Brain Dump Project 16

 I decided to try letting AI write a book all the way through, based on my thoughts and directions, for fun. The idea being two-fold. First of all, to see how well it can do and second of all, to potentially have something based on my thoughts that I could rewrite and add to, to make a proper book if it turned out to be good enough to even bother with.
This is the brain dump for the story: 

Rhiannon is a girl with undiagnosed chronic illness. She is living with her family in rural Alaska, about 13 miles from the nearest town, Palmer.There are two bridges to cross to get there and she has walked the winding curves of that road many times, because, G.D. Neuman, the busdriver for Swanson and Sherrod Elementary school children won't stop at her bus stop if she is not standing in exactly the right spot. If he sees her on her way, even if he showed up early and knows she would have been there by the time he usually shows up, he leaves her behind. 

It's a lonely road. Usually full of snow and ice, with a black or gray sky looming overhead, all fall and winter. She marks her progress not by thinking of all the miles to go, but by thinking of reaching certain landmarks. 

The new house with the twin girls on the right as she is heading into town. The house where the boy is tortured by his father and no one knows what to do about it on the left. Alligator swamp to the left around one curve and the salmon stream near the driveway of her second-eldest sister's friend. The nice firend,off to the right. 

This is her famiy. The only one she's ever known, but, her brother is the only one that she really feels is her family. Their eldest sister Agatha tortures them both. She stabbed Shane in the hand with a fork when he refused to give her his dinner one night. She slaps and pinches Rhiannon all the time and whenever she starts something new, like learning karate or magic, she devises cruel ways to use it against them both but especally Rhiannon, because, she's the youngest.

Gymn class is the worst. In first grade it was fun. They played games with a parachute, often, and did ballon races,played musical chairs. After that, things got more competitive and even though Rhiannon was  very strong, she was pretty clumsy and couldn't climb rope well at all. The other kids picked on her a lot. Not just in gym class. Rhiannon felt like she was no good and should never have been born. All year, every year. 

Until, finally, in 7th grade the Jr. High School made a decision that it would putits ne'er do well gym students, the worst of the lot, into one special class run by a gym coach who was retired from training soidiers and kids' soccer team for the Air Force. His name was Mr. Pettymore. They weren't expecting the class to amount to anything but at least the parents who donated funds would be appeased, since their kids would no longer have to try to play sports with these lacklustre youth. 

The new gym coach had other ideas. He started everyone out with a run. 17.5 laps around the gym counted as a mile so he had them do 18 just to be sure. "You can start out at your own pace. You may not slow down and you will finish. Everyone must wait for the next activity until all are done. Every day you start you walk or run at least as fast as the last time." 

Every day gym was scheduled  they ran a mile, then did calisthenics and then he had them work on a skill. Hand-eye coordination, flex arm hang, pull up, wind sprints, tumbling and when the school insisted on him adding in sports, because the paying parents were disappointed to see that society outcasts were now getting stronger and faster than their children, even the ones on the sports teams, he tried baketball and dodge ball as suggested. That didnt' go well. He then introduced floor hockey and soccer. There was very wild play in those two games, especially when Cameron, a bully in the class started kicking people and the entire rest of the class, even his team members, backed him into a corner and kicked him right back. 

Rhiannon wasn't feeling as ill. She started losing weight that she didn't even know she had to lose. She kept telling the female gym coach she needed new shorts but Mrs. Bertram would just laugh at her and tell her she's always had a tubby tummy and always will. Until the day Rhiannon's shorts would not stay up, even with the use of a rubber band. Mrs. Bertram handed her pair after pair to try on, always a half size down from the last, and Rhiannon would come back to tell her they are still too big. Until they got to the size zero, the size the delicate beauty Amanda- known as the smallest girl in school- wore.  Rhiannon came back and said they were still too big. She had to use a rubber band to hold them up. Amanda began weeping and shrieking that she can't be the same size as that fat cow! 

Rhiannon hadn't realied she had lost weight. She had noticed that other things in her life had changed. Such as that she would go to lunch, consider the hot meal they provided for her and she might take a bite or two but find it just held no appeal for her, anymore. Sometimes, Mr. Pettymore would come find his students and ask them, "Are you still eating or do you want to go run?"  They wanted to go run! Sometimes, he'd go to look for them but they already came to get each other  without even picking up their free lunches and headed to the gym. It wasn't always running . Sometimes they'd go and play floor hockey or do other execises. After a while, Mr. Pettymore had them thinking about how to sneak in a few minutes of exercise between classes. I"You are faster than you were before. It doesn't take you five minutes to get to class now. And, some of your breaks are 15 or 30 minutes." he would tell them. Or, "You can exercise even on non-gym days!" 

That was when Rhiannon was 12 and 13. Part of 7th grade and part of 8th grade, before the same parents that had insisted on the gym class being forced insisted that it be shut down and the students returned to regular gym activity. 

The summer after 8th grade, Rhiannon ran into a boy from the class that she didn't know well enough to name him. Neither of them cared about that. They had also been in the same Social Studies class where a teacher showed them a film by Dr. McDougall about the Pueblo people. Some of the story they had heard before, from other teachers presented in other ways. People that might run75 miles without stopping. "It sounds impossible, doesn't it?" asked the teacher Mr. Van Michaels. 

"Actually ... " Rhiannon began, before stopping to choose her words most carefully. "It does, at first blush. However ... I know that I have walked to school many times at a fast enough pace to get there on time even though I waited for a bus to pick me up and it passed me by. Also, I know my dad hitchhikes to work in Eagle River, five days a week, then back home.That's about 60 miles a day, every day, and he seldom gets rides. So, it sounds impossible until I really think about how life is for us and then it doesn't sound impossible anymore. It sounds like.. .well ..if they can do it, why not us?" 

Mr. Van Michaels laughed. "They eat a lot of starch."  Rhiannon shrugged. "It's not like we can't find any around here."  The boy had listened and she saw the light in his eyes. They were different from the other children, bonded by the good use of their flesh which somehow made their mind feel more free and easy, too. 

"Wouldn't you get bored?" asked Mr. Van Michaels. "Don't you get bored walking for so long to get to school? Isn't it hard? " 

"Uhm .. no. I mean, the first time I was mad, and scared, and felt like it was so wrong of him to be that way and of my parents not to give me a ride. Now, it's like reading a favorite book. I go around another corner, or halfway up a particular straight stretch, and there is a landmark that I have other memories in regard to.  I walk fast because I am not walking to school until near the end. I am walking to the next good thing." 

The boy and Rhiannon run into each other as she is walking to meet a friend. The friend isn't there so they walk into Palmer. On the way they run into another boy who is not in either class but has heard about both as they are both being taught in unusual fashion. He introduces himself as Calvin and says he is planning to go to Palmer, so they get there,walk around in it for a while and realize they are not going to find any joy there, so they decide to walk to Wasilla, 10 miles down the road. That's dead so they walk through and start heading into Anchorage. Out on the flats, where the wild irises grow so sweetly with their dark purple petals and yellow throats, Calvin starts to get worried. "How much further is it? ' Each time he asks they tell him, "Only another mile." or "We'll just walk up to that sign with all the bullet holes." or another landmark that they all know. After a while Calvin realizes they are just leading him on but they explain why and he realizes its a good technique. But, he says, "It's going to take too long to get to Anchorage walking." and they both say, "Then, let's run." and they do. 

Along the way they learn things about each other, sharing personal stories and seeing how each reacts to being tired. Rhiannon learns that for her time is more important than energy. "Look," she says. "I can't keep doing this, the way you guys are. I need to move faster, but wait longer." "So, you want to leave us behind?"  "No, no. I want to run up ahead and wait for you. Then, after you come to rest I'll go again. I figure about every third time, as long as we are running, we'll be in sync and then you'll go ahead of me before I am rested and I'll be catching up with you. " "That isn't right either!" protests Calvin. "Nah!It's okay." Rhannon's classmate says. "She runs faster. So,that'll work. We'll be together more but she will be getting the rest she needs." 

Rhiannon never had anyone take her at her word like that before. She feels seen, heard, even appreciated. Neither of them says anything further on the subject even though they both realize the understanding that ha come between them.

Thatis, they don't say anything except for her classmate who says, "Then, run. We'lll catch up to you." and Rhiannon who says, "I will be waiting." 

Then she runs. 
...........................

To me, this is exactly right.The brain dump helped me, just by prompting me to write down everything I knew about the story, to make a good start on a story that remind me of Angus, Napoleon Dynamite, Forrest Gump and all those other tales of losers becoming winners, at least in that one special moment. A tree Grows in Brooklyn, too. So, I referenced the writing style of the author of that book.  The form asked for special places, so I mentioned "mossy rock" which is a place near to where I grew up. And, I don't know ... 

The AI focused on many wrong things, dumbed down the angst and gave too much weight to people that barely matter in the story. I ended up rewriting the first several paragraphs and almost nothing the AI wrote was retainable. I wish I had saved what it had written there to show the difference. As it is, it is still not "me". It's also not the author of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. It's weirdly cheerful and cutesy. I hate it. But, I intend to persevere, because, well . .the words "reclamation proclomation" always meant a lot to me. 

Here's what I rewrote. Even though I did rewrite it, you can see- I hope- how far off it is from what I wrote in the brain dump. 

"Suddenly, she was awake, thrust from her dream back into this slow death called life. Like her hope, the room lay in darkness and the creeping cold threatened death in a nose-tickling way. It was just another winter morning in Alaska.

Moving slowly, hoping not to yet waken the beast that slept beside her, she turned from her side where she perched precariously on the side of the mattress and lay on her back to get her legs untangled and place her left foot flat on the floor.

The floor was soft, her leg strong; both having been made their individual ways through a short time of hard use. She meant to move quicker in her exit of the bed, but her body was finally in a position where it could stretch out and it wanted nothing more than to lay there and rest. She allowed it a moment before extricating herself from her cocoon of ragged blankets and sitting up. She stretched her arms, her body feeling the tension release from her muscles. After a short sigh, she stood up, feeling raw and sore, knowing she must again survive another day.

Her feet reported the chill of the morning wood beneath her in shocked tones,just ahead of the complaints of her nerve endings throughout her fair flesh as the crisp air clasped it in its cutting embrace.

Trying not to feel more than necessary, not to put anything into the air that would stir that hulk that took up the majority of the bed from its slumber, she settled into the fact of the chill room and reached down to the green plastic trash bag that served as her armoire, to draw out pieces of clothes.

This was her morning routine, to wake and creep, and pull things out of trash bags. Then, finding a garment, she would pit-pat it, run it through her fingers, attempting to guess as to its level of cleanliness and state of repair, as well as to discern which garment it actually was. It’s color, pattern, the way it would hang on her body and how it might go with the other garments she would determine as viable option for this day’s needs.

The saffron yellow turtleneck, a cast off from one of her sisters, clung to her, seeming to twist itself as she climbed inside it and pulled it into position. It was also cold, but provided a mild shield from direct contact with the frozen air as it slowly warmed up against her flesh.

Next came the cinnamon brown corduroy blazer, made of cheap material but cut and stitched well so that the thin cloth gave the impression more of delicate velvet than of scanty thread count.Then, after a little rummaging, the matching slacks which zipped up the back in a whispering sound that spoke of readiness, of armor being donned for the day ahead.

With careful hands, as if piecing together a puzzle only she understood, Rhiannon buttoned her Levi’s denim jacket,which would warm against her inside the house as she went through the rest of her morning routine and then serve as one of two layers that created enough warmth to officially be considered a winter coat for her, thereby keeping her family from falling into the clutches of DFYS.

Each slide of button in and through was a step toward leaving the room and facing the rest of the day.

She didn’t look forward to the day. There would be no comfort or safety there. Yet, more there than here.

Her aching fingers danced methodically over the laces of her shoes, tying them with deliberate knots. Each loop and pull was an act of grounding, a moment of meditation. In these motions, there was a rhythm, a silent affirmation of her resilience, of her capacity to survive the tempests that life threw her way.

In the simplicity of her actions, lay the poetry of survival, the quiet determination of a soul yearning for growth amidst the shadows cast by towering challenges. She would not yield easily to the harshness of the world that awaited her beyond the false sanctuary of her small bedroom.

She paused for a dangerous moment longer, feeling the quietude of the morning folding around her.There was no head knowledge as to why this would be a thing to do, but she felt innately that there was a healing in being in this moment of stillness.

The tranquility of the moment shattered as a hectoring voice lept from throat of the beast and slammed against it. Her eyes, nano-seconds ago closed in calm and contemplation, now snapped wide with alarm. Agatha sat bolt upright in their shared bed, a tempest awakened, her auburn hair a wild contrast against the pale pillowcase.

Rhiannon blinked againt the unexpected light. Turning her head toward the torn wool blanket that served as bedroom door she saw that someone had flipped on the light in the living room, and the yellow of the bulb had subtly penetrated into this dark cave.

"Selfish girl," Agatha spat venomously. "Taking up all the space with your clumsy existence." It seemed even the walls recoiled at the harshness in her tone, as Rhiannon’s nerves rocked with the added weight of this new delivery of stress.

A ceramic figurine, innocent in its perch, became a casualty of Agatha's wrath, hurled across the room towards her youngest sibling. The sound of it shattering was a tangible echo of the chaos that Agatha brought forth without effort. "You'll pay for that, Rhiannon. Not just with pennies from your pitiful savings. With your flesh and comfort!"

Agatha, aka: the beast,was eight and a half years older than Rhiannon and thoroughly resented having to share her room. Especially with a stranger who wasn’t even a real part of the family, as she insisted was Rhiannon’s truth.

Rhiannon stood amidst the ruins of her peace, her heart pounding a rhythm of fight or flight that would never come. In her mind, all was deep pain and confusion.

“What did you mean by this? Making me break my own figurine? Why did you turn that light on!”

Rhiannon, knowing the futility, tried reason anyway. “ I didn’t turn the light on. I’ve been in here since I woke up. It’s time for everyone to be up. You know that. If it wasn’t, they wouldn’t have turned the light on. “

"Of course, you didn't mean to," Agatha's reply cut swiftly, a scalpel of sarcasm and disdain. "You never mean to do anything right, do you?" The sharpness of her sister's gaze, at least as insane as her words, seemed to carve away at Rhiannon's resolve, leaving her exposed and raw.

The remnants of the figurine crunched beneath Rhiannon's shoes, a lamenting choir to accompany the silent plea in her eyes. Yet, her lips parted only to close again, no more words dared to venture forth, knowing they would be met with a fate much like the shattered porcelain underfoot.

It was here, within these four walls, that Rhiannon understood the resilience of trees which persisted amidst concrete and stone, even growing through them if needed, solitary but unbowed. She too would grow despite the force of her sister's cruelty, her spirit whispering of strength yet untapped, roots that dug deep. Her shod feet pressed with strength and firmness into the worn wooden floorboards of her small dungeon.

The door creaked open, a shaft of light spilling into the room, causing her eyeballs to quake with the pain of it two-stepping across them. Shane's silhouette framed the doorway and in a voice that always sounded as if it were about to suggest a wonderful adventure, he called into the room. “Ladies and gent.. Agatha and Rhiannon,your breakfast awaits!”

They both looked at him in confusion. Breakfast? From where? How? There had been no sounds or smells indicating cooking had occurred and there was no such thing as a bakery or, indeed, anyp place that would open before 7 a.m. within at least a 20 mile radius.

Shane laughed. “Well, as soon as you make your own.” He stepped back, dropping the blanket into place.

Agatha shook off her confusion and prepared to ramp up her anger and perhaps even cudgel Rhiannon before the girl could escape. As her lips thinned and her eyes began to gleam with renewed malice, the blanket was moved aside and there was Shane, again. "Hey, Agatha!” he said, the words dancing lightly over the tension that hung in the air like tattered curtains.

“What do you want?” she fumed.

“Could you help me make my breakfast? You do it so much better and I really want to learn what I’m doing wrong.”

"Coming," Agatha muttered. “Let me get dressed first.”

“Okay. Thank you. Annon?”

“Yes?”, her voice a ghost of its usual self.

Her brother stretched out his arm as if in invitation for her to exit the room. “You don’t need to be in her way. Come with me and we’ll do the prep work.”

She realized what he was doing and allowed him to guide her from the tempestuous sea of her small bedroom into the still waters of further morning routine." 

I can work with it, though. It's just, in my thoughts, all this sort of stuff could have best been explained in a few short sentences, darkness expressed in humorous brevity.  Maybe I need to put "darkness expressed in humorous brevity" in the description of my writing style! Well, that's on me, then! 

My ultimate point of doing this experiment and writing about it is that AI is not in and of itself a bad tool for a serious writer. It is also not an easy tool for a serious writer. All you are going to get out of it is bad writing that maybe you can work with, unless you are simply using it- as I have before- as a sounding board for help in considering alterations during the editing process or when you are stuck for how to formulate a sentence. In other words, AI can make a worthwhile assistant, but it is a lousy author! 

Here is the next section to rewrite. I have to admit that, though I only glanced at it, it seems to be somewhat better. As in closer to things I wrote about the story. I did already rewrite some of it as I went along, though, so that may be why. 

"They navigated the cramped hallway, stepping over uneven floorboards that groaned beneath their weight, a testament to the years of neglect that the little clapboard shack they called home had suffered. The kitchen, a humble appendage attached to their home by necessity rather than design, greeted them with the scent of boiling oats and stale coffee.

The table before them, crafted from a solid wood door long abandoned by its original frame, held their simple fare. Plain oatmeal steamed in mismatched bowls, the dull grey of the morning reflected in its surface. Rhiannon took her seat, the wooden chair protesting beneath her slim form.

Their parents occupied the other end of the makeshift table, their presence as cold and distant as the snow-capped peaks visible through the trailer's fogged windowpane. A newspaper lay unfolded between them, a barrier more formidable than the walls of ice outside. They spoke not to their children, but at them, voices devoid of warmth. "More coffee," their father grunted without looking up."

If you've never read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn- which I may actually be getting the title wrong on but not by much- then you know it is a very well-written book that deserves something better made according to its author's style than this, above. 

Here's the rewrite: 

"Navigating the piles of trash that piled up in drifts as pieces were caught by the cracks in the rough and splintered floorboards, the two made their way to the portal of doom.

Which is how they referred to the cut out in the wall of the clapboard house and the matching one in the side of the trailer, sitting alongside it, that allowed one to step through from one to the other. 

The floors were not even with each other, but the hole in the house had been cut high enough that with a frame around the cut to support one’s weight, a person could clamber or step up- depending on size- and that frame was even with the trailer floor. 

The main reason it was called the portal of doom was not the climb up that had to be made by the younger children in the family. Nor was it that the two holes often did not fit tightly together, due to shifting of ice and mud in their different seasons, so that the cold creeped in through the cracks. 

fIt was for other reasons. Such as the harsh winds that would play under the trailer that did two things that made life harder. They also moved the trailer closer to or further from the house, but in a faster method than ice and mud employed. In doing so, they would widen the gap enough to bite the ankles of those passing over and through. Less often, but more treacherously, they would also make the trailer jump or lean crazily with top more toward or away from the house. If you were passing through at such moments, you might end up falling to the ground and that’s if you were lucky. 

 In a milder episode, a guest had gotten their fingers slammed as the trailer bottom reared away from the house and then slammed back into it. They did not lose any fingers, but the children did lose a friend and a little more chance at ever having a reputation as good, sane people.

Yet, to and through the portal of doom they must go, for there was the kitchen. For them a wonder of modernity, as compared to attempting to balance skillets and pots on a rounded wood stove, manipulate food within them and not burn elbows and knees- again- while cornbread or fresh white loaves baked in the interior.

The trailer had an electric stove, a few cabinet and a sink that one day might be attached to a water supply, but for now at least served as a place to stack dirty dishes and hold the dish pans used for wash and rinse water. It also had room for a table.

The kitchen greeted them with twinkling pats of grease gleaming off the stovetop and the sight of two disheveled robe wearers sitting together at one end of the make-shift table.

The table had been made from a solid wood door and some mismatched table legs that had been at least of the same height, all brought home from their friendly local dump. An idea Rhiannon came up with, which was immediately shot down in flames, then quickly picked up, dusted off and claimed as a fresh good idea straight from the mind of father.

Despite that the family was generally surly and angry, every now and again they would gather at the table for a good meal, with or without guests, and end up laughing and having a good time. Even despite, or sometimes because of the cat.

Cats, like dogs, they had in abundance. Living on what was considered to be an abandoned, lonely stretch of highway, had its banes and blessings and sometimes they came in one package. Their yard, with the long driveway that people often mistook for a side road, seemed an ideal spot for people who were built that way to abandone their animals. So did the dump.

As a result, this family that seldom knew how to be kind to its own, often ended up caring for numerous animals that made their way down the driveway or followed them as they dug through trash looking for treasure.

All the animals were loved on,fed, watered and otherwise allowed to roam free. Some few stood out and became something more than part of the furry collective. One of them was Smiling Sam.

Smiling Sam, if seen curled up or with his head down, would be assumed, by all who were knew to his sphere, to be thoroughly black all over. On his chest, though, was the reason for the first part of his name: a beautiful white line of fur, forming a perfect circle that contained within it a horizontal curved line and two dots, making his chest the frame for a line drawing of a smiley face.

Despite his striking appearance and even the size he attained to in later years, Smiling Sam was surprisingly sneaky. He could be halfway across the table, ready to run off with someone’s meat or actually bitiing into it where it lay on the plate, before being noticed.

When the family started noticing him quicker and more often, he switched tactics. They learned they had to keep a plate or platter over the hole in the door or there’d be a little black periscope of a paw, turning this way and that, trying to find its bearings and lead itself to pork chop or chicken, spam or steak, depending on the success of familial ventures at any given time. Hole covered, one still might find that it was hard to eat due to the shifting tides of the plate and have to look around to see if this were an earthquake, wind or a dastardly young beast attempting to eat more than his share!

The two began gathering equipment, measuring out amount of oatmeal and water needed into glasses that also served as prep dishes and coffee cups.

“Make coffee, too.” growled their father, Jim.

Shane stared a beat and then said, “I .. we, do not know how to make coffee yet. Agatha is going to come help ..”

“Don’t give me any sh .. Make coffee!” came the barking reply.

“Oh, okay. I hope you want it bad, because, that’s surely how you’ll get it.”

Rhiannon looked agog at Shane. She was always amazed that,despite the beatings that may come, he never stopped being a smart alec. Even more so that he often got away with it.

Before long, since they both agreed in the phisophy of in for a penny, in for a pound and had elected not to wait on Agatha for anything as simple as oatmeal no that they were required to learn the intricacies of pour over coffee on the fly, plain oatmeal steamed in mismatched bowls which sat table waiting for the hungry to arrive.

Rhiannon took her seat, the wooden chair protesting beneath her. She was not an obese girl, but neither was she a girl allowed to “play with” her father’s tools, or the daughter of a man inclined to repair what he had found in a state that needed it. The chair, like most things in her life, came from the bounty of the local landfill, having been tossed away for having loose screws.

Rhiannon felt there was a potential metaphor in that. However, she wasn’t sure what a metaphor actually was, so she never brought it up.

Shane also took his seat. This put them in the middle of the table on either side of it. Their parents occupied one end of it, sitting close together.

They obviously had the hots for each other, still, but when it came to interacting with these two of their children their presence was as cold as the winter wind that bit at tender ankles which navigated their way through the portal.

Everyone sat, waiting for Agatha. Yes, there was another sister, too. If she arrived first, though, they would still be waiting for Agatha and if she did not, they would not wait for her.

A newspaper lay unfolded between parents and children, very clearly forming a barrier. Rhiannon noted it and tried not to laugh.

Their father was studying psychology. She didn’t know how much he was getting out of the books, but she was sure enjoying them and learning a lot.

Neither spoke to their children most of time and these two youngest got less attention of that good kind than the two eldest Rhiannon got least of all, though she got much more of the bad.

Jim slurped up the last of what was in his cup. In a voice devoid of warmth he grunted, “More coffee.” and carelessly thrust the cup at Rhiannon, running over the knuckles of her right hand with which she had been unconsciously gripping the edge of the table.

He didn’t even look up. “It tastes like sh .. You need to improve, little girl, or you’ll never be worth anything to anyone.”

“I am the one who m..” Shane began but was cut off by his mother’s hand administering a slap to his mouth.

“Hush!” she demanded. “Rhiannon is the one who started it. We saw her come in first.”

She stood up from the table, sniffed her disdain as she surveyed it and then announced.

“I am going to my room. I have a headache. Dealing with you kids is such a chore.”

Turning back enough to glare over her shoulder she chirped angrily, “And, make sure to clear the table. Rake and stack the dishes, too! “ Then, she was gone.

“You heard your mother. Get moving!”

“But, no one has eaten breakfast yet!” Rhiannon exclaimed.

Jim grabbed her arm and twisted it as he pulled her close for a shaking. “I don’t give a good goddamn. Your mother has spoken. GIve the food to the dogs and get this sh .. cleaned up!”

He raised Rhiannon a little off her feet and dashed her to the floor and kicked her ribs.”Now, you lazy pig b…!”

She crawled to the table and hoisted herself up. As he swung, she ducked. This enabled him to have time to see two things. Rhiannon had reached for the oatmeal bowl and turning toward the dog dish. Also,Agatha had arrived.

As Shane and Rhiannon each put their bowl of oatmeal into the dog dish, Agatha had a screaming chat with her father about them wasting food. The end result of which was that Shane and Rhiannon got spankings for the waste, while Agatha got a fresh warm bowl of oatmeal made by them and when their other sister arrived, she would get two cold bowls for herself. "

Much longer, because, I am working within the confines of  the plot as AI has constructed it but have to get enough of truth in there to make it worth its existence as a story at all. 
That's all I have for now.