It stemmed from the fact that she was a mediocre witch, and that was probably being generous. She worked so hard at being less than average! She studied for hours a day, more often than not jerking away at her desk as the sun crested the horizon. She knew the history, had memorized the practical and magical uses for at least three hundred plants, and knew countless spells by heart. The depth and breadth of her knowledge made her every teacher’s pet, and her parents frequently called on her to show off her talents of memorization for family and friends. Practitioners who had been at the craft for decades would consult her for recommendations when their spells weren’t working quite right.

So why did she suck so abysmally hard at casting? She would lay awake at night, for the few hours she allowed herself to rest, going over and over every dud spell that had come across her altar. She had consulted her few trusted advisors countless times. As far as any of them could tell, Alissa had done everything with a technical perfection that was a work of art in itself. The spells always came out flat, though. They worked, but in the most subtle, diminished way. Everyone came to her for her knowledge, but they never asked her for her spellwork.

Which was fine, she supposed. It just left her feeling so empty and pointless; why work so hard to attain all this knowledge and not be able to do anything with it? Sure, she could be a teacher, but that held little interest to her. She saw how hard her teachers worked and heard the indifferent and sometimes spiteful ways her fellow students treated them, and she didn’t see the sense of subjecting herself to a lifetime of such treatment. She enjoyed magic well enough. It was interesting how the right combination of things could exact such powerful results. Again, she had the power of the knowledge, but the strength of the end result was beyond her reach.

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Alissa sighed and sunk in her seat, considering whether or not she should just put everything away and try again another time. Before she could start packing it in, Alexander, her beautiful feline familiar, gracefully pitter pattered across the room, lept up and curled in her lap. The familiar weight and warmth of his body and comforting sound of his purr helped fill the emptiness in Alissa’s heart. With a smile, she lovingly drew her hand along his silken back, pausing at the base of his tail for a scratch. His eyes closed to savor the sensation, and Alissa could feel the deep sense of satisfaction her touch sparked. Having a familiar was her favorite part of being a witch. She couldn’t imagine living without the deep connection she and Alex shared.

It’s okay kiddo. It’s okay, and it will be okay.

Alissa rolled her eyes and smiled in response to his thought-talk.

You always say that.

And I always mean it.

Alissa let the “yeah, but….” response form not on her lips, but in her emotions. She sent Alex the feelings of frustration, confusion, and disappointment that set like a wet towel over her heart. Alex raised himself up from her lap to nuzzle his head against her chin. He sent a response of understanding and love back, but included thoughts, knowing she often needed the definition words could provide.

You know what’s behind your casting. Effort and dedication can change many things, but this isn’t one of them.

Alissa’s expression pinched, and prickles danced along her scalp as the truth of his statement landed like a cement block. She knew he was right, and somehow that deeply offended her sense of morality. The flame of anger ate the triggered thoughts as kindling; the countless hours of study, the drudgery of trying again and again and again and never getting better, never making headway. She could feel the rage starting to unfurl the tight control she habitually held over her body and thoughts. Her jaw clamped shut and her teeth started grinding. She could feel her body coiling into a tight spring, in preparation of the pending explosion.

It’s not fair!

Alex twitched in response to the intensity of the thought and the emotion behind it. He sent compassion to soothe her, weaving in a sense of respect that came from seeing her dogged determination and the tyrannical standards to which she held herself. It helped a little, calmed Alissa’s fire just enough to let the reality of the situation solidify from the smoke. With a sigh, she didn’t necessarily admit defeat, but she could at least see the path from where she stood.

I don’t like magic.

Time seemed to stop for Alissa. She had barely admitted that truth to her deepest self, much less expressing it so definitively. The shame and horror she felt was instantly tamed by the crushing wave of pride she could feel flowing from Alex.

And it’s okay. It’s okay, and it will be okay.

Alissa sat for a second as the perspective of her short existence balanced itself against the infinite ebb and flow of the universe. That microscopic shift was enough to introduce the possibility of a different reality.

What if she stopped trying so hard?

What if she paused her current track and figured out what she did like, what called to her?

What if she put aside the concerns of disappointing her parents and teachers in order to dedicate her time and attention to herself?

What if she directed the fanatical focus to something that mattered to her?

What kind of magic could she produce then?

Alex once again curled into Alissa’s lap and settled in for a nap as he felt her thoughts being lifted away to this new potential existence. Her hand started its habitual stroking of his back and he purred in deep contentment. Alissa hadn’t found her power yet, but she had opened herself to the idea that she had power. That was the bit of magic that would turn into the most impressive spell she would ever cast.

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Motion in the neighbor’s yard distracted from her self-loathing. Her eyes darted to the distraction, eventually followed by her head. Just a couple deer, wandering through. Their hides were dark, blending in with the dimming landscape of dusk.

Who leaves their Christmas lights up until March?! I can’t even do those properly. It would take like 5 minutes. Why are they still up?

She turned to look at the blank Word document on her laptop.

What is wrong with me?!

She was trying to write something, anything, but the words wouldn’t flow. She had never struggled this hard before. It was like she was trying to tread water, but her disobeying arms only flailed about aimlessly. The weight of her emotions was pulling her under. Soon, she would be swallowed by the relentless waves of self-deprecation.

Her eyes shifted downward. She sighed. The battery was depleted.

“Mine too, buddy.” She spoke out loud to the device. Maybe I should have been using it the past 2 hours instead of letting it run dry.

She grunted as she climbed out of the comfy corner of the couch, forcing each movement.

Well, I guess I have to stand now. That’ll teach me.

Amy grabbed the charger out of her desk drawer. A Stitch Fix bag was in the way. She sighed.

Right…I was supposed to return that. Just another thing I can’t do right.

She found the charger under the bag. She heaved another sigh and shoved the drawer closed. She quickly stepped over one of the cats to avoid tripping on her way to the kitchen. After plugging the laptop in on the counter, she felt her chest start tingling. The stove. Her shoulders drooped. She dared to gaze upon it. A pit formed in her stomach at the thought of what could have been.

How could I have left the burner on? For over THREE hours?! What if one of the cats had gotten curious? Or if the flame had gone out…

Her throat tightened and a lump invaded the shrinking space. She swallowed. The lump didn’t budge. She stopped breathing. Drowning in the realization of her failures. A sickness creeped into her gut, and tears welled up in her eyes. She sniffled. And wallowed in her guilt and what ifs. The darkness of night had taken over the room, feeding her foul mood. Amy stared into the void of her spiraling emotions and let everything go blank. She floated there for a moment.

She started to write…finally.

She broke free from the current pulling her down and let her feelings fuel her words. She breathed as she poured her vulnerabilities onto the page, airing her mistakes. Sharing her innermost thoughts. Owning her insecurities. Even if nothing else went right today, at least she let herself be brave. She could be proud of one thing.

Next up, never leaving the burner on again.

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Demoning had changed a lot over the millennia. As humans had moved through the ages, so had their idea of inconvenience. There were so many more options now! Early man had been consumed with survival; food, shelter, and clothing needs were all they had time and energy to focus on. The technologies available in current times gave humans more time to think, to develop distractions that led them to take for granted the magical ways medicine and science secured survival for a majority of the population. True, there were many who suffered and understood what struggle could represent. To Donald, that was more proof of involvement by the upper demons. Humans would have more than enough for all if they put the priority on survival instead of status. If humans did that, Donald and all his fellow demons would have a much harder time of it, so he was deeply grateful for the status quo.

In his current form, Donald served as a barista at one of the faceless corporate coffee empires. Every day he spent his time surrounded by people who were absorbed by money, status, beauty, power; some elegant casserole of these traits plagued them all. The thing that gave Donald the most joy was the utter lack of self-awareness these humans had. They were akin to drones in many respects; single mindedly gathering materials for the Queen. Their fixation was such that anything could throw them off. Donald would tweak reality to trigger a minor disruption and watch it crumble an entire day. Sometimes he’d cause a broken nail in an expensive manicure for someone who fancied themselves a hand model. Every once in a while, he’d use cream instead of oat milk and watch the consumer struggle with a bout of stomach upset on the day they had a major presentation on the books. One of his all-time favorites was causing someone to spill their coffee; he always made sure it involved a white article of clothing the owner had gone over budget to secure. The kaleidoscope of emotions that played over their face ranged from horror to rage, and it was glorious!

When Donald wasn’t working, he’d spend his time in public watching people. He could use his powers there, too. Causing shopping bags to break, shoes to catch on uneven parts of the sidewalk, minor collisions that people would talk about to anyone willing to listen to the injustice of their plight. That was the true magic; humans’ unwillingness to note the experience and move on. Instead, they pulled it around them like a shroud, making it the pillar of their entire existence. A key aspect of that was their stunted sense of time; they truly believed that they never had enough time. As a result, humans were all carrying massive amounts of unnecessary stress. Donald had to chuckle at the absurdity of it. If humans could just take a lesson from their self-aware ancestors, how different things could be.

Yes, Donald had a great manifestation. Endless potential and entertainment. There were exceptions, though. Some humans were unshakably grateful. For these folk, even major inconveniences barely registered. These types were the epitome of content. They had food, shelter, clothes, and their health; everything else was gravy. There was one customer of his who served as a challenge. He came to the shop once, maybe twice a month simply for the atmosphere. He would buy a simple cup of plain mild roast and sit at the corner table in the back, quietly sipping his beverage and watching the world go by. He carried a small sketchbook with him and spent his time watching, smiling and doodling as he slowly savored his brew. Hundreds of customers did that same thing in any given week. The difference with this customer was that he viewed his environment through a lens of reverence. To him, every sensory stimulation represented the gift of existence.

At first, Donald had suspected this guy might be one of the angel class, but he didn’t tinker with reality. Angels did that, too. Rewarding people they felt “deserved” it, whatever that meant. Angels were an aggravating bunch. They always assumed their morals were the way. They didn’t care to acknowledge that suffering and serenity were in the eye of the beholder. Donald’s customers were a good example of that; the grateful artist saw the beauty where the majority of his fellow humans saw only the bleak and broken. That fact equally thrilled and frustrated him and was the core reason he chose to stay on Earth with the humans instead of exploring the universe. Begrudgingly, he mused that humans might have the potential to teach him something, despite his eons of existence. Many lessons could be taken from the chronic push and pull of perspective.

Thankfully, he was a demon and didn’t have to worry about that. Existentialism came easily to him; he made his purpose from tormenting others. As an added bonus, his job was made easier and more entertaining by the fact that the objects of his attention frequently tormented themselves. A crafty grin spread across his face as something dawned on him; his despised customer might actually be doing him a favor. The other customers were bound to see Mr. Bright Side sitting there all easy and relaxed, and no doubt, would immediately wonder what he had that they didn’t. Envy would rear its ugly head, and a grain of sand would lodge itself in their brain, doing Donald’s job for him. Donald laughed out loud at his next thought; he could work his magic after Mr. Bright Side made his mark to cause some serious rage and irritation.

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I knew my nomadic existence would result in my eventual demise.

A large, burly man in a red plaid flannel jacket was approaching the driver’s side window. Jessie watched the side mirror as he strode toward her. He had a big, bushy beard. It looked like it was packed full of secrets trying to escape. She felt sick.

The man knocked on the window. Jessie jumped. Her head involuntarily tucked itself into her shoulders as she cracked the window ever so slightly.

“Do you need help?” The man seemed genuine, but Jessie knew all too well the human ability to disguise true intentions.

This is the part of the movie where the weary traveler gets murdered by the seemingly helpful passerby. Why do I always do that? Every time I envision something horrific happening, it never comes true, so why do I keep imagining these things?!

Jessie shook her head, maybe a little too violently. Her eyes darted to her feet. A typical reaction to uncomfortable human interaction. For her, every human interaction was uncomfortable, so she spent a lot of time staring at her shoes. She had chosen a pair of white canvas high tops to give her a useful outlet for her drawings. She started getting lost in the swirling vortex design inhabiting her ankles. This was her way of escaping the anxiety-spiral of socializing.

“You sure? I can take a look to see if I can get you up and running again.”

Jessie bit down on her lower lip. Her eyes shuffled between her feet and the man’s smiling face. She was a bit desperate. She didn’t have enough money left to pay for a tow, repairs, and dinner tonight. Her car shook to the rhythm of her bouncing leg as she weighed her options.

And against her better judgement, the scrawny and naive woman traveling alone opens her door for the potential serial killer. Ugh. I did it again. Stop it!

Jessie rolled her eyes at her inner dialogue. “Yeah…ok.” Jessie took a deep breath and pressed the unlock button.

The man gestured for Jessie to move aside. She shuffled to the rear of her car, her arms folded tightly at her chest. She grasped her sides with her fingers, as if giving herself a hug. It was an attempt to calm her anxiety. Her insides were doing all sorts of gymnastics and making her feel even more queasy. She watched as the broad-shouldered man popped the hood of her car and began to work. Everything seemed fine when she stopped at that gas station a few miles back, but what did she know? Her knowledge about cars was limited to operational steps only. Brake to stop. Gas to go. Steer the wheel.

Maybe I should learn more about cars if I’m going to continue living in one.

Jessie had decided to live out of her car about 6 months ago. Everything was great when the weather was nice. But now, the weather was cold, her car was obviously broken, and she was running out of money. If she wanted to stay on the road, she needed to get creative.

Flannel man walked to the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine roared to life.

Wow…maybe there are some decent human beings out there after all.

“There you go, miss. All fixed up! Say, you look like you could use a hot meal, especially after an ordeal like this. Whatdya say?”

Jessie shifted self-consciously, trying to make herself look less pathetic. It was no use. He had already seen right through her. Not that she was very good at hiding her true feelings.

Accepting help from a stranger is a one-way ticket to being kidnapped, tortured, and murdered. He probably keeps the severed feet of his victims in shoe boxes under his bed, only peering inside to admire his trophies on the anniversary of the kill. DUDE! What is my deal? This nice guy is offering to feed me and I’m creating dramatic fiction about his foot fetish murder habits.

“Actually, that would be nice. You know a place? I can follow you.”

“There is a swell little diner not too far. Follow me, little lady.”

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Gaia sat in her favorite chair and stared at her coffee cup. She should be doing a billion different things right now; a Greek goddess who is mother to the Earth and several gods, is expected to maintain a certain level of engagement. She was exhausted though. These days, it turned out that she spent most of her time as a go-between for gods and humans. The two had never really seen eye to eye, but things had gotten exponentially complex over the course of evolution. The gods were stuck in the comfort of stability from following the formula that had served them well for eons. The humans were interesting creatures, constantly learning and growing, making mistakes, manufacturing hope, and often taking counterintuitive actions to fulfill their hearts.

Somehow, Gaia saw both sides. She wasn’t any smarter or powerful than any of the other divine beings, really. Her biggest gift was being open minded. That’s how it all started; one conversation with Zeus about morals and pretty soon everyone was running to her with questions about the situations that had them stuck. Generally, it was an obvious choice; the primal nurturer and caretaker would logically be looked to in a case of frustration, confusion or pain. Who did she go to when she had questions though? Somehow every time she approached a peer to get their perspective on things, the conversation inevitably turned into either a confessional or workshop for the other being. She benefited from the joy of giving care, but she ended up having more questions and being more exhausted than she was before she started.

It wasn’t just mediating between cosmic beings and mortals either. She was responsible for keeping the little blue and green ball alive and well, and humans were making that awfully tricky. Gaia had the unenviable job of walking a tightrope between letting the humans learn and grow and transforming their socioeconomic bubble through different ages. It started with tools and wheels and, at least from the perspective of an immortal, quickly launched into a seeming attack on the very planet that housed them. The same patterns repeated time and again; discovery, development, introduction to the masses, growth, maturity, and decline. It had been rough going, but a new awareness seemed to be blooming among the humans; they were seeing the impact of their decisions and looking more at long term results. This was happening mostly in the younger generations, and Gaia’s heart cried out at the existential crisis that held them in a crippling grasp. Sometimes Gaia could marvel at the fact that the conflicts between the younger and older generations so closely modeled those between the humans and gods. Most times she was just sad, and a little lost herself; it was a heavy load to carry hope and possibility for all things in existence.

Maybe being open-minded wasn’t her power; maybe it was optimism. Somehow, amidst the deepest, darkest, seemingly unsolvable situation, she could see an atomic glimmer of possibility. When pushed to her limit, her mind inevitably asked that question that kept her going, made her the keeper of the hearts; what if…. She drew on that glimmer now. One of the wonderful and awful things about omniscience was not knowing everything, necessarily, but being able to see all possibilities simultaneously. Humans couldn’t do that; the best they could do right now, at least, was to accept the fact that this was a possibility. The gods took it for granted. To them, everything seemed obvious and easy, which was probably why they held so closely to their standard operating procedures. Humans were a different sort, though. They were unpredictable! Sometimes they made one choice and sometimes another, and it wasn’t always easy to see the what and why behind their actions. She found this characteristic fascinating; especially when coupled with the infinite possible outcomes available.

Gaia sipped at her cooling drink and sat back to reflect on the idea of unpredictability. Maybe the key to keeping all the balls in the air was to look at the subtle magic of volatility. When she sat down this morning, she’d been focused on the muck of things. Maybe now it was time to look at the growth and beauty that might spring from the muck. She took a big cleansing breath and did her best to find and claim the innocent heart that would help guide her, if she let it. As she washed and dried her coffee cup, she felt her perspective shifting. With a soft smile, she made her way towards her busy day and committed to finding the potential for good in the chaos.

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Serial, premeditated murders.

The beast mauled at its victim one last time, ensuring the deed was complete. Upon examination, it was executed to absolute perfection. Each claw mark was like the brush stroke of an expert artist. Bold and deliberate.

A dreadful masterpiece.

As the beast left the scene of the crime, his chest swelled with pride.

Fulfillment. A sense of relaxation radiated through his body, warming him like a cozy blanket. Maybe he needed some rest before moving to the next victim. His conquest would have to wait. Only for a short while.

Awaking from his nap, the beast arched his back in a long stretch. His eyes closed at the stretch’s peak.

So good.

Feeling refreshed, the beast made his way to the home of another enemy. This time, instead of natural fibers, the target wore a synthetic polymer. No matter. It would still be no match for the beast’s cunning and dagger-like claws.

The beast crouched low as he prowled, sneaking into the room where his mark was last seen. He scanned the surroundings. No witnesses. Good. One more scan.

Target acquired.

His steps went silent. His mouth watered. He was so close. He could almost taste it.

He pounced.

He latched onto his prey. Claws penetrated the synthetic polymer with minimal effort. He sunk his teeth into the opponent, relishing the savory flavors reaching his taste buds. He used his teeth to rip away the outer layer. The insides poured out. The floor was covered. The beast gorged himself on the innards.

What a rush.

Last on the list was Mugsy. This was a personal vendetta. Always taunting the beast from up high. But no more.

It ends today.

Mugsy was on the usual perch, right on the edge. It was too tempting. The beast stalked Mugsy. Slowly, methodically. His silent steps went completely unnoticed. Excellent. The beast neared his victim. He went into ultra slow motion. He reached out, each muscle tensing, ensuring he held himself so still he was almost undetectable. His paw touched Mugsy, and in one motion, he pushed Mugsy over the edge.

Murdered.

The beast peered down. Mugsy’s broken body was all over the floor, a glorious sight to behold. The beast brimmed with pride. This was his best work yet. He had definitely earned himself a reward. Perhaps another nap? Or a snack?

Something caught the beast’s eye. A bird. It lay helpless on the floor. The beast leapt down from the ledge in a single bound. His leg muscles rippled with power. The landing, flawless. And quiet.

He moved stealthily over to the bird, ready to strike. His rear legs entered a pounce stance. A skillful maneuver. He sprung onto the unsuspecting bird. The beast gripped its throat. He thrashed the bird’s lifeless body around in his jaws. Nothing could save the bird now. The beast held the bird down with a massive paw and ripped at the bird's throat with his teeth. His bite force was like a vice on the bird’s neck.

One final move…

“Mr. Whiskers! Look at this mess! Every time I leave the house… Ugh! That cat!”

The beast clawed at the bird’s body one last time then hid under the nearest structure. He committed his crimes with precision, but the evidence he left behind could lead to his punishment. He would need to lay low for at least a little while.

The enforcer could never stay mad at him for long. He was apparently too “cutesy wootsy”. She would remove all the evidence. All would be forgiven. And the beast would be free to return to his evil directive.

Murder everything. Inanimate or otherwise.

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She journaled in the morning which was one of the few times she was deaf to The Snork. Over the course of years, she had trained herself to use her journaling time to challenge the sometimes brutal lessons The Snork had imposed which required engaging her selective listening. It didn’t matter. The Snork had infinite patience. It bided its time until circumstances were ripe to strike.

It smiled to see she was setting down her pen and getting ready to shower. It left her alone while she went through the process of sudsing, rinsing, and moisturizing. Then, she took off her robe and glanced at her reflection in the mirror.

The Snork pounced.

Gross. What a saggy, lumpy melted candle you are. You sure are lucky push up bras are a thing, given those sad little droopy pancake boobies. Hard to believe you were ever in shape enough to earn your black belt or ridiculous enough to be in a belly dance troupe. Those people must really have felt bad for you.

The Snork could feel the familiar disgust and shame trample the calm demeanor she had managed to scribble into existence. It kept going.

And holy WOW your thighs are just hideous. Good thing you’re too old to wear short skirts because you’d have to duct tape those saggy cottage cheese balloons to keep them from scaring everyone. No amount of nail polish or cuticle trimming would make those nasty hooves something that should be seen in the light of day, either.

She reacted the way she always did; let the shame and disgust wash over her and then shut down emotions and developed a plan to trim her caloric intake. If she couldn’t look good naked, at least she could try to make her sags, bags, lumps, and rolls smaller. She put on a power dress, one that made her feel and hopefully look professional. She might be a fright without clothes on, but with drapery, her shape was mostly decent.

Take away the padded bra, and you’d be mistaken for a boy.

She added a belt to accent her waist in response. The Snork had to give her credit for the cope. She turned on some music to flush out the thoughts and poured her third ginormous cup of coffee into her travel mug. Distraction and caffeination was the key to drowning out The Snork until she got to the office and put together an impossible list of to-dos to keep her adrenaline kicking. Her go-to move was to push herself so hard by the end of her shift she’d be too tired to care what The Snork had to say. The Snork sat forward in anticipation, welcoming the challenge of maximizing its impact.

She got to the office and started completing the opening checklist, making sure to prep everyone else’s massage room. The Snork saw an opportunity to tap the first of many wedges in the crack of her veneer.

You have to work extra hard to prove that you deserve to be part of the team. Everyone else knows so much and their clients would move to the moon for them. You’re holding your own for now, but eventually they’re going to figure out you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You may have graduated with honors, passed the national exam, and gotten board certified, but just because you studied like a fiend and tested well, doesn’t mean you have any actual knowledge.

She took a big gulp of coffee and looked through her client list, so she could review her treatment plan and decide if any new insights from the past few weeks would make sense to incorporate. The Snork smiled to see how that just kicked up her imposter syndrome response. She set aside her client files and sat back to hold her warm travel mug in her hands.

“At least tonight I get to see the crew.” She said out loud. Every week she got together with a group of friends for dinner. It was always a boon for her because it made her feel connected and human, and it gave her the slightest hope that every second of her life didn’t have to be a performance. It seemed like The Snork should see weekly dinner as a threat, but there was a huge opportunity for success there too. It was always able to torment her for days after the fact, questioning what she wore or said or ate. There were seemingly endless opportunities to poke and pick until her stomach acid roiled.

She moved through her day, and her clients expressed their gratitude and appreciation for her skill. She had a habit of spending the entire massage session assuming her client was less than satisfied. It never failed to surprise her when they came out saying “you have magic hands” or “my chiropractor says you’re a miracle worker.” The Snork jabbed at every compliment with responses.

What are they supposed to say? They’re paying you for a service. You’re mediocre enough that they can justify their appointments and make themselves feel better for helping you because you’re so pathetic.

She threw herself into her work harder, and The Snork enjoyed the secondary win; she exhausted herself so much with her pursuit of perfection, it made the rest of its job easy. Finally, her shift was over. She moved through the process of shutting down the office as her social anxiety started kicking in. She considered what she would wear, how she would put on her make up and do her hair. The prospect of propping herself up with various touch-ups and disguises gave her a fleeting sense of hope that lasted the 15 minutes it took her to get ready. The results weren’t as dramatic as she had hoped. The Snork was prepping a jab, but it sensed that her wall had gone up. She had reached the sweet spot of combined physical and mental exhaustion that led her to deaden her response to impulses.

She decided to go to the restaurant a little early and treat herself to a drink at the bar. The Snork’s alarm bells went off as she drove. She had been trying a new approach lately that would be a serious threat if she practiced enough. Instead of completely shutting down, she had started catching herself just before and asking why she was closing herself off. The Snork had to admit she wasn’t a stupid person, and after decades upon decades of doing the same dance, she realized shutting down wasn’t doing any good and started questioning the accuracy of The Snork’s statements. That questioning processed in the background as she listened to the music and tried to shift her mindset from performing to simply existing. The Snork knew it was in trouble as she parked the car and made her way to the bar, trying to decide if she wanted an amber beer or a glass of wine. She settled onto a barstool, and ordered a beer because the wine sounded good, but maybe too good. The bartender set the glass in front of her. She took her first sip and sat back, after reaching for a stir straw to give her hands a way to stay busy.

She sat back and surveyed the room. The bar was in the same area as the dining room. It was a popular place, so there were already several full tables and as many stools being taken up by patrons. She tried to take a step back in her head and view everyone objectively instead of doing a hyper-critical comparison of how she measured up to everyone else. Everyone was different, and that difference made them special and interesting in their own right. Wasn’t it possible the same applied to her? There were people of all shapes and sizes. None of them would make the cut as a model, but they were all attractive in their own way. Their smiles brought out their eyes. The intent they paid the people they were talking to made their compassionate nature obvious. Wrinkles showed where smiles had lived. Loose skin and waggles were a testament to the many hours they had used their body to move through their daily lives and the lives of others.

She took another sip of her beer and slowly turned her glass in a circle as she overheard some of the conversations taking place around her. Discussions of broken hearts, struggles at work, and funny anecdotes about the hidden ridiculousness in everyday life circulated. The words painted a picture of people who were doing their best to get through life just like everyone else. Every story was different yet somehow united everyone as elements of the human condition. These, too, made each beautiful and interesting and somehow sacred in their own right. The Snork decided it would take a chance on casting a net before she was too far out of reach.

That's true of them, but not you. You’re worse than them. You’re mediocre at best. Your only virtue is what you do for others. Who you are doesn’t matter.

The net almost ensared her. Just then, she looked up, and the first member of her crew arrived. Her friend met her with a huge smile and hopped onto the stool next to her. Appreciation flowed out of her friend’s smile and knocked The Snork’s net away with a powerful swing. The ladies settled into their seats and talked about their days in the open, authentic way that’s possible only between true friends. The Snork retreated, knowing it would be some time before it would have the chance to make an impact.

“Oh hey, Enid!”

“Hey, June.” I could feel my chest tightening. I fidgeted with the ribbon on the gift I brought for my niece. She turned six today, and I was promised her birthday party was going to be epic. But her mother failed to mention there were going to be clowns here.

I hate clowns. June knows I hate clowns. Why didn’t she tell me?

“I know what you’re thinking. And I didn’t tell you about the clowns because you would have made up some excuse to ditch out on Mya.” June crossed her arms and glared at me, her eyes challenging me to deny her claims. “She looks up to you, and you needed to be here. So, I omitted one little detail to make sure you showed. Sorry, not sorry.”

“Hrmph.” I rolled my eyes. 

June snatched the gift from me and stomped over to place it on the gift table. I moved my hands into the inadequate front pockets of my too-tight jeans. What is wrong with women’s pants manufacturers anyway? These pockets are absolutely worthless. And the rear pockets are fake. What is the point of that?! Ugh! 

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This party was shaping up to be pretty horrendous. I wanted to scream. My palms are soaking my pockets with sweat, and I feel like I’m going to vomit. I should have stayed home. 

“Auntie Enid! You made it!”

Mya ran over to me as fast as her little legs could carry her. Her smile was wider than the Cheshire Cat’s. 

Damn, she was cute. How could I not show up for her? 

I crouched down and held my arms out to her.

“Mya! I wouldn’t miss your birthday!” She jumped into my arms, nearly knocking me over. Then, she proceeded to give me the biggest bear hug a six-year-old could muster. She leaned back to look up into my face. 

“I missed you.” Her voice cracked a little. 

Why can’t adults be as genuine as kids? With kids, you never have to play mind games. Actual games, sure. But not mind games. No hidden agendas. Or wondering if they’re mad at you. They say what they mean. It makes things so much easier. 

Mya reached her tiny hands up and squished my face between them, pressing my cheeks until my mouth was contorted into monstrous fish lips. I tried to open them and make fish bubble noises. I failed miserably, but at least it made Mya laugh. 

“Are you excited to be 10 years old today?” I gave Mya a sideways glance, proud of my cunning choice of words. She hit me in the shoulder with her tiny palm.

“I’m not 10!”

“You’re not?! Gee, I swear you were 9 yesterday…” I put my fingers to my chin, pretending to think really hard.

“No!”

“Well, how old are you then?” 

“I’m six!” 

“Oh wow! Six?! That’s a good age!”

“It is? Why?”

Uh oh…What did I get myself into? Now I have to come up with a believable reason for her to be excited about this year. 

“Well, because…” I can’t lie to her. There are too many liars in the world already. “Six-year-olds get the best gifts from their aunties!” Phew! Crisis averted. I did get her a pretty awesome gift.

“Really? What did you get me?!”

“You’ll have to wait and see when you open it.” I gave her a wink. 

“Ok. I’m going to go play with my friends now.” Mya turned around and started walking away. After about five steps, she stopped dead in her tracks. In one motion, she turned around and leaped back into my arms. 

“Whoa, what was that for?” 

“I love you, Auntie Enid.”

“Aww, I love you too, kiddo.” 

With that, she ran off to play with her friends, right next to the two clowns June hired. I watched as one of those jokers leaned down toward Mya while blowing up a long balloon. Mya jumped up and down, excited for whatever creepy thing he promised to do. The balloon kept growing. Wait, there’s too much air in that balloon, buddy. Stop. The balloon was too close to Mya’s face, and it was about to burst. 

My entire body was telling me to stay away, but my feet were moving me toward the clowns. With each step, the balloon expanded. My blood boiled. My heartbeat pulsed. My body was like the bass boom in a nightclub.

I was so close. 

“Enid, what are you doing?!” I could hear June’s voice, faint like a distant dream.

One more step.

POP!

I flung my body between the balloon and Mya. The snap of the exploding balloon hit my chest, and all the adrenaline bubbled to the surface. And released. 

BOOM!

A wave of energy radiated from my body as the point of origin out toward the clowns. Their feet flew out from underneath them. It was like an invisible rope tripped them. Hard. Everything in slow motion. The clowns slowly fell. Their asses thudded on the ground.

Check your surroundings, Enid. 

My inner voice to the rescue, I guess. I could see the horrified looks on the clown faces. It made them even more terrifying. My sister was shocked. Most of the party-goers were confused. Mya was perfect. Still smiling. Oblivious to what was happening. 

What IS happening?

I looked down at my hands and body. I looked like I always look. Average.

Time sped back up. Everything was back to normal except for the two clowns knocked on their asses. I stood there like a statue. Unsure what to do. There was nothing I could possibly say to explain this. I didn’t understand it myself. So I just stood there.

Frozen. 

June was the first to break the silence.

“Enid, what the hell?!”

Toaster remembered how excited he had been when The Woman gave him more than just a passing glance like all the other shoppers had done. Well, there was the one college student that had almost bought him, but then her friend talked her into saving up for her next tattoo instead. The Woman had picked him up and read his box. She read the boxes next to him and looked back and forth between the potential purchases. Please please please please please, toaster thought to himself, hoping against hope she would whisk him away from the stale, soulless shelves of the mega store and make him part of her family. He could imagine the pristine counter lined with his fellow kitchen gadgets and utensils and hear the laughter as the family gathered together to share meals and life. After what seemed like a solid year, The Woman shook her head and put him in her cart.

“It’s just a freakin’ toaster, Tina.” Toaster was too excited to finally be in a shopping cart, moving away from the shelves of lost appliances to take the “just” in her statement too seriously. He was too excited to finally be going to a home, to his home. He was surprised how quickly the home became  his home. It only took a couple days before he settled in, and that same rush hit him every morning as soon as  the automatic drip coffee pot began her early morning brewing. He always found himself counting the seconds until The Woman came in to slide the two pieces of multigrain bread into his slots. Then, he could work his magic to make them a perfect, golden brown. He made a game of guessing what she’d put on the toast; would it be peanut butter or regular butter today? Maybe some of that whipped cream cheese with the honey and walnuts in it used to treat herself when she felt like the numbers on the scale warranted it. The anticipation of breakfast time made the world feel whole.

At least until it ended.

The emptiness that hit him when she finished her toast and coffee. The hustle and bustle out the door to work was crushing. The rest of the day dragged on in excruciating slow motion. Sometimes The Girl would bounce in from school with a gaggle of friends in tow, and they would use him to quell the black hole of hunger that seemed a constant with teenagers. The Girl pumped out frenetic energy that swallowed him up, and he had to concentrate extra hard to get the golden brown that was so easy and automatic in the calm mornings with The Woman. The Girl left a sea of crumbs, open bread bags, and jars in her wake, but the giggles and melodrama he got to witness while the girls feasted seemed to put something right in his heart.

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The Woman had just left for work and a despondent sigh escaped him as his mind wandered through his time with The Woman and The Girl. Addie gave him a sidelong glance.

“That sounded heavy. What’s up?” 

Toaster looked over at his ancient friend, the sight of the coffee stains and scratched paint that marked her time in service doing more than a little to soothe his soul. He was grateful to have Addie; she was a great listener and seemed to understand everything. Can Opener and Coffee Grinder didn’t have that kindness about them. They tended to be more practical and didn’t take to philosophy very well. Their comments could be quite sharp too, which made sense given the nature of their purpose. Still, he was glad The Woman nestled him next to Addie. She was the perfect counter mate for a new appliance.

“Oh, I don’t know. Just miss The Woman, I guess.”

“It does get quiet around here when they aren’t home, doesn’t it?” 

Toaster nodded and looked at the counter.

“Do you think…..”

“What, little man?”

“Well, do you ever wonder if there isn’t more to life than this?”

“Than what?”

Toaster huffed, frustration pushing its way up from his gut. He surprised himself with the intensity of his irritation. Maybe that’s what balanced out the joy and excitement he felt every morning.

“This. Every day it’s the same thing. We make their food and their coffee, and then they leave us, forget about us until they need us again.” Toaster’s voice rose in pitch and volume and caused the other appliances to toss him a sideways glance, even the refrigerator, and he was pretty much unflappable. Addie smiled at Toaster, and the warmth she radiated magically eased his distress, as it usually did. 

“My dear, I don’t think you understand just what a big part of their lives we are.”

“How? They spend only minutes with us every day. How can that be the basis for anything?”

Addie chuckled deep back in her throat, the sound as rich as the coffee in her belly. She took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling as she took a moment to compose her thoughts.

“One time, I heard The Woman talking to her mother on the phone. They were talking about the stray bits and pieces of their day and the hustle and bustle that tied it all together. The Woman told her mother that we make up the favorite part of her day.”

“Really?” Toaster questioned Addie with his expression; he knew he could trust her to tell the truth, but something about her statement seemed impossible.

“Really. The Woman told her there was something sacred about sitting at the counter with her warm, crunchy toast and the hot perfectly bitter coffee that made her feel like everything was going to be okay. The ritual of food and drink centered all the dips and dives that cluttered yesterday and most likely lay waiting for her when she walked out the door. Toast and coffee was safe and warm and home.”

Home. Toast instantly flashed back to the elation he felt when The Woman put him in her cart to make him part of her home. In that moment, he understood how something could be so simple and yet have such power, such pull. He glanced around the kitchen and could tell all the other appliances were listening and was glad of it. He hoped they felt as seen and as vital as he did. 

“Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

The kitchen settled into the silence of the morning. There wasn’t the empty or anticipatory feel that usually filled the space. Today there was a sense of gratitude that hummed along with the constant murmur of the appliances. Today, when The Girl came home with her friends, the appliances would gleam with pride amidst the girls and their chattering laughter. They would feel the importance of their role and understand the deep meaning of their simple existence.

Walk in a Winter Wonderland with W’s

While we work to wane our written words from weekly, we wanted to wage a war of wit and whimsy.

Who will wake a wintry world of W’s by writing? Who will wallpaper their works of art with W’s?

Will we witness a wacko who whips up a Where’s Waldo Winter Wonderland? We want this world (wink wink)! We will be waiting!

Watch for a whirl of words in 2 weeks!

For those of you unfamiliar with this phrase, (you lucky buggers, you), it’s the enviable frame of mind that, despite gobs of evidence to the contrary, convinces you that any level of success you have achieved is either the result of pity, or blind, dumb luck. Now, my brain realizes that my self-doubt is completely invalid. Every time I challenge my Imposter Syndrome Gnome by listing out the many things I’ve done, I realize how ridiculous I’m being by the time I have five things on the list. On paper, I’m a pretty impressive person (which is an incredibly difficult thing for me to admit to). I don’t seem able to acknowledge the fact that I’ve graduated with honors in 2 advanced degrees, have a first-degree black belt, performed with a belly dance troupe, and have successfully run my own business for 10 years. I habitually fixate on the “huge” things that don’t really matter in the grand scheme of things; how much I weigh, how old I am, how much I make for a living. Logically, I feel ridiculous getting hung up on the superficial things of life. Emotionally, I feel like a hopeless piece of garbage.

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The only way I’ve ever been able to pull myself out of the rumination spiral is to challenge myself. I take a continuing education class, learn a new massage technique, force myself to sit down and write. I don’t always like the results of writing, but I do always feel better when I have moved some of the words from my head onto the medium of my choice. It’s almost as though, if I go too long without putting literal or figurative pen to paper, all my feelings clot up and make my brain boil. It’s never easy to force myself to sit down at the keyboard or pick up my journal when The Gnome has me by the throat. I sometimes have to take the smallest steps possible and promise myself that if I don’t feel better after that small step, I’ll give myself a breather. This is hard, too. I have another beast in my brain that tells me any time should be productive time. That might be the reason I crash the second I stop moving.

I hope none of you feel this pain. I hope you all move through life creating and sharing and turning a blind eye to imposter syndrome, rejection sensitivity and any of the collection of psychological pits I find myself slogging through. Then again, maybe that pain serves a purpose. Maybe a certain degree of discomfort helps to inspire the creative process, and the trick lies in channeling the vibe before it turns into a sinkhole.

Regardless of whether you do or don’t relate to my silly state, I hope you push past the desire to stay in your jammies, clinging desperately to your favorite show and comfort food, vowing to never leave the safety of your home. I hope you find a way to balance your personal needs with the urge to create and live a life of contentment. And please, if you are one of these amazing unicorns of a person, please make sure you reach out and give me some pointers.

Trapped again. Why is Mlurg always a prisoner? Mlurg never hurt anyone. Mlurg just wants to be left alone. To be free.

The mutant creature stared at its captor with its many eyes. Fragmented thoughts swirled through its tiny mind, trickling slowly through the warped brain matter.

What is Mlurg to do? This being was much bigger than Mlurg. Much stronger than Mlurg. Much faster than Mlurg. Escape not possible.

It bowed its head in contemplation and swung its twisted limb back and forth musing to itself, longing for freedom. A stray thought lingered in its deformed brain. It had an idea.

There is a cloth over the mean being’s eyes. The being has no sight. No sight gives Mlurg a chance. A chance to escape!

This one little thought renewed its spirit. A blue glow began to radiate from its mangled body. The glow gave the mini mutant a sense of calm, and it clung to the only thing it had.

Hope.

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As a refresher, Inktober is a challenge for October to utilize a daily word prompt to create something using ink. Since I am not trained or skilled at drawing, I opted to implement my own creative twist, using each word to prompt a crafting project, writing task, or fun experience for the month! I also tried to create a word card drawn in ink to stay true to the Inktober roots, but I wanted to stretch my imagination and use each prompt as an excuse to do activities that bring me joy—I SUCCEEDED!

However, there is a bit of a caveat…in the form of some hiccups with my plan. Full completion of Inktober wasn’t in the cards this year. Even though I didn’t finish a project for every word, I completed 17 projects, started and planned 9 more, and only had 5 words with unplanned activities (although I may have inadvertently done something related to a few of these as well). While my inner perfectionist feels like I failed miserably, the amount I learned about my process was invaluable, and I’d like to share some of that with you!

Let’s start with the fun stuff!

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Fully Completed Projects

Now that you’ve seen the completed projects, here’s a look at the projects still lingering in the works-in-progress and best-laid-plans categories…

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Works In Progress

These are projects I started and either ran out of time or procrastinated in the end.

• #4 - An EXOTIC monstera leaf throw blanket.

• #10 - A short piece of writing about a NOMADIC girl, named Jessie. I technically completed this one, but the story spoke to me, leaving me wanting to work on it more! This might just have to be a side project I work on alongside my current in progress book!

• #17 - I’m putting this number in two categories (Completed and Work in Progress) because I technically did some JOURNAL entries in October, but my plan (half-way through the month) was to have an entry for every day which I did not complete.

• #22 - My first try at hand embroidery, depicting a small portion of a CAMP. I finished the embroidery on the towel, but I never drew up the ink card.

• #23 - Using RUST-oleum paint to spruce up a plain toilet paper holder.

• #27 - Another planned hand embroidered towel with a ROADrunner on it. Instead, I only created the ink-drawn card.

Best Laid Plans

This category includes projects where materials were purchased, but the work never got started.

• #6 - A Star TREK themed piece of string art for a friend.

• #20 - An UNCHARTED (no pattern to follow) apron, using various cat theme fabrics.

• #31 - A third hand embroidered towel of a desert LANDMARK (kinda… it’s a cactus).

404 Inspiration Not Found

These are words for which inspiration did not strike. Although, I sorta completed tasks that related to a few of the words.

• #7 - PASSPORT

• #12 - I used the TV REMOTE a LOT this month for an October Spooktacular and for other movies/tv shows prompted by the Inktober words. Here is the list of Spooktacular movies I watched:

  • Batman Begins

  • Lake Placid

  • The Butterfly Effect

  • The Dark Knight

  • The Wrong Turn (2003)

  • It: Chapter 2

  • Disturbia

• #14 - I really wanted to do a buffalo plaid craft of some sort because I immediately thought of the song, Home on the Range (Oh, give me a home, where the buffalo ROAM), but my niece pointed out it was a bit of a stretch. Nothing else really came to mind. However, I did get to ROAM around a mansion in one of my favorite games, Safecracker. Only because my spouse was able to figure out how to set it up on a modern device for me to play!

• #18 - My spouse and I played Expeditions: A MudRunner Game a few times throughout the month. In this game, you DRIVE around and complete missions with your truck (sometimes exploring…other times, pulling other trucks out of the mud!).

• #19 - RIDGE

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Retrospective

I am overly ambitious.

That is the TLDR version. I planned too many extensive projects for the month, and I ran out of time to complete them. My friends, family, and co-workers would tell you I’m notorious for this, and while I often meet my goals, there have been times where I realize I bit off more than I could chew.

Life happened.

In addition to the extremely ambitious projects I had in mind, I forgot to make room for normal life happenings in my plans. Spending time with my spouse and our three cats, other family, and friends is important to me, and I didn’t leave enough space for that enrichment. And the three kitties needed extra special attention this month to help them recover from their dental procedures (2 of the 3 needed teeth extracted).

Procrastination struggle bus.

This post was astoundingly challenging for me. I thought it would be fun, but I kept getting hung up on format and the idea of doing a journal entry for every day of the month. Then, as I was writing it, I was boring myself which made me set it aside… for FAR TOO LONG. So here I am, the Sunday before I planned to publish this post, writing an entirely new format from what I originally mapped out. Sometimes the best laid plans are great in theory, not in practice. And I’m learning to listen to my procrastination tendencies, as they are usually trying to tell me something. In this case, I wasn’t enjoying the process of writing in the previous format, so I procrastinated and almost gave up on it. Then, I had a discussion with ARClark. We talked it out, and she helped me realize it’s supposed to be fun, not painful.

If it’s feeling painful, something is wrong.

That brings me to my next point. This Inktober journey has provided some clarity on my tendency to go overboard. Up to this point, I have been thoroughly enjoying writing for this publication and growing in my literary craft. However, I think I was overly ambitious in this endeavor as well. Posting every week is starting to feel cumbersome, and I’m enjoying certain types of posts more than others. So… this week, our little team is going to have a discussion about what type of creativity we have enjoyed the most so far, and we will likely be narrowing our content scope and updating the cadence a bit. As soon as we make our new plans, we will absolutely loop you all in! Thank you so much for supporting us thus far, and we look forward to continuing to connect with you in the future!

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Create something that reminds you of the holidays!

Do you love or hate the holidays? Write up an imagination of your ideal holiday, an outlet for handling the dysfunction, or a reminiscence of your great holiday memories.

Not a writer? Do something else creative! Paint, draw, crochet, embroider, etc. Tell us through your creation how you feel about the holidays—Joy, Stress, Anxiety, Other!

Here are some ideas to inspire if nothing immediately takes charge:

• Worst/weirdest gift ever gotten?

• Family Drama/dysfunction?

• Most memorable ornaments?

We’re taking the bonus week of the month off to focus on Inktober and other creative endeavors, but don’t worry, we’ll be back next week with our regularly scheduled cadence!

• Week 1 - Monthly Challenge

• Week 2 - Journey of a Creator

• Week 3 - Creative Writing

• Week 4 - Process/Other Musings

In the meantime, keep creating and enjoying the process. We are always looking to connect with other creative minds, so feel free to leave a comment and tell us a little bit about you!

BE CREATIVE. BE KIND. BE YOU.

P.S. Here’s an apologetic cat pic!

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Plain and simple, prompts save me from creative block.

Inktober is a collaborative, prompt-based drawing challenge that has been going on since 2009 online, and I was initially drawn to it because I was getting art-lazy. However, when I came across this challenge, the thought of making it through a daily drawing where other folks could see if I was completing the task was encouraging. And being able to see what the other creative minds were coming up with is always an incentive. During Inktober, artists are provided a prompt during the 31 days of October and each day, create new drawings based off of a daily word. Piggybacking off that, Inktober52 became a weekly challenge that continued throughout the year with weekly prompts. This little fellow you see pictured was from the 2024 Week 11 prompt “Raccoon”. Feel free to check out Instagram for other #Inktober52Raccoon (s)!

A lot of choices go into the early stages of planning (or not planning).
Some beginning questions I can think of:

• How many times do I have to create this? 

• Do I want to make this a landscape, portrait, abstract?

• How many objects are going to be interacting?

• What is the mood going to be?

• Is there a chance this can be used anywhere else?

• Are there any current events that relate to this? 

• What creature would look the [meanest/silliest/scariest/most adorable] in this situation?

• Or if the creature is known, what would be a funny or beautiful juxtaposition to play out?

Some of the guesswork has been taken out for me by formatting these images for Instagram. That is - the layout will be a square, and generally, the whimsical/illustrative choices are already determined by my style. “Raccoon” was the easy part. 

Now where do we go from there? 

The choice to make it a raccoon playing guitar while the moon is out was likely influenced by my love of music and this raccoon’s nighttime mischief habits. Sometimes it goes deeper or not, depending on the time available or what sparks. But the important part is showing up to the drawing because something is better than nothing! And the ones that are not so great don’t always make it out to the public. I could probably have a whole wall full of “these are the rejected drawings that I might have learned something from but making an exceptional drawing was not one of them”.

I was challenged by the other members of TLC (The Literary Canvas) to flip this image and give it a horror-genre reboot which resulted in 2 separate images. This is partly because I forgot to ask follow-up questions (‘but guys, if I make it horror does it have to be the exact same scene or am i just running with a whole new image?!’) and partly because I wanted to see what I would come up with.

Same sitting-raccoon-playing-music scenario, but now the genre was horror. The scene changed here, but the character is still in the same position; still plucking away, but hopefully, the little ukulele is slightly creepier when you realize it’s surrounded by candles, ooze, and mange.

And the second alternate horror image is still the “raccoon” prompt, but the scenario is taking inspiration from Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Now, adorable little Leatherface has a chainsaw and is ready to cut some cords of wood most likely and probably nothing else (wink). Also, framed by the eerily bright sunflowers, lengths of rope, and organic bones.

The difference between these images is a good example of why, if you are expecting a certain result, it helps to be incredibly specific. Because “Raccoon” ran a few different ways here simply because I was free to choose my design elements, the story, the style.

-OG Image Generator AC Out.

There was so much to be afraid of. Predators, starvation, threats lurked around every corner. Last week Timmons suddenly disappeared. He was always the first to gather at the pool and the last to leave so everyone was on edge when he didn’t turn up at all. He was a quiet little fox, but clever. He was always watching, always thinking. Dennis was the self-appointed leader of the team, but that was more because he simply never stopped offering his opinions. Everyone agreed that placating his ego was easier than trying to constantly control his blather. His helpful insights were frequent enough it ended up a zero-sum game. The other woodland creatures went to Dennis with any problems or concerns initially. If his feedback didn’t sit well with them, they’d consult Timmons. Once there was an apparent solution, Timmons would go to Dennis and use his quiet charisma to make Dennis think the solution was his and everything was once again smooth. The only reason Dennis was the figurehead is Timmons wanted nothing to do with the limelight and was content to be everyone’s treasured advisor.

Albert thought about his ragtag forest family; Timmons the fox, Dennis the owl, Kayla the Blue Jay, and Crocker the woodchuck. The pool is what brought them together. It was nestled in a protected cove of pines, overlooked by many of the other woodland creatures. The five of them had happened upon it at different times, but their paths crossed often enough they ended up making it a ritual to start and end their day in the water. They worked together to plan their days and keep one another relatively safe and healthy. Each of them had their own broods that served as their top priority. It was nice to have a group to rally around when the responsibilities of family seemed too big to shoulder.

He thought back on their shared history…

Animals have a different sense of time, relegating their understanding of such things to the immediate moment. He realized that he didn’t truly remember much of a time without his crew. He looked absently down at his little guitar and smiled as he remembered the adventure that led him to it. A group of humans had come to their little pool one day. The animal friends had been wrapping up their evening meeting when stomping invaded their peace. Four of the giant, clumsy humans had broken through the copse surrounding the pool, their loud clomps giving the critters plenty of time to hide at a safe distance to observe.

“This looks like a good spot,” one of them said.

It had yellow fur on its top and was taller than the others. There was another one with brown fur that was just a little shorter and two smaller humans with long fur that ended in odd little tails. One of the smaller ones had yellow fur like the tallest one. The other smaller one had red fur and seemed to be paired with the second tallest.

“Works for me, I’m beat,” said the red-furred human as they dropped some sort of pack on the ground.

The four of them went to work taking things out of bags and setting up some sort of strange shelter. Once that was done, they started a fire and used it to make some sort of food that smelled delicious.

“I hope they leave,” Albert whispered.

He and Timmons had hidden themselves in a berry patch in order to spy on the intruders. Timmons’ sharp eyes surveyed the group, taking in every detail. After a few seconds, he seemed to come to a decision.

“I think they’ll only be here a day or two at most. I’ve seen humans do things like this before, and it’s fairly short-lived,” he said in his quiet, calm way.

Timmons had been right; the humans were there through the night and left by midday. That evening, Dennis had gone on (and on, and on) about how the humans were encroaching and threatening their very existence, and the group needed to find a new spot. Kayla said that Dennis was being ridiculous and that humans were idiots and posed no threat. The two of them volleyed back and forth as dusk eked ever closer to dawn. Crocker busied herself by gnawing at a good-sized chunk of wood. Timmons sat and watched the two battle back and forth. Albert was growing increasingly annoyed at the ridiculous pair until he noticed a shape sticking out from behind a bush. He moved toward it and saw that it was the strange tool one of the humans had been using to make music unlike any the five of them had heard. They were curious enough to listen to this odd, evocative music as the humans played and made other odd sounds with their mouths. All of it was as confusing as it was compelling, and the creatures found that they quite enjoyed the experience.

Albert grabbed the tool and brought it over to the others. They sniffed and prodded at it to assuage their curiosity and assess whether or not it was a threat. Albert carefully plucked at one of the strings as he remembered the human doing. They all jumped at the sound that it made and froze in place.

“Do it again,” Kayla said.

Albert did.

He plucked the first string and then tried another. Then another. Soon enough he was enthralled with the process of making different sounds with different strings and the others stopped squabbling and watched Albert and his process. He sensed the coming dawn and felt the pull to his den and his family. The group soundlessly parted ways, and Albert hid this new tool deep in the prickly bushes, claiming it for his own.

They hadn’t had any human visitors since then, and life had continued on its way, the only difference being the new ritual of Albert’s nightly string plucking. That all changed the day Timmons didn’t show up for the morning meet.

I’ve been writing for a long time. The first story I remember writing was scribbled in a padded journal between bedtime and 2am during 7th grade. It was some ridiculous pre-teen romance about which the only thing I remember is a vignette where one of my actual classmates had grown up to be a doctor and ended up delivering my baby. I brought it to school to share with one of my besties, she wrote a review in the back, and it got passed around to some of my other classmates. I was mortified and ended up pitching the whole works in the garbage, despite the positive press I got. 

Most recently, I wrote a book that has been stalled in the editing stage for over a year now. I’ve invested significant time and money (not including my degree in Journalism) into perfecting my craft. I realize I will never perfect it because there’s too much to learn, too much to try. Evidence indicates not much has changed for me as a writer between middle school and now. The idea of showing my work to anyone results in a glorious combination of procrastination and paralysis.

Thankfully, I know a couple of incredibly talented and motivated friends, and our shared interests have resulted in The Literary Canvas. Writing, painting, drawing, sculpting, recording, editing–all of these things are individual studies of their own. Figuring out what to do with creations and how to do it is another thing entirely. Personally, I find it all overwhelming enough to kick my already overactive fight, flight, or freeze response into overdrive. A major part of the goal with this site is to offer encouragement and motivation to the other artists out there. The world needs us to put the seemingly clotted nightmare of daily life into perspective. Art is transformative and essential. We want to encourage everyone to keep the creative spark alive.

So, thank you. Thank you for your interest and for the art you bring into the world. Life would be a pretty bleak thing for all of us without it.

Write a haiku (or two) about the autumn season. Not a writer? Craft or photograph something, anything that reminds you of fall!

Make it a priority to get outside, be present in nature, and draw inspiration from your surroundings. My opinion — Autumn is the most wonderful time of the year (regardless of what Andy Williams says)!

Please share your haikus and projects, and let’s talk about our favorite season and explain why!

I’ll start with a little narrative for dramatic effect.

NOTE: This was way too long ago to remember verbatim, so think of it as a reimagining based on how I felt leaving that appointment.

S. R. skipped down the hallway toward the guidance counselor’s office, beaming with glee. Today was the day the results from the aptitude test arrived! Like many 17-year-olds, S. R. had no clue what to choose for a college major. Does anyone really know what their lifelong career should be? Finally, these results would reveal the answer! 

Nearing the office, S. R. gradually stopped skipping, and with a rapid heartbeat in tow, S.R. sucked in a deep breath and reached for the door handle. The door swung open. A not-so-cheerful guidance counselor ushered her nervous student toward one of the visitor’s chairs. 

“Have a seat, please.”

S. R. choose the seat on the right, nearest the file laying open on the counselor’s desk. The counselor closed the door behind them, and S. R. read the nameplate on the desk–Becky Walters.

“So, we’re going to go over your aptitude test results and see what career opportunities you have ahead of you.” She plopped into the chair on the other side of the desk. “Short version, there are none.”

S. R.’s heart dropped. “Uhh…What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s not realistic to do anything with the arts. You stated you like helping people. And there definitely aren’t any careers where you can help people using creative talents. So there really are no good options for you.”

Becky waited with a very matter-of-fact expression on her face while S. R. sat perfectly still, with wide eyes, staring straight through the stone-cold woman on the other side of the desk. Random, rapid blinks came and went. But no words.

“I really don’t have anything else for you. Do you have any questions?”

I have ALL the questions! You didn’t help me at all! How am I supposed to make this decision? 

S. R.’s mind swirled with frustrated thoughts and unanswered questions. While the mind was occupied, the mouth and body went on autopilot.

“No…” As if in slow motion, S. R. stood and turned to leave.

“Alright then, good luck with everything.” A hand touched S.R.’s back applying gentle pressure toward the door. 

Once out in the hallway, S. R. turned toward the insensitive Becky with pleading eyes, snapping out of the autopilot trance. But before words could form, the dream-crusher spoke one last time. 

“Oh hey, maybe landscape design? You should look into that.” 

Before S. R. could say anything, the door slammed shut. 

Now what?

Has anyone else had any experiences like this? Someone dismissing your interests as impractical career options? Feeling like you don’t fit anywhere in the world because your creative nature isn’t valued by others? 

Well, that ONE session with the guidance counselor sent me down a long and winding road, traversing fields of exhaustion and potholes of stress, but it eventually led me right back to myself–almost 20 years later! I finally feel like I have a handle on what makes me tick, and I’m DOING something about it. I’m writing a book (or maybe three). I’m blogging. I’m surrounding myself with other creative peeps. I’m finding my creative energy again! 

To all the other creatives out there:

KEEP. GOING. STRONG.

MINI RANT time…

Rudimentary aptitude tests (like the one I took in high school) are extremely misleading and unhelpful. Typically, they’re limited to common and practical career fields, and the tests have a small number of questions, leaving a huge margin for error. All that combined with the pressure to understand yourself on a very deep level at such a young age is absolutely freaking insane to me. Maybe aptitude tests have gotten better over the past 20 years, but the horrible experience I had definitely made a bad impression. 

END RANT

Now, I will say there are some really great tools out there to help on the path to self-discovery. For example, I took Insights (a sort of in-depth personality test mixed with a personal development training), and I had a lot of light bulb moments about myself and how I function. This was an offering through work for me, but I found it very enlightening and would recommend it to anyone. 

I also read a book called “Eat That Frog” which helped me pinpoint my strengths. I focused my time and energy on areas where I could be the most useful which made me feel much more valuable at work and home (and incited less annoyance when my spouse didn’t help with tasks I’m particularly good at).

WIN. WIN. 

My biggest take-away–I NEED a creative outlet! I feel hollow without one. So, since I can’t currently fulfill that need at my job, I’m working on a number of side projects to keep my soul happy.

My list of side projects most recently includes, Inktober, which I’ve wanted to do for a couple years now! ARClark and I will be making creations using the Inktober prompts this year, and we plan to share our works (mine will be a combination of drawings, poetry, short stories, and crafts — I’m going to get a bit creative with the use of ink for some).

How about you? Where are you on your creative journey? If you feel so inclined, create stuff for Inktober with us! Part of developing a community is realizing a shared trait, so please share your trials and tribulations to help encourage and inspire.

• What do you all do to recharge?

• Anyone have any self-discovery tools they’ve used?

• Or stories that could be helpful to others?

Please share in the comments!

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