​​​“Dino Chronicles” is named after my dog, Dino the wonder dog. Other than the name, the blog doesn’t have a lot to do with my mutt, except that some days, when I am just too busy or too tired or have a migraine, I let Dino write my blog for me.  On days when he has not taken over the computer, I write about my life – the past, the present and the future.

My second blog, “writing what I can when I can”, was inspired by the Blog Hop ROW80 (which stands for Round of Words in 80 Days). This blog spells out the goals I am currently working on and whether or not I am coming close to achieving them. If you follow this blog, you will be the first to know when I have reached any milestones in my writing career.


Chris Loehmer Kincaid         writer, speaker, blogger                                           words written in God's time 

July 12, 2917

Scene 1 from the discarded files

Where the Sky Meets the Sand” tells the story of an American woman and an African boy. When I first started writing it, I switched back and forth between not only the woman’s and boy’s point of views, but about five other people as well. It became rather cumbersome and confusing. I had to cut out some of the various character’s stories, but didn’t delete them entirely. Those words, those other perspectives, remain on my laptop. I thought that maybe, with the release of the book, I would start sharing some of those scenes here.
            The boy’s point of view

        The boy didn’t know how long he lay on the floor of his mother’s hut. He knew that she was working around him, cooking meals, making chai tea. He knew that sometimes she knelt next to him and poured goat’s milk, mixed with cow’s blood, down his throat.

        The bleeding had stopped but the pain continued to pound through his entire body. He was afraid that he would never be able to walk again. He was more afraid that no one in his tribe would speak to him again.

        Finally, one night, when everyone was fast asleep, he rolled unto his belly and pushed himself up onto his knees. He rose on wobbly legs and took a tentative step. He discovered it wasn’t as bad as he thought. Walking actually helped, it made him feel alive again, it forced him to breath. 

        In silence, he filled a cloth bag with several pieces of chapati, the flat fried bread which they ate at most meals, and some strips of dried meat. He tied the bag along with the knife to his side and reached for a long stick which was leaning against the wall outside.

        He knew what he had to do.