved! 

Before her marriage, Brooke volunteered at the local food bank; Red Cross blood drives; with the Big Sister’s program; at the local elementary school, helping kids to read; the senior’s centre Wednesday’s and Friday nights with their Bingo games, and occasionally helping out on their Saturday ‘outings’. Now that she had turned the corner on her grief, she felt ready to get involved again, but she wasn’t sure where to direct her energies. 

An evening of watching the telly and she was sure she had her answer. Commercials for various ‘save-the-children’ programs ran. They all spoke of a horrendous need for foster parents in third world countries. They showed videos of the unimaginable squalor these children, and their families, lived in. 

She looked around at the room she was in, with its Baccarat Crystal chandelier; pair of Queen Anne chairs; an ancient Teak side table; the antique Aubusson carpet under her feet; the …well, EVERYTHING! She had a lot to be thankful for. She lived in a huge house, albeit her husband’s ancestral home, but it belonged to her now! 

With renewed strength she stood up, and like one awoken from a long sleep, she wandered around the house, touching, looking; thinking. Seeing it for the first time. 

There were more than forty bedrooms, at least half with ensuite plumbing. There were thirty or more gathering rooms, from the entryway; the morning room; the music room; the den; the library; the front parlour; the back parlour; the smoking lounge; the dining rooms; the snooker room; the games room; oh, she could go on! This house built, not for the poor and destitute; it was over five hundred years old, and the family, well moneyed, with each successor taking his hand at adding their mark onto the old house until it resembled the giant castle it now did. 

Sitting on three thousand, four hundred and eighty acres of solidly fenced woodland; prime farmland; a stocked lake, among other fancies. (Such as an nine hole golf course, downhill ski run, (on one of the higher mountains way in back of the property), miles of cross country and snowshoe trails, a race car oval, (apparently, one of John’s great uncle fancied himself a contender), and just about any other amenity one could want.) The place was better than a castle! It resembled a fine resort! 

Of course, it had the requisite moat, (that was John’s father’s handiwork.) Used for swimming, and kept crystal clear by a heavy-duty system of pumps. 

Her walk around the inside and her views to the outside left Brooke feeling a little saddened again, however, this time she was determined to do something about it. 

She called together the remaining staff, old Mr. Tews, the faithful family butler, who had stayed on even though there had been not much for him to do in the past year. Mrs. Tews, the head cook, (and Mr. Tews wife). Miss Barcelon, a spinster of about forty, the head housekeeper; Cheryl, Courtenay, and Cindy, (three housekeepers); Mr. Grashe, head gardener and his three assistants, Dennis, Warterton and Billy; Mr. Tyseone, head farmer, and his bailiffs, Parker, Jonesy and Hethrow; and the wash women Charlotte and Kathy. 

She outlined her plan to them, and, with a little trepidation, they all agreed to give it a go. 

Her plan was simple. She knew there were not only millions of children in other countries hoping to be adopted, but also there were thousands in her country that were being neglected and needed love too. 

It came to be her turn to remodel the ‘family home’. She spent a goodly portion of the household budget in the following months up dating and re-fitting the plumbing, electric, heating system and the insulation; all mundane things, but integral to her plans. 

She refreshed the interior’s dark (and somewhat gloomy) decor with light, fresh colours and fabrics. She had all the wooden pieces polished, and anything decayed or broken sent out for repair. These efforts kept her focussed for many, many months. 

During the time the construction and decorating workers were busy getting the house in order; a small army of gardeners were hacking, chopping and hoeing the garden; and a larger army of farmers were tending the crops and animals, Brooke was busy talking with the “movers and shakers”. 

She took course after course on child psychology, better parenting, and general child rearing. She also took a weeklong course in “Home Schooling Your Youngster”

She hired new staff, slowly at first, making sure she always had the right mix of adults in the home. 

Her new plan was really simple. ‘Yea, right!’ 

She determined to adopt, or foster, hard to place children. She didn’t think she was up to handling disabled children, at least at first. 

Who she adopted, were larger families of siblings, who, because of their policies, Children and Family Services would split apart and adopt out as many as they could, even given the fact that the children may never see each other again! Brooke thought that was appalling! 

She also adopted older children, the ones most people weren’t looking to adopt. They all wanted pink-cheeked, cherub-fat babies. While Brooke longed for a baby of her own, she knew where God had led her. 

Now, as she looked around, she had no regrets. Each child had come to her frightened, hungry, starved for attention, and usually, more often than not, with only the clothes (or rags!) on their back. 

It wasn’t easy, especially at first. Even with her courses and past experience as a pre-school instructor she was treated as an oddity by the authorities. That is until she took one family of eight children, ranging in ages from four years to fourteen years. 

They weren’t orphans per-se, however life hadn’t been all that kind to them. Found, in a squalid apartment hardly large enough to house one person, let alone eight children. Their mother disappeared again, and as far as the authorities were concerned, she no longer had any claim to her children. This was the tenth time she’d been warned off; still she continued to leave for days on end, leaving her kids to fend for themselves. 

When the shy, scared children were brought into the office where their very lives were being decided for them, Brooke had wanted to burst into tears. They looked so mistrustful. So unlike children ought to. 

“Here they are Mrs. Forresst. A raggedy bunch, no mistaking that,” the social worker had sighed. “Until you came along, this group was going to be split up, but now I think we’ll give you a try.” 

Brooke Forresst looked at the children, and wanted to strangle the social worker, Ms. Drabue. How dare she talk like that about the children as if they weren’t right here in the room!

The social worker went on, describing family history; police files; generally depressing news. 

During this time, Brooke noticed the children shifting uncomfortably, and sneaking shy, resentful glances her way. Finally, she could take it no longer, “Enough!” she practically spat the word. Ms. Drabue, incorrectly assuming the news was so bad that Brooke had changed her mind, closed her file-book with a loud thump. “I had a feeling they might be too much for you, we’ll just have to ship them off.” 

Brooke stood and pulled herself to her full five-foot four-inch height, looked over the desk at the slower rising Ms. Drabue, “Well you can wipe that feeling off your books and give me the paperwork to sign. These children have been through enough and do not need to sit here listening to your derogatory speeches about them.” 

She turned to the kids, “Well guys, I may not be your first choice, but do you think I’ll do for a parent?” 

The kids looked at her then Ms. Drabue then at each other. Brooke noted the younger ones sidling up closer to their older brother and sisters. “Do you mean will we live with you?” 

“No, I want my mommy!” the four year old piped up. 

“I do too, but she’s not here right now, and you folks need someone to help her look after you until she comes back. Can I do that?” she asked the little one, bending down so she was at his eye level. He shrank back against his sister even further. 

“I’ll go get the paperwork, although you might want to take them home for a week or two to be sure you want them all.” Ms Drabue commented as she stepped from the room. 

“I want them, just get the paperwork,” was Brooke’s firm reply. 

In less than an hour, Brooke found herself the proud parent of eight! She was amazed at how quickly everything had gone. She credited that with the preliminary work she had already done, including all the necessary checks. She certainly didn’t credit the social worker with being anything further than a pain in the bottom. 

Now, walking out into the late afternoon sunshine with eight children in tow, she wondered what to do first? That was settled quickly as they took up a chorus of, “we’re hungry.” Consulting with her driver, she discovered there was suitable children’s restaurant on the next block. 

Taking the children into the restaurant proved to be a bit of a challenge. There were no tables big enough for nine people. That problem, quickly solved when Brooke produced a hundred dollar bill and pressed it into the Maitre’d’s hand. Ordering was a little more of a challenge. 

“I don’t like brock-lees!” “We’re not allowed to have that!” and so on. Eventually they sorted it, each child ordering exactly what they wanted; and Brooke had the very sublime pleasure of watching their eyes grow HUGE as plates full of hot food began arriving at the table. 

At first, it was a little awkward; Brooke could see that they were completely at a loss as to how to proceed. “Well, now that all our meals are here,” she began, “I usually say grace before I eat, would you like to join me?” Shyly, each child nodded. 

Brooke said a very simple prayer; she didn’t want to overwhelm them. “For the food we are about to receive may The Lord make us truly thankful, in Jesus’ name, amen.” She picked up her fork and motioned for the others to do the same. 

During the meal, there was plenty of time to talk and get to know her new family. She was heartbroken listening to the stories the children told. She really wanted to throttle their mother; not caring about her children! 

Brooke said a short, quiet prayer, “Lord, please look after these children and their mother. Please help her get the help she needs, in Jesus’ name, Amen.”

 They asked her lots of questions too. “What’s your house like?” “Will I have my own room?” “I don’t wanna sleep alone; I want to sleep with Derek!” “Are there toys?” 

It was time to leave the restaurant; Brooke asked them if they’d like to use the washroom before they left, to clean up a bit? She went with the three girls, and let the five boys go on their own. (She was wondering at what age children should be allowed to go to the washroom on their own???) 

As they walked past the tables toward the lobby, Brooke overheard a comment made by a mother of two well-behaved little girls, which prompted her to ask the children to wait in the lobby for “just a sec”

“Excuse me?” she leaned over to speak to the woman in question. When she had her full attention, “Please don’t make rude comments about my children again, you have no idea what their life has been like, and you certainly have no right to discuss things that don’t concern you. If my children were a little rambunctious, it was because they have likely never been to a restaurant before. Think before you speak. Think of how hurt and humiliated those children would have been if they had overheard your rudeness. Good day!” And she went back to her little ones feeling slightly mollified. 

“Now, clothes. I expect you’ll all need clothing?” It was more to herself that she made that comment, “I wonder where we should go to get you some stylish duds?” 

In the end, her chauffeur saved the day again. It seemed he knew of a wonderful little mall, chock-full of children’s stuff. He also arranged to have the excess purchases delivered later that evening. 

More than once, Brooke was glad she was extremely wealthy and could afford to purchase the children any and everything they wanted. She felt like Santa! 

It was a little tough at first, the children were so used to not having anything that she had to cajole them into believing that there was nothing they could do that would get them into trouble. “I’m not joking. You can really touch and try on anything that you want!” Brooke smiled at them. 

It took a little more convincing for the manager, but once he saw that she really was going to spend thousands of dollars in his store, he quickly relented, giving them carte blanche. 

Brooke had to excuse herself to go to the washroom at one point, so emotional had she become. 

Alicia, nine (if she remembered correctly), put on a lovely dress that suited her so well. She came out modelling it for Brooke. The look on that child’s face was worth more than all of the money she was spending. 

“Does it really make me look pretty?” 

“Oh, honey! You could be wearing sack cloth and you’d still be beautiful, but that dress does suit you well!” 

“I’m beautiful?” 

Brooke hugged her hard, “Yes, you are!” 

“People say I look like my mom. They say she was ugly.” 

Thinking as fast as she could, and drawing on all her courses, Brooke’s only response was, “I don’t think they meant she wasn’t pretty, I think they meant that the things she did made her ugly. I’ll just bet she’s a real beauty! Cause if she looks like you, she has to be!” Smiling, the child went back to the clothes and Brooke disappeared to the washroom. 

They each chose a set of clothes to wear home, and Brooke asked for their old clothes to be thrown away. 

Shoe shopping was interesting as they each immediately headed for shoes that were too big for them. It seemed that they had to stretch everything before, so the larger the shoe, the longer the kids could wear them! Brooke reassured them, yet again, that they need not worry about that any longer, when the shoes wore out, they would get new ones, in fact, they were encouraged to buy more than one pair now! 

Back in the limo, the kids chatted excitedly about all that was changing in their lives. The chatter died as the car swooped them through huge wrought iron gates that led to the house. Their eyes got even bigger as the car wound its way through the wooded area and up the drive to the house. 

Gardyne Castle, photo by: William Muir

Gardyne Castle, photo by: William Muir

“Are you a queen?” the youngest asked, her eyes as big as dinner plates, staring out at the castle-like structure. 

Brooke laughed, “Nope!” 

Hours later, as the children rested quietly in front of the telly, Brooke had the chance to thank her maker for giving her this wonderful opportunity of raising these delightful youngsters. 

Over the next few months, several more families added to their growing numbers. 

Four children, (whose mother was drug addict and had died from an overdose); five infants from a mother who committed suicide. (The infants were actually three, two and one respectively. The two year olds were triplets.) 

Two teens whose father was abusing them. (Teens were typically almost as hard to place as families.) 

Four more teens, whose families were wiped out in a freak tornado; six children (aged six through twelve), whose parents committed a murder-suicide, (and actually killed their baby brother)

Five more from a neglected home; eight more due to a tragic fire that took the lives of their entire family, including three of their older siblings. They just kept coming. 

Brooke never said no. She never said there is no more room. “Children need a loving home and family to feel safe and secure, far be it from me to decide who can and can’t have that with us. The good Lord will cease to send His children our way when we are full!” 

It was hard work; each child needing a little different care. Brooke wasn’t so naive as to think she could consider doing this on her own. She hired staff members. 

A psychologist, on staff full time, to help the kids through their emotions and feelings, after all, they had had a very hard life up until they came to Brooke’s and she wanted to be sure they got the best new start ever! 

She hired skilled teachers as well. She paid two well-qualified instructors, who lived on the premises, (each in one of eight guest cottages). They were to home school the children in all subjects. 

Brooke installed a one story building off to the left of the rear of the main house; furnishing it with all the latest technology, equipment, filling it with comfortable desks and roomy tables, for use as a schoolhouse. 

The instructors and she determined that a combination of Montessori methods and formal teaching would be how their school should run. 

Now, after five months, it was a model that would serve well in the mainstream schooling system! Children, who, when they arrived, couldn’t read a word, were already starting to sound out Dr. Seuss books! 

Even preschoolers were encouraged to attend school, if only for brief periods. 

Brooke set up a day care at right angles to the school, offering free day care for destitute mothers in the area, who needed quality care for their kids but couldn’t afford it. Brooke thought that if she stepped in to help now, maybe they wouldn’t be sent to her in a few years, bruised and disillusioned. Forty mothers took her up on her offer; and she expanded the day care considerably. 

Recognising the ever extending need in the community, she purchased a large, old building in the city, which she turned into a Family Centre. A day care on the top floor; a high-school on the second and third floors; an elementary school on the fourth and fifth floors; and an after-school hang out joint (complete with a snack bar) that stayed open twenty-four hours, encouraging kids to keep off the streets. 

Worried about not having enough ‘cool or fun’ things for the kids to do, she filled it with everything from a ball-pit, to a gymnasium, to a media room, to a craft room, to a photography and art room, to a …well everything! “I want to make it so that a kid will never be able to say, “I’m bored!”” 

It wasn’t Disneyland, but it was an exciting place. She purchased the building behind, and tore it down creating a huge green park with fountains; a skateboard park; a wading pool; a baseball diamond; a soccer pitch; a football field and loads of picnic space under the growing canopy of trees.

Oodles of staff hired to run and maintain the ‘Play House’, as it became affectionately called, helped with suggestions. The only pre-requisite to attending the school was children required a recommendation from a counsellor or doctor as needing special attention. The entire community was welcome to play in the park and on the first floor! 

The city was pleased; They didn’t have to contribute any tax dollars towards the private venture and petty crime in the area had gone down almost fifty percent! To Brooke, that meant only one thing: it was working and she needed to create more of these models in other areas of the city. 

Oh, there were problems. Everything wasn’t perfect. After all Pobody’s Nerfect.

Minor glitches like mechanical failures or structural soundness were easy to repair and move forward. Things like graffiti, garbage, and nuisance vandalism worried Brooke more. She wanted the community to feel this was their place; their house of sanctuary; a safe place to go. Safe physically, but even more importantly, safe mentally. 

Well-qualified psychologists and psychiatrists worked next to black-belt security guards; scholarly teachers and energetic activity leaders. Parents and grandparents were encouraged to join in. There was even a knitting corner. (Inappropriately named, as crocheting, crewel and other needlepoint was also whipped up there!) 

Back at the house, her ‘own’ children played in relative seclusion. It wasn’t that Brooke blocked out the world, she just felt these kids needed time to understand and work through the difficulties life had placed before them. Some of the children she adopted came from moneyed families; these kids would have a huge responsibility when they came into their inheritances. Brooke intended to instil a purpose of life and a responsibility of humanity into them. 

Some of her kids wanted to go to their regular school, and this was ok with Brooke as long as the kids spent their first month trying her school and as long as they kept their grades up. Brooke would accept no less than a B from her kids. If they got a lesser grade, she would have them work with a tutor until the next grading session, when, if their grades hadn’t improved, they were hauled back to spend time in the home school.

So far she had not had to drag anyone back. Of course, only three of the kids actually still wanted to attend their old schools, finding the challenge of the home school much more rewarding and far more interesting. 

As time went on, kids grew up and went on to college or university, Brooke made sure their dreams were realised. She had the pleasure of raising doctors; lawyers; plumbers; accountants; electricians; musicians; actors; moms and dads! She’d welcomed boyfriends and girlfriends. There were weddings and births. So far the Grim Reaper had not clouded her path again. 

Over the years, she adopted over eighty children. Now, sitting on the stone veranda under the canopy of a large sun umbrella, sipping an ice-cold tea and watching those same children playing or relaxing on the emerald green lawn, chatting together, she breathed a thankful prayer to the Lord, thanking Him for His grace and mercy and for bringing each child to her family. 

Having fun

Sunny days, games, picnics, laughter and joy!

“Lord, I don’t know what the next thirty years is going to bring, but You’ve provided for us thus far, and I trust You will continue. Thank You Lord, in Jesus’ name, amen!” 

“Nana? Can we go swimming yet?” One of her adopted children’s daughters asked, her bright blue eyes reflecting childhood anticipation. 

With a big smile, Brooke nodded, “I think it’s been an hour since lunch. Go and get your suits on…” 

She was drowned out as 10 gleefully squealing children raced toward the house, shrieking: “We’re allowed to go swimming now!” 

Brooke shook her greying head, chuckling, “Thank you Lord.” 

*hugs*
luv khrys… 

PS: Check out the rewards of adoption in your area; there are thousands of teens, in YOUR country, who just want a ‘forever home’. Maybe you can provide that space in your heart and house? Remember, adopting older children mean no diapers or potty-training! *smile*

ANGEL and CHAOS… 

Angel and Chaos are two creatures of the night I had the ‘good?’ fortune to meet through another’s eyes. They are her pets; her muses, if you will. She graciously shared them with me as they came to me in a dream; they are playful, vicious, watchful and loyal. Her name is Erin, you might wanna check out her blog, Whispers in the Dark, as I believe she is the next Stephen King/J.K. Rowling/Rosemary Rogers all rolled into one, and we will soon have to pay for what she offers us freely… OH, if you DO visit her, PLEASE encourage her. Leave a message… Remind her to get busy…we’re waiting for the next installment… (You can also visit her on FaceBook, just sign in/up and Whispers in the Dark is waiting for your reading pleasure…) 

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The panther stalks the path. Soft pads soundless against the sand. Pale moonlight washes over sleek, muscular black. Restless. A gust of wind rattles the leaves on the Aspens, their song raspy, dry. Her ears perk forward, she sniffs. Nothing, just the water, lapping at the shore. 

She descends along the shadowed corridor, warily, ears and nose twitching. Restless. 

Standing in the thicket, black-eyes peer, waiting patiently. The soft-sand shore is narrow and long. A mile or more before closing into dense brush. The fresh water lake, the only one on the planet, is enormous. All life is sustained from this single source. And something isn’t right. A shiver ripples over her; she licks her lips. 

A pack of Gypsy-Hogs waddles cautiously from under the brush; two take up sentry duty while the rest drink thirstily. A crackle in the dry underbrush causes her to turn her head. She watches with interest as the massive, lone wolf stalks down through the shadows, inching closer to the Gypsy-Hogs. The Gypsy-Hogs, unaware of their fate, happily slurp away until one of the sentry’s shrieks a shrill warning. 

She smiles, her lips curling back, her teeth deadly points of white calcium gleaming in the clear moonlight, as the Gypsy-Hogs scatter, their high-squeals echoing across the vast open lake. The wolf’s snarls and crashing in the brush suddenly cease, as a spine-tingling shriek pierces the night-wind. She settles in the brush, licking her paw. The wolf will eat well tonight. 

She smiles at the large Gypsy-Hog crushed under her other front-paw, as it so unfortunately chose to run straight towards her in its attempt to flee the wolf. She, too, will eat well tonight. 

She lets out a mighty roar that shakes the trees and echoes long up and down the lake. Restless.    

Prism:  
“Young and restless; runnin’ outta control…;
young and restless…; headin’ for the… overload…”
 
 

*hugs*
khrys… 

Comience como usted desean continuar;
Begin as you intend to continue… 

PS: Not exactly a dream sequence, but inspired by the shadowy-visions I received in a way I can only describe as unconscious consciousness… They have since returned, bringing other visions and sharing their antics… I am busily trying to send them back to Erin on a more permanent basis, I think she needs their care more…
TOMORROW… I have no idea… I’m busy re-writing The Elevator, I may bring you the parts I choose NOT to use… *grin* (maybe you can convince me to use them/it… I hate to waste 7,000 – 10,000 words…)

WRITTEN A FEW WEEKS AGO… 

I DON’T THINK THIS WILL GET FINISHED TONIGHT; AND I know IT’S GONNA NEED REVISIONS … esp. since I see it started in caps… *sigh*… 

We were challenged by M.M.C. to create an ambulance scene… (WWE…WORLD WRESTLING ENTERTAINMENTAlthough I am taking Wikipedia and Google’s word for this; nowhere on their (WWE’s) front page does it ‘un-acronym’ (like that? new word today) WWE.) 

I am not sure that I can do an ambulance scene justice, but, as one never to shy away from a challenge, (esp! a writing one; no matter how ridiculous!) I shall give it my best effort and try not to leave you gapping or gasping or scratchin’ your head… 

I will appreciate feedback so I know what or how one of these should/could go and exactly what I may do wrong so the next one will actually, maybe, make sense… (If continuing a wrestling match into an ambulance can be said to make sense… LOL) (errr… this apparently needed clarifying: I will NOT be writing more… unless for the game itself… *hint-hint*) 

Let’s see…who was it he (M.M.C.) wanted fighting?…

Well, for the sake of argument, let’s just call them Wrestler One (WO) and Wrestler Two  (WT)WO and WT… (You can substitute whomever you want…) 

ANNOUNCER:

“Whoa! Ladies and gentleman, we have WO lifting WT…IS he? OH my GAWD! He’s tossing him off the top of that ladder… Oh Folks! This is serious! WT is lying there… he’s not moving! Here come the first aid guys… WHOA! did you see that! WO just booted WT in the head! Folks someone has to grab that man and pull him outta there! WT is haemorrhaging!” 

Fans watch, in shock as WO is held back by six, big guys… Paramedics work like crazy on WT

“Let’s see if we can get a mic in there… Is he okay? Is he gonna be okay?” 

WO: “F*ck YOU! WO you are a dead man! As soon as they let me off this thing!” 

WT responds in a taunt: “Baby! You wanna piece of me, get off that thing and fight like a man! Sissy!” 

CAMERA PAN:   The paramedics push and strap WT to the stretcher. Six OTHER big guys, dressed in black, looking like undertakers, carry the heavy, heaving wrestler out to the ambulance as we follow along, announcers trying to get their interviews. WT shouting: “WO is a wuss…”

Suddenly we hear a mammoth shout; mixed cheering and jeering. A figure comes flying through the curtain and down the loading bay ramp. WO shoves the paramedic to the ground and grabs the luckless WT by the throat, his fingers clutching as several people are now entering the fracas attempting to pull WO out… 

We see WT rip the leather restraint as his arm flies up knocking WO to the ground. WT wastes no time in pulling the other restraints free and comes up swinging! The two race up the ramp; back flip up and on top of the sturdy ambulance… toppling off… 

WWE.com

Silly; silly; silly... http://www.wwe.com

ANNOUNCER:

“Oh folks! We gotta brawl in the parking lot… no, WAIT! WT has jumped into the ambulance! WTF? Now WO is in there too; hang on as we get the cameras around here…” 

Cameras move to show: Interior of cube-van ambulance and we see…WTF? Two wrestlers, shooting themselves full of drugs? 

WO: Yeah, you wait WT, in another minute I ain’t gonna feel no pain and then you’re in for it!” 

WT: “Not if I can shoot faster!” 

LMFBO… an ambulance match… again, why?
*hugs*…
luv khrys… 

PS: This was written; tongue-in-cheek, as my opinion on Ambulance Matches (in a certain video game.) It was supposed to show the absolute absurdity of these types of ‘events’. It was NOT written with the belief the wrestlers (PRO or amateur) shoot drugs or anything of the sort. Simply take it for what it is… a filler of space on a Sunday morning… (And showing how dumb some video game ideas can get… (To be fair, I believe it was ‘blown-out-of-proportion by a real-life incident?)) 

Okay… happy Sunday… my brain had a good time last night!

Angel is hungry… she has had a taste …a small taste… 

Chaos is circling, sleek, muscles rippling. Claws sheathed, snorting, white puffs blowing in the icy cold… silver-eyes narrowed… watching… 

Angel & Chaos

Chotic Angels

Erin shivers and gazes out the third-floor window. Something is strange tonight. She can sense it. Shrugging, trying to shake it, she turns back, into the room, pushing her long mane of auburn hair behind her ear… A shadow crosses between the moon and house; she turns back to the window… 

“NO… not tonight…” a voiceless whisper escapes her throat. Shaking, she gazes on the fine powdered sand beneath the window… 

She’s here… Her scent is thick, cloying… dark. 

Another scent? 

Another shadow… moving slowly; curving gracefully past barriers… 

“No,” Erin pleds…

The wind rises; leaves start to shake on branches that are swaying…

A heavy thump… She looks up… a floor board creaks in the empty attic overhead… 

A low rumble shakes through the timbres… rising in strength, like a locomotive running out of control; rattling the glass…

The wind dies suddenly. 

A soft padding comes down the hall… 

A loud yeowl…

Turns her blood warm… A slow smile curves her deep-red lips, her hands clenching… 

She watches the door, the handle turning slowly… she waits…

*hugs*
luv khrys…

 Not what I was thinking I was bringing… enjoy it anyway… I’m not sure what to do with it, it grabbed me in an elusive dream and spun its way into consciousness, but it refuses to reveal itself further! I do not know what will become of this snippet in the fabric of the novel. Or, will it take over and become the novel? Stay tuned…

Some days, no matter what you try to accomplish, your mind keeps churning the plot line repeatedly in your mind. . .

You’re standing in line at the grocery store, when, “that box of cereal! Yes! It could solve the food shortage on Planet XRZ!” People look at you weirdly and take a wide path around you. On the other hand, they usually let you go to the head of the line, as if talking to yourself is a catchable disease. Or they alert the store manager that there’s someone standing in the frozen food aisle wondering how to slip poison into an unopened package? That ensures a fun day! 

Writers are always ON. Our minds look at every scenario and wonder, “How far can I take that idea? Will it fill a chapter? A whole novel?” What you see as an old man walking from the counter to sit at a table in the crowded restaurant; we see as a love story; a story of loneliness; or a struggle to make ends meet; or a million other ‘ideas’. (Such as he’s not an old man, but a shape-shifter from that Planet XRZ.) 

What starts out innocently enough, becomes fodder for our imaginations and takes flight as our fingers try to find the correct keys on the QWERTY board to put it together into something someone, somewhere, wants to read. An innocent child, walking down the street, on his way to school with a large backpack; is that a homemade bomb peeking out the top? Now the school is in lock-down because of an excitable, nosey old lady who sees everything; except what is right under her nose as her own child sets in motion a terrible terrorist attack on unsuspecting co-workers at a metal plant...

Writer’s try to confuse and bamboozle; they/we want you to wonder ‘who dun it’ until the last page. We want you to be sure it was Aunt Enid with the revolver in the drawing room. We want all the clues to aim toward the unexpected twist, when, you, our reader finds out it was Uncle Percy in the bathroom with a stink bomb. (We like humour, too…

We want you to feel the heartache of losing your one true love to a devastating fire; sure you’ll never love again. Only to have said love’s brother or cousin appear and sweep all the tears and heartbreak away; or the loss of a child to a wasting disease. And the confirmation another child will be unwanted; only to watch as the heroine goes through a difficult and unexpected pregnancy. Will this child survive? Will her child have the same disease? Will she terminate the pregnancy? Stay tuned… 

There are as many ideas for stories out there, as there are people in the world…maybe more ideas then people! 

Writers write. Not everything we say makes sense; is published; or even leaves our desktops. Much of our writing is little more than exercises in keeping our brains and fingers nimble! Occasionally we produce a scrap that we are very proud of, and they find their way into the mainstream. Sometimes we even get paid for writing it! *smile* 

And so, for now, I write, and hope you read… sooner or later the journey continues and I hope you are enjoying the many sights, sounds and stops along the way and that you will continue to purchase your ticket and join me… maybe you’ll even let me know how to improve or write about what interests YOU!

*hugs*

luv khrys… 

PS: Tomorrow… is the day after today… and so, I write…Maybe from Planet XRZ…


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