Event Horizon

2006-05-22T08:34:00.000-07:00

The final section of the mouse story!!

Later that day, Alfred had once again called a meeting of his Mice, this time to congratulate them. As they all gathered before him, Alfred watched them with a sense of pride. They had done this, accomplished this, together. He listened with satisfaction to the sound of the bell, ringing somewhere in the house, to tell them where the Cat was. No longer would they be caught unawares by it. No longer would it sneak up on them silently.
“My friends,” Alfred addressed the gathered mice. “I must commend you all for what you did today. You were all given tasks, and you all carried them out even better than I could have expected. Even you,” he nodded to the mice who had fastened the Cat’s door to the outside closed, and those who had chewed into the food in the pantry to make the humans leave to go get more food and mousetraps. “Did your work very well. I thank you all.”
For a moment the entire room remained quiet, then Quirk stepped forward, followed by the black-furred Jet. “Boss, on behalf of all the Mice here, we thank you.” He motioned with his nose, and two mice in the back moved forward, carrying something. “Boss, we give you our cheese.” This all was said with such a regal, important air, that Alfred couldn’t help himself.
For a moment Alfred simply sat still, trying to act like he knew he should. Then all at once it became too much, and he began to laugh. He laughed and laughed and laughed, unable to stop, laughing harder and harder, until he toppled over and fell off his platform, and rolled around on the floor laughing.
Finally he gasped out, “What are you trying to do—make me so fat the Cat will use me as a playing ball?” then he fell back into laughing, and gradually the whole room began to laugh along with him, even Quirk and Jet, once they really saw the amount of cheese being brought forward.

2006-05-21T16:42:00.000-07:00

I know it's been a long time, but this is the next section in the Alfred story.

Over to Alfred’s left, something creaked. Alfred immediately froze, glancing in the direction of the sound, hoping and yet dreading that it was the Cat. Every sense was strained to tell if it was.
It was! Through the opening door, stalking regally along on silent feet, came the Nemesis of Alfred and all his kind. Its tail stood up straight in the air, twitching arrogantly. Its huge green eyes, with their strange slitted pupils, were half closed in selfish pleasure.
Alfred crouched down as far as he could, terror almost seizing his limbs. Slowly, ever so slowly, the Cat came closer. It still didn’t see him, its padded feet coming closer and closer to the cowering mouse.
Suddenly, as the Cat came within a mouse-length of Alfred, he made the most daring decision he had ever made in his life, and the most dangerous. Jumping up, and ignoring the fact that the Cat’s nostrils were starting to twitch, he darted forward—
—and bit the Cat’s toe! As his teeth sank into the thick fur on the Cat’s little toe, Alfred heard a satisfying yeowl from the Cat, but he was already sprinting towards his hiding place. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Carmen and three other mice peeking out of two different holes on opposite sides of his. Their eyes were wide in amazement, and Alfred took this to mean that the Cat was hot on his tail. Doubling his pace, and expecting to feel the claws of the Cat in his fur at any moment, he threw himself towards his hole.
The comforting darkness appeared in front of him, and Alfred darted into it. And none too soon, because he felt the swipe of the Cat’s paw barely miss the tip of his tail. Alfred sank to the floor with a sigh of relief, hearing with satisfaction the angry yowls outside his hole.
Then the sounds coming from the Cat changed, from fury to frustrated surprise, and Alfred knew the second phase of their plan had begun. Daring to peek his head out of his hole, he anxiously watched the events unfold.
First, Carmen had darted out of her hole and run right under the Cat’s nose, making him chase after her. He had chased her to the hole where Melanie hid with the string, expecting nothing. As soon as he came in front of her hiding place, the agile Melanie jumped up, with the end of the string in her mouth, and sank her sharp claws into the thick fur on the Cat’s neck. Scrabbling upward as fast as she could, Melanie had reached the top of the Cat’s neck and jumped down, still pulling the string behind her, so that a length of it now lay over the confused Cat’s neck.
Next, Quirk jumped out of his hiding place, dragging the other end of the string, close to which the bell had been strung. He raced towards Melanie, who was dragging the string back under the Cat’s neck. The third mouse, Jet, who had hidden in the same hole as Carmen, raced up behind the Cat and savagely bit its tail.
With an anguished yowl, the Cat’s head whipped back to nip the mouse on its tail. But Jet had already run up the Cat’s tail, and was hanging on to its back.
As the Cat’s head had lifted up and moved towards its tail, Melanie and Quirk had hung on tightly, trusting Jet to do his job. As Jet ran farther and father up the Cat’s back, every mouse-length or so, he could again bite the Cat. The Cat’s head followed Jet, trying to bite the irritant on its back.
At that point, Alfred lost sight of Melanie and Quirk, but he knew what they were doing. As soon as the Cat’s head was over its back, they would brace themselves against its fur, and swiftly tighten the string around the Cat’s neck, then tie it into a tight knot. Once that was done, all three mice would drop off the Cat’s back and race back to their holes.

2006-05-18T07:52:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm going to try and start posting on here again. Here goes!

Why is my dad a hero? Well, he would tell anyone in a heartbeat that he isn’t. But despite what he says, I still believe very firmly that he is one of the most heroic men I have ever met.
My dad is a hero for the sacrifices he has made for other people. He is generally a person who likes peace and quiet, and no chaos. But despite all that, he has sacrificed his wants for what he believes is right. He has sacrificed his comfort for the needs of several other people, and saved them from the awful lives they might have lived otherwise.
There are eight people in particular my dad has made sacrifices for. These are eight of my siblings, each one originally from a different country. He has adopted each and every one of them, despite the fact that each new person in the house increases the noise and chaos level. Also despite the fact that he payed many thousands of dollars to help them that he could have spent on a fancy new house or car, and lots of other things for himself, my mom, and his other children.
Not only did my dad take these orphans into his home and his heart, he works daily to help them become the kind of people any parent would be proud of. When all is said and done, he will have taught twelve children how to drive. He, along with my mom, will have taught five children English, and helped three others to better their knowledge of it. He works full time to put food on the table for twelve children, himself and my mom, and his mother.
But even better than their material needs, my dad feeds their minds. He teaches all of us how to think, to avoid the common errors that many people make today. He teaches us how to find out whether something displayed in an ad is really what they say it is. He teaches us how to avoid the traps people set to try and get our money. He encourages us to think ahead, to plan for our future, and even my ten year old brother is figuring out what he will do for college, and his career.
Perhaps all of this teaching doesn’t seem so great in and of itself. But multiply all the stuff he does times twelve, and when finished, he has hardly any time left for himself. From the time he comes out of his room in the morning until the time he leaves for work, he is often answering several questions, and even counseling one of the children in need of a shoulder to lean on. He works until about five, then comes home. From then until ten thirty at night, often times, he is bombarded with questions and problems from each of the kids.
This is why I believe my dad is a hero.

2006-04-13T15:40:00.000-07:00

Everyone, I'm really, really sorry I haven't been posting. computer troubles and spring break, mostly. Also, I have created a sort of email magazine that I am going to send out to whoever wants to read it. you can just put a comment on here and I'll find a way to let you tell me your email address.

By the way, for those of you out there that know my family, Kathryn just a day or so ago made a huge leap in her progress in this family. I'm afraid to say what it is unless my mom says it's okay, but I just want her to know that I'm very happy for her.

2006-04-07T16:02:00.000-07:00

I just wanted to tell everybody that looks as my blog that this week is spring break, which is why I haven't been posting. I will get back to it when we start school back, and I already have at least one title in mind.
-star jewel

2006-03-31T08:34:00.000-08:00

ALFRED THE MOUSE

Alfred the mouse stuck his head out of his little hidey-hole in the wall, his whiskers twitching furiously. Slowly, ever so slowly, Alfred inched out of the hole, his beady little eyes darting around in search of danger, and his ears perked up high to listen for the slightest sounds.
Finally, satisfied that no one was around, Alfred darted out of his hole and scurried along the wall towards a crack in the plaster only five feet away, which still seemed like an interminable distance to one of his small stature.
Alfred hurriedly approached the crack and squeezed into it, breathing a mouse-sized sigh of relief. “Carmen? Are you in here?”
A female mouse with beautiful, shiny brown fur appeared in the light that came in through the crack. “I’m here, Alfred. All the others are here too.”
Alfred twitched his whiskers, squeezing further into the crowded space. All around him, his fellow mice squeaked their welcome, and he squeaked back in return.
Finally, he reached the chip of wood that served as his podium, and clambered up onto it. “All right, my fellow Mice, let’s begin.” He wiggled his whiskers at an older male mouse named Quirk, who had white fur around his nose like a goatee. “Quirk, do you have the bell?”
Quirk shoved a tiny brass bell forward with his nose. “Sure as cheese, boss.”
“Melanie, do you have the string?”
From somewhere in the back came Melanie’s high-pitched (even for a mouse’s) voice. “Yes, boss. And lots of it!”
Alfred nodded with satisfaction. “Good. And I have the bait. Now, all of you know what to do?”
A chorus of squeaks sounded from around the space. “Sure as cheese, boss!”
“All right, everyone. To your places!” the space suddenly became a flurry of activity as it emptied, each mouse hurrying off to their assigned place.
Alfred jumped down from the wood chip, joining his friend Carmen as she picked up a smelly, oily piece of paper in her teeth. The two mice rolled hurried back out the crack, Alfred beginning to wish he hadn’t eaten so many dropped Rice Crispies in the last few days.
Once Alfred and Carmen were outside, they both rolled around on the smelly paper, coating themselves in the odor of cat food. Then they shoved the paper back into the crack in the wall.
As Alfred prepared to run out into the middle of the room to wait for the cat, he and Carmen rubbed noses to wish each other luck, and they ran in opposite directions.
Every muscle in his tiny body trembling, Alfred inched out towards the middle of the room, which seemed to gigantic. Every sense was on the alert, searching for any sign of the object of their project.

2006-03-27T07:32:00.000-08:00

PREJUDICE: WHY DOES IT EXIST? HOW DO WE STOP IT?
Prejudice is a subject that has bothered me for a while. I used to think prejudice was black people not liking white people and vice versa. But I have learned that this is not at all true.
If you’ve read many of my previous posts, you probably know that I have eight adopted siblings, most or all of whom are originally from Asia. Not all are Oriental, but some are.
The sad thing is, at least a couple of my sisters are prejudiced against blacks and Mexicans. Now, I don’t want to anger any of my family members by this statement, but it’s true. And it greatly saddens me to see girls in a family with many different colors, still able to be prejudiced against other races of people.
Prejudice exists because of sin. That’s a given. We see someone and decide whether we like or don’t like them based on either their looks or their race, even before we’ve met them. This is out and out sin. Are we not to love everyone, even the unlovely and unlovable? Are we not to treat everyone based on their behavior and not on their skin color?
Another thing is, someone should never judge a person based on the acts of their countrymen. For example, we should not dislike all Iraqis just because our country is fighting people in theirs. (We’ve also had an instance where one boy, when he found out that some of my siblings were from Russia, told us they were bad because America had once fought against Russia! That may sound silly, but all prejudice is like that.)
Now comes the question: how do we stop it? To tell you the truth, I have no idea. I have repeatedly spoken to my sisters about their dislike of blacks and Mexicans, but they just make a joke out of it and shrug me off. I am able to get nowhere in this matter.
I would say, it would probably come to an end when the person followed Jesus, but that wouldn’t be right. One of the girls who has a problem with Mexicans has been baptized and is a professing believer. So it isn’t that.
But what is it?!!! I will get back to you if I ever find the answer.

2006-03-24T06:49:00.000-08:00

I'm trying to think of a weekly thing to do on my blog to get people to contribute. Have any ideas? I know some of you out there looking at my blog are returning, but I never see any comments from you. come on, give me some feedback!

2006-03-24T06:44:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry to cut this so short, but it was threatening to become a long story, and I'm not doing that right now. I've currently got two novels I'm working on, so I'm trying to keep the rest to short stories. Sorry Mom, know you were looking forward to seeing more on this.

After a while, Daniel stopped in front of a house, which though not as well-built as the missionarys’ house was better than most of the houses in the village. “Ma’am, I’ve loved talking to you, and I will want to hear more, if that’s all right with you. This is the house the missionaries assigned to you.”
I stared in horror at the house. “They turned a family out of this house so I could stay here?”
Daniel laughed. “No. Every member of the family is in the infirmary, and I fixed the house up for you. Is it good enough?”
I nodded, relieved. “Yes, very much so. Thank you so much, Daniel. I am very glad to have this house.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Your bags are already inside. Good night, ma’am.”
I smiled and waved at Daniel as he walked away. “Good night, Daniel.” Pushing open the door to the house, I stepped inside.

That night, as I lay on my back on the worn cot and stared at the ceiling, I thanked God for allowing me to come here. I, even though I had never known a life like these people, could help them a great deal.
Also, as I pictured in my mind the sick children in the infirmary, I thanked God for my good health and that of my family. If God had chosen, he could have put me in the same circumstances as these people. But, as surely as God lives, he had blessed me beyond measure. I have so many blessings that these people don’t. And to think, as a young child, I had ever been unsatisfied with my lot!

2006-03-22T08:40:00.000-08:00

I leaned forward eagerly, watching the crowd of people, mostly adults, who were gathered in the center of the village. They were all waving and gesturing excitedly, obviously happy to see us.
Daniel drew the car up into the center of the crowd, driving slowly to give the crowd a chance to make way. Finally, he turned off the engine, amid the group of cheering people crowding the car.
I smiled and waved at the faces pressed on my window, gathering up my suitcase and book bag, placing my hand on the door handle. But the door was opened for me, and eager hands reached out to assist me.
Laughing, I allowed myself to be energetically transported towards the house where the missionaries lived, the only two-story building in the village.

Later, after having been given a noisy tour of the village, I visited the infirmary. The number of people lying on thin cots on the floor of the open building saddened me, though most of the people that were awake were happy to see me. I passed among the children’s beds, greeting each one and grasping the callused little hands that were offered in return.
Then I joined Daniel back at the wide door to the infirmary, who was leaning against a doorpost with his arms crossed. When I neared him, he stood up straight. “They’ll be all right, won’t they, ma’am? For some of them, this is all they’ve known.”
I placed a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’ll do my very best to make sure they’re taken care of, Daniel. Even if they can’t all be saved, they will all have a chance at happiness.” I walked on out of the building, and Daniel walked next to me.
“What do you mean, ma’am? How can they be happy when they’re sick like this?”
I was shocked by the question. “Haven’t the other missionaries told you? About if you believe in God, you will have eternal joy?”
Daniel’s eyebrows creased. “To be frank, ma’am, they pretty much stay to themselves in that house of theirs. I’ve never seen one of them actually go to the young ones like you did today, ma’am.”
To cover my confusion, I shook my head and said, “Call me Elly, please.” To myself, I made a note to ask my superiors about this when I got back. “Would you like to hear about God, Daniel?”
Daniel nodded eagerly. “If he’s someone that can give the young ones happiness in their suffering, I’d very much like to know him!”
I smiled and continued to walk, our feet kicking up clouds of dust from the dry ground. As we walked, I spoke to him about Jesus coming to Earth to save us from our sins if we obey him, and how if we do, we will have eternal life with God when we die. I knew that Daniel couldn’t understand everything I said, but his face was lit up with an inner light as he listened, and not once did he interrupt. I was thoroughly convinced that this man had never heard about God before, and I heartily wondered why.

2006-03-21T09:20:00.000-08:00

COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS
At the edge of the airport, I hailed a cab to take me to my destination. “South Village, please.” Climbing in with my small suitcase on my lap, I shut the door and waited for the driver to start the car.
He simply regarded me in his rearview mirror for a while, then turned around and looked at me. Suddenly his dark face lit up in an expression of delight.
“You’re the new missionary who’s come to help build the hospital, aren’t you?”
I smiled, glad that someone was happy about what I was doing. My parents had disagreed vehemently when I had been asked to come here. “I am. Elly Wellington, at your service.”
The man smiled and shook my outstretched hand. “We’re very glad to have you here, ma’am. South Village is in very bad condition. They will be very glad to have that hospital.”
“I’m happy to hear that.”
The man turned around and started his car, easing out of the parking lot and onto the “highway”, a one-lane dirt road that led across the savanna to the village. We sat in silence for a few minutes, as the dusty prairie rolled slowly by. Having never been to Africa before, I drank the sights in hungrily.
After a while, the man decided to introduce himself. “Pardon me for being so rude, ma’am. My name’s Daniel. My family lives in South Village.”
Sudden understanding flooded through me. No wonder this man had heard about me! Everyone in the village had been notified of my coming nearly two months before, or so I had been told. I grinned at him and nodded. “That’s an American name. Did the other missionaries give you that name?”
Daniel kept his eyes on the bumpy road. “Yes, ma’am. They’ve given everyone in the village American names, except the young ones.”
“And how have you learned to speak English so well?”
“I’m the translator and handy man, ma’am. I do everything around the missionaries house that needs to be done, including driving the new ones to the Village.” He flashed a white-toothed smile at me. “This way, I get to meet everyone first and tell the whole village about them before the old missionaries have talked to them!”
I laughed. “I guess news travels fast around a place like that.”
“Sure. For one thing, most of the young ones are in the infirmary, as well as the elders, and all the other adults are waiting to welcome the newcomers. We may have fallen on hard times, but we still know how to welcome visitors properly. Ah, here we are.”

2006-03-20T07:53:00.000-08:00

“But I say to you, love your enemies.”

When you were a child, did you ever have a brother or sister that you just didn’t get along with? Maybe you two were always fighting or arguing, or you just couldn’t bear the sight of each other.
I have that problem. I have one brother in particular that I often don’t get along very well with. We are always arguing and disagreeing, and much of the time it’s just hard for us to be around each other.
But this rivalry pales when I see the one that could have sprung up between several of my foreign-born brothers and sisters. Three of this group—two boys and one girl—come from a part of Russia that is right next to China. In fact, they are right across a river from each other.
The other is from China. Well, I don’t know how well Russia and China get along in general, but in the part of Russia that my siblings come from, they are conditioned not to like the Chinese. Chinese people sell stuff in their streets, much of it the outcasts that we rich Americans wouldn’t accept. The Chinese have records of generally not being the most likable people around.
So you see the problem. Three come from a place where they have learned to heartily dislike Chinese. One is Chinese. That would seem to be a breeding ground for strife.
Fortunately, it isn’t. Of course, almost no one gets along perfectly all the time, but there’s nothing more serious than the occasional argument or disagreement. (oh, and my two other Russian siblings are thought by the others to be Russian gypsies, which have the same reputation in Russia as they have here.)
To make a long story short, my siblings are living proof that it is possible to love your enemies. Even if your countries are enemies, it is possible to love the people living in them. Even if the people themselves hate you, it is still possible to be reconciled.

2006-03-17T06:41:00.000-08:00

IN MY FATHER'S HOUSE
In my father's house
I will always be wanted
I will always be loved
I will always be home.

In my father's house
I will never be neglected
I will never be abused
I will never be rejected.

In my father's house
I will always be joyful
I will always be filled
I will always be happy.

In my father's house
Nothing exists
To frighten or anger
To bring me to tears.

In my father's house
I will be safe, always
I will never fear
I will never be hurt.

In my father's house
I will share the joy
I will walk with brothers
I will never fall.

In my father's house
There are streets of gold
There are diamond walls
There are gates of pearls.

In my father's house
The Light always shines
Dark never falls
Sin cannot enter.

In my father's house
My mother will live
Unhindered by anything
She's felt in this world.

In my father's house
My earthly father will be
Well repaid for the sacrifices
He's made for his children.

In my father's house
My long-lived grandmother
Will finally go to her rest
And meet her loving Savior.

In my father' s house
Those of my siblings
Who gave their life to Him
Will be eternally blessed.

In my father's house!

2006-03-16T07:04:00.000-08:00

This story hits home for me, and probably for my mom and dad as well. All three biological children in my family were premature, and c-sections. My youngest brother was in the intensive care unit for several days.
Not only were the three biological children unusual cases, so were the adopted children. I don't know if you would call any of us miracle children, but if you think about it in the right way, it's true. Imagine--out of the millions or billions of kids out there, God chose those eight and brought them to us. If someone had calculated the odds of these particular children being brought into our family, it would have seemed impossible. Yet, out of all those children, we ended up with these very special ones. So you see, even though we don't live in Bible times, God is still able to make miracles happen.

MIRACLES HAPPEN
Slowly Melissa opened her eyes, focusing on the group of faces around her. Each face was covered with tears of joy, and each hand was clasped with another.
She smiled weakly. “It’s over, Mommy, isn’t it?”
Her mother, kneeling next to her hospital bed, nodded tearfully, grasping her daughter’s hand. “It’s over, baby! We’re so proud of you!”
Melissa grasped her mother’s hand, smiling at the rest of her family gathered around her. Something was missing.
Then she remembered, and panic made her nearly bolt up in her bed. “Where’s my baby?”
Her mother’s smile faded a little, and she lowered her eyes. “He’s very sick, darling. The doctor’s don’t think he’s going to live.”
Melissa closed her eyes briefly, fighting back the pain. Then she opened them, and looked around again. “Daddy, could we all pray for him? I don’t want to lose another baby. Please Daddy, pray for my little son.”
Melissa’s father, kneeling across from her mother, placed a comforting hand on hers. “Let us pray.”
As her father petitioned for the life of her new baby, Melissa bowed her head and closed her eyes, feeling her worry fade away. Even if God allowed her baby to die, she had done everything she could to give him life, and could let him go with a clear conscience. God would always be there for her, no matter what.
After a while, Melissa’s father raised his head. “Now we will put our faith in God, and we will accept his answer, no matter how far it was from what we wanted.”
Suddenly a nurse burst into the room. “He’s going to live! He was declining, but just a minute ago, he stabilized, and began breathing on his own. We’re still watching him to make sure he doesn’t go down again, but he’s doing very well.”
Melissa and her mother started to laugh, then cry, then laugh again. Melissa threw her arms around her mother and cried for joy that her baby was going to be all right. “Oh, I wish Joseph could be here!”
Her mother stroked her hair. “We’ll send him a letter. I don’t care how expensive it is to send stuff to Iraq, we’re going to send him a letter, and as many pictures as we possibly can!”
Melissa laughed again and hugged her mother harder. “Thank you, Mommy!”

(Melissa, who in the story is eighteen years of age, became pregnant with twins nearly nine and a half months before. After about two months, she lost one of the twins, which devastated her and her husband Joseph, on duty in Iraq.
But despite their worries, the second baby lived, and grew as if all along he’d been the only baby. By the time he was ready to be delivered, his weight was estimated at nine pounds, very large for the petite Melissa.
Melissa was in labor for nearly two days before she could be urged into a C-section. The story starts a while afterwards.)

2006-03-15T07:35:00.000-08:00

For those people that are reading all of my story (the one about Myra)--I am currently trying to go back and work on it. If you see anything that needs to be corrected, an inconsitency, or something that just needs to be filled out or rewritten, please tell me! I'm quite lost as to where I should start working. If there's something in there that you think should be changed, no matter what it is, tell me!

2006-03-15T07:05:00.000-08:00

“Mom? We’re home,” Sarah shouted through the house as she pushed through the screen door into the kitchen. Hurriedly setting Syriana down on the table, she rushed over to the refrigerator and opening it, reached in and pulled out a platter with the remains of a ham on it. “You eat meat, right?”
Syriana shrilled excitedly, her eyes fixed on the plate. “Yes!” she leaped forwards to the edge of the table, reaching her head towards the food like a hungry puppy.
Sarah wanted to laugh, but didn’t want to draw her mother’s attention. She knew it was only a matter of time until her mother came into the kitchen, and she didn’t want to be caught unprepared.
Quickly, Sarah picked up a slice of ham from the plate and shredded it into small enough pieces for Syriana, who hungrily wolfed them down. As Sarah fed her more and more meat, trying to keep ahead of the piteous cries that sounded if she slowed, the little dragon’s stomach began to swell.
Finally, Syriana was satisfied. Her stomach bulging with the meat she had consumed, she gave an enormous yawn and collapsed on the table, immediately beginning to snore softly.
Sarah placed the rest of the meat back in the refrigerator, wiping her greasy hands down the sides of her jeans. Coming back over to the table, she gently picked up the sleeping dragon and cradled her in her hands, looking around and wondering what to do next. Daniel had mysteriously disappeared when she was feeding Syriana, and was most likely hiding out somewhere so that he wouldn’t have to take any of the blame if Sarah got in trouble.
Carefully, Sarah made her way down the hallway towards her bedroom, planning on leaving Syriana there while she went to tell her mom what had happened.
With all her attention focused on the little dragon in her hands, Syriana did not see her mother approaching her down the hallway until it was too late.
“And what do you have there?”
Sarah nearly jumped out of her skin at her mother’s voice, and hurriedly placed her hands around the dragon to hide her from view. “Uh, just another strange creature that I found outside. Do you want to see it?”
Sarah’s mom held out a hand for the dragon. “Show me. And it have better not be a newt this time.”
If Sarah hadn’t been so nervous, she would have giggled at her mom’s reference to her last “pet”, whom she had been an absolute failure at taking care of. Slowly, she opened her hands to reveal the sleeping dragon. “I found her while we were hiking. Her name’s Syriana. Please, please, please, can I keep her? She won’t be too much trouble, I promise!”
Sarah’s mom regarded the little creature nestled in the palms of Sarah’s hands. “Do you know what she is?”
Sarah nodded vigorously, then remembered that if she told her mom what Syriana was, she’d probably have to get rid of her. She shut her mouth with a snap.
“Well?”
Sarah sighed. “She’s a dragon.”
Much to Sarah’s surprise, her mother just laughed. “In other words, you don’t know what she is.”
Sarah looked up indignantly. “I do too! She said I could call her a dragon, even though that’s not really what she is, and I know she’s too small, but—”
Sarah’s interrupted. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, she said you could call her a dragon?”
Then and there, Sarah decided she needed to tell her mom the whole truth about Syriana. That was the only way she could resolve this, and she felt that if she told her mom everything, her mom would let her keep Syriana.

2006-03-14T07:58:00.000-08:00

Okay, this is why I've been so busy lately. :-$ (We're cleaning up a house we own to sell it. this is really what it looks like.) The reason for the silly face is that we are partly doing it because we get a big reward when the house is finished-- an entire year's membership at the YMCA!!!!!

-Okay, so the shoes and the arm aren't part of the mess. We haven't killed anybody in this endeavor--yet.

2006-03-14T07:44:00.000-08:00

Sarah just stared at it, wondering how she had known it was a girl. Then the dragon trilled again, and Sarah distinctly heard “I’m hungry.”
Anxious to make the little creature happy, Sarah gathered it gently into her hands and hurried back down the way she and Daniel had come. “I’ll take you back to my home, so you can get something to eat.” Suddenly she realized what had just happened. “You can talk!”
The little dragon, so small she could easily sit in Sarah’s cupped hands, fixed the girl with one bright eye. “Yes. My name’s Syriana. What is yours?”
“Sarah.”
Syriana clicked her tongue. “Good. Our names match.” She craned her neck around Sarah’s arms to look at Daniel, who was trying to catch up. “Who’s that behind us?”
Sarah glanced back. “That’s my brother. His name’s Daniel.”
Syriana shook herself all over. “He’s sure ugly!”
Sarah laughed. “That’s what I usually think, but why do you say that?”
“Well,” Syriana looked for all the world like a little librarian about to tell a story. “don’t you know anything about us?”
Sarah shook her head. “I don’t even know what you are! Are you a dragon?”
“We call ourselves Lee/letho/leonal/keerrrr.” Each section of the name was divided by the clicking of Syriana’s tongue, with a queer trill at the end. “but you may call me a dragon, if you wish.”
As Sarah jumped down from a large rock, she was careful not to jostle the dragon. “So what should I know about you?”
Syriana spread out her wings and flapped them. “Lot’s of things! First, the reason I thought your brother was ugly is because he is obviously your rival for me.”
“What?”
“Weren’t you both waiting for my egg to hatch so that one of you could claim me? And I chose you?”
Sarah shook her head, pushing branches out of her way. “I tripped over your egg, and Daniel was behind me, but he didn’t try to take you away from me. I didn’t even know what your egg was.”
Syriana cocked her head. “I wonder how long I have been in my egg. Obviously long enough that everyone has forgotten about us. But that doesn’t matter, because now you have me.”
Sarah was still confused, but decided to let it drop. Most likely, there would be plenty of time later. “I don’t know what I’m going to tell my mom about you!”
“What’s wrong with telling her the truth?”
Sarah sighed, as she came upon the road that would lead down to her house. “Of course I’m going to tell her the truth. But I’m afraid she’ll make me get rid of you. She might think you’re a snake or something.”
Syriana gently rubbed her head against Sarah’s hand. “Don’t worry. I will talk to her, and tell her what I am.”
Sarah shook her head firmly, as a breathless and nervous Daniel fell into step beside her. “You’d better not. If you talked to her, she’d think she was hearing things, and throw you out the window yourself. We’ll just have to think of something else.”
“Why don’t you tell Mom you found another strange creature outside, and you want to keep it?” This was Daniel. “And are you talking to me, or the lizard?”
Sarah glared at her brother. “I was answering what she said to me, deaf-brains. Though your idea might work,” she added grudgingly. “I guess that’s what I should try.”

2006-03-13T18:04:00.000-08:00

This is the first part of a story that will be continued soon. It's called "A most startling encounter."

Planting her walking stick in the ground, Sarah pulled herself to the top of another rock and turned to look back down for her brother, who was lagging behind. The top of the small mountain was in plain sight, and Sarah was impatient to reach it. Though most of the hike was merely a steep slope, the last fifty feet or so was a nearly sheer cliff that Sarah and her brother would have to climb. “Hurry up, Daniel!”
From below, Daniel groaned, “I’m coming!”
Sarah grinned down at her brother, who couldn’t see her. “I’ll wait for you at Big Rock, okay?”
A hand appeared above the rock one step below her and flapped feebly in her direction. “Sure, whatever.”
Laughing, Sarah pulled herself up one more rock step and began to walk briskly along the path, her stick clunking on occasional stones along the path. When she came to level places, she skipped and hopped over stones.
Suddenly Sarah’s foot caught on one of the stones and she tripped, falling onto the ground in a huge puff of dust. “What in the world?”
Irritated, Sarah sat up and glared at the rock that had tripped her, picking up her stick and preparing to stand up. But when she saw the rock, she stopped.
“Daniel? Daniel, come look at this cool rock!”
Sarah picked up the rock and held it in her hands, waiting until the crashing sounds in the trees resolved into her brother. “Look!”
Daniel hurried over to her and knelt. “Oh. Wow.”
The stone in Sarah’s hands, which was perfectly smooth, and in the shape of an egg, glistened radiantly. It was mostly an intense blue color, with streaks of silver running through the blue. The stone felt warm in Sarah’s hands.
Suddenly the stone jerked, and Sarah was so startled, she dropped it on the ground. She completely forgot her brother at her side as she stared at the stone.
Then it jerked again, and again. Little cracks appeared in it, and grew bigger, running along the silver streaks.
Suddenly a chip fell out of the top of the stone, and Daniel and Sarah gasped at the hollow inside the stone, in which something was moving. As they watched, the small hole became larger and larger.
Suddenly, the stone exploded, and the shards fell to the ground. Daniel yelled with surprise and threw himself backwards, but Sarah could not tear her gaze away from the creature that had been inside the stone.
“It’s a dragon!” Sarah stared in wonder at the tiny, winged creature. It was too graceful to be called a lizard, too muscular to look like a snake. Four tiny, sharp-looking sets of claws gripped the ground, attached to lizard-like feet. The body was long and lean, with a serpentine neck and bat’s wings growing from the shoulders. The head looked a lot like that of a snake, except that it was extremely narrow and tapering, and there were three long spikes on the top.
Suddenly the dragon looked straight at Sarah and opened her mouth, and trilled. The sound was so incredibly high-pitched Sarah could hardly hear it, though she could have sworn that there were words in the sound.

2006-03-09T08:02:00.000-08:00

BUT THEN GOD…

There was once a family that only wanted three kids. But then God… gave them eleven
There was once a girl who desperately wanted a sister. But then God… gave her six
There were once eight orphaned children, in four different countries. But then God… gave them a home.
There was (and still is) once a girl who hated noise and crowds and chaos, and was very impatient with people. But then God… gave her a huge family to teach her that you can’t always get what you want.

But then God… when telling the story of my life, this story is at the beginning of almost every event. How we wanted something, but then God showed us who knew better. A while ago, we stopped saying things like “we’re done. We aren’t going to get any more kids.” Because we were done at three, five, and eight. (at nine we stopped saying it, and now we are Cheaper by the Dozen!)
We also think that, beyond showing us that he knows much better than we do, God has a great sense of humor. If you ever come into our home, you’ll see what I mean—the adopted kids look more like mom and dad than I do! Sometimes my oldest sister Jennifer is said to be the biological girl, while I’m the one adopted from Russia! (Also, never try to guess age by height. Unless you’re counting the shortest as the oldest and the tallest as the youngest, because that’s pretty much how it goes around here.)
Some people seem to never be able to find evidence of God in their lives. For us it’s like—we can’t not do it! For example, my oldest biological brother is one of the weirdest people on the planet. He’s my living lesson in patience. Or my younger sister from Kazakhstan, who is thirteen, yet is the five-year-old sister I’ve always longed for. (Well, I have a sister who’s nineteen that fits the quota, too. You should have seen us last night! Crazy!) Or take for instance, my mom. She always wants to be everywhere and do everything, and raise her kids in the best way possible. But recently she has had a great deal of health problems that have made her sit back and just watch, while her kids do the work. She has learned to sit down and stop moving every once in a while. (Well…. It’s a good theory)
But then God… made me from a normal person into one with a great potential for changing the way people think about large families and adoption.

2006-03-08T17:25:00.000-08:00

THE QUESTION THAT CHANGED MY LIFE

The bell on the door rings as my mom opens the door to the produce market, and I file through with the rest of my siblings. In front of us are bins of local-grown fruits and vegetables.
As we stand looking around the store, while my mom starts to shop, one of the employees comes over and starts talking to her. I wander around a couple vegetable bins while they talk, not much interested in the conversation.
After a while, I find myself standing next to my mom. In the course of the conversation, the woman has found out that a lot of my siblings surrounding me are adopted.
Immediately she asks, “Which ones are your real kids?”
My mom points my two biological brothers and I out, while joking that they’re all real kids. None of them are pretend!
Seeming not to here any part of my mom’s answer, the woman starts talking to us, asking us our names and ages, and patting the two boys on the shoulders. She completely ignores the rest of the children, regarding them with an air almost of disgust.
It is then that I realize, or soon after, the scorn with which some people regard adopted children.
(except for some details, this story is completely true.)

This really is the question that changed my life: “But which ones are your real kids?”
I realize that when some people (especially Christians) ask this question, what they really mean is: “Which ones are your biological kids?” Though I think even that question makes too much of a distinction. But the sad thing is, some people mean the question as it is. They do not consider adopted children to be “real” children!
I have spent much time and effort trying to show people around me that there is, or should be, no difference between the biological and the adopted children. This question just tears down everything that I have tried to build! It has really changed my outlook on people.
Then, even worse than the normal people that make this distinction, are the parents of adopted children that do the same. If you want to know more about this, I am happy to answer questions, but my dad is probably better equipped to do so.

2006-03-08T05:40:00.000-08:00

Okay, here's your Lest I fall, in poem form

Lord, guard my heart
With your loving kindness
Lest I fall.

Lord, guard my way
With your infinite wisdom
Lest I fall.

Jesus, be my Savior
By virtue of Your love
Lest I fall.

Holy Spirit, be near me
To whisper when I do wrong
Lest I fall.

Lord, guide my footsteps
Lead me in your narrow way
Lest I fall.

Jesus, cleanse me
From the filth of my iniquity
For I am fallen, and I must get up.

And once I get up again,
Jesus keep me clean
Lest I fall.

2006-03-07T16:39:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry I haven't been posting much these last few days- I know there's a name for it when you can't write, like writer's block or something, and I definetly have that. I'll be back to posting regularly soon! Also, does anyone that looks at my blog regularly know anyone that does illustrating for children's stories?

2006-03-06T07:11:00.000-08:00

THE GIRL WITHOUT A STORY
Perhaps that should be ‘storyteller without a story’, because that’s what I am. Well, not really, but compared to most of the other kids in my family, it’s true. I was born in this very city, (Huntsville al) and the only foreign country I have lived in is Oklahoma. :-) Though I am surrounded by so many people with interesting and unusual stories, I am a completely boring and uninteresting person with no exciting story to tell. Right? I can almost hear the unbelieving snorts and chuckles coming from my friends and family that read this.
The thing is, I am the voice for those that have none. Maybe I have not experienced the hardships that many of my siblings have, but my sensitivity enables me to understand them despite that, and to be able to write as if I had been through those things myself. I’m the vessel through which their thoughts and feelings are expressed, though they may not know it themselves.
I have heard that it is not the shared pleasures that bring friends together, but the shared trials. If that isn’t in the Bible somewhere, it ought to be, because it is so true. In almost every circle of friends, I find myself left out because I have not been through the same things they have. (this applies to people outside my family as well, because I have lived a more isolated life than most, and have not experienced many of the things “normal” people do.)
Anyway, my point with all of this is, that though many people think I can’t tell the story right because I wasn’t there, I can. I am the one crying out for help with my own voice, but with the words of the tortured minds of the people around me.
(the poem is an example of that)

I cry out in the darkness
From things that seem so real
I reach out for loving comfort
But there is none to heal.

I’m scared, I’m lost and lonely
I wish I had a friend
But my world is closing ‘round me
Oh, please let it end!

I don’t know where to turn
Every road soon ends
Every heart is closed to me
Even those of my ‘friends’

When times were good and happy
Everyone was there
But in my dark and coldness
All I have is fear.

I cry aloud once more
Stretch out my seeking arms
Someone save me from these hurts
From deceiver’s charms.

2006-03-03T08:50:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry I didn't put anything on here yesterday- I'm attempting to put a new story on her every day, but yesterday we were cleaning up a house in Madison that my parents are trying to sell. I'll try to put some pictures on here later- my cousin said it looked like a construction site, which my mom and I quickly degenerated into "destruction site". Anyway, I'll try to get something on here later today. Now I've got enough story ideas to last me a week at least! (if I worked every minute! Despite what I said, I really am grateful for them, and I wouldn't want anything less

2006-03-01T10:40:00.000-08:00

STORY TITLES!! 2
Come on, people, give me some more story titles! I want to keep this thing going!

2006-03-01T08:38:00.000-08:00

CHILD THERAPY—THE DOG’S POINT OF VIEW

Background: Yes, I really said that. But to understand the title, you have to understand a little about our family.
As most of you probably know, my parents have adopted eight children from different countries, at different times. Each time the children were brought home, they had many issues to deal with, not the least being language problems. Have you ever wanted very badly to talk to someone, but couldn’t speak their language?! Maybe not, but that’s the problem that these children had.
That’s where our Golden Retriever, Sandy, enters the picture. My dad always says that she is a certified child therapist, and I think she is also, or at least that it should be. She is very good at comforting children, and doesn’t care what language they talk to her in. What does it matter to a dog what language someone’s speaking in, when it’s mostly the tone of voice and the body language that they understand?

“—And I just don’t understand what anybody’s saying, and everybody looks at me like I’m stupid, a-and…”
Lying on the rug with my head on my paws, I patiently listen to the tirade, as the dark-skinned human puppy tugs on my ruff. The pricks of fur being worried loose by the fist clasped on my neck are uncomfortable, but I know nothing will be gained by telling her to stop. She’ll just run off whimpering with her tail between her legs (if she had one), and none of our problems will have been solved.
After the puppy winds down to a close, finishing the long string of words that seem to make sense to her but are gibberish to me, I simply look at her for a long moment. I cannot speak her language, but the anxiety in her hand and her voice, and the longing when she speaks, are enough for me. Though never having been in her situation (whatever it is), I know that all she needs is a lick on the hand and my nose on her knee, and she’ll be fine.
For a moment we just sit there, the human puppy staring down at my head on her knee, stroking my forehead. My eyes begin to close with contentment at the sensation.
Suddenly the puppy leans forward and kisses me on the head, then jumps up and runs off. I wince inwardly when my head thumps to the floor, but lie there quietly. I know it won’t be long before my next patient arrives. With eleven puppies to listen to (the twelfth doesn’t count, since despite all my friendly attempts, he still doesn’t like me), it’s no wonder I sleep most of the day.
Of course, I have to work my therapy sessions around giving that canine bozo Charlie, who is too skittish to help me with my job, his lesson of the day. This usually consists of my blocking him from going anywhere until he starts to play with me, then pinning him to the floor a few times. Sometimes I even let him pin me, though not for long.
Ah, here comes my next patient. I’d love to chat more, but I’ve got work to do. If you wish to make an appointment, I’m free Saturday and Sunday mornings. Now shoo!

2006-02-28T11:10:00.000-08:00

After a long day on a home school fieldtrip with my friends, I exhaustedly stomp into the house, throw my shoes in the general direction of the front closet, and plop my backpack down in the kitchen doorway. Falling down into a chair next to the table, I pick up the glass of milk that my mom has left on the table.
After a few minutes, my mom appears in the kitchen doorway, and starts to busy herself around the kitchen in preparation for supper. “So, how was your day, honey?”
I sigh and let the glass thump down on the table, the scene on the bus still running through my mind. “It was fine, mostly.”
Mom reaches up and takes down a cutting board, which she sets on the counter. “What does mostly mean?”
I pick up one of the graham crackers next to the glass and absently dunk it in the milk. “Well, I got into an argument with some of the other girls on the bus.”
“Oh? What about?” Mom takes a tomato out of the refrigerator and begins to slice it on the cutting board.
“Well, we were talking about missionaries, and I said that more people should be missionaries. But the other girls said there shouldn’t be, because nobody listens to missionaries anyway.”
Mom places the sliced tomato in a salad bowl and starts on a head of lettuce. The rhythmic crunching sound of the lettuce being shredded begins to quiet my mind. “What did you say?”
I shrug. “Well, I didn’t know anything else to say, so we just started yelling the same things over and over. I know,” I say, as Mom opens her mouth, anticipating the scolding I’ll get for arguing. “I’m not supposed to do that. But you’ve always told me to stand for what’s right. But I’m not even sure what I’m standing for, if what those girls said was true.”
Mom pauses in her work, then comes to sit next to me. “You know what they said isn’t true. Every time your Uncle Barry comes back to visit us, he brings us new stories of people who have become believers.”
I nod and shrug, still swirling the cracker around in the glass. “Yeah, I know.” For a moment, I sit in silence. “But why do we need to tell them about God, anyway? I mean, if they don’t know anything about what’s wrong and what’s right, he won’t punish them, right?”
Mom smiles gently. “God punishes sin. It doesn’t matter whether they’ve been told about it or not.”
I begin to warm to my subject. “But how can He punish people for their sins, if no one’s ever told them what they’re doing is wrong? They’ll live their whole life not knowing any better, and then they die, and they wake up in hell, and they don’t even know why!”
“Actually, that’s not really true. For one thing, in the Bible it tells us that God is manifest in his creation. Ignorance is no excuse, when He’s visible everywhere. For another—when you are about to do something wrong, have you ever felt like there was a little person in there whispering at you not to do it?”
I nod. “Yes! What is it?”
“That is what we call your conscience. It is something given to you by God to tell you what is right or wrong. Everyone has a conscience, though some people may not listen to it.” Drawing a deep breath, she smiles at me. “So what does all this say to you?”
I think about it for a moment. From somewhere in my mind, a phrase I have heard before pops into being. “Ignorance is no excuse.”
Mom laughs and hugs me tightly. “Exactly.

2006-02-27T12:53:00.000-08:00

Lisa,
I'm sorry if this isn't quite what you were looking for, but I hope it suffices.

Here I live
Safe and warm
Deep within this realm of mine
Mother’s heartbeat
Mother’s voice
And I know that everything is fine.

“Mommy, read some more!” Little David begs, clapping his hands as he bounces in his bed.
I smiled gently at him and close the book, his favorite bedtime story. Once more I stroke the worn binding and place the book on the little nightstand. The story of Baby Jesus, the ultimate story of the love of a parent for their child. “Maybe tomorrow, baby. It’s bedtime now.”
Obediently David snuggled down underneath his Winnie-the-Pooh comforter. “Mommy, can you help me say my prayers?”
I took his chubby little hands in mine. “Do you want to start?”
David nodded, and closed his eyes tightly. “Dear Jesus, thank you for this day, and for Mommy and Daddy, and for my toys. Thank you for my food, too.” He stopped, and I opened my mouth to start my own prayer, when suddenly he said: “And Jesus, please take care of my baby brother or sister that is going to be born soon. In Jesus name, Amen.” Suddenly he sat up straight in his bed and burst into tears.
Around my huge belly, I leaned forward and put my arms around him. “What’s wrong, baby?”
David sobbed several times before he can catch his breath. “Mommy, Sarah at church today, she said some mommies kill their babies while they’re still inside of them. You won’t do this, will you, Mommy?”
My heart went out to my son, whose heart wass breaking over what some little girl told him in Sunday School. Where the child learned about abortion, I’ll never know. “No, David, I won’t. I would never do that to your little brother or sister.”
David pulled away and I wiped his eyes gently. “Mommy, why do people do that?”
I smoothed the blankets over him once again and sat back in my rocking chair, wishing I knew the answer myself. “I don’t know, baby. I think it’s because they don’t understand what having a baby’s all about.”
David lay back down again. “Can you tell me another story, Mommy?”
I smiled at him and began to rock slowly back and forth in my rocking chair. “Once upon a time, there was a mommy and a daddy. And they loved each other so much, God decided to give them a baby.” I watched David’s beautiful little face, his eyelids already starting to droop closed. “But after a while, they started to have some problems with they money. They were afraid they wouldn’t be able to take care of the baby. So they went to one of their good friends, who had had the same problem, and they asked her what they should do.”
I watched as David’s eyelids closed, and he slept. I continued the story, mostly to myself.
“The friend told them about the miracle of the baby that grows inside a woman. She told them about how it grows from such a tiny thing, and how it gradually turned into a human being. She told them about the first time they would feel their baby move, and the joy they would feel.
“Then she told them about the baby, floating so warm, safe and trusting inside its mother. She told them about how the first thing a baby knows is its mother’s heartbeat, its mother’s voice. She told them about the beautiful bond that grows into being between the mother and the child, and how it is completed when the mother holds the baby in her arms for the first time.”
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back in the rocking chair, remembering that day. We had been desperate, almost destitute, and badly needing help. That woman had given us the light that we had followed for the rest of the journey. That woman had shown us that a baby does not start being a person when it’s born. It is a person long before that.
She showed us to fight for life.

2006-02-27T08:33:00.000-08:00

THE RUSSIAN ART OF—COOKING AIR!?

Recently, I went to a Russian food festival, where every conceivable Russian dish that had ever been made was being cooked on that day. Of course, not being Russian, I could hardly name one of them, but out of the hundreds of different dishes on display, there’s one that really stuck in my memory.
I was wandering through the crowded aisles, contentedly devouring a puffy Russian cookie, and people stepping on my shoes right and left. Seeing something that looked interesting, I wormed my way to the front lines of the crowd at one of the exhibits.
For a while, I stared in consternation and confusion at the scene before me, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. But it didn’t make any sense. There was the Russian chef in his big white apron and muffin-shaped hat, speedily cooking in his little metal pan. I leaned closer to see what he was cooking, but could see only—nothing! Except for some simmering spices and oil, there was nothing in the pan.
Suddenly, the chef lifted his pan from the stove and flourished it to the waiting crowd, who clapped appreciatively. All except me, who was standing there dumbfounded. The chef lifted the pan to his nose and sniffed it, then smiled and brandished the empty pan once more. “And dere, ladies and gontlemen, is zee Wussian a’t ov cooking aiw!” (I translated this to mean: ‘And there, ladies and gentlemen, is the Russian art of cooking air!’ From now on, I’m just going to give you his speech as I understood it.)
I raised a hand to protest, and the chef pointed at me. “Yes, little lady?”
I gestured to the mostly-empty pan. “But there’s nothing there!”
The chef drew back with a gasp of horror, as did everyone around me. Then he began to tell me in a tone of great indignation: “That which I just demonstrated, little lady, is the Russian art of cooking air! In our country, the temperature is so cold that we have trouble growing things to eat, so we have turned to alternative measures. This here is Heated Air With Oil And Spices.” He gestured to the table behind him, which was covered with several other equally empty-seeming dishes. “This,” he pointed to a plate with ice under it and several sprigs of mint on top, “is Slightly Chilled Air With Mint. And this,” here he pointed to a plate with bits of meat and vegetables on it, “is our Air Salad. Any more questions?”
I began to tremble in my shoes with the ferocity of his gaze. “No, sir.” Hurriedly, I pushed my way away from the exhibit and once in the less-crowded air of the aisle, shoved the rest of my cookie into my mouth. I stalked off, muttering to anyone who might be listening, “No wonder that cookie seemed like it was mostly air. Wonder what they called that one.”
I never learned the answer to that, but as I wandered around the fair some more, I did learn something else instructive. Did you know Russians can make their kasha (often like our oatmeal) out of anything? Just never go into an old Russian lady’s house and ask for a meal, or she’ll give you axe head kasha!

2006-02-23T16:23:00.000-08:00

Here's a new suggestion-- someone give me the title of a short story and I'll write it! Make it anything you like, I'll tell you if I can't do it. I'm sure it'll be lot's of fun. Give it a try-- tell me the name of a story you'd like to see!

2006-02-23T08:52:00.000-08:00

THE STRANGE CREATURE IN OUR MIDST
I ran down the stairs yesterday morning, my destination: my bedroom. After reaching the bottom of the stairs, only the rec room remained in front of me.

As I frolicked across the rec room's floor, my attention focused on the ear buds in my ears-- suddenly my foot caught on a gigantic soft mass, and I went sprawling on the floor. Preparing myself to face my worst fear, I rolled a respectable distance away and stole a glimpse of my unseen bane.
All at once, I wished I hadn't stolen that glimpse. I already knew better than to steal, but did I listen? No, and my worst fears were about to be realized.

The blue-and-gray mass, shaped much like a moth's cocoon, writhed and squealed on the floor in front of me, slowly undulating towards my trembling feet. A terrifyingly human-like hand extended from it's maw, and shrieks of protest issued forth. What made my blood run even colder was the voice which emantated from the maw.

"Help! Help!"

I was too terrified to answer, shrinking back in fear from the voice, which sounded exactly like that of my youngest brother. The creature writhed towards me, moaning pitifully. I scrambled backwards, screaming in mortal terror when my back hit a chair, impeding my escape. And still the creature reached for me, for my tender feet.

As I sobbed in horror, twitching pitifully in the throes of my terror, the human hand in the creature's maw reached out, AND GRABBED MY FOOT!!

I struggled with all my might to escape, but it was useless. Slowly, exonerably, I was pulled towards the dark, gaping mouth of the horrendous creature. Shrieking and screaming for help, I continued to try to pull myself away.

Then... MY FOOT WAS GONE!! I screamed with the horrible pain, as my foot was consumed between the creature's teeth! Then my legs! My arms! My hea...... "AAAHHHhhhhhh....."

(My brother seems to have a different version of the story. he insists that he had zipped himself inside of a sleeping bag, and was amusing himself by rolling aroung on the floor. When I tripped over him, he complained, and decided I was there to play with him. He doesn't seem to think I screamed, and he says that the only sounds he made were: "I'm going to get you back for that!"
I still like my version better. Okay, maybe my foot didn't hurt that bad. Maybe.)

2006-02-22T09:28:00.000-08:00

THE ULTIMATE OLYMPIC SPORT-- CARPET SURFING!
Announcer: The contestants are lined up, and ready to go, as they wait for their turn to begin. The carpet is being readied, and the surfing floor is being given an extra polish to make is especially slippery. Now the carpet is being placed on the floor, and the first contestant is itching to be off.
First up, the German. He is hoping to be the first one from his country to win a gold medal in this sport. He is jogging in place behind the starting line, waiting for the gun to go off.
There it goes! And he's off! Down the hundred-foot lane to the carpet, gradually picking up speed... he jumps! He slides! Oh my, he's gotten at least three good meters..
Yes! A new world record! The German takes first place! I don't believe it! Look at his face, and you can tell he knows he's headed for the gold!
...And now we return to the ultimate Olympic sport, carping surfet. Uh, I mean carpet surfing. The square of heavy carpeting, which is actually an area rug as seen in family homes, is precisely one meter square. The contestant runs down a hundred-foot lane, jumps onto the carpet, and attempts to slide it as far as possible. The current world record is 3.014 meters, made just a few minutes ago by our German contestant.
The second contestant, from good old USA, is preparing himself to begin.
The gun goes off! There he goes, down, down, jumping onto the carpet... Well, that was a good run, but not quite good enough to put him in first place. I don't think he got over 3.001 meters. It's very hard to tell... here comes the judges' descision... and yes, he was just under three meters. This is a devastating blow to the United States, and puts their contestant in second place.

"It's time to eat, dear!"
the man gets up and turns off the TV, shaking his head in admiration. "What a sport!"

2006-02-21T18:20:00.000-08:00

ATTACK OF THE MUTANT DOGALOPAGUS!!!!
ATTENTION ALL EARTHLINGS: In our routine survey of your planet, we observed a virus that is rapidly mutating into a dangerous form, somewhere on the surface. Currently, the virus is confined to a few select areas, but it's changing form may allow it to soon migrate to other areas. Please keep yourselves confined to your homes for the time being, and watch everyone around you for the symptoms of this virus, or you may suffer a fate worse than death.
Symptoms of the virus: the affected person will be overcome by uncontrollable bouts of silliness. They may start laughing hysterically, or they may begin to make a joke out of everything the people around them say. Watch out especially for corny puns and artificial British accents, for these signify advanced stages of the disease. Another symptom is when the victim suddenly cannot seem to stop playing practical jokes on people. (such as the sure heart-stopper -- jumping out from behind a solid object and yelling "BOO!!!")
This virus is currently transmitted from dogs, in much the same way as that dread disease rabies. It is transmitted through the tongue. We do not know as of yet how much a dog is required to lick a human before infection is accomplished. We do know that humans should take care to stay away from dogs that are reputed to be furious lickers.
NOTE: As before stated, this virus is mutating rapidly. By the time this message is recieved, it may be able to transmit through other quadrupeds. Large families are especially suseptable, particularly the family living in North East Alabama, by the last name of Edwards. WARNING: they are currently harboring a young man by the last name of Wilson in their midst, who will be released after an indeterminate time, once they are sure he is infected. If you meet anyone of this name, steer clear of him on the chance that he may be the one!

2006-02-21T10:53:00.000-08:00

Have you ever been to a birthday party? Do you remember the screaming, yelling and general noise that accompanies them? How about the constant chaos, where everyone is trying to talk and grab their food at once? Or maybe the mess of crumbs and trash left over once the meal's done?

Well, I don't think I've ever been to a birthday party. But I certainly know what one feels like. That's because my life seems to be one huge sleepover. And it's because the scene I just described happens two or three times a day around my house.

I live in a large family. In fact, we are Cheaper by the Dozen. There is an even dozen of kids in my house, six boys and six girls. And only three of us were born into this family!

later on, I am going to try to write some little stories about my life in a very big family. I will try to do one each day, but will probably not live up to that goal. I hope they are enjoyable

2006-02-21T05:55:00.000-08:00

As a small child, I would never have dreamed that I would be where I am now. I would never dream that instead of my two younger brothers, I would have them plus three other brothers, five sisters, and one cousin that lives with us!
I remember rather vividly the day when it all started. We were at church, I think during the service, and my mom was looking at the bulletin. (I was only seven or eight years old at the time) She pointed out to me something about two Russian children that were being put up for adoption. Things went rather quickly after that, for an eight-year-old at least, and it seemed like no time at all until we welcomed Vanya and Irina into our home.
Next, three more Russians. It didn't start out with us trying to adopt them. No, we were trying to help someone else adopt them! But the people ran into some problems, so my parents decided to adopt these children themselves.
Guess what? about nine months later, once again I stood in the airport surrounded by friends, impatiently waiting for my parents to arrive with my new siblings. We were not allowed to see the plane land, since this was right after 9/11. (my parents left the on the first plane that flew out of Tulsa Oklahoma, the city where we lived, after the event) Soon enough, we spotted my parents with my three new siblings, and life turned upside down again.
Well, a couple of years after that, we adopted a Vietnamese girl. Now, I have to be delicate here, but she was adopted from what is called a disruption. This is where the adoptive parents give up their adopted child. Our next two adoptions, of a Khasakstan girl and a Chinese one, respectively, were adopted from the same situaton.
All this to say, I have a big family. we are currently Cheaper By the Dozen! Add eleven of us to one cousin who is living with us and we get twelve! Wow! Who has the time to care for all those kids?
Apparently, my parents do. Despite many health problems, my mom takes care of all of us during the day while my dad is at work. When my mom and dad go out-of-state for one of my mom's many doctor visits, my grandma (she's 80 years old, by the way) takes care of all of us.
I think a great deal of the reason our family functions so smoothly is because we have a great many 'rules and regulations'. Well, kind of just kidding. We do have a lot of rules, but that's not all that's involved. Everyone has daily chores as well as weekly chores, and we also have people called monitors that make sure certain things are being done.

2006-02-19T19:00:00.000-08:00

the next section of the story I started on here a while ago. I'm not going to give the whole thing out on the Internet, but if anyone wants it all, just tell me and I'll get it to you. I'm trying to get as many test readers as I can, though I will only give this to people I know.

The first thing Myra noticed when she woke was the terrible smell. Even before she opened her eyes, she knew that she was in the same room with something long dead and rotting.
Myra pushed herself up on her elbows and opened her eyes, brushing wisps of her hair back. She immediately saw that she was in some sort of circular, yellow-colored prison cell, and that the source of the smell was the rotting corpse of some unfamiliar animal over in one corner.
Myra slowly sat up, trying to ignore the persistent throbbing in her head and the weakness in the rest of her body. She noticed that the floor was made of some strange yellowish metal that despite its content did not amplify sound. As she moved her hands across the floor, her fingers encountered a strange little lump of metal that she put in her pocket to look at later, once she had figured out where she was and why she was here.
“Well, good morning to you!” sounded a cheerful voice from in the direction of the dead animal.
Myra jumped, glancing around to see what had made the noise. In her surprise, she inhaled a great deal of the odor she had been trying not to breathe in, which made her immediately start coughing.
The corpse stirred, its outlines blurring and changing until it became a young-looking man, sitting cross-legged in the corner. With the morphing of the corpse, the smell also faded.
Myra struggled to stop coughing and look at the man. “W-who are you? How did you do that?”
The man shrugged. “Which question do you want answered first? You can call me Joseph, and how I made myself look like that is a long story that you probably don’t want to hear now. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t dangerous before I introduced myself.”
Myra stared at him warily, but curiosity overcame her fear. Until further notice, she was going to treat this as some weird adventure she’d been swept into. “Where am I?”
Joseph, as the man had named himself, swept his blond hair out of his eyes, which Myra had noticed were a strange, intense shade of blue. “Well, you’re on the slave ship Yeichrawl, for starters. I’m not sure where the ship is right now, but I’m sure it’s far away from wherever you came from.”
Myra raised a skeptical eyebrow. “How can we be on a ship? It’s not even rocking up and down, like I’ve always heard ships do.”
Joseph folded his arms and glared at her with the expression Lauren often did when she felt Myra was being especially dense. “That’s because this isn’t that kind of ship. You’re on a spaceship.”
Myra gaped at him.
Before Myra even really had time to react to Joseph’s incredible statement, a door that Myra had not previously noticed slid open and into the wall, framing a large, stocky man in the doorway. He gestured at Myra with a huge hand. “You. Come with me.”
Myra obediently stood up, knowing authority when she heard it. She glanced back at Joseph, whose face was carefully neutral, and whose outlines were blurring back into those of the dead animal.
As Myra emerged from the cell into a featureless hallway the same color as the cell, two men that she had not noticed before moved to either side of her. One snapped a set of thick metal handcuffs onto her wrists that felt heavy and cold.
Myra was starting to feel the first glimmers of fear as the three huge, silent men rapidly escorted her down the hallway, which had cell doors placed at regular intervals. When she tentatively asked where she was being taken, she was met with stony silence.
It only added to Myra’s uneasiness when she realized that all of her guards had long fingers with extra joints, just as she did. By dint of twisting and jerking her arms around in their grasp, which made them curtly order her to stop resisting, she was able to find that they also had sticky fingertips like her.
The man that she had first seen walked a few paces in front of them, his huge booted feet clanking on the metal floor. Myra was not able to see around his wide back, but she thought that even if she could, all she would see was an infinite stretch of yellowish-white, featureless hallway. It seemed like hours that she was pulled and prodded along the corridor, but that might have just been from the fact that Myra had nothing to measure time, or even distance by. Her head began to swim if she looked at the perfectly uniform walls unbroken now by the cell doors, so instead she stared at the back of the man in front of her.
Finally Myra’s captors pulled her to a stop, and when she looked around to see why, she saw that they had come to the end of the hallway. It was blank and featureless, but Myra suspected that it was another door. It had to be, or otherwise they had gone the wrong way, and Myra had no fear of that.Her suspicions were confirmed when the metal wall slid back, and past it was a large, brightly lit room with several strange machines in the middle of it.
Her captors led her towards one of the tables, removing the handcuffs but keeping a firm hold on her arms. The large man that had spoken to her in the cell ordered: “Get on the table.”
Myra started to obey, but suddenly she realized what the table was. It was something she had only heard of in horror stories, described only vaguely, but nevertheless she recognized it. And with that recognition she realized what the room was. She tried to pull back, struggling against the strong grips of the two men on either side of her, but they forced her up and onto the metal table, which had needle-like devices attached to metal arms on either side. The men took up several thick straps that hung down from the table and fastened securely them over her body.
Myra could not move her body, but desperately turned her head to look at one and then the other of the three, silent men. “Why did you bring me here?” She cried. “ What have I done? Why are you going to torture me?”
The man spoke again, staring ominously down at her. “We did not bring you here to torture you. We brought you here for you to be questioned. Pain will only be the punishment if you refuse to cooperate.”
He moved to the other side and sat down in a metal chair, waving the two other men out of the room. When they had gone, and the door had slid closed behind them, he looked back at Myra. “Now we will begin. You will answer my questions truthfully, and without undue hesitation. If you fail to do so, the consequences will be increasing amounts of pain delivered to your body.” He pressed a button that made the groups of needles lower down until they touched Myra’s skin. She flinched, but somehow they were attached to her, and did not move. Once they were in place, Langsk began his questioning. “What were you doing on Earth, in a human family?”
Cold fear for herself and her family clouded Myra’s mind. Her mind flashed through the dream she had experienced. She stared at her captor desperately. “They’re my family, and I live with them. Please, don’t hurt them!”
The man started to reply, but a small screen attached to the chair turned on, lighting up and showing a face which Myra could not see clearly and which she did not recognize. The sound that came out of the screen had a weird, grating sound.
“Commander Langsk, have you begun interrogating the princess yet?”
The man, whom the man on the screen called Langsk, bowed his head respectfully, yet seemed to have to force the words out. “I have, my lord.”
The face on the screen nodded. “Good. I will be down there soon to check on your progress. Has she given you any information yet?”
Langsk shook his head. “I have not gotten that far.”
“Very well then, Commander. Carry on.” The screen faded into its former state, and Langsk turned to face Myra.
“Do not toy with me, or I will be forced to start inflicting pain upon you until you talk. Now tell me, what were you doing on Earth?”
Several emotions, including fear, warred within Myra, but unexpectedly defiance won over. “I was living,” she stated matter-of-factly, looking into his eyes.
Langsk pressed a button on the arm of his chair, briefly. Myra gasped as a shock of pain ran through her body.
“That is only a taste of what will happen if you continue to refuse me the answers to my questions. What you were doing on Earth is not important. We will come back to that question later. My next question is: where is Erlan, crown prince of the Elang, hiding?”
Despite the promise of pain, Myra did not back down. “I’d say I don’t know, but I bet you won’t take that for an answer.”
Langsk pressed the button again, and Myra steeled herself against the pain. This one was worse than the first. “It was not my choice to do this, but yours. You do realize that I will continue increasing the pain level each time until you are knocked unconscious and eventually die?”
Myra was tempted to reply fearfully, but all of a sudden something clicked in her mind. “No you won’t.” When Langsk glared at her and poised his finger over the button again, she hurriedly continued, “You won’t do what you said because I’m too valuable for you to kill. I’m the only one that might know the information you seek, so you can’t kill me because you need me.”
Langsk glowered and his face darkened. “Perhaps you are right. We cannot kill you because we need the information you have. Therefore, we will inflict the pain on those prisoners more expendable to us—your Earth family.”

2006-02-08T12:36:00.000-08:00

This is a picture of a couple of trees in our neighborhood, taken when I and a couple of my sisters were going for a walk. No, it's not black and white. It was just the lighting that did that.

2006-02-07T12:21:00.000-08:00

Well, as usual, it didn't snow last weekend. It seems the closest we ever get to snow is the weatherman telling us it will. The only time that I remember it really snowing was in 1996, when there was that big ice storm. That was right around when my youngest brother was born, and my mom was let out earlier than he was, so they had to drive to the hospital the morning after the storm. Under normal circumstances, they probably would have been gone thirty minutes, but it was three quarters of an hour either way, for them!

2006-02-05T11:51:00.000-08:00

This is a picture of our neighborhood and surrounding area, from the top of a mountain several blocks away from our house. I'm not sure exactly where on the mountain I was when I took the picture. It was in the afternoon, so please pardon the bright sun.

2006-02-03T17:34:00.000-08:00

What's that bug?
Help! can anyone help us identify this? if anyone has an idea but needs a better picture, I can take one, but we've searched through a bug book and on the Internet and can't identify it. Can you help?
2/6/06 A friend at church sent the picture of the bug to some professor at some college off somewhere (sorry), and he said it was a lacewing larvae. But I looked it up on Google, and that isn't it. Does anyone else have any ideas?

2006-02-03T11:15:00.000-08:00

A list of books I recommend,if you're a fantasy and sience fiction bookworm like myself, though some of them have objectionable parts you may have to skip past.

elizabeth haydon-Rhapsody, Prophecy, Destiny, Requiem for the Sun, Elegy for a Lost Star. These books are about a woman named Rhapsody, who is caught up in an epic journey that takes her over many miles and centuries.

Christopher Paolini-Eragon, Eldest. The first two books in his series, of which the third is forthcoming, are about a young boy named Eragon. This boy finds a dragon egg which hatches, and is soon swept up into a whirlwind of adventure and self-discovery that takes him far past where he ever dreamed he would be.

Juliet Marillier-Daughter of the Forest, Son of the Shadows, Child of the Prophecy. These books are set in a long-ago, magical Ireland. The first book is a twist on the story of the girl who had six brothers that were turned into swans, and she had to weave shirts for them so that they would become men once more.

2006-02-03T11:04:00.000-08:00

Hi, Ben Holland! You're probably the first person to see my blog other than my parents, feel free to look around.

2006-02-02T10:57:00.000-08:00

My first writing post. This is the beginning of the book I am writing. I will post more stuff later, but it's on another computer and I can't get to it right now.

Myra sighed as she stared out the rain-streaked window of her bedroom, folding her arms around herself. Outside, lightning flared against the distant forest, throwing the evening landscape into sharp relief.
A hesitant tap came at the door. “Myra?”
Myra turned away from the window and sat down on her bed. “Come in, Lauren.”
The door creaked open, and Lauren entered, coming to sit next to Myra on the bed. The lamp on the nightstand shone on Lauren’s long golden hair.
“You don’t have to knock. You know this is your room too.”
Lauren smiled, smoothing the bedspread between them. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Myra sighed again and stared out the window. “Not really. But I know you’re going to keep asking me questions until I tell you, so I might as well, right?” She smiled wryly.
Lauren folded her arms. If Lauren hadn’t been Myra’s oldest sister, and her best friend to boot, Myra would have flat out refused to talk. “Right. It’ll make you feel better if you talk about it.”
Myra shifted her legs onto the bed and leaned back against the wall. “They threw me out of school again.”
Lauren looked down and shook her head, letting her hands fall into her lap. “What was it for this time?”
Myra shrugged. “Same old thing. One of the boys called me an alien again, and I insulted him back before I had time to think about controlling my tongue. He got mad and told the teacher, and she, uh, threw me out, after yelling at me in front of the class.” Myra felt the prick of tears behind her eyes, but refused to let them come. Not even in front of Lauren would she allow herself that liberty.
Lauren looked sharply at Myra. “There’s something you aren’t telling me.”
Myra angrily swiped at her eyes with one long-fingered hand. “And I’m not going to tell you.”
Lauren moved closer to Myra and took one of Myra’s hands in both of her own, gently opening the clenched fist and running her hands over the long, three-jointed fingers. “What did she call you?”
Myra felt a tear run down her face. When she was able to find her voice, she whispered, “She called me a monster. She said I was the daughter of a demon.”
Lauren gasped, her eyes widening, her voice like steel. “She wouldn’t dare.”
Myra nodded mutely.
Lauren leaned forward, putting her arms around Myra. Myra hesitated for a moment, then relaxed, letting the tears flow.
Finally, Lauren sat back. “I need to go help Mother with supper. Will you be all right?”
Myra nodded, rubbing at her eyes. Lauren took hold of her wrists and pulled her hands down, gazing earnestly into her younger sister’s eyes. “Remember, Myra, no matter what anyone tells you, you are not a monster. You are no more evil than the rest of us.”
Myra tried to smile. “Okay.”
Lauren stood up and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Later that night, Myra lay on her bed and turned the pages of an old photo album, fingering the worn pages and the faded pictures of her father as a young man. She sighed and stared off into the distance, the scene at school running through her mind.
First, the boy that had insulted her. She had retorted with a similar insult and he had jumped up, getting the teacher’s attention. When told, the teacher had rounded on Myra, pulling her bodily out of her seat and outside of the rickety old schoolhouse. Once outside, the teacher had thrust Myra away as if she were poisonous, and begun to rapidly berate her. Myra had quietly endured the abuse until the teacher had wound herself up to fever pitch.
“You monster!” she had screamed in Myra’s face. When Myra had flinched back in shock, the woman followed up on her opportunity. “Yes, flinch, you little demon’s daughter. Found you out, didn’t I? Can’t stand to have someone call you by your real name, can you?”
Myra had tried to defend herself, but the schoolteacher had slapped her, hard, not pausing in her tirade. Finally, Myra had turned and run, hearing the jeering taunts of the teacher and all the students that had gathered behind her on the steps to watch. She had run until she got home, glad that her mother was not home from work yet, and had run into her room, where she remained until Lauren found her.
“I wish you were home, Father,” she sighed, running her long fingers over the old pictures. She shut the book and set it down on the floor, reaching over to switch off the lamp that stood on the table between hers and Lauren’s beds.
Beside her in the darkness, she heard Lauren turn over. “He wouldn’t be able to make everything better.”
Myra stared at the ceiling. “Maybe. But at least Mother would be happier. If Father was here, and if he went to work, Mother might even be able to stay home and do school with us herself.”
Lauren sighed. “You’re going to have to face the world someday, Myra.”
Myra sat up in her bed, switching the lamp on so she could see Lauren’s face. “Lauren, you’ve seen how people react to me! You’ve seen how they turn away in disgust when they see my hands! No matter how nice I act, they still treat me as if I’m some kind of animal!”
“Then you’ll just have to show them you’re not.”
Myra slumped back against the wall, folding her arms. “How can I get through to people when they judge me before they even know me?”
Lauren gazed at her. “That’s your problem. Only you can find the answer to that question.” She turned over and pulled the covers over her head.

2
Myra slept, and her dreams filled her with horror. She stood on a metal floor, and all around her, lying randomly on the floor were bloody knives, severed limbs and heads, and huge pools of blood. Far off, she heard the sound of an intense conflict
Though not normally a squeamish person, Myra was disgusted by the carnage around her. She tried to step over a dead body lying sprawled facedown on the floor, but her foot caught on it and turned it over, exposing the white face.
Myra stumbled and looked down at the body.
Then she screamed. Once her dream lungs had run out of air, she knelt by the cold, stiff body, sobbing.
“Lauren! Oh, Lauren, what have they done to you?” She stared around desperately, searching for something, yet not knowing what.
Then she screamed again. All around her, advancing menacingly upon her, faces pleading pitifully, advanced skeletal corpses that bore the features of her family. Myra screamed and screamed as if she would never stop, falling backwards and trying to cover her eyes with her hands.
Myra woke with the early sun in her face, and had to squint against the glare. She glanced over at Lauren’s bed, which was already empty. The clock on the far wall told her it was nearly eight o’clock.
This last fact registered in Myra’s mind, and she bolted upright, throwing herself out of bed and towards the closet, wanting to yell at Lauren for letting her sleep so late. She hurried into her school clothes and out the bedroom door, pulling her jacket on as she ran down the hallway.
Myra burst into the kitchen and stopped, taking in the empty room. She listened for a moment, realizing that she couldn’t hear the accustomed sounds of her siblings yelling at each other to hurry up and get ready.
Myra hesitantly took a step forward into the kitchen, glancing warily around. “Lauren? Kim? Haley? Boys?” she called softly. Fear chilled her when no one answered.
Myra jumped when Lauren appeared in the doorway, still clad in her faded pink bathrobe. “Lauren! Where is everybody?”
Lauren sighed, and ran a hand through her damp hair. “They’re gone, Myra.”
Myra’s eyebrows creased in puzzlement. “What do you mean, gone? Where are they?”
Lauren slowly crossed the kitchen and came to stand in front of Myra. Something in her eyes made Myra back away a step, and made her limbs tremble with fear. “I’m sorry, dear sister.”
Myra continued to back away from Lauren, reaching a hand behind her to feel for the edge of the doorway. “Sorry for what, Lauren?”
Instead of answering, Lauren turned around and shouted, “She’s here!” She then turned to face Myra once again, and her face was contorted with anguish. “I’m sorry.”
Myra turned to run, but suddenly a strong hand clamped over her mouth, and a huge arm encircled her waist, pinning her arms to her sides. Myra tried to struggle, but was unable to move. The hand was taken away from her mouth and she screamed for help, but a sticky, foul-smelling cloth was put over her mouth, and when she tried to breathe in, everything went dark.

2006-02-02T10:31:00.000-08:00

If this table, our normal suppertime dinner table, hasn't captured your attention, I'm not sure what will. Yes, this is really what (one of) our supper tables look like. We have one other one that holds drinks and desserts, and three that we sit at.

Yes, we have a large family. Some of my dad's favorite expressions are: "some of my sons" and "some of my daughters". (In case you're wondering, there are fourteen people in my family. Five boys, six girls, one Mom, one Dad, and the one and only Grandma. Oh, and the two court jesters- the dogs.

If you want to learn more about my wonderful, awfully large family, you can look at my dad's blog. It's called www.notveryclevername.blogspot.com

My point on my blog is not to talk about my great big family, though of course I inevitably end up doing that. What I want to do is to post some of the things that I have written, poems and such, and I invite other people to comment on them and to post things that they have written. I will also have lists of good books that I like to read, and encourage people to add to those also.

2006-02-01T15:52:00.000-08:00

a couple pictures of Myra, later on in the story.