Now that the spooky season is over, It’s time, to give thanks. Thanks that we have been brought together on this beautiful site, to enjoy a more interesting side of life. ALSO. It’s National Novel Writing Month, so why not take a second to get your creative juices flowing so we can add some new novels to our Amazon wishlists for December (;
Here’s another few prompts comin’--(just like that dreaded winter…)
Sensitive heart, you're doomed from the start Meant to play the penitent part Inquisitive mind, you're destined to find Tempted fate and knowledge divine View in there a pitied pair Denoted by a scene unfair Will you make my children bear The consequences everywhere? Is it so hard to forgive The way that we have been made to live? How much is required to set things right? Have you confused your power with mine? Oh whoa oh View in there a pitied pair Denoted by a scene unfair Will you make my children bear The consequences everywhere? Imminent you seem to be A picture of fragility What is it that you think of me? Is it a woman that you see? Is it so hard to forgive The way that we have been made to live? How much is required to set things right? Have you confused your power with mine? Oh whoa oh Is it so hard to forgive The way that we have been made to live? How much is required to set things right? Have you confused your power with mine?
Sweet Child of Mine “Our death is not an end if we can live on in our children and the younger generation. For they are us, our bodies are only wilted leaves on the tree of life...” -Albert Einstein
St. Ardelean Orphanage for Abandoned Children was a pretty little building with all the grace and charm of an Old English cottage. The red brick still looked new even twenty years later, almost as if the place and the grounds beyond it had never been touched by the hands of time. Separated from the small town of Meredith, the orphanage was surrounded by a thick line of trees that circled around. At night the feeling changed a little, but most dismissed this as silly superstition or the fact that it was a building set apart from the rest and surrounded by thick, dark forests.
The founding doctor, Doctor Peter Niculescu (who the kids all fondly called St. Nick) had come to the town for its ‘quaint atmosphere’ and fresh air. He had said that the children he was bringing from the inner cities would benefit from just such a place.
The town, always eager to do what little they could for the world, had gladly agreed to give him that bit of land.
Eventually, the orphanage just became another piece of the town that nobody paid much mind about, save for the occasional community service visits every now and then.
It was staffed with only two others, both nurses. The elder one, Mariana was the wife of St. Nick and spoke nothing but Romanian. She was plump where her husband was skinny, short where he was tall and dark haired where he was light. She was also a bit mean, though, from most perspective, it may just have been the language barrier.
The other nurse was their only child, Ema. Ema was a young woman in her late twenties now, who had went to school with some of the others in town, only to go back to the old country for a few years to take care of her grandparents when her own parents could not. She had come back so different than the way she was. Weathered and darkened in her body and soul, she barely spoke to those outside of scolding the children or responding to her parents. Some speculated that she had fallen in love back in Romania, only to be left heart broken in the worst way, while others simply thought that’s how Romania worked and added it to the lists of places they’d never want to visit.
The children of St. Ardelean, were, by most accounts, normal for their circumstances. Maybe a little sad at times, but who could blame them? They wore grey and faded blue uniforms, black patent shoes; the girls wearing white stockings up to their knees. Though the children never really leave the grounds (the doctor opting to teach them there instead of making them socialize with the townsfolk)
Everything seemed normal…
Twenty years. He had spent twenty years trying to perfect this serum. So many children at his hands had died. Though they really were orphans, and had no one but him to trust and look up to—they had looked up to him, and he had failed.
He was almost ready to give up. He had to test it on the kids because their metabolisms worked fast enough to take in the drug in its highly volatile early stages. The serum, once injected was supposed to boost the immune system and he could not get it to work.
But there was one last batch he hadn’t tried. Sighing, he picked up a syringe—looking almost medieval in his slightly aged hand—and plunged it into the yellow tinged liquid in the tiny vile between his forefinger and thumb. Eying the amount and the classic squirt to get it perfect, he turned to face the small blond haired child lying on cold steel behind him. “This will only sting a little.” Her blue eyes widened, but she never made a peep.
The unmistakable scent of death flowed deep the weeks after. He had thought it had worked and injected all of the children, and now all of them lay dead in their beds, their faces covered with the course wool blankets spotted now with blood and dark stains of unmentionable bodily fluids. It had hit their systems fast and hard and he didn’t know how to stop it. He worried now, about how he was going to explain them all, and with this number, the sudden growth of unmarked graves would be distinctive.
As bad as it was to just leave them here, he had to wait to move them out.