The Feather

Written by Kay on . Posted in A Bratt's Life, Short Story

In this day and age, it’s important for authors to get to know their readers. And if we are getting to know you, then of course it’s only fair for you to get to know us! I talk about my books a lot and many of you have read them. I want to thank you for the many times you mention them so that others can hear about my work! I’d love to tell you about my upcoming novel but instead today I want to talk about one of my very deep interests.

First, let me start by talking about last Mother’s Day. It was sort of a sad one for me as my youngest is 5000 miles away living in Hawaii and I was sort of estranged from my eldest daughter until she gets her life under control. I missed them both dearly.

I had a quiet day and after a short lunch, I mostly lounged around, snuggling one or more of my sweet rescue pups for comfort. Later that night, I took a long hot bath and readied for an early bedtime. With a clean gown on, I applied my night face, pulled my hair back, brushed my teeth, then climbed into bed to read. An hour or so later, my hubby joined me and settled in. I put my kindle down to talk to him for a minute and all of a sudden, something landed on my eye. I thought it was a bug and I sort of freaked out as I brushed it away. I looked down and on my chest lay a tiny, delicate gray and white feather.

Both my Ben and I looked up at the ceiling at the same time, saw nothing, then looked at each other like “where the heck did that come from?” We don’t have feather pillows or bedding. No birds. And we just moved into this house so it’s clean and free of any clutter. There is also no sign of any other feathers anywhere. I hadn’t been anywhere that would have feathers and I’d just had a bath and did my routine in front of the mirror and didn’t see anything sitting on my head!

The feather just appeared from nowhere and landed on the one place it was sure to get my attention; my face. Suddenly I remembered a few nights before when I was thinking of my grandmother—the family member that meant so much to me—and I had literally said out loud, “Grandma, if you are around, please give me a sign!”

I had forgotten about it, but on Mother’s Day I saw her photo posted on Facebook and I was thinking about her a lot. I remember when I was a young woman and was sneaked out of state due to an abusive husband, and I hid out in Kansas for a few months and got to spend a lot of quality time with my grandmother. She was so kind to me, and she tried to convince me that God had something special in wait for me. My life was so terrible at the time that I didn’t believe her, until many years later when I got the opportunity to go to China and partake in a journey with children in the orphanage, which would change who I am and show me who I was meant to be.

My grandmother was right! There was another time, more than twenty years ago after she died, that I was talking to her and asked her for a sign that she was there. A few nights later, I was up with insomnia and the house was quiet. I was thinking of her and suddenly, her sweet powdery scent filled the room. I have no doubt it was her, comforting me.

Please don’t let this be a debate. This is just letting you get to know me. I do believe in life after death, and that our deceased loved ones are around us in spirit. I’ve read many, many books on the subject, even the technical ones to look for evidence. With so much research and amazing stories, I’m totally convinced that we have a better life awaiting us on the other side. I believe this life on earth is about learning lessons, loving others and leaving a legacy of kindness. I have hope that those who succeed in that will have a great reward upon their deaths.

As for the feather, it is said that finding feathers can have many meanings. I found this article; “Feathers may also represent a fresh start in truth along with a spiritual sense, love, lightness, and flight.” In my case, it fits as we are getting a fresh start in life by moving from South Carolina to Georgia. We are building a house there and we plan for it to be our forever home. It’s a big step for us as we have the wanderlust bug and hate to commit to anything permanent.

Or the feather could be a sign of hope as I worry for my daughter, a signal that she will make it through this terrible self-destructive journey in her life.
Either way, I’m glad to know that someone up there thinks we are doing the right thing. What about you? Have you ever had anything supernatural happen to you? What do you think the feather symbolized for me? Do you believe in angels or symbolism? What books have you read on the subject that you’d recommend? Remember, please be kind!

Minutes to Live

Written by Kay on . Posted in Short Story


Imagine you are on a dream vacation in Hawaii. You’ve been up an hour or so, have gotten dressed, and you are starting to make plans for the day.

Then you get an alert on your phone.

You pick it up, glance at it and then look up in panic. You look again, just making sure you aren’t seeing things.

Then you announce to your husband that a missile is on it’s way.

As he is doubting your proclamation, his phone goes off.

Same alert.

Then the management of the hotel come on over the intercom:

“This is not a test. I repeat, not a test. There is a missile in place. Brace where you are. Brace where you are. Do not leave the room. Do not use elevators.”

You start to shake. Violently.

You run into the bathroom and jerk open the shower curtain where your 22-year old daughter stands there with eyes wide open.


You run into the bedroom and look out the window, only to see the hotel staff running in every direction.

You start making calls to your loved ones. Your parents. You text your adult child back home.

You let old wounds be forgotten and text a few more loved ones.

You call and make a plea to someone you trust to take care of your fur-babies.

You huddle together with your doubting family, and you shake some more.

You are suddenly taken back to the time you were on vacation in Thailand when a tsunami brought devastation.

You say a family prayer that if it is your time, that God receive you and all sins be forgiven.

You check the news and find nothing.

You post on Facebook what you believe might be your final post.

You wonder what it’s like to be hit by a missile.

Will you die immediately? Or have some sort of nuclear fall-out? Suffer horrible sickness and burns?

There’s no where to go and you wonder if you should move to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes in, you get an inside tip that it might be a hoax.

The hotel makes more THIS IS NOT A TEST announcements.

You don’t know what to believe.

You shake some more.

You don’t think about the work you’ve left undone.

You don’t even consider what will happen to all your earthly wealth.

You only think about how your family will feel to lose you so tragically.

Finally, thirty-eight excruciating minutes later, an announcement over the hotel speaker confirms that there is no missile bound to take your life.

You have a reprieve.

You are given the gift of more time.

Not to make more money and buy more things, but to enjoy the wonder of life and those you love.


Introducing Kay Bratt’s…The Scavenger’s Daughters! (With a Sneak Peek!)

Written by Kay on . Posted in A Bratt's Life, Adoption Stories, China-Inspired Book Recommendations, Short Story


*Confetti! Confetti!*

So for the last year I have been writing, editing, tweaking, sweating, dreaming, writing, editing, tweaking some more….and finally I can introduce to you the fruits of my efforts (and those of the team behind me).

I do hope you will be in love with this family as much as I am.

The Tales of the Scavenger’s Daughters

Having survived torture and imprisonment during China’s Cultural Revolution, Benfu escaped to find love with his compassionate and beautiful Calla Lily. Together they build a fulfilling life around the most menial of jobs—Benfu’s work collecting trash. As he sorts through the discards of others, he regularly discovers abandoned children. With unwavering determination, he and Calli spend decades creating a family of hand-picked daughters that help heal the sorrow and brighten their modest home. But all is not perfect and when crisis threatens to separate their family, Benfu—or possibly his band of headstrong daughters—must find a way to overcome the biggest hardship yet.

Inspired by a true story, and set against the backdrop of a country in transition, The Scavenger’s Daughters is a sweeping present day saga of triumph in the face of hardship, and the unbreakable bonds of family against all odds.


The Scavenger’s Daughters is Available for pre-order NOW at Amazon!

And…..Coming in December 2013…

 Book Two in the Tales of The Scavenger’s Daughters,


Scroll down for a Sneak Peek of The Scavenger’s Daughters:

Chapter One

Beitang City, Wuxi, China, 2010.

On a cloudy day in early January, Benfu stood outside his house and held the red pail under the spigot, waiting for it to fill. Today was a good day; when he pumped the handle the old pipes didn’t moan and rattle too much before deciding to cooperate. But he didn’t mind it so much either way—like him, the piece of iron was ancient but stubbornly kept going. And anyway, they had a history together and if a man could feel affection for a thing, then Benfu absolutely did. A silly fondness, but there all the same, for it was the very same temperamental water spigot that had been the matchmaker that brought him and his precious Calli together so many years before.

When the water reached the top, he pushed the pump handle down and carried the pail across the street to the old widow’s house. Quickly he filled the tins for her chickens and used the last of the water on her pot of herbs hanging in her window box. He looked at the chicken droppings and considered cleaning it up, but that was a task Widow Zu usually took on and he didn’t want to deprive her of that joy. And anyway, nothing was worse than the smell of chicken dung on a man’s hands.

Chuckling, he returned to his yard across the street, got on his bike and headed out for the day. Twenty minutes later, he pushed his rusted three-wheeled bicycle slowly up the steep hill and turned the corner. Around him the streets were coming alive. Morning vendors were opening their stalls and stacking displays of fruits and vegetables, sweepers cleaned the sidewalks, and early commuters bustled to work. As he strained to push the bike, the cars, electric scooters and other bicycles rushed past him. Most paid him no attention, for he was just one of many laborers out at the crack of dawn trying to get an early start to the day. With his weathered brown face and deep wrinkles he blended in, but unlike some of the men his age he passed who were doing their morning Qigong exercises or sitting at makeshift tables’ playing cards, Benfu still had a job to do. Even though he had lived on earth for over six decades, he could not retire.

He struggled the last few feet, listening to his water canteen bumping against the metal bar it was tied to and thought about how much the city had changed over the years. At least his side of Beitang City—Old Town Wuxi as some called it—still kept some of the old charm, while new Wuxi had grown with businesses and even many foreigners coming in to make their mark. Benfu was a transplant—he’d been sent to Wuxi as a teenager by his parents to escape the danger of Shanghai during the Cultural Revolution. It was for his protection, they’d told him as they cried and bid him goodbye. What they had thought would be a better life for him was a time of trauma and hardship. And though he’d never intended to stay for so long, fate had intervened and Wuxi had become his home. But that was long ago and he’d survived many more hard times since then. Times that were better left unspoken of, times that made a day like today feel like child’s play.

At the top of the hill, Benfu mounted the bike again and with shoulders bent over the handlebars to add more weight, he pedaled slowly. He was already tired and that irritated him. He’d always been known to be bigger and stronger than most, but for the last year he just couldn’t shake the cough and heavy feeling that had enveloped him. Passing the line of street breakfast stands, he winced at the sudden squeaking from the rusty back wheel of his bicycle. As it began to bump and turn haphazardly, he hoped it would last the day, at least until he could ask his daughter to take a look to see if she could repair it.  If she could, that would save him some valuable coins that he could avoid paying the local repairman. He was lucky to have the transportation, and the three-wheeled bike was fitted with a makeshift cart on the back, allowing him a way to haul things home without carrying them in a basket on his back as he’d done for years before.

Benfu passed the cigarette store and for a moment he fought the sudden craving that overtook his thoughts. His wife had finally got her way when he’d stopped smoking a few years before, but there were days he could almost taste the sweet tobacco, he wanted it so badly. A welcome distraction, he heard his friend call his name from where she perched on the next front stoop, peeling peanuts.  His mouth watered at the sight of the treats in her bowl. He would have liked to be able to bring some peanuts home to add to their own simple dinner. Occasionally the woman saved a small bag behind her to hand over to him, but not today. He had many friends in the neighborhood and one had even complimented him long ago by telling him he was a big man with an even bigger presence. He didn’t quite know how he had a big presence but it had sounded nice. Always known to be soft-spoken and one to choose his words wisely, when he had something to say others usually listened.

Zao, Benfu. Cold day, eh?”

Benfu raised his hand to the woman and smiled. “Good morning to you, too, Lao Gu. Yes, very cold. But don’t worry, spring is coming soon!”

These days he was so used to being cold that he no longer thought much about it. At least there hadn’t been any snow this season—saving him the trouble of carrying his load when he couldn’t get the cart through. Sure his cough was worse in the cold, his old joints ached, and his gnarled hands cramped from the hours spent wrapped around the handles, but instead of dwelling on it he chose to focus on other matters. Matters like finding enough discarded items to earn enough for a day of meals for his family and if he was lucky—enough to put some savings toward their monthly rent bill. But first, his self-imposed obligation needed to be fulfilled for the day.

Zhu ni haoyun, Benfu.” She wished him luck and went back to peeling. No small talk was needed because there wasn’t anything new to discuss. They’d been passing each other for the last fifteen years and only stopped to catch up every month or so, unless either of them had news worth interrupting their chores. The woman was widowed and Benfu had known her husband back in the hard days. But those were times they didn’t talk about.

Benfu continued with his cart and hoped his morning would be uneventful. He didn’t wish to find anything out of the ordinary as he turned past the block of buildings. He really didn’t. He always wished to find nothing except trash. But sometimes something other than trash found him.

Now in the alley between two buildings, he guided his bike around soiled refuse bags and a line of jumbled bicycles, then heard the first mewl coming from a pile of boxes. He hoped it was nothing but a new kitten, strayed from its mother.  That would be the best scenario, for Benfu could help it find the rest of the litter and then go on with his day as usual. But the closer he got to the huge pile of trash, the more that hope faded. He’d heard this same sound before and he scolded himself that he should have known the difference from the start.

Sighing, he stopped the bicycle and climbed down. He walked over to the pile of cardboard boxes. Lifting them carefully and tossing them aside one by one, he dug down until he finally found the right one. As he paused to look at the labeling on the side of the cardboard, a couple at the end of the alley stopped and pointed at him, then moved along.

Gently he picked up the box and carried it to his cart. He carefully set it on top of the pile of trash he had collected on the way over. Opening the two flaps, he peered into the box and immediately connected with tiny dark eyes.

Aiya,” he muttered softly, so as not to scare her. The baby was very young—maybe only a few hours or possibly a few days. She lay in the box fully unclothed save for a scrap of a red shirt with frog ties and a few balled up newspapers scattered around her.  Benfu wrinkled his nose as the smell of urine wafted up from the soaked box.  He noticed her umbilical cord still hung from her tiny button, already turning dark from the lack of sustenance running through it. From the weak sound of her mewling and the mottled color of her skin, she didn’t have much time left.

Faster than most would think an old man could move, Benfu struggled out of his worn red overcoat and laid it on the ground in front of him. He then lifted the infant and set her on top of it. As he knelt down to wrap the material around her, he ignored the throbbing in his knees and rubbed her tiny feet and hands. He counted under his breath as he quickly massaged each petite toe and finger. While working to get the blood running in her body again, his eyes met hers and held.

With the surprise of being suddenly discovered, she had quieted and serenely stared up at Benfu, her dark eyes twinkling at him. She was beautiful, this one was, and he wondered what sort of ailment she might have that would have prompted her parents to relinquish her to a new fate.

“Hello, nuer. I’ve come to take you home.  Just hold on and we’ll get you all fixed up. And we’ll add one more scavenger’s daughter to the world, yes we will.” He wrapped the coat all around her, making sure to double the sleeves around her icy feet. He gently laid her back in the box and after checking to make sure he had made a sufficient tunnel through the material for her to breathe through, he closed the flaps again.  Looking around, he hoped the remaining cardboard would be there when he returned, but for now he needed to hurry.

Turning the bicycle around he shivered from the sudden gust of wind that blew through his clothing. He climbed aboard and slowly began to pedal, willing the stiffness in his knees away. As he picked up the pace and began his journey home, he sighed and looked over his shoulder again at the box his newest treasure was nested in. He ignored the nervous fluttering in his stomach that reminded him how hard it would be to feed one more hungry mouth, and instead gave thanks to the Gods that he had found the baby girl before it was too late.

The Bridge by Kay Bratt released today!

Written by Kay on . Posted in A Bratt's Life, Short Story

The Bridge

A Novella

99 Cents on Kindle!

In present day China, an old woman’s house sits opposite an ancient bridge. Not just any bridge—but a special one because it has always been known as The Lucky Bridge. In olden days it was said that to walk over it during a marriage ceremony, or at the beginning of the New Year would bring the traveler good luck. Because of its reputation, over the years it has also become a popular place for young mothers to abandon their children. What to some may seem cruel is in reality their final gift to their offspring—one last chance to send them off to their new destinies with luck on their side. Jing, an old woman, is the unofficial and often reluctant guardian of the bridge. When no one else will, Jing steps in to prevent the children from frostbite, abuse and hunger, and then she delivers them safely to the orphanage. This has been her routine for many years, but what does Jing do when the latest child, a blind boy, burrows deep into her heart? Read ‘The Bridge’ to see how Fei Fei’s life is changed by the love of a lonely old woman. The Bridge is a short story of 17,000 words, approximately 72 pages. Fei Fei’s character is based on a real orphaned boy that Kay Bratt met during her time in China.

Download The Bridge now on Kindle or Nook

Win a Signed Copy of Silent Tears

Written by Kay on . Posted in Short Story

I got emails asking when I’d be giving away signed copies of the newly released Encore edition of Silent Tears, so here you go! I’ll give away 2 but here is how you get in the drawing:

1. Did you know that Amazon has a Kindle blog? I didn’t either until one of my readers pointed out that I was highlighted on it! You have to check it out and while you are there, steal the url and post it to your facebook, blog or website to get your name in the drawing! (also leave a comment on their blog, please!)

That’s it! The winner will be drawn on Wednesday, April 14. You may be thinking you already have a copy of Silent Tears but do you have a signed copy? If so…Mother’s Day is coming fast and you can give this one away to someone as a gift, so participate! Hurry up…you know you want to…

Ho Ho Humbug

Written by Kay on . Posted in Short Story

xiao-gou-blocks2Here we are two months and over 40 unpacked boxes later, settling in to our new home in Georgia. This is the first time in my moving career (lol) that I have not had every box unpacked and the whole house in order within 2-3 days. Is it my age? I am almost (*dread*) 40, so I would think I still had some get-up-and-go but I really think it has got-up-and-gone because I don’t feel that need to keep moving every waking minute like I used to. Perhaps my OCD tendencies have relaxed much more than I thought. The long assignment overseas was better than any medication might have been—I can’t even imagine how Howie Mandel would have reacted to the conditions I faced every day. He and I share many of the same hang-ups. But I had to learn to face my fears or choose to hide away for almost five years. These days I can even touch a shopping cart with my bare hands and only feel slightly nauseated. I still don’t want to open public doors without using my shirt or scarf but hey—there is swine flu out there stalking me! Good thing I still have operational hips because reaching that flush handle with my foot in public bathrooms can get tricky.

Anyway, moving on…

Unpacking all of our things and sorting through keep/donate/garage sale items has brought up many memories. I found the box of blocks that Xiao Gou used to sit at our table and play with so intently. She doodled all over the wooden container and her tiny scribbling always makes me sad. I also found her blanket and the sweet, pink dress she liked to wear while she was at our home for visits. I never let her take it with her back to the orphanage because I knew it would disappear forever. I used to get so upset about things I gave her being taken away, especially the clothes. She loved clothes and hated it so much the way they dressed her so poorly. At my home her favorite activity was a bath and then the ‘girl stuff’ that goes with it; doing her hair, moisturizing with lotion, etc… such an easy way to make her smile. I’ll never forget when I brought a few bags of new clothes to her sleeping room and the ayi’s face when she discovered that all of the pants had been professionally altered to accommodate Xiao Gou’s amputated leg. She knew no one but Xiao Gou would benefit from the cute pants and warm thermal underwear. Xiao Gou knew it, too. She was smart and quickly figured out that no one would be taking those items. You may not know but when you have a missing limb it makes it even harder to dress in layers. She used to have a heck of a time tucking her long underwear into her pants and then the extra pants’ legs into her waistband so that it all stayed out of her way as she hopped or crawled around. My memories of her are so vivid, even after over two years of not holding her warm little body or seeing her ornery face.

I’ve finally set up my desk so that I could get some work done, or at least attempt to. Over it is my favorite painting I had commissioned in China. It is three small Asian boys holding food pots, squatting in the blinding sunlight. I love the painting—though I did cheat and had a Chinese artist copy it from a famous Burmese artist’s original that I definitely couldn’t afford. Is that illegal? Oops.

On my desk top, I have placed five framed pictures that inspire me. One is my eldest daughter and my grandson. The other four are pictures of children I loved in China, all of them now adopted to loving families; Yue Hua, Le Ci, Le Men, Li Li (with Amanda) and of course one picture is me with Xiao Gou’s arm wrapped around my neck as she plants a sweet kiss on my cheek. That one is hard to look at but I won’t put it away. It reminds me she is still there waiting. There are so many children who have touched my life and made me who I am today; I could cover an entire wall with pictures of them!

So yes, I am feeling a little melancholy. Perhaps it is a combination of unpacking memories combined with the holiday season, I don’t know. Christmas is always tough in my family as there are so many divorces involved and that makes scheduling events extraordinarily hard. It was actually easier when we lived in China and did not have to try to sort out the schedules and hurt feelings, we could just stay in our home and call everyone to wish them a Merry Christmas. But then I was short one daughter and that was always a heart-breaker, too.

We humans make a mess out of life, don’t we? I hope your Christmas season is merry and you are working through your own holiday blues.

Ho Ho Humbug,