Interactive Story By TM Nortness

I asked dear members or cruisers of the web to submit either a story for the December Post series, Wonders of Wonders. There were two people who submitted a story and an experience and one I will publish as the last post of November(you are more than welcome to submit et cetrea;)). It is an interactive story by Mr. TM Nortness which he is currently writing. It is very intriguing and thank you, Mr. Nortness for taking your time to write this story!

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Trumpets boomed from far away. The sun shined down on the glorious stone giant. A castle! Birds flew in fright of the loud music and the sounds of cheers from the people of the village. The arena was set. Everyone had came from the shacks below to watch the knights clash. The suspense was high. Nobody knew when it would start. They would sometimes wait hours. But not today. The crowds grew silent rapidly. A handful of guards marched out, followed by servants carrying a large throne. The people all bowed down. The king has arrived. A large, plump man with a snowy grey beard in a robe. His throne was set. He sat in hesitation. The man slowly lifted his withered hand, and took a deep breath. "Let the games begin!!!" He shouted. The crowds erupted, more excited then ever. People shook the stands in delight. They watched as a large wooden door lifted itself from the ground, and a horse marched out. The trumpets changed to a different tune. It was almost drowned out by the people though. This was their favorite part. The prince participated in the ceremony. By participated, I mean he won all of the games. He was dressed in the most pompous robes in the kingdom, and the cheers grew even louder when he threw them off. The prince smirked to the crowds, and lifted a hand. "Now, now." He said. The crowds still raged. The prince scowled. "QUIET!!" He shouted furiously. The  excitement faded. He took a deep breath, and smiled again. "I'm afraid there were no knights in my father's battalion to fight me unfortunately." He gave the crowd another smirk ad they burst out laughing. The prince's hand stuck up again, and all was still. "So I have decided to try something new...." A skinny finger jolted up and pointed to the crowd. "One of YOU!! Will fight me!!!" The excitement exploded. "I will be accepting a volunteer... If you win, you will receive your weight in gold. If you lose...." The crowd chortled at his grim silence. "If no one volunteers, I will be picking somebody to fight me out of random. Now, who is brave enough to defeat me!" He pulled his sword, and pointed to the crowd. The excitement had left all. A small teenager stood up for a second, then a woman (his mother) pulled him back down. No one was dumb enough to fight the prince. A Cheshire grin had spread on his face. "Exactly what I expected." His sword was lifted once again to face the crowd. This time it moved across the crowds of worried faces. No one wanted to be picked. Something happened in the prince's eyes. A flicker of something devious. He had picked. The people looked more nervous then ever as they tried to stay out of the swords way. The sword had finally stopped.  "YOU SIR!!" They prince yelled. The crowds parted, to see who had been chosen. A figure sat alone. The prince smiled. "You have been chosen. Congratulations! Come out and show yourself to these people." To Be Continued...

The author lives in the hills of Willamina and is in 8th Grade.

Geletin Salad Amigurumi Pattern

I was crocheting in the desert hills of Santa Paula, sort of aimlessly. I had no idea what to make, no internet connection and a fed-up imagination. A mind blurb popped up in the shape of a moulded geletin salad. This topic is very different compared to my previous posts, but if you saw the image on Pinterest and are on this website for the first time, thanks for commenting or sharing this post with any of your aqaintences. Here is the pattern, it is free, easy to follow. Any mistakes in my pattern, or just wanting to share pictures of your creations, email amgdauvin@gmail.com.

Plate: color c

Make a slip knot.
Ch 3 and join third chain from hook.
6 sc into third chain from hook to make a round.
Rnd 1: 1 sc in each chain
Rnd 2: 1 sc in each chain
Rnd 3: 1 sc in each chain
Rnd 4: 1 sc in each chain
Rnd 5: 1 sc in each chain around
Rnd 6: 1 sc in each chain

Pretty simple, right? This creates a flat plate which you will connect to the gelatin salad's body.

Creamy base: color b
This will be a Two Rnd stripe bridging the plate.

Rnd 1: 1sc in each stitch of plate.
Rnd 2: 1sc in each stitch

Gelatin body: color a

You must know how to increase before you try this out!

Rnd 1: 1sc in each stitch until Rnd 5
Rnd 6: back stitch only! 1sc in each stitch around.
Rnd 7: 3sc in each stitch
The next 3 rows are as follows: 3sc in every stitch.
Rnd 12: 1 sc in every stich to create a flat top.
Rnd 13: finish top and weave in ends.

Voila! Enjoy your creation!

An Epic of Sorts

The Epic Of The Spy
WK 3, QTR 1
By Avila M. Dauvin


Tell me Muse of the Scarlet Spy, one who compares with a fox, searching for prey with bloodthirsty eyes and a cunning gleam crowding the narrow pupils. He pounces on a lone figure, crushing it with the force of gravity and bringing it up to the snout in bloody triumph. The day will come when the Spy will be judged of its false actions and long nose.

The shipyard was cold and stinky of dead fish long dead and men long hardened by the glare of the sun and the dead weight of the crusted anchor. Like a heavy burden turning the hearts of the trespassers cold as ice with nothing but the frost to disfigure it. The men all looked towards the west and same did one pudgy Ethiopian, black as the Arabian coffee bean and just as strong. His teeth gleamed in the sunlight like pearls one dives to the death in search of. The pearls would champ on the hands of many men who went looking for fortune, clamping them tight in the mouth of iron with a jaw of granite, concealing the man to his bitter fate of death.

The Ethiopian, The Devil as he was called by his master was grinning at the sailors in a hideous fashion. His long fingers curled menacingly and his nostrils flared like a bull to charge with enough momentum to hurl the victim and crash him against a fence. “Oh glory!” the Devil cried. “Why must thee take no girls aboard?”
“We shall take one as a wife and cook!” hollered back a brawny sailor, his lip curling back to form the smile of a python, coiling against the mast and ready to strike in his defense.
The sailor glanced upon a lass with hair as golden as the barnacles that stuck to the hold of the ship like leeches. He grabbed her and carried the lass to the ship, clamping her mouth shut with his dirty paw. “This here is my wife!” he yelled and “We wants to go to China!” He was triumphant of his prize and tied her in the hold so she would never escape. “Never again, old hag shall you se this here land of yours. We shall marry in China and you shall keep house for me.” He laughed like a magpie after a treasure and with his wings flew up the the deck snarling over the priceless treasure.

The Ethiopian, called The Devil by his Master swung up on deck and sprinted to the hold. The girl was crying bitterly like an infant without candy and she cried louder when the black man crouched closer. “Go! Go! It is no use. He shall kill me if I'd try escape! He already has done so to seven other girls such as myself.”
The Ethiopian smiled and showed the pearls men would try to get by knocking his skull. “I shall get killed,” he said quietly. Quiet was all he was. The stillness was immense. He clutched the girl and asked kindly, “Can you swim, dear mistress?” She replied in assent. He loosened the ropes hold on the girl and carried her up. The ship had not cast off and was rocking in the bay like a toy sailboat that boys long to throw rocks at. He bent over to let her down and she dropped in the water and swam like a mermaid, her golden locks streaming after her like seaweed clinging to the skull and sucking up the scalp.
The Ethiopian had hoped against hope that his life would be saved. He saw his chance to jump into the sea and drift towards shore. But no, it was not to be.

This might seem as a morbid epic and you shall be wondering where does This little girl get such vulgar ideas, but there may be meaning in these words. I wrote without ceasing and that might mean the Holy Spirit was on the move. Who knows?
Continued in Dec

The Inquisition of Prof. Plumpfront Part II

Continued From November 4th

“Yes sir, but sir. Do you not remember it is my day off? I have a date with Ms. Comfrey-Brown tonight at seven, sir.”
“Eh, whose that? I never heard of her. All right we'll pick the things up if you don't mind. I must speak with bubbles.”
“Yes sir, right away sir. I shall have your bags packed, sir.”
“Thank you. We will be there immediately, Sumter. And cancel my engagement with Ms. Adams. I suppose we shall see each other at one of the four inquisitions.”
“Four, sir?” asked Sumpter coldly.
“Yes four! I told you of the murder, didn't I? Blast it!”
“I am sure I shall read about it in the paper, sir. Speaking over the telephone on such matters is highly irregular.”
“Sumpter, you are a fool.”
“Thank you sir.”
“You sound like a butler one might read about in detective fiction.”
“Thank you sir.”
“Its no compliment. While you are at it, contact Sherlock Holmes and take a hot bath before you meet that girl. What her occupation anyway, Sumter?”
“I believe she is a waitress, sir.”
“Good, good! I thought so. Bring her to the inquisition some time. Its bound to be amusing.”
“Yes sir. I will sir. Good day sir.”
“Stop sirr-ing me, Sumpter! For heavens sake isn't it the 21st century?”
“Yes, Mister Plumpfront.”
“Then its time you got out of the 19th.”
“Very clever, Mister Plumpfront.”
“I know man. Goodbye Sumpter. Take care of the Animal Shelter.”
“Goodbye Sir. I shall have your bags ready.”
“Sumpter! SUMPTER! He hung up! The fool hang up with as much sass as a donkey!”
“Thats fine. It was time to leave anyway, you spent a good ten minutes talking to the man. Whats your address?” asked the Chief, pulling out a squashed notebook from his breast pocket.
“Barabbas Court, last flat in the cul-de-sac. Hey, that rhymes remarkably well!” brightened the professor. “Barabbas Court, last flat...in the cul-de-sac!”
“True poet you are, Mister. What number?”
“444, last one to the door,” sang Professor Plumpfront happily.
“A little too much port?” muttered the Chief. He pushed the old man to the car and drove off, the Professor making up nonsensical rhymes.
Sumpter ran out of the flat carrying a lumpy suitcase and wearing a look of disapproval.
“I must see bubbles, Sumpter,” said Professor Plumpfront cheerfully.
“Yes sir. I shall bring him out.”
“No we shall go in. Cannot have Bubbles catching pneumonia at a time like this. Mix a little scotch, will you, Sumpter? Come in...oh dash it! What is your name?”
“Gefferies, Mister Plumpfront. Chief Donald Gefferies.”
“Donald? The Scottish Gaelic name derived from the name Domhnall. Tut, tut, tut. A mere figment of my knowledge, Domhnall. Come in and warm yourself. The night grows biter.”
“I beg to remind you, Mister Plumpfront, but we are supposed to be leaving for the station,” answered the Chief, turning red with suppressed rage.
“Yes, quite. Look at Bubbles though. He is a beauty,” remarked the Professor happily. He looked like a child, delighted by colored beads.
“Mister Plumpfront,” retorted Chief Gefferies impatiently.
“Shhhush!” rebuked the Professor. “He may be sleeping.”
They walked down the narrow hall which was hung with clippings of Whippets, Yorkshire terriers, and Dalmatians. They were carefully glued to white pasteboard and tacked to the wall with little consideration for the wallpaper.
“My collection. That one's Gaffy. Won me a blue at the National Convention Dog Show. Wonderful breed and full of vitality,” said the Professor sadly. Sumpter strode with a tray delicately balanced on his arm and poured the whiskey and water carefully. Chief Gefferies twitched an eyebrow but took a glass.
“Its good. Straight from Scotland!” boasted Professor Plumpfront.
“Are you going to drink anything?” growled the Chief.
“After I see Bubbles and stamp a letter. Drink it slowly, my good man. Goes easier off the tongue that way.”
The Chief grasped the glass and grit his teeth. “How am I to make sure it isn't poisoned?”
“My dear man!” exclaimed the Professor in astonishment. “You don't mean to tell me you think I poisoned the port?”
“Of course I do!” cried the Chief.
“I am so sorry I mislead you to believe...Oh well.”
“Thats for the judge to decide,” grumbled Gefferies meanly.
“ Bubbles, come here my precious Bubbles!” The Professor sat down in an armchair and wiped his brow. A tiny, hairy dog trotted in and put his paws on the Professors pant leg.
“You dear little thing. Gefferies, sit down. It must be uncomfortable for you to stand there with a glass of scotch in your hand.”
Gefferies sat down stiffly in the opposite chair and flew backwards off it. The scotch trickled down his face as he lay on the floor wondering what had happened. The Professor was chuckling and then laughing and then crying.
“Its a rocking chair, Gefferies! A rocking chair! Oh you look so funny with the scotch running down your face! Look Bubbles!” The Professor nearly choked.
Gefferies jumped up and scowled at the old man. “Its not funny! You should have warned me! The police will think its queer when I come in smelling of whiskey with..dog hair all over me!”
“Oh its too good! He rolled right in the sunny spot where Bubbles takes his nap!”
“Thats ENOUGH!” roared the Policeman.
“It is beautiful hair though,” said the Professor apologetically. “Golden brown, like taffy.”
“Come on!” barked Gefferies. “We are leaving for the station. Tomorrow is the inquisition of Mr. and Mrs. Hamstreet.”
“Poor couple. I met them at the dog park only last week and introduced them to the club. They have a beautiful terrier. And a Pomeranian which reminds me. Sumpter!”
“Yes Mister Plumpfront?” asked the butler uneasily.
“Get me the latest issue of DOGS please.”
The magazine was produced and the professor licked his fingers and put on his glasses. “Lets see. There was an article which I think you will find interesting. It states the timeline and evolution of the Pomeranian in quite detailed illustration.”
“I don't want to hear about DOGS!” roared Gefferies. “Get out to the car!”
“You don't know what it stands for? Of course you don't,” mumbled the Professor sulkily. “Get off Bubbles, my precious angel. I shall see you in the morning.”
Sumpter appeared with his hat and coat, and wound his scarf round his neck. “Thank you Sumpter. You are bully!”
“Quite so Mister Plumpfront. May I have my weekly salary?”
“What's the grand total, my man?" queried Professor Plumpfront, taking out a small coin purse.
“60 pounds, Mister Plumpfront.”
“You manservants are all the same,” grunted the professor, taking out a wad of notes.
“I am sorry sir. My date with Ms. Comfrey-Brown desires it.”
“I see, I know, I hear.” retorted Professor Plumpfront, waggling his finger in Sumpters face.
He left the room, humming the first bars of the Salve Regina.
“What was that all about?” asked Gefferies.
“I have no right to say, sir. May I show you to the door? The Professor will be out shortly.”
The Chief of Police scratched his bald head and waddled out to the waiting car, fuming under his breath about the smell of whiskey.

Dear Grandma,

Happy birthday, Grandma! I love you! You are heart of my heart...I love that melody...

I remember once when I was a little girl I was given a little kitten I called Rosie. Rosie had a little sibling sister whom I decided was to be Grandma's new cat. Once Grandma saw the kitten we had to decide on a name and I felt so happy that Grandma would trust me to name Her cat. Posie still roams around and even if she is not as friendly or cuddly as a kitten, that memory is always close to my heart. Posie was The first present I ever gave to Grandma.

Attention!

You are invited to submit an incident, story, joke or reflection for the December post, Wonders of Wonders. Email the address in previous post!

See, its possible to drink a cappuccino and write at the same time. Its almost the holiday season where writers block is lifted! Get out the notebook, People!
I have a resource for November writing that was shared by spam email by a friend. NaNoWriMo, otherwise known as National Novel Writing Month is only through November and in that short space of time you are encouraged to finish any loose ends of your novel. Obviously it was created by minds that shifted towards homeschooler activities.

The Inquisition of Prof. Plumpfront

WARNING!
This story does not have a happy ending. I thought I should warn you so that there would be time to get out a box of Kleenex before you begin. It is(to be blunt)a tale of fear, tragedy, love and blood. Or if you prefer the story of an old man who loved dogs. Whichever description you choose to follow, the reader must know that there is a risk. You might be one of those people who stuff a book in a laundry basket before going to sleep, in fear something will ooze from the pages. To be on the safe side, I propose you read this book in the morning over your cereal. Otherwise, curious things could happen, after all, it is a mystery.

Chapter One: Beginning
Written by Avila M. Dauvin

It happened in London in the pub of The Three-Legged Dog. The members of the Society of Prevention to Cruelty of Yorkshire Terriers(SPCYT)were gathered around a long table, gazing at an old man with piggy eyes, know as Professor Plumpfront, who was about to make the opening speech.
“As you know,” he started hesitantly. He was interrupted by the passing of his Vintage '48 port by an overly dressed waitress. The drink bubbled merrily and several whispered on the unusual color of the Port. The Waitress blushed rosily and made her exit and the Professor began again.
“As you know, I am the owner of a Yorkshire Terrier. Bubbles, I call him. He certainly made my life brighter. Or makes my life brighter!” He guffawed awkwardly over his mistake.
“I do know! That several of these splendid pets are not taken care of...properly. A Yorkshire needs all the attention one can endeavor to bestow upon the dog. Daily walks, baths, grooming. This all depletes ones income considerably. I have found a way to keep ones budget and maintain a Yorkshire Terrier!” He stopped an looked proudly round the room, upon the surprised countenances of his associates. He was about to launch into the explanation of his movement when Mrs. Potter-Hamstreet clutched her throat and fell over her glass. Her husband gave a cry and jumped up to help her. “She's...She's...DEAD!” he cried. “Emily! Emily, wake up!”
All the members leapt to their feet and leaned across the table to scrutiny the spectacle. “It can't be!” gasped Mrs. Grues innocently.
“But it is!” bellowed Ms. Green emotionally. To revive himself, Mr. Hamstreet imbibed the last of his port and started to choke. “Not him!” screamed Ms. Green and she fainted.
“Not him what? Someone, hit his back!” hollered Mr. Bogart. Mr. Hamstreet collapsed on the floor dead. “Its been poisoned!
“Of course it has ninny! Call the police!” cried the organizer desperately. “And no one touch the port!”
Professor Plumpfront looked on in disbelief. It seemed so fake and yet so real. The Waitress sauntered in and seeing the mess of shattered glass and dead bodies, she flung up her hands and started to scream. The Professor slowly came to his senses and and looked at his glass thoughtfully. It had a peculiar taste to it. Like a grapefruit rind. Perhaps it had aged too long in his cellar. He took another sip and rolled his tongue around his mouth.
“Nothing wrong with my port,” said the Professor to Ms. Gardiner.
“Its not, is it?” queried Ms. Gardiner, sneering. “Why then have we three bodies on our hands?”
“Three!”
“Yup. Mr. Blake's dead as a doornail in the lounge.”
“No! It can't be. He was just talking not a ten minutes ago!”
“Yup! And there's the Policeman going over near the offended spot. Aye! Its unlucky!”
“I've nothing to do with it! It must have disagreed with their stomachs.”
“And kilt them?” said Ms. Gardiner skeptically. “Ah, no. Just as well. It was getting a bit boring.”
“My talk getting dead some?” sputtered the Professor. “I thought it was going rather well.”
“For you, it was. Looks as if someone's going to court on trial for poisoning and murdering three civilized...eh...civilians.”
The Professor put his face in his hands and started to weep, drunkenly. His reputation was ruined and he would most likely end at the death row with a bullet in his head. A cry arose from the lounge and Ms. Gardiner, after stepping out announced with gravity that the Reverend Mr. Cotter from the Calvinist Church of Christ was dead. Professor Plumpfront sat down like a man in a dream. Ms. Gardiner took the flowers from the table, muttering something about waste, and left the room. Nothing moved save the port, wavering in the shining glasses and the heavy breathing of Professor Plumpfront.
“All is lost,” he said. “The shelter, Bubbles, and most of all, Bubbles' owner. I never was a smart man.” Mrs. Grues scuttled in and picked up her purse. “I'm dreadfully sorry about all this. I thought the beginning of your speech was very interesting. And oh, I hope you won't get killed. You drank some port but I don't know if that matters now...perhaps you wished you drank the bad port.” Professor Plumpfront looked up angrily but Mrs. Grues had hurried out. The manager of the pub popped his head from behind the door and glared with resentment at the Professor. “I don't know what you mean by this but you ruined my business!” The screams erupted from the crowd of customers, scrambling for the nearest exit. “Get out! Get out! Make way for the police! Out of the way!” A very pompous pouter-pigeon of a man strutted in and shook his head at the Professor. “Nasty business, what? You are under arrest for bringing poisoned liquor to a public pub. Bicky! Take this man to the car and carry away the deceased.”
“Right away, Chief Gefferies. And shall I cuff the man?”
“No. He should be easy. No protest.”
The policeman gingerly took Professor Plumpfront's arm and led him away.
“He's the killer!” spat the bartender crushingly. She flounced her skirts as she sat up on the counter and poured herself a drink.
The ashen Mr. Blake, the red-faced Mr. Hamstreet and his wife, and the Reverend Mr. Cotter were carried out to the horror of on lookers. “Is anyone left in the conference room, Mr. Barkley?” squeaked the attendant nervously. “No one that I know of,” grumbled Mr. Barkley.
“That means yes sine you haven't been in the Conference room.”
“I'll check and thanks, Nurse,” answered the Policeman.
“May I telephone my housekeeper and ask for a spare suit and my toothbrush?” asked Professor Plumpfront meekly.
“That might complicate matters but I shall see to it, old man,” replied the Policeman dabbing a handkerchief over his beaded forehead.
“Much obliged, constable,” murmured the Professor and he sank into a reverie of confusion.
The ambulance squealed and the journalists swarmed. The Professor was far away on an isolated island in the middle of a rough sea.
“Where is the bottle?!” ranted the Chief, red with rage.
“We do not know, sir!” explained the policeman sheepishly.
“It couldn't have flown off, fetch it man or you'll be suspended!”
“But, chief! Its nowhere to be found!” cried the policeman, whose name was Hodge.
“Nowhere! You'll be nowhere to be found if you cannot produce the port bottle!”
“I shall look again sir, but perhaps someone took it away.”
“Ugh!” grunted the Chief.
“I am sorry, I shall look under the table,” said Hodge, shamefacedly.
The Chief nodded and jerked a thumb at the Professor. “I'll take him. Pick you up in forty-five minutes.”
“All right sir. Right ho!” and with that Hodge vanished inside the pub.
“Excuse me, but perhaps you could drop me off at a telephone booth. I need to arrange this matter with my housekeeper. Its rather inconvenient, as its his day-off.”
“He'll learn about it in the papers but I'll oblige you. Theres one on the corner, and I'm afraid I'll have to hear everything you say. Got any spare change?” remarked the Chief impatiently.
“No, I left it all at home. It will have to be fifteen minutes, I'm afraid because all my affairs must be put in order,” said Professor Plumpfront.
“I'll pay and you can put down an IOU. Come one then.”
The Professor punched in the number and grasped the telephone, his knuckles bone-white.
“Sumpter? Sumpter? Its Roger. Can you hear me?”
“Yes sir,” answered a grave and regal voice.
“Listen, I am going to be tried for the murder of four people of my club. I need a pair of pajama's, a pressed suit, a tooth brush, a caruncle, and the Dictionary. You can drop it off at the station. Thank you and take care of Bubbles. He will be dreadfully worried."


To be continued. This is most probably the longest blogpost you will read. This is my performance of the meeting that took place before the Professor was put behind bars awaiting his trial.


















This space could used for your story!
Email: amgdauvin@gmail.com to submit what you think will become of the Professor

All Saint's Day

All Saint's Day is a feast celebrated on the 1st of November to honor all saints known and unknown. According to Western Theology, it is to honor saints who have attained a place in Heaven and have no assigned feast day on the calendar. The choice of day was made to take place of the pagan practice of "Lumeres", which pagans used to awake the restless spirits of the Dead. The tradition of Halloween used to be one where children would dress up as their favorite saints and now it is taking the form of the predecessor, the feast of Lumeres. In England, some Catholics do what they call the Night of Light, in which they celebrate the Tritium of Hallows Eve, All Saint's Day and All Souls Day. Hallows Eve is the feast that begins the celebration of the saints.