every time I write it’s always the same me, right? No.
Does it matter?
Where was I going with this
Or with anything at all
Does it matter?
The Premiere of The Kincade Chronicles
This whole idea to do 100 years centered around a family known as Kincade, began over four months ago. This is now my second idea for a mass novel write, the other being, Survival (https://theprose.com/book/2939/survival), completed 15 months ago and like the Kincade Chronicles, will be reposted in one easy to find place. I will post three chapters per week. Whereas, with Survival, I posted each chapter day after day until reaching the end.
We have taken certain liberties with the timeline in history and historic fact. Many factual names you will recognize, and others, perhaps not so much.
But I am very pleased with how, not only how this turned out, but by the creativity of a group of talented writers who gave their all, to see this through to the end.
I want to thank them all here for their support and dedication, as well as perseverance and the time they invested in this project.
First, I want to thank the following three people who also assisted me to insure that we got things right.
Our Resident Historian: ValiantRaptor47.
Our Resident Genealogist: GLD,
And my Assistant Editor.
Where would I be without my second set of eyes
with nightscribbler; checking the double check.
To the rest of the crew who took part in this:
I thank each and every one of you for taking this ride with me. It was an experience I shall not forget.
At the end of each chapter, the writer’s name will be listed so you know who wrote what.
And as I wrote so many months ago, I would ask you to turn the page but in this case, simply scroll down and enjoy the ride with the rest of us.
Like so many others that came across a vast and sometimes horrifying ocean, the ship he sailed with was captured by strong gale winds nearly capsizing the ship. He, like so many others, desperately wanted out from under the King’s wrath. Coming to a place many people called ‘The Americas,’ Randolph Kincade could feel a new world of possibilities opening before his eyes.
The year he arrived was 1783. He was fifty and six at the time. The Revolutionary War had just come to a halt when Great Britain formally recognized the independence of the United States in the Treaty of Paris. It was that signing that told Randolph he was finally free from tyranny. No longer would he have to fear the crazed mind of King George III.
By the spring of 1784, after much hard work and bartering with newly acquired neighbors, a sign proudly displayed above a single door, ‘Kincade’s Mercantile,’ had seen a good rush of customers and the coffers were filling nicely. Peace was the norm of the day in Shackleford, Vermont.
It had been some years later when two well dressed and imposing figures stepped inside his store, asking for pouches of tobacco. One would chew, while the other tamped the tobacco down in his pipe. They introduced themselves to Randolph, names he had never heard of before, but the one doing most of the talking really had a poor grasp of language, which was surprising as he, Thomas Jefferson, in all of his short frame, had written a valuable document. His friend, a rather rotund fellow, had a deep-throated laugh and found merriment from most anything he saw. James Madison was his name. Little did Randolph know he had met two men who would one day lead the Americas. At the time, though, it didn’t matter. Their money spent just as well as anyone else’s.
There had been some gossiping that Vermont might become a state. If that happened, it would mean more people moving to Vermont, and more money for him.
About twenty percent of his business came from the Mohican, Penacook, and the Pochote tribes. They were a friendly sort with their broken English, but the Pochote would frighten the women-folk with their appearance: tattooed markings across their faces, which for them is a badge of honor when in combat or on a great hunt. Still, the women around there stayed clear of them.
When the old year ended at a party hosted by Mayor Samuel Beckwourth, that was the night Randolph met Hope Duckworth, an attractive sort of girl not yet reaching full maturity—after all, she was barely sixteen—and fell blindly, madly, in love with her. He wasn’t alone in his thoughts. Hope saw Randolph as an upstanding, god-fearing businessman who took everyone’s interests to heart. By mid-spring of 1785, with her parents' blessing, Hope and Randolph were married at the Christian Trinity Church.
Within two years they had one son and three daughters. And the truth is, this is where history started being made. Chadwick and Diana (estimated ages: fifteen), were fraternal twins. Chadwick had his father’s unruly brown hair and piercing green eyes, and already nearing six foot and one-hundred-seventy pounds, for one so young, he had an imposing look about him. The following year, Roselyn and Flower, identical twins, (estimated ages: fourteen) would one day uproot themselves and go on their own adventures to see what the world outside of Shackleford, Vermont looked like. All three girls had pale skin like their mother and the brightest blue eyes and yellow-spun hair. Of the three, Diana was the tallest, right at five and six, and the other two stood at five and three. The four saw no future in Shackleford, and as their father had, they wanted to make their own way in the world. It was one trait they all had of their father’s—stubbornness.
Randolph at first refused to allow them departure, and had strong hopes Chadwick would take over the business, but then he was reminded that leaving Great Britain behind and coming to America is pretty much the same thing they were doing.
On the day each left, Hope packed them a sack filled with food, making sure their canvas drinking pouch was filled with fresh water. Randolph gave each of his children fifty dollars in silver coins.
“Spend the money on only what you need. You come by this easier than it was earned.”
With those words said, he made his children promise to write once a week so as not to make their mother too anxious, as he put it.
His closing words to all of them were, “Where you go, what you do, do the right thing and make the Kincade name something to remember.”
When the two oldest departed in 1801, the noise in the house diminished greatly. When the two youngest left six months later, the noise became a graveyard of silence.
Written By: Danceinsilence
we’re all losers
on marble counter tops
you’re sick and obsessed
just like me
when u fight yourself
who do u see
at the root of it all
we must learn
to forgive ourselves
It was the night before my son’s graduation from college. His fraternity, the second oldest at the university, had invited the parents to their house for an evening of merriment and revelry. My husband, my mother and I all ventured into the lovely old house with a bit of trepidation. He had lived there for two and a half years. We knew what to expect inside.
I mean, the house was well over one hundred years old and had housed some 25 young men every year for at least 100 of them. A house in such disrepair, they were in the midst of raising money to do a massive renovation. (They were successful!) A house that had a party every Saturday and a thorough cleaning before house meetings every Wednesday. (I never understood that delay...)
And we were going to spend time in the basement. A basement on which one fraternity brother had done an experiment earlier that year. Taking a sample of basement sludge after a normal Saturday night, he brought it to his professor’s lab. Some two weeks later, the professor said don't tell me where you got that from, but it is hazardous.
A basement that smelled like Clorox with a hint of I am going to be ill.
I guess all of that was in my mind as we entered the house and walked down the rickety stairs. My mother stayed on the stairs (in her mind, a little fresh air could be felt there, ha, and she still had a perfect view of the main room.) There were several offshoots from the main, and every room had a ping pong table.
All of those thoughts evaporated when I was persuaded to play ping pong.Or, rather, beer pong.
For the first time in my life.
It was a tournament: mother and son against mother and son. My son was the reining champion in the house. I, as I mentioned, had never played.
I got a crash course and the rules were slightly modified: I was allowed to not drink the beer on a missed shot (not a fan) and the boys were allowed to make us mothers feel better by not drinking the beer in the cups in which balls that had bounced on the wet floor were hit. (Vomit.) They kept cups on the side for the drinking. Lol.
Something you should know about me: I laugh a lot. Loudly. Also, when it comes to sports, I can be very competitive. And, when I play (or watch) sports, I scream alot. :-)
By the end of our match, all the players from other rooms had stopped their games to watch ours.
This picture was taken by another parent. An amateur photographer, that night, he took some of the best action shots I’ve ever seen. This is my favorite.
As you may be able to tell from my expression, my son and I won. And then he and my husband went on to also win in the dad/son tournament. And my husband and I both had the same winning shot. :-)
If I were to guess, I would say my thoughts then were very similar to the ones evoked every time I look at the picture: I have never had so much fun.
Power of a Word
This is the 2nd Annual version of The Coalition Community’s Poetry Contest. Prompts occur weekly over the course of six weeks with prizes of profile sashes and badges to put on your own poetry collections wherever you post them.
Here’s the link to find out more:
This is the link to enter.
We will be publishing the winners in our community magazine Writers Code and on our website. This is the first time we are opening the contest to poets anywhere. Last year our awards and competitions were limited to those who use Wattpad and Inkitt as their main platforms. This year I’m inviting you to join the fun.
We won’t ask for exclusive rights to your poems, only the right to publish them in our magazine and on the website with full credit to the author.
The contest begins on September 27th. I’d love to see you there.
I am your host and mentor for the competition, and also one of your judges.
I look forward to seeing your entries.
So here I am, faithful timer at my side, delving into yet another writing challenge on the internet. Why am I doing this? There are the easy to spot answers, rising from the water like islands. It improves my writing skills, it entertains me, it could create a connection. For many that is enough, you set up a beach chair on the island that you like the most and go on about your day. However, if you wade into the water you start to see things, sunken things, things twisted from neglect, things meant to be forgotten.
Perhaps writing is not so innocent as it sounds. Perhaps it comes from a deeper place, a place of the forgotten and ignored. Writing to seek validation, tentacles reaching out from the hidden place of deep personal humility and shame. Writing to express our deeper selves, absolving us of our troubled actions and pasts. Writing from a worry that we will be forgotten, showing the world a portrait of ourselves that we hope won't be called out for the fake that it is...and my time is up.
You can see it in her smile.
Her pictures are glamourous.
Her Instagram feed is lively with travel and lifestyle stories.
There is something amiss, but she will shield you away from it.
3 Jokes - A Little Humor For The Soul
A little boy goes to his father one day and asks, “Daddy, how was I born?’
The father answers, saying, “Well, son, I guess one day you were going to find out anyway.
“Your mom and I first met in an Internet chat room. Then I set up a date via email and we met at a cybercafe.
“We sneaked into a secluded room, where your mother agreed to a download from my hard drive.
“As soon as I was ready to upload, we discovered neither of us had used a firewall.
“Since it was too late to hit the delete button, a little pop-up window appeared nine months later and said—you’ve got male.”
A teenage boy goes to church to confess his sins.
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I have had relations with a girl?”
The priest asks, “Is this Thomas O’Leary?”
“Yes father, it is.”
“And who was the girl you were with?”
“I can’t tell you Father. I don’t want to ruin her reputation.”
“Thomas, I am sure to find out her name sooner or later. Was it Rose Fitzgibbons?”
“I cannot say.”
“Was it Lisa O’Shanter?
“I’ll never tell.”
“Was it Cathy O’Dell?”
“I’m sorry but I cannot name her.”
“Was it Fiona Mallory?”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Was it Brenda Malloy. then?”
“Please Father, I cannot tell you.”
The priest sighs in frustration. “You are very tight-lipped and I admire you for that. But you have sinned and you must atone. You can no longer be an alter boy until four months have passed. Now go, and behave yourself.”
Thomas walks back to his pew, and his friend Sean, slides over next to him and whispers, “Well, what did you get?”
Thomas grins, saying, “Four months’ vacation and five good leads.”
A catholic priest is on his way to Rome when he runs into an old childhood friend.
“My goodness, Mart. It has been such a long time. How have you been?”
“Oh, it could be better. My husband, Robert and I have been trying to have children for fifteen years, but I’m afraid I am barren.”
“I’m so sorry,” says the priest. “I’m on a pilgrimage to Rome, and I promise to light a candle for you in the great cathedral.”
Mary thanks him and after a little more chatting, they part ways.
Five years later, the priest is eating dinner when he gets a knock on his front door. He opens it and to his surprise is Mary’s husband, Robert.
“I am so glad I found you!” Robert exclaims. “Remember that candle you lit for Mary, years ago? Well, Mary and I now have two sets of twins, and a set of triplets, and we just found out we are going to have quadruplets!”
Robert then hands the priest an all expenses paid ticket to Rome.
“Oh my, Robert. Your joy is my joy. You didn’t need to give me a thank-you gift.”
“Oh no, it isn’t a thank you,” says Robert. “It’s so you can go back there and blow out that damn candle.”
If by chance youfind any of these offensive,
I can always delete this post, but I thought they are funny.
PS: The monkey has a better smile than I do.
as I drift to sleep,
I smile knowing no dream
is better than us.
of the window,
not the scenery behind it.
does anyone contemplate
what a window would look like
with nothing behind it?
of the window,
not the house inside it.
does anyone contemplate
what a window would look like
if there was nothing inside it?
nothing outside or inside
no sides at all
just a glass wall
between nothing and nowhere.
what would you see?
of the window.