Category: Creative Works

BAD JUJU

I take a big gulp of Guinness. I remember her surprisingly acerbic words. She yelled them across the parking lot. “I hope something absolutely horrible happens to you on the best day of your life!”

It was all I thought of while I drove back to the Wagon Wheel. I did not make it a habit to drink in front of my employees. Yet, I needed to get the shopping trip off my mind. I tried to enjoy my drink. The place lit up as the door opened. I made the mistake of checking who had entered my establishment.

It was them. The gal from the mall with her mom. They sat at the round table near the corner by the pool tables. Mitzi went over, fully ready to ask to see their membership card. I tapped her arm and shook my head no. She knew that we would be making an exception this time.

I followed Mitzi to the back on my way to my office and told her not to let them pay. I would handle it. Mitzi gave me one of her suspicious looks and said she would need an explanation.

Later, when they left, I told Mitzi,

“I went to Dillard’s to get Shiloh and Drake their Christmas presents, and the entire parking lot was full. It was Christmas Eve, and I hadn’t even started shopping yet. I finally saw a handicap spot open up. I justified to myself that I wouldn’t be in there long enough to matter. You know, that is the exact same thinking that cost me my marriage. Cassie used to say I was always too busy rushing to the next thing. I never noticed who I was running over. I guess she was right. A car had been waiting for the same spot. I was closer, so I took it, even though she’d been waiting for it. Anyways, she blared her horn, rolled down her window, and yelled at me. I didn’t realize she had a handicapped person with her. I didn’t even care, honestly. But when I kept running into her at every rack and corner, I thought, here I am. I am an able-bodied man taking a handicap spot. Her handicap spot. More like an able-bodied asshole, that’s what I am. I couldn’t handle it, so I left. I feel like such an idiot. The least I do is pay for their time here.”

Mitzi had a big grin from ear to ear while she was digging through her purse. She pulled out a bundle of sage and handed it to me. I hesitantly reached for it.

“I told them that their meal and drinks were on the house. She told me to tell you to keep your Goddamn money. She also hopes that you need to take a shit when you step out of the shower.” Mitzi was laughing so hard that she had to cross her legs, and her eyes were watering.

The weight of it hit me harder than I expected. She wouldn’t even let me try to make it right. I’d been such a selfish prick that my apology wasn’t worth accepting. Maybe I didn’t deserve her forgiveness.

“What is the sage for?”

“That’s to get rid of their bad JuJu. We don’t need their attitude lingering. There ain’t nothing worse than trying to use toilet paper to wipe shit off a clean wet ass.” Holding her stomach, she turned to leave. “Merry Christmas, John. Give the kids my love.” She swung her hands up to the sky. She bellowed, “May your showers be warm, and your ass stay clean, bahaha!”

I looked down at the silver twigs, held together by handmade twine. I wondered if it works on people, too. If burning sage undoes years of being an asshole. The asshole who takes handicap spots and causes a divorce.

Between the Buzz and the Fall

A Stream of consciousness from the stairs above

Sounds of a creaking door…
As I write about the sounds
Of water hitting bedrock below
A crescendo from thirteen feet above.

More than a trickle,
Less than a roar.
Yet still a fall.
A lazy stream’s descent.

Laughter behind a glass door.
Nude.
The house has finally warmed
To a temperature that’s
Birthday-suit worthy.

The buzz of a yellow jacket
 In search of food for winter.
 My fingers and nose tell me,
 It’s too cold for this creature
 To be flying about.
 Yet it defies logic,
 Buzzing close to my ear.

Wasp stings are a powerful,
 A Solid blow.
 I remember the time
 Three tagged me on the back.

BOOM! I felt it.
BOOM! again.
BOOM! a third time.

It was between the second and third
I realized what was happening.
Then I ran
Yelling, crying,
Screaming.
A third of each.

The pain was immense.
It did not stop.
Not a throb, 

A Stab.
As if it were stinging me
Again and again.

For over an hour.

So now,
As this cold-weather fiend
Flies near,
I watch.

“What do you have to say?”
I ask.

I listen.
I observe.

All I can gather is…
It is in no hurry.

It finds a grease stain
On the patio chair arm,
And begins lapping it up
In the manner yellow jackets do,
Until the spot is no longer visible.

Cleaned its mess.
No
Cleaned a mess.
Not its own.

Like we as parents
So often do.

I swing my hair
Back and forth,
Hoping it will leave me alone,
Not lap any oil
From my body.

Memories rise 
Panic follows.

I feel it there,
On top of my head.

I swing my curls again,
Trying to send a message:
Go.
Elsewhere.

But it is here.
It was here before me.
And unless I smush it,
It will be here after me.

For now
Gone.
Or out of hearing reach.
Out of sight.

The soothing sounds of nature…
Not made by man.

Water falls onto rocks.
 Into a pond-like puddle
 Knee-deep, perhaps,
 Or at least it was last year.

From the top of the stairs
I can see the bottom.

This place, carved by nature
You can’t help but wonder
What was on the Divine’s mind
When it shaped it.

I want a place like this.
All to myself.

But would I share it?

Places like this deserve to be shared.

Yet I want to hoard it.
Keep it for myself.
Unfettered access
At all times.

And I suppose
With a tweak in scheduling
That’s always possible.

Cold water cascades
Slaps,
Claps,
Splashes,
Sings.

It continues its journey.

Boldly it goes
Down, winding, trailing,
Lulling.
Its journey never ends.

Can you see the wind?
No
But you see the evidence.

The leaves are moving.
As it blows by.

Sometimes it yells.
Sometimes it whispers.

Heaven’s altar
A living canvas.

Young Dumb And 21

A Crime Fiction

Young, dumb, and 21. That’s what we were. We were of the age of invincibility. There was nothing we could not do, and if it was wrong, we would never get caught. We could drink all night and get up for work the next morning. There was no limit to the trouble we could get into or the amount of alcohol we could consume. As was the night of October 28, 1990.

Receiving an invitation to one of Brody’s parties was something everyone bragged about. So when we received ours, we were ecstatic! I called Cheryl and Lisa and told them the news. They, too, were just as excited. We asked ourselves if we should invite Christy, weighing the pros and cons. If she finds out we went to Brody’s without her, she will be so mad at us. She’s been wanting to go to one of his parties for a long time. But if we invite her, she’s only going to regret it in the morning, then ghost us for weeks while she gets right with God and aligns with her church and parents’ values. With that last thought, we decided not to tell her about the party.

The three of us pull up to Brody’s huge, lustrous mansion, the lights illuminating the circular drive. The valet took the keys to my bug and drove away.

“Wow, this is bigger than I imagined!” I said.

‘No, I thought it was going to be way bigger and way prettier.”

Lisa, wanting to keep the peace, said it was exactly as she imagined.

Once inside, a large staircase led upstairs, and people were sitting at the bottom. To our left, French doors opened into a huge room full of people. Brody had a DJ, and the room was dark, with strobe lights that danced like shooting stars. There were coolers and kegs and bottles of alcohol everywhere. We each grabbed something to drink and started mingling. We didn’t know anyone here. So, we regrouped in a corner.

“Do you know anyone?” Lisa asked.

“No. Do you?” Cheryl replied.

“Me either, this is weird. Well, the valet took my keys, and I’m starting to feel this drink, so we may as well make the best of it. Let’s go explore.” I pulled out my phone.

“Should we text Christy the address?”

Lisa shook her head. “You know how she gets. She’ll have fun tonight, then spend the next three weeks feeling guilty, ghosting us while she gets right with God.”

Cheryl nodded. “I can’t deal with another guilt trip.”

I put my phone away. We left the room with fresh drinks inside 24-oz tumblers with lids and straws.

“Wow, taste this!” I extended my cup to Lisa. Cheryl was a germaphobe. And shook her head no at the thought of sharing straws.

“Oh, that’s good. Here, try mine.”  Lisa’s drink tasted of kiwi and pineapple with a lot of vodka.

Huge portraits of people we didn’t recognize hung throughout the house, and the bathrooms were bigger than our bedrooms. We found two kitchens and a room that I later learned was a butler pantry, equipped with a sink and fridge.

Before heading outside, we stopped in the ballroom to grab another drink. Bodies were dancing provocatively, a good indication that they were heavily inebriated. Cheryl wanted to stay and dance, Lisa and I wanted to go outside to the garden, so we parted ways.

We linked our arms together and headed outside, swaying and stumbling as we walked. The giant hedges arched into an opening, and we entered with the courage that alcohol gives. It was dark; the full moon illuminated the path before us.

“Shit, we’re going to get lost.”

Lisa burst out laughing. “It’s not like we will be stuck in here forever; someone will eventually come looking for us.”

“But what if they don’t?”

We stopped laughing and stared at each other for a moment, then burst into another sort of laughter. The kind that pushes away fear.

“Well, this is a dead end, I told you we should have gone right. You always go right. That’s the only way to go.” She scolded.

I hated to admit she might be right this time. So, we turned around.

“But we have to go left this time because we didn’t go right the last time.”

Lisa rolled her eyes, and we went left. “Ugh, this drink is getting to me. It was way too sweet. I’m going to set it right here. That way, when we come back out, we will see it and know we are going the right way.”

Onward we walked, hands grazing the hedge’s edge. When we came to a fork, Lisa reminded me to go right. And this time I listened. I set my drink down before turning right, knowing our drunk brains will need all the help they can get.

We stumbled through the maze, giggling. It felt like forever, dead end after dead end, but we were having too much fun to care.

Finally, we found the end of the maze. It opened into a garden full of roses and a gazebo in the center. There was a water fountain with a stream circling around. It was heaven.

“Wow, this is amazing. Have you ever seen anything like this?”

“Once, but it was Colorado when I hiked to a waterfall. But this is man-made, so it makes it more surprising.”

We walked to the gazebo and noticed someone was slumped on the ground.

“Who do you think that is?”

“I have no idea. In case you forgot, we don’t know anyone here. “ Lisa snorted.

“Hi. Do you mind if we join you?”

There was silence. I wondered if they were passed out and decided to check on them.

We stepped onto the gazebo floor and realized it was Christy.

“Christy? I am so glad you came!” I said.

Lisa’s eyes were huge. She stopped, her jaw dropping to the floor.

When I turned back to Christy, who was still silent, I thought maybe she was mad at us for not inviting her. Then I noticed her hair was matted to her head. I grabbed my phone and shined it on her. Her hair was matted to her face with dark, sticky, reddish brown crust. I stood up and gasped. I shined my light down her body. Her skirt was pulled up and her panties were tangled around her ankles.

Blood was everywhere. It was on me too. Lisa was frozen, silent from shock. I stumbled backward,

“Oh my god! I she….” I couldn’t bring myself to say, “…dead?”

There lay our friend Christy, whom we chose not to invite, in a pool of her own blood.

“It’s all my fault,” Lisa sobbed. “I’m the one who said we shouldn’t invite her. I said she’d kill the vibe. If we had invited her, she would still be alive.”

In the distance, I could still hear the music from the house. People laughing, dancing, living.

My Tree

I have a tree, a seat for thee,
Where the woodpecker and chickadee
Come perch and peer and to look at me.

I have a seat to view the tree
Where sit the woodpecker and chickadee
They’re restless, wondering when I’ll leave,
And I am wondering when they’ll come to me.

The nuthatch and the junco are curious, too.
They come in close for a better view.

Below, I hear the soft dove coo,
The cat appears, the birds all boo.
Out comes the hawk, and we all bid adieu.

  • YKR
Painting by Turi MacCombie

GROUNDED

A Short Fictional Story

It was a beautiful sunny day with a few clouds against a bright blue sky. I loved looking up at the clouds while I walked—it was invigorating, almost like walking blindly, yet your eyes are wide open. I walked this path so many times that I did not need to look in front of me to know where I was going. So looking up at the clouds while I walked had become my favorite pastime, a game.

There was this one cloud in particular—it looked like Snoopy. Seeing it took me back to my childhood Christmases when Charlie Brown and Snoopy had their Christmas specials. Snoopy was one of my favorites. I loved it at the end, when Snoopy would be asleep on the top of his doghouse, with big heart floating away from him. I could tell he was loved, and he knew it.

The blue in the sky seemed bluer than usual. It wasn’t the standard gray-blue today. It was more of a robin’s egg blue. Vibrant and cheery. That reminded me—just the other day I’d found an actual robin’s egg on this very path, that perfect pale blue, delicate and whole. I’d stopped mid-stride, my foot hovering just above it, not wanting to crush something so beautiful. I’d stepped carefully around it and—

My foot landed on something soft.

I toppled forward, falling flat onto what felt like the cold seat of a car cushion.

Before I could get myself up, panic began to rise from within my bowels as I realized I had stumbled onto a person!

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.”

There was no reply.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?” I shook her shoulder as I scooted back and lifted to my knees.

The woman was face down and unresponsive. I didn’t know what to do! With trembling fingers, I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and dialed 911. Through my shaky voice, I told the dispatcher,

“There is a woman on Elm Street, and she’s unresponsive. She’s cold and her lips are blue.”

How did I not see her? So much for the cloud game. I had to forfeit today, or resign the team altogether.

Ambulance and police cars arrived, taking my story, asking me all kinds of questions. They didn’t understand how I couldn’t see her. How I just literally stumbled onto her. I guess they never daydreamed before either. I think they don’t realize what daydreaming is either. It’s like awake dreaming. You’re awake, you’re dreaming, but unaware of your surroundings. That was me looking at clouds, reminiscing about my childhood, while God knows what was happening around me.

Everything after became a blurry tunnel of questions and rustling uniforms, the paramedic’s clipboard pressed gently against my shoulder, a police officer’s voice gently corralling me to the side.

I kept apologizing, still explaining, though the explanation was nothing more than the fact that I’d been looking at the sky, like I always did. They led me away (I followed because it seemed like the right thing to do). There was no blood., the woman just looked like she’d laid down for a nap and forgot to get back up.

They took my information and then left me to myself, sitting on the curb while the medics checked for a pulse and shook their heads in a subtle, practiced way. The woman had been dead. Maybe for hours. Maybe since the night before. They zipped the lady up, loaded her into the ambulance, and drove away with their lights off. The blue sky had retreated behind a thickening layer of clouds, not that it mattered; I no longer wanted to look up at them.

That was the last thing I expected out of this walk. I remembered kicking that empty robin’s egg with my toe, the color, the way it shattered perfectly. I remembered my own mother’s hand on my shoulder, steering me away from the broken things on sidewalks.

One of the police officers, a big pale guy with a pink face, asked for my name.

“Chelsea,” I said, my voice shaky. “I’m sorry, I—I walk here all the time. I should’ve been paying attention.” I felt the need to say it, as if apologizing enough could excuse all of this.

I was looking at the clouds, that I’d been so caught up in shapes and memories that I’d missed a dead woman lying right in front of me. But it sounded stupid, selfish even. So I just shook my head.

The officer nodded, scribbling something in his notepad. “You did the right thing calling it in,” he said. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything else, but you’re free to go.”

I stood up slowly, my legs still unsteady. The street looked different now—smaller, darker, like someone had turned down the saturation. I walked home the long way, keeping my eyes on the pavement the whole time.

For weeks after, I couldn’t bring myself to look up. Every time I tried, I’d see her face instead of clouds, that awful stillness. My teammates asked where I’d been, why I’d missed practice. I told them I was sick, which wasn’t entirely a lie.

Eventually, I started walking that path again. I had to. But I kept my head down, counting cracks in the sidewalk, and noticed the weeds pushing through concrete. There was a whole world at my feet I’d never paid attention to before—ants carrying crumbs, dandelions growing in impossible places, the way light caught on broken glass.

I still think about the clouds sometimes. I miss them, the way they used to make me feel untethered and free. But I can’t go back to that, not entirely. Now, when I look up, I make sure I know where I’m standing first.

Creating

When are you most happy?

I am the most happy when I’m creating. Whether it be cooking, crocheting, drawing, or writing.  Creativity allows happiness to flow through me.

Cooking – my best dishes are the ones I’ve created myself. My family oo’s and awe’s over them while I smile. My husband has learned to question me. “Did you write this one down??” Begging that I make it again.

Crocheting – I might start with the idea of a pattern. But somehow end up doing my own thing in the end. The prettiest blankets are the ones where I left the pattern in the box.

Drawing – zentangles are my favorite, they show me to relax when my thoughts don’t feel relaxing.

Writing – All of us know when it rains it pours and those days are glorious! But when it feels like a drought, you just keep writing.

Decorating – I’ve staged 3 Airbnbs, and it’s so fulfilling to see them come together.

I guess we can CREATE our own happiness after all.

2025 Temperature Blanket almost finished

Are You Addicted to Suffering and Struggle?

Are You Addicted to Suffering and Struggle?

A Letter from One Survivor to Another

Let me take you on a journey through my own cycle of pain, one that might mirror your own.

For over 24 years, I stayed stuck in a cycle of pain. Not only because I didn’t know how to escape, but also because I had no idea that part of me had become used to it. That pain was my comfort zone; I needed it. That is not easy to admit, but maybe that is precisely what you need to hear.

I was addicted to pain and suffering. And maybe you are too.

Consider if your life feels like a constant storm, with relationships that break rather than build you, where chaos feels more familiar than peace.

Then I want you to consider that you might be emotionally addicted to your struggle. In the same way, someone is addicted to alcohol, cigarettes, or drugs.

You don’t choose to be this way on purpose, but you can choose to stop feeding it.

How Does Someone Get Addicted to Suffering?

It might seem strange, but when survival mode becomes your norm, your body adapts to a constant state of fear, anger, and panic, as if these emotions are essential for survival. The body doesn’t know good adrenaline from bad. It just feels familiar. So if pain becomes what you’re used to, your brain will start chasing it like a drug.

I’ll be honest with you: After I left my abusive husband, I thought I’d be free. But instead, I felt lost, restless, and empty. And one day I caught myself missing the drama, missing the feeling of being needed, even if it came with cruelty.

That’s when I realized I wasn’t just healing from abuse. I was detoxing from it.

Understanding the Chemistry of Emotion

Here’s what’s really going on under the surface. Every emotion you feel, love, sadness, rage, guilt, and fear, comes with a chemical mix your body gets used to. When you feel anger or shame over and over, your body floods itself with stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline.

And your nervous system thinks,

 “Ah, yes. This is normal. Let’s keep doing that.”

It doesn’t care if it’s killing you emotionally.  It only cares that it’s predictable. That’s why breaking the cycle is more than leaving them. It’s also about rewiring your system and healing your brain. You have to teach your body that peace isn’t dull, it’s safe.

Why You Keep Ending Up With the Same Kind of Person

If you’ve ever escaped one toxic relationship only to fall into another… and another…

You’re not weak or broken.  You’re still addicted to the feelings that chaos brings.

And your brain will unconsciously lead you straight to people who can give you the fix.

It’s not because you want to be hurt, but it’s because deep down, you don’t yet believe you deserve anything else.

The Good News: You Can Break Free

I won’t lie to you. Healing is hard, but so is staying stuck. The difference is that one of them leads somewhere beautiful.

Here’s how I started the process, and you can too:

1. Tell yourself the truth.

Not the story you’ve been told or the lie that “this is just who you are.”

Say the truth, you are addicted to survival mode, and you were made for so much more.

2. Decide that it ends with you.

Not tomorrow, not when it gets easier. Right now.

You don’t need to hit another rock bottom to be done.

3. Catch yourself.

When the negative self-talk kicks in or when you feel that familiar urge to sabotage yourself, tell yourself, “I deserve better.

Then, breathe, even if you don’t believe it yet.

4. Let peace feel weird for a while.

Because it will, trust me. Quiet will feel loud, and safety will feel foreign.

That’s okay. Stay there anyway. Let yourself get used to calm.

5. Give it time. Give yourself grace.

This isn’t about perfection; it’s about persistence.

You’re teaching your nervous system a new language. That love doesn’t hurt, and peace doesn’t mean danger.

One More Thing,

You’re not broken. You’re not stupid for staying too long.  You were surviving.

And now? You’re waking up.

Your addiction to struggle isn’t your fault, but healing is your responsibility.

You deserve a life that doesn’t hurt. And it’s waiting for you, whenever you’re ready.

Better

Is your life today what you pictured a year ago?

My life is better today than what I pictured a year ago.

However, the year came with several speed-bumbs, road blocks, delays and detours. But isn’t that what makes our lives better? The learning how to navigate through life when faced with challenges?

I’m just thankful you didn’t ask if I enjoyed this year better than the last. I might’ve had a different answer.

Sleeplessness is…

Insomnia’s sister
Transients  cousin
Fluidities Aunt
Instabilities mom
Anxieties grandmother

….me

Positively Divine

What positive events have taken place in your life over the past year?

This year has been one of the most unexpected beautiful years of my life, full of surprises, healing, and quiet miracles I did not always see coming.

It began with the joy of the birth of grandchild number ten and the sweet anticipation of number eleven already on the way. Every new little heartbeat in this family reminds me how wide my world is and how love continues to grow around me whether I am ready or not.

Our third short-term rental went online and stays booked. It amazes me to watch what I dreamed of into existence, and watch it take off and thrive. There is a quiet pride in that, a feeling of finally seeing hard work turn into something real.

Then came Colorado. Two weeks of pure beauty, with every turn revealing something that made me pause and breathe a little deeper. I did not realize how much I needed that trip until I was standing there, surrounded by mountains that made everything inside me feel a little clearer.

But the biggest changes this year happened within me.

After years of gut problems, I finally discovered the physical cause. That alone felt like a breakthrough I had been waiting for far too long. Therapy opened an even deeper door. I began to uncover the emotional weight I had been carrying and the trauma that had settled into my body. I started learning how to set boundaries and how to listen to the parts of myself I had ignored. I connected with my inner child, the version of me who needed comfort and understanding, and I finally began to give her that.

Along the way, I started feeling more comfortable in my own skin. Not the person I thought I was supposed to be, but the person I actually am. This shift feels real, even if it is still unfolding.

And perhaps one of the most meaningful steps I am taking this year is working on my book proposal. I’m not  just dreaming about it, I’m doing it. This alone feels like reclaiming a part of myself I thought I lost.

When I look back, this year was not simply positive. It was transformative. It was a year of returning to myself in ways I never expected.