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Today’s Random Prompt from “The Word Pool” – Cold-Hearted Cookie.

The play started like any other play – the curtain swooped up into the air, and the players stood around in different spots on the stage, ready to begin their dance. Only the play did not start as expected. A scream came from somewhere off stage – behind the stage. The players each looked in chaotic motion behind them for the source of the scream, and the audience gasped at the sight of bedazzled dancers in leotards and large pieces of costume jewelry, each in fright, looking for safety and the source of the scream. All at once, the great velvet curtain crashed down, and the players disappeared from the audience’s sight – all but one. Only one woman stood on stage. On her face was a smile; she knew something no one else knew, and she walked across the stage to the other side, where she made her way slowly down the side stairs, and then, she walked on the ground level in front of the first audience row. She came to the middle of the audience, and she stood looking around, that same smile on her face. “Well, now,” she said. “It’s done.” And she walked up the aisle toward the back of the theater as the crowd watched her go past. No one tried to stop her. No one spoke to her. No one moved. Silence fell on the crowd except for one gruff male voice that said, “That’s one cold-hearted cookie, if you ask me.” And the woman left the great room.

I wrote the above piece in a matter of minutes while sitting at my kitchen counter. Potatoes are roasting in the oven. The chicken is cut up in a bowl and ready to be roasted right next to those potatoes once the timer goes off. I decided to use the few minutes of spare time to open up “The Word Pool” and see what happens.

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I randomly chose a noun. Cookie.

Then, I randomly chose an adjective. Cold-hearted.

Cold-hearted cookie.

My first thought was Cookie Monster, but that felt wrong. Cookie Monster is anything but cold – except maybe where cookies are involved. But then, a play popped into my mind, and I had no idea why. So I followed the thought.

And this is the result.

Playing with words is the most fun. I’ve loved doing this kind of word play since the 7th grade in Ms. Campbell’s class – you can read about that in “The Word Pool.” Choosing words, combinations, phrases – and letting the imagination soar. The. Best. Fun. And now, I have something that could perhaps become the opening of a great murder mystery.

I’ll definitely hold onto it. I’m thinking the 1920s for the timeframe.

In the meantime, this is an opportunity to tell you … this fun (and so much more fun can be found) came from “The Word Pool” – my new creative writing prompt book.

It’s great for individuals or for groups! Classrooms, even.

Your turn … try “Cold-hearted Cookie” and share your bit here. 100 – 200 words.

https://a.co/d/0crkGmvJ

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“The Word Pool” – A Creative Writing & Sketching Book w/ MILLIONS of Possibilities!

Quiet Chaos: A Creative Writing Toolkit / Game of Words, Meaning, & Imagination! Creative Writing Prompts.

To say that I am excited is an understatement.

I am BEYOND excited. This is not my first publication; I’ve had several short stories and three novels published, along with a children’s book, and a coloring book that my daughter illustrated … but THIS book. Y’all. I can’t. I am happy, happy, happy, and I think every writer and artist should have a copy of this book on their desk – not the shelf because this book will be used!

It is a collection of 1800 nouns, 3000 adjectives, and 1000 verbs. There are multiple sets of ideas/instructions on how to use it, both individually and in classroom environments, with examples in use and testimonials from students who have used it to assist with their own writing. There are MILLIONS of possibilities for creative writing prompts and sketching in this book. Random pairings.

Stuck? Can’t find the right adjective? This book can help.

Don’t know what to write about? This book has the idea for you.

Need a fun game that everyone is sure to enjoy? Here you go!

The book begins with “Why This Book Exists,” where I explain exactly how this collection came about and why. Then, there, as stated above, are multiple possible ways to use the contents, the curated collections of nouns, adjectives, and verbs, in surprising and fantastically creative ways. This book is for writers, artists, students, teachers, and anyone who is bored, anyone who can’t find just that right word. This book has your back. Period.

Available now on Amazon!

https://a.co/d/05QdSoNF

“We’re all crazy, I believe, just in different ways” – My Thoughts on “The Silent Patient” by Alex Michaelides

Yesterday, I read this book by Alex Michaelides – the entire book – in about 6 hours. “The Silent Patient” – for me, a page turner.

Before the Spring 2026 semester ended, my “Intro to Literature” students gave book presentations based on the principles we drew from Thomas Foster’s “How to Read Literature Like a Professor.” One young lady, a high school senior, gave her presentation on “The Silent Patient,” which I had never heard of, but by the end of her presentation, I was on Amazon ordering it. Seriously, you know you did a great job on your presentation if your professor orders the book before you’re even done talking! She told just enough in her presentation to grant me curiosity – she didn’t give spoilers – and I needed to find out for myself.

Over a stretch of 6 hours yesterday, I found out why she chose that book for her presentation. Well done, to my student, and well done to Alex Michaelides, the author of “The Silent Patient.” That is what I have to say. How my student was able to give just the right amount of information to cause me curiosity without giving spoilers is incredible to me now on the other side – because as I want to talk about it, I find I only know how to express my actual thoughts WITH spoilers. But I will refrain … what I will do, though, is share a few quotes that grabbed me as I read.

I always read with a pen in my hand – when I do allow myself time to read. See, I read alcoholically – and when I read, no one exists but me IN the book. If you speak to me, I won’t hear you. You aren’t there. I’m gone somewhere. I find that my reading experience doesn’t suit my relationships all the time. If I could be satisfied with reading while he’s sleeping, then no worries, but I become consumed and can do nothing but remain nose to the book until that last page is turned. I don’t mean to. It just happens. I cannot read just one page.

My pen underlined a few passages yesterday.

“I was disconnected from my emotions, like a hand severed from a wrist. I talked about painful memories and suicidal impulses—but couldn’t feel them. I would, however, occasionally look up at Ruth’s face. To my surprise, tears would be collecting in her eyes as she listened. This may seem hard to grasp, but those tears were not hers. They were mine. At the time, I didn’t understand. But that’s how therapy works. A patient delegates his unacceptable feelings to his therapist, and she holds everything he is afraid to feel, and she feels it for him. Then, ever so slowly, she feeds his feelings back to him” (Michaelides 17). The bolded lines are me emphasizing those particular points that grabbed me; they are not a part of the text.

“It’s odd how quickly one adapts to the strange new world of the psychiatric unit. You become increasingly comfortable with madness—and not just the madness of others, but your own. We’re all crazy, I believe, just in different ways” (Michaelides 18).

“Love that doesn’t include honesty doesn’t deserve to be called love” (Michaelides 103).

And then, I was off and running, consumed. No more pen marks, but so much to say. I want to tell you all about it, but I will only say that there is a reason why this book was a New York Times Bestseller. It is well-written, and I enjoyed the dual perspective of the story-telling—from two characters’ perspectives, getting only partial bits and playing the detective on this side of the page, putting pieces together, guessing, second-guessing, and staying awake until well after 1:00 a.m. to turn that last page, my mind racing about the story after that, wanting to tell someone, talk to someone, find a book club about this freakin’ book.

Suffice it to say, it’s a nice way to pass some time—if you’re looking for a book to keep you company for a long Friday evening or a car ride somewhere. This is the book.

And Alex Michaelides is right … “We’re all crazy, I believe, just in different ways” (Michaelides 18). I firmly believe this – and anyone who isn’t a bit off their rocker is suspicious to me. I prefer to be around the ‘crazies’ — they tend to be more comfortable with authenticity … tend to be. Not always … sometimes, crazy is, well, dangerous. And another thing … honesty is essential in life. I’ve learned that through AA, so when I read that particular line, which I quoted above, it resonated with me. “Love that doesn’t include honesty doesn’t deserve to be called love” (Michaelides 103). Most of my life was lived in dishonesty … maybe that’s why I found myself consumed in this book; I understood the characters more than I care to admit. But honesty would have me say that yes, we are all a little crazy, and yes, honesty is the path to a healthy relationship—romantic or friendly—when you truly love another person, you speak truth to and with them, you hide nothing, you work hard at the relationship, and you honor that person, you share with that person through thick and thin, good and bad. Without honesty, it’s a ‘game’ of suspicion and self, a what can I get out of this ordeal, how do I maintain/control/keep life exactly as I want it and perceive it should be? It’s all about me—what I want, what I need. Never is that a solid foundation. Just like characters in this book may (or may not) discover.

Enough said.

“Emaciated Judgment” – The Word Pool Prompt for May 23, 2026 Intersects with AA Principes

This morning, I opened “The Word Pool” to the adjective “Emaciated.” I wanted to choose something different, but no – go with the first one you see. So, I then turned to the nouns, and my finger landed on “Judgment.” I typed those two words on this screen and let my thoughts roll. Here is what came:

Emaciated Judgment

“Can you think of anyone, if you’re honest with yourself, that you don’t have advice for?” Patrick asks this question of alcoholics, and I watch them say, “Yes,” and they’ll want to name a person and defend the response, but then Patrick tells them to get honest …, and as the person reflects over their life, a light comes on – if they’re honest. The truest answer is, “No.” We have advice for every person we encounter – every person but ourselves. And I turn the question inward – “Is there anyone in your life, Dacia, that you don’t have advice for?” Even when I walk through Lowe’s or sit at a table at the Cracker Barrel, I find myself sitting in judgment of most every person I see. If I’m honest, I can and will admit that.

This is especially true of an alcoholic. We believe we are different; we don’t fit. It certainly cannot be anything wrong with us – it must be everyone else, and the blame game is a way of life. If you wouldn’t. If he didn’t. If. If. If. Every other person needs to change in our emaciated judgment. Our alcoholic judgment, which pulls the victim card and waves it high and proud. It’s you; it’s not me. Poor me, and I drink, I shop, I seek attention, I pick up drugs … I’m saying “I” as a stand-in for all alcoholics.

We have an illness of a spiritual, physical, and mental nature. If we straighten out spiritually, the mental and physical straighten out naturally. But this is a hard thing to accept; it is an even harder thing to put into action. Taking steps to sort out the spiritual illness – first admitting it exists and second being willing to get honest about ourselves, our insecurities, our fears, our judgment – this is where the ‘rubber hits the road’ for an alcoholic who desires recovery. It is work.

I see the commercials on TV now for a pill you can take to help you stop drinking. I know alcoholics who take these medications, and hear me, please, these are Band-Aids. They are Big Pharma taking advantage of people who do not want to put in work, who do not want to take the steps, who want to (taking a phrase from the Big Book) rest on their laurels and have their problem solved without any actual change occurring inside. It is too uncomfortable to do the work in AA, which requires the individual to do work on self, to step away from that emaciated judgement I spoke of earlier, into an acceptance of the reality of who he or she is in the scope of life and recognition of the spiritual illness which only a higher power can resolve. The thing about this intense and discomforting work is that the result on the other side, once the steps are taken with willingness and honesty, is well … serenity.

On page 77 of the 12 & 12 (Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions), it says, “Learning how to live in the greatest peace, partnership, and brotherhood with all men and women, of whatever description, is a moving and fascinating adventure.” We read those words at the dining room table this last week as we sat with a recovering alcoholic going through the steps, and I wrote the words down on a piece of paper. This is a moving and fascinating adventure indeed! The book goes on to say, “Every AA has found that he can make little headway in this new adventure of living until he first backtracks and really makes an accurate and unsparing survey of the human wreckage he has left in his wake.” A little later in the paragraph, it says, “But if a willing start is made, then the great advantages of doing this will so quickly reveal themselves that the pain will be lessened as one obstacle after another melts away.” Ahhhhhh … that’s what the work produces – the melting away of all that keeps an alcoholic sick – those things that are hidden deep inside, that no one knows, that the alcoholic doesn’t even know until the work is done.

When Patrick asks that question, “Can you think of anyone, if you’re honest with yourself, that you don’t have advice for?”, now, on the other side of recovery, I find I still do have advice for most people I encounter, but I’m quickly able to remind myself that most people, in fact, all people, are actors on the stage – we all participate in our own play where we believe we have control, though we are but actors. We want to manage the lights, the scenery, the other players, and the lines people say. We imagine ourselves as the director, but we are not – and we try to assume that role – and we sit in judgment because the other actors do not do what it is that we want them to do, and we find ourselves angry – and some of us take this to an extreme, and we drink over it.

Here I smile – today’s “The Word Pool” choice was emaciated judgment, and this often-had conversation from my dining room table is where that word combo took me immediately. When I sit in judgment of others, forgetting that they are also actors trying to control a show, I feel different, insecure, and my judgment is based on corrupted feelings where my base instincts are affected, afflicted, and I become defensive. I am set apart, and I put myself in a corner with hackles up and ready to fight – though most likely I’ll destroy myself along with everyone I encounter, especially those closest to me. This is not based on healthy, recovered thinking. It is emaciated – withered, shrunken, gaunt … weak judgment. It is a spiritual sickness.

As a recovered alcoholic, I know that apart from staying in fit spiritual condition, my judgment quickly becomes emaciated. I must do the work to stay in connection with my higher power, which for me is the God of the Universe who cares about me so much that He sent His Son into this world to die, to become a sacrifice, the only sacrifice that would suffice to save those who call upon His name. That is my personal belief and understanding based on my reading and research – based on my experience, strength, and hope. I cannot and will not push that (that you must do or believe exactly as I do) on anyone else – on you. Take your own journey to ‘serenity’ – perhaps through a pill – doubtful it will happen truly, but hey, you do you. Or find your own path to a higher power by realizing that you, in your own power, cannot turn emaciated judgment into serenity of heart, mind, soul, and body. You can try, but you’ll drive yourself to the depths of insanity. Step Two in the Big Book says this, “2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.” There’s something to this – and I can preach on it, but at this point, I remind myself that each of us has to truly come to this realization on our own – out of desperation for wholeness – or it doesn’t stick. Do it or don’t. Right?

Patrick also says, after taking people through the steps, “Don’t get mad at me six months down the road, if I make more use of this information than you do.”

Eek.

But he’s not wrong.

So, Dacia, today, where is your judgment at? Is it through the lens of your higher power where you recognize that every person you encounter struggles through this life just like you do, so grace and compassion are a must? Or will I not set my mind right, stay in a state of ‘I’m the one in charge,’ and want to direct every person I encounter to do my bidding and find myself feeling crazy because no one will do what I want?

It is a choice.

“Emaciated Judgment” – The Word Pool Prompt for May 23, 2026.

Using the word pairing, write a sentence, a story, a poem, or draw a sketch, paint a picture. Set your mind free and create. Post it here. Post it there. Post it wherever. Only, please tag it #thewordpool so I can enjoy it with you. Happy creating!

This adjective/noun combo comes to you directly out of “The Word Pool” – I didn’t cheat. I opened the book, took the first adjective I randomly selected with my finger (without looking), and then I turned to the noun section and randomly selected a noun with my finger (again, without looking). Maybe I wanted to choose something different, but no, we go with those FIRST finger-chosen words! Ta-da! It’s that complicated.  Now, we write or draw; whichever we do, we create!

~ Dacia Cunningham, creator of “The Word Pool: Quiet Chaos: A Creative Writing Toolkit / Game of Words, Meaning, and Imagination.”

Sourdough and Grandmothers

Who knew I’d love the sourdough baking adventure so much? Not me! But here I am doing the thing, and this excitement in me has even surprised me!

In two weeks, I have three active and thriving sourdough starters. Named for my great-grandmother, Millie Rose Hackett Snare, my maternal grandmother, Lillian Louise Wingett Snare, and my paternal grandmother, Thelma Maxine Bonnell Hinkle.

Why are these three ladies honored in my kitchen? Well, my friend Sierra, told me I must name my starter (at the time I only had one). She said it must be an old-fashioned name, and that was an easy one for me. Millie Rose has been a part of family lore for me always. My mother spoke of her often – her picture hung on a wall in our home, and I’ve always enjoyed looking into her eyes through that photo, looking at the woman my mother so desperately wanted to know.

Millie Rose was my grandfather Lester Snare’s mother. When he was 8 years old, in 1908, my great-grandfather, John Snare, put her in an asylum. Years of living in a cabin in the harsh Minnesota woods in the late 1800s, often alone with two small sons and surrounded by howling wolves, apparently took its toll on her. She died there in 1918; my grandfather was 18. My Momma always believed that she and her grandmother, Millie Rose, would have been kindred spirits. I believe so, too. Millie Rose has always existed for me in my mother’s stories told to her by her daddy – she had been an extroverted young woman, excited to marry a preacher and be the lively hostess, but found herself, once married, abandoned in the woods because he took on the role of traveling fire and brimstone preacher – gone for lengthy periods of time. My grandfather’s stories and sweet memories of his mother during his early years touched my Momma deeply, and she often spoke of her to me.

When I teach “The Yellow Wallpaper” in classes at school, we have a conversation about Charlotte Perkins Gilman and the reason she wrote “The Yellow Wallpaper,” which is a commentary on post-partum depression when it didn’t have a name. In the early years of psychology, women were often seen as ‘hysterical’ and placed on the ‘rest cure,’ and if it didn’t work, they were separated from society and placed in asylums. Charlotte wrote “The Yellow Wallpaper” to rail against the rest cure, going so far as to put her actual doctor’s name in the story! Her entire purpose was to scare people enough to save women’s lives from the whacked-out practices of the day. Read “Why I Wrote The Yellow Wallpaper,” and you’ll see for yourself the pure and impassioned intent of the author! And the story did save lives in those days … just not Millie Rose’s. I share her picture with my students, and tell them her story, and remind them that “The Yellow Wallpaper” and gross mistreatments of women’s disorders are not that far removed in the past. Millie Rose was my, is my, great-grandmother. She died in an asylum in 1918, but now she thrives in my kitchen!

Lillian Louise Wingett Snare, born in 1900, was my grandmother, my sweet Momma’s mother. She chose to marry a poor man, Lester Perry Snare, against her wealthy family’s wishes. She married for love, and they lived in Kansas, raising chickens and goats, and they had 7 children! Dorothy, Doris, Mary, Lesta, Perry, Wilma, and their last baby, a surprise baby, Marjorie Ruth, was born in 1943, when they were both 43 years old. My Momma. ❤️. They moved to a drier climate when my grandfather’s health declined, and my Momma grew up in Albuquerque, NM. She met my daddy in NM – they were young teachers and lived next door to each other in a small apartment complex. Daddy ‘borrowed sugar’ from time to time because he thought the neighbor girl was cute. Sweet story, but back to my grandmother … I knew my grandmother, Lillian Louise, when I was a small girl. My grandfather died the year before I was born, but I have a few memories of my grandmother, whom my Momma loved so deeply – mostly I remember a time not long before she passed. We had traveled to Andrews, Texas, to see her, and in her bedroom, which smelled, to my memory, like Avon perfume and talcum powder, she had a ceramic turtle doorstop and a powder puff that fascinated me. A sweet lady – who I’ve seen over the years in photos holding baby me – always with a smile on her face. She passed in 1978; I was only 6. Not long before my Momma passed in November 2022, she wrote a manuscript about her mother, Lillian Louise; it is lovely, and I hurriedly edited and published it for my Momma, so she could hold her precious words in a published book format – full of photos, her words of love, all about my grandmother, in her hands. Momma wrote many things throughout her life, but her words about her mother, Lillian Louise, were the only ones to see publication. I’m beyond proud to have done that for her before she left us for Heaven on November 12, 2022. She is with her beloved parents and Millie Rose now, and I look forward to joining them in God’s appointed timing.

My third starter is named for my paternal grandmother, Thelma Maxine Bonnell Hinkle! She was not a conventional grandmother. She didn’t crochet or knit. She was outspoken and loved to go to the beauty salon. She had deep friendships and loved her husband deeply. They raised four rambunctious boys, each three years apart. Grandpa was a preacher, larger than life to this granddaughter who adored him, and she, my grandmother, the preacher’s wife, the hostess, the maker of the most delicious chocolate sheet cake on the planet (which I still make from the index card she, in cursive, wrote the recipe down for me on; it is laminated and hangs on my kitchen wall) had a big laugh and knew everyone’s business. She was a question-asker, and I can remember my grandfather saying, “Thelma,” as a bit of a scold. They loved each other deeply, as I said already. He went to heaven in 1982 at the young age of 68. I was 9. It was devastating; I’ll never forget the night my parents told me, and we all walked around in a nightmare for a while. Grandma Thelma never remarried. She wore her wedding rings proudly, and his ring hung around her neck on a chain until she joined him in 2012. I wear her engagement ring now, and it is a symbol of enduring love every day of my life. Grandpa gave it to her in 1938; it was hand-made, and a jeweler told my dad and me that he’d have to take it apart to appraise it, and he said he didn’t want to do that. We agreed. Its true value is in the love it represents. And now, my dear Grandma Thelma is with me every day. The week before she passed, she sang “Oh that will be glory for me” on the phone to me as I sat in my van in a Dairy Queen parking lot, tears flowing down my face because I knew it was likely the last time I’d speak with her. She was 96, and she was oh so tired, and she wanted to be with Jesus and Grandpa. The most precious memory – her singing to me! From what I understand, she called all 13 of her grandchildren and sang to each one of us – a different song. And this one was mine. “O that will be glory for me, glory for me, glory for me! When by His grace I shall look on His face, that will be glory, be glory for me!” She’s now represented in my heart and life in my kitchen – the third and most active starter. She’s exploded her container twice in two days; she’s active and bubbly! Love that lady! ❤️

I now have a loaf of bread from each of these precious ladies and their respective starters. It is my honor to keep them thriving in my kitchen, and it is fun to talk about the starters with their beloved monikers. Millie Rose, Lillian Louise, and Thelma Maxine – my beloved grandmothers. I’m so grateful to be here because of these women and their stories.

Currently, Thelma Maxine’s first loaf is cooling on my stove, and in the refrigerator, I have pancakes provided by Lillian Louise and Millie Rose, which I cooked in coconut oil yesterday. Holy moly, those were good! This sourdough adventure is awesome! Why I didn’t start doing this when my six children were small, I have no idea, other than ignorance! I didn’t know about it, but now I do, so okay … bet! Here we go!

To date, in two weeks, I’ve made crackers, chips, pancakes, and three loaves of bread. So much more adventure to be had, too! I have a Dutch oven in my Amazon cart, but I’m going to wait on that until next month. For now, I’m learning my “grandmother’s” behaviors, studying their bubbly personalities, and enjoying the discard jars because their possibilities are endless! So many recipes out there – and so many variants. Healthier eating, too. Natural ingredients, and for that, I am ecstatic! We are only cooking with EVOO, coconut oil, and animal fat, and broth I collect when cooking meats. I’m a heart warrior – and in this house, we must eat heart healthier. I’m on that journey – and it is not only a challenge, but FUN.

Sourdough and grandmothers for the win!

If I get a wild hair to start yet another ‘starter,’ Marjorie Ruth will make her presence known, but for now, she’s waiting. Just like my sweet Momma, to wait and watch, enjoying eating the bread, and thoroughly enjoying my joy. She was like that, my precious Momma.

“Respected Trunk” – The Word Pool Prompt for May 16, 2026

“Respected Trunk” – The Word Pool Prompt for May 16, 2026.

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Respected Trunk – it’s made of cedar wood and holds memories that extend back generations. Christening gowns, her grandmother’s hair, old, cracked photographs of faces from long ago – lives once lived that made her own possible. Old love letters, letters from war, promises made, promises broken, every trinket, every handwritten word a treasure. The respected trunk sits protected in the corner of her room, topped by a crocheted Afghan her grandmother lovingly made of her childhood’s favorite colors – yellow and bright rainbow variegated yarn. Now and then, she ran her fingers over the top of the wood chest to feel closer to the past, knowing its contents, loving each one, praying to be someone who would make her grandmother proud. Oh, how she missed that lady and longed for just one more conversation, one more story, but now, she must settle for the contents of the trunk in the corner, which holds the remains of her grandmother’s life.

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~ Dacia Cunningham, creator of “The Word Pool: Quiet Chaos: A Creative Writing Toolkit / Game of Words, Meaning, and Imagination.”

“Dull Scandal” – The Word Pool Prompt for May 15, 2026

“Dull Scandal” – The Word Pool Prompt for May 15, 2026.

Here is Mine – Total Freewriting:

Dull Scandal

The crime was intolerably predictable. The atypical crime of passion where boy meets girl. Girl doesn’t want boy. Boy sees girl with another boy. Boy kills new boy. Girl ‘shocked.’ Blah, blah, blah. Sally steps over the body on the ground, seeing his face, taking mental notes, some she jots in her notebook. The ones she must note – his eyes still open, a slight smile on his face. His death was sudden, unexpected. Surprised were you? The girl stands nearby, so Sally steps to where the girl is. Her appearance says she was date-bound, ready for a night on the town with the new boy. Her tears brought no empathy to Sally. With forced concern, Sally said, “I’m sorry, Miss. But I need to ask you a few questions.”

The girl doesn’t even try to wipe her eyes, just looks at Sally, and instead of asking a question, in discomfort, Sally says, “I’ll ask in a few minutes.” She has to walk away. She cannot bring herself to care about this dull scandal playing out on this sidewalk in front of three-story brownstones. She does not care about this mess these people created – her own life is falling apart, and she cannot tell a living soul.

They said to tell no one.

They said if she does, her mother will die.

They said to bring the money on Friday. Noon. At the little diner near the wharf – like some scene out of an old mobster movie. She doesn’t have that kind of money. She’s a cop, for gosh sake. Who do they think she is? And why take her mother? Her mother never hurt anyone. It was her; it was Sally. It is me. I’m the one you want. She took a bribe out of greed, and now, they won’t leave her alone. Every week, a new task and the threat to out her to the force. Tuesday, she’d said no more. Wednesday morning, her mother went missing. Thirty minutes later, the threats began. Tell no one. Bring the money. You know where to get it.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket.

Sally takes it out. The message reads, “Go inside the house. There’s a safe. You know how to open it.”

Sally’s skin crawls – shivers roam over her, up the back of her neck, and she looks around at the scene. The girl standing in the same spot. Same crocodile tears. The body still lying on the ground. Other cops milling around, taping off the scene, asking neighbors questions. No one notices her move toward the house. Invisibly, she makes her way toward the front door.

“Hey, Sal!” Tony, her sergeant, calls out her name.

“Yeah?” she says.

“When you get a minute, question the suspect. He’s in Tom’s cruiser.”

“Yes, sir,” Sally says – her hand just touching the doorknob, lets go, and her phone buzzes again.

The message reads, “Go inside the house. You know what to do.”

“Sir,” Sally says to her sergeant. “The house needs swept. Might be someone inside.”

The sergeant looks at her, shrugs his shoulders, and then yells to Timmons, “Timmons, question the suspect. He’s in Tom’s cruiser.” Then, to Sally, he says, “Go ahead, Sal.”

She turned the knob. Her heart racing in her ears. Her phone buzzes.

“Quick thinking, Sal. Now, go upstairs.”

Gingerly, she takes the stairs, not knowing if the house has been swept for other potential players in the drama outside, which now does not seem like such a dull scandal. Now, she’s wondering if this isn’t somehow because of her. Who lives here? Who is the girl?

Another text. “The bedroom at the end of the hall. There’s a safe behind a painting. Open it.”

Sally walks softly, praying no one finds her, no one hears her. Photographs line the hallway, and she sees unfamiliar faces in them all until halfway down the hall, the face of her father in a portrait with another family. Standing tall behind a woman and three children, all young in the photo, but no mistaking it, that is her father in the picture – smiling ear to ear. What the hell? She looks back at the photos she has already passed. Same faces of the woman and the children at various ages, her father in the background of several of them – she’d just not noticed coming down the hallway with her heart pounding in her ears. She inches forward, unable to take her eyes off the walls – the girl outside is one of the children in the photos. Her sister? No, it can’t be. She reaches the end of the hallway and opens the door.

Strapped to a chair in the corner, mouth gagged, is her father. His eyes widen at the sight of her, and she freezes to the spot, looking around the room for another person, for danger, for the painting. Her father grunts at her through the gag, and she rushes to him and pulls it down from his mouth.

“What is happening?” She demands.

“Sally, get out of here!” Her father says. “They’re not gone.”

“Who, Dad? Who is not gone?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know! They showed up, tied me up, and then, I heard a gunshot! Where’s Celia?”

“Who’s Celia?”

“My daughter,” he says with tears in his eyes, and she stares at him. “I’m your daughter. You have a whole other family? Who are you?” She stands and, with hands on her hips, turns her back on him. “I have no words other than, who is Celia?”

“Your sister.”

Ha. Sally laughs. “My sister? A sister I know nothing about? What the hell, Dad?”

“Sally, they’re still here! I know they are!”

“Who, Dad?”

“I don’t know!”

“You must know,” she says, and her eyes find the painting. It’s a Renoir – The Luncheon of the Boating Party. Her favorite – since childhood. She’d had it when she was younger … and then, one day, it was gone. Her father said they must have ‘lost it in the move’ when they moved from one suburb to another. He was always gone for work – days, weeks at a time. Sally and her mom left in the suburbs, living their small-life existence, knowing nothing better, never guessing that the man had an entire other family! “That’s my painting!”

“Sally, please, get out of here!”

“That’s my painting, Dad.”

“Untie me, Sal.”

“Don’t call me, Sal.” She walks toward the painting and takes it off the wall, all the while her father saying, “Sal, untie me. Sal, they’re still here. Sal, where’s Celia! Sal, check on Celia! Who was shot, Sal? For God’s sake, tell me! Help me!” She doesn’t. She sees the safe, and she leans in close to the lock. She listens through her father’s protestations. “There’s nothing in there, Sal. It’s empty. Sal, please, find Celia! Tell me if she’s okay!”

The lock acquiesces to Sally’s skill, and the lock opens.

She opens the safe, and inside an envelope lies against the right side wall. She takes it out, and her father says, “Sally, leave it. It’s not mine. They’ll kill me!”

She whips her head around and says, “I thought you didn’t know who they were.”

No longer feeling bad about breaking into the safe and feeling no compunction to assist her father, she tucks the envelope into her jacket pocket just as her phone buzzes.

“Find anything interesting in that room?”

This time, she responds. “Yes, I did.”

“Leave him. Bring the envelope. Friday. Noon.”

Sally closes the safe and sets her painting back on the wall, covering it. She knows her father will say nothing about her taking the envelope – too much guilt and anxiety cover the man whom she realizes she doesn’t know at all.

“Untie me, Sal.”

“I think I’ll let someone else do that,” she says and stares at her father. “I’ll let them know there is a man tied up on the upper level.”

“Sally, please … find Celia.”

“Whatever, Dad,” she says with sarcasm in the sound of his moniker that she’d used her entire life. She leaves the room, her heart pounds now for no longer the same reason as before. Now, her father is mixed up in her mother’s disappearance, in her own deceit, and the magnitude of her own actions swam in her head – the entire scene – is it because of her? Is it because of her father? What will her sergeant uncover? They will all know!

Quickly, she makes her way down the stairs and out the front door.

“There’s a man tied up inside. Second floor. I continued my sweep to ensure no one else is in the house. I saw no one,” she lies, and then she sees Celia.

The tears still fall down the face of the girl whose face she’d seen smiling in photos inside the house. She has to leave, and she’s taking Celia with her.

“Celia?” she says as she approaches the girl. In a whisper, she says, “Our father is tied up in a chair upstairs, and you’re coming with me.” The girl’s eyes widen, and she nods.

To her sergeant, Sally says, “Taking her to the station for questioning.”

“Okay,” the sergeant says. He has no reason to question Sally’s actions. She’s a model cop. Above reproach. Sally has to move fast to stay ahead of this game. She can’t have the sergeant finding out about her; she has to save her mom, solve this situation, and keep her sanity. Celia will help whether she wants to or not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~ Dacia Cunningham, creator of “The Word Pool: Quiet Chaos: A Creative Writing Toolkit / Game of Words, Meaning, and Imagination.”

Mother’s Day Sucks. Anyone Feel That?

To the other moms out there who have a hard time on Mother’s Day. Many reasons might be the underlying cause for your sorrow today. I want you to know I see you. I hear you. I feel you. I am one of you. I know what it is to see the happy, shiny faces of mothers all over social media, in churches, in restaurants, with their children and grandchildren’s arms around them, celebrating them, and you feel a stabbing in your own soul with each picture or each encounter. I know. I feel it, too.

This is a hard day for me. My mommy went to heaven on November 12, 2022, and my own children … well, because of choices I made, which were self-absorbed in the past – steeped in alcoholism and fear and insanity – I am separated from my own children and grandchildren in distance and, some, in heart. My initial reaction is to despise Mother’s Day. I’m not a fan. Can’t wait for it to pass, and let’s get back to normal days.

But then, I remember that just as my choices in the past brought me to where I am today, recognizing that today is new and a gift from God, I can choose to set aside all that before-today stuff and focus on right here, right now.

In the right here, right now, I know that I do know how to be a mom – and I have been and will continue to be a mom; I had a great example in Marjorie Ruth Snare Hinkle, and I did raise my oldest three through to ‘adulthood.’ My younger three, I ache over the second half of their childhoods, but I will forever pray for them and love them as I can.

So, in the right here, right now, I know that I cared for many children over the years in a momma-way … Paige, Zaine, Khiana, Kambria, Kinzi, Skyler, and a lot of others – these, in my heart, are my babies.

And as a college professor, I’ve had many ‘children’ over the years – and I’ve been blessed to love so many! My son-in-love wished me Happy Mother’s Day last Sunday – he is that thoughtful! I love that guy, my Moti. I’m so happy he is my Kadi’s husband; he was also the first to say HMD this morning. I’ve also been blessed with a bonus son, Joey, who ensures to do special things for me on Mother’s Day, my birthday, and holidays because he knows my heart misses my biological children – and he endeavors to fill that hole. What a beautiful boy! What a big heart! And there’s my Zack and my Maddy. God gave Patrick and me children together through AA – and I love those two with my every fiber. Several young women in AA over the last five years have called me AA Mom, and I’ll gladly be that as they need. Through the years of teaching, several students have become children to me – Randall and Claudia specifically come to mind from St. Louis, and here in Tulsa, it is countless. Just yesterday, a student from this past year called me “second mom.” Oh my heart, Sydona, you don’t know what that means to me.

What I’m realizing in the right here, right now is that it is PERSPECTIVE. It is mine to choose to recognize all the beautiful ways God has given me to love the people He puts in my path – to be a mom. I am a blessed woman, despite what I see as my past failures. See, what I know, have to daily remember, is this … HE wants me to focus on today; HE will work out the rest as I choose to have faith in HIS path for me; HE will use those past ‘failures’ in situations to love others that I couldn’t even begin to put together on my own! Like Zack and Maddy in my life. Do today what I can for HIM, and HE will fill my heart and my soul with the love HE has for me to know. Just this morning, Maddy said to me, “Happy Mother’s Day! I love you very much. You’re probably the best mom I never had!!”

So, moms out there who don’t like Mother’s Day, maybe it’s time for a perspective shift. Stop focusing on what we DON’T have, based on our own feelings and thoughts, and recognize that you are here on this earth for a purpose. You have a story now, so let it fuel your everyday … Move forward, loving the people God puts in your path. Be a mom to the many who don’t have one. Be a mom to those whose hearts hurt. Be a mom to those who just need a hug. Be a grandma to the child who needs one. They’re all around us. Broken people, and we can use the hurt in our hearts to have compassion and empathy and give hugs that only sorrow-filled moms can provide. Let your hurt fuel your compassion, and be a mom every day. No matter what you get in return. It shouldn’t be about that, but what I do know is this … when we spend our days being of service to others, God will fill the hole in our hearts.

I walk that. Every day.

It’s just sometimes on a day like Mother’s Day, the tendency to feel sorry for myself tries to get the better of me. Not today, self-pity. Not today.

I am a Mom. I am a Grandma.

Period.

“Glazed Notion” – CELEBRITIES! That’s Who Has Glazed Notions! #thewordpool

Those people are sick in the head.

I made that comment on Facebook a few moments ago. The post showed multiple pictures of celebrities at the Met Gala, and it (the post) spoke about how much money the tickets cost ($100,000), how much was spent on food for the ordeal ($400,000), and how the amount of money that one night raised could have fed over 140,000 children for a year. These celebrities walked around at that event like they think they are somebody special – every one of them – wearing the stupidest outfits I’ve ever seen and calling it ‘fashion.’ No thanks, I’ll take my boots, jeans, and blazers over looking like I’m wearing trashbags and ferns. Sometimes I’ll wear a suit with my sparkly boots just for a touch of fun, and if my husband wants to take me to a nice dinner, I get dolled up in a nice dress. But never, anything ostentatious or me, me, me – inducing. I don’t need that kind of attention – but these people do, and it gets worser and worser (sometimes bad grammar and misspellings are necessary to make points).

It is wild, and not in a good way, to watch videos from the Met Gala of these people. Much more fun to watch the videos of regular, everyday people mocking the celebrities who think way too much of themselves – like DeShaunta McDonald. That girl is cracking me up with her Met Gala Recaps – mocking the self-importance of these people who have glazed notions that they are somehow more special than regular people. It is sickening to watch these people’s sickness unfold and get worse each year (someone said on FB that they’re giving off Hunger Games vibes – ya think?!?!) – and you know who put them there, who made them that way, who gave them those big heads … regular people who pay way too much to go see movies, who fawn over celebrities wherever they go, who think somehow once a person is famous that they become somehow god-like, and I’m over here going no … they get diahrea, too. And I think some of them need to be reminded of that.

But you know what I also know … people who need attention and do outlandish things to secure it have a deep, dark hole inside their souls, and they feed it with attention – and their morals decay over time. Have you seen that? I have … look up long ago pictures of Miley Cyrus. Then, trace her through the years. The more attention needed, the darker and more wild the outfits become – the less coverage – more skin, darker makeup, more sex involved because sex appeal keeps people’s attention, and then, they’re selling their souls to stay on top … and what they don’t realize is there will always be another little g god that will come along and one day, the public will toss them over like an old shoe to run after new flesh – the next Hannah Montana who they can watch deteriorate until she’s girating on a stage in order to sell tickets. Riding a wrecking ball through the air while she wears next to nothing. It’s sad. And people eat it up, they eat up the celebrities, and then, they toss out the garbage and find new meat … it’s vicious, and it’s like these celebrities don’t understand something vitally important to their own sanity and moral fiber.

You are just an entertainer.

That’s all you are.

You get paid to entertain people, and when they no longer find you entertaining, you find yourself discarded. Celebrities are becoming a dime a dozen, and they don’t seem to realize it.

The ones who buy ranches and spend more time in small towns are the ones who will survive the reality that one day, they will realize they’re normal people, too. Like Matthew McConaughey. The fact that he lives in Texas and teaches college is something I respect and can get behind. His wife, Camilla, makes cooking videos, and they are down-to-earth. There are many other examples – like Andie McDowell, who lives on a ranch somewhere north, like Montana or Wyoming. Good for her. They will survive their eventual no longer being the “it” person of the day when it comes.

And now, I realize I’m prattling on. I have concerns for these people dressing themselves crazier each year – one-upping each other – trying to get the camera, to stay in the spotlight. But … at the same time, they are irrelevant to my everyday life.

They do not pay my bills or do my job for me. My husband and I don’t go to movies; we barely watch TV – and the shows I do watch aren’t American-based beyond a few shows Taylor Sheridan has written. I’m an Acorn app girl. That, and PBS Masterpiece and BBC. I love good Australian, New Zealand, and British crime dramas. And I have no idea who any of those people are … except recently I finished “My Life is Murder” starring Lucy Lawless – Xena Warrior Princess of days long gone by. She’s down to earth, a retired detective who makes sourdough bread in her spare time and helps police solve crime. It is just a sweet show. I’m certainly not star-struck … if I ran into Lucy, I’d thank her for inspiring me to try making sourdough bread and thank her for keeping me company in the kitchen, because that’s when I set my phone up and watch my little crime dramas. Currently, I’m watching “Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries,” which is set in 1920s Australia and stars Essie Davis. I don’t know anything about her, and I’m good with that. The show entertains me while I cook. It’s also sweet.

My husband has no idea who most celebrities even are; there are more and more who I don’t know by face or name, and I am good with that.

Now, let me state that we did score free tickets to a Luke Combs concert in November 2024, and we drove from Tulsa to Nashville for that one, let me tell you. It was fantastic, and he was entertaining. Just as he should be. He’s an entertainer. After the show was over, Patrick and I went boot shopping down the street from Luke’s venue, “Category 10.” It was over – and there were boots to buy, so off we went. Not star-struck, just appreciative. May Luke Combs always wear that button-down shirt and ballcap. May he never deteriorate his morals or his faith. May he find entertainment as his job, go home to his family, and live a private life, never forgetting that being a husband and a father comes first.

This is what you call ‘freewriting,’ folks. You start with an idea and let your mind wander. I had no idea when I sat down to pound the keyboard about the stupid outfits at the Met Gala that I would find myself discussing Luke Combs and praying he never loses sight of his first priority – which is family.

Let your mind wander.

Start with a writing prompt … like “Glazed Notion.” See what happens. I drew those two words out of “The Word Pool” this morning, and I wrote a few lines. I had NO idea they would revisit themselves in the above rant in the perfect way they fit. As the words flowed out of my fingers, and I saw them on the screen, it made me laugh, and I made no effort to change them … I let them do what they wanted to do. Now, I think glazed notions might make their way into more of my writing because a definition has solidified in my head.

Good stuff.

And … celebrities, who? 🙂

“Glazed Notion” – What does it bring to mind? Write it. Draw it. Paint it. Share it.

“Glazed Notion” – The Word Pool Prompt for May 9, 2026.

~ Dacia Cunningham, creator of “The Word Pool: Quiet Chaos: A Creative Writing Toolkit / Game of Words, Meaning, and Imagination.”

Mine:

Glazed notion … perhaps it is a starry-eyed desire to do something reckless.

He told her she would never amount to anything. He told her she would never find love. He told her no one would put up with her glazed notions about life. He was wrong. Today, she lives a life of love, peace, and coddiwompling! Life is Good!

“I Don’t Fit.” Hogwash.

Somewhere around 4:30 am, I woke up, and the sound of my heart ticking pounded in my ears. I tossed and turned but the sound followed, and my mind began to race as it does in early hours if I am awake. Tears brimmed in my eyes as faces of various people filled my mind. Always my baby. He is there first. I ache that I left him when he was 9. It breaks my soul. I was mentally, emotionally, and spiritually sick, and my ick has forever impacted that now young man and all of his siblings. And I laid here and cried. I thanked God for him, for them; I know I have to put him and them in God’s hands because they are not mine though I gave birth to them. I left. I ran away. I had to fight to find myself, and I discovered that I have alcoholism, and it next to drowned me, but it didn’t. I left a tumultuous wake as I fought to survive. Now, I am a recovered alcoholic, a domestic abuse survivor, and an open-heart surgery survivor. My story is mine alone, and it is for me to share. To be honest. To be bold. To push past feelings of “I don’t fit” and remember that I fit perfectly into the palm of God’s hand. There I will abide. Not in the accolades or acceptance of people – my children, my coworkers, people I encounter, even family. I will shake off “I don’t fit,” and I will tell my story – how God brought me through to sanity, how He has shown me what my life is to about. I will step into each day with gratitude, ask to be of use to God the Father, and strive to always do the next right thing. What comes of it is not my business. But I know it is for me to share my experience, strength, and hope at every opportunity.

Happy 30th Birthday to My Oldest Child! Holy Moly!

I became a mom 30 years ago today. The last “meal” I had before becoming a mother was a concrete mix, most likely full of Heath bar, from a little frozen custard stand called “Doozles” in North County STL. I was scared out of my mind at what the next day held. I didn’t know anything about babies, and the next morning I was to be induced. So … “ice cream” was the meal. It seems like yesterday, but it was 30 years ago.

And now, that precious little baby born on May 7, 1996, is a 30-year-old man whom I continue to adore. From the second he was born until the writing of this post, and far beyond into eternity, I adore my man-child, my oldest child, my now-friend, whose voice can calm my spirit and soothe my nerves. He has no idea how much sway he has over his momma, or maybe he does. My son.

There was a time, a few years ago, when the harm and hurt I’d done to him severed our relationship, and it broke me. To be so separated from him … if I go into how it felt, I’ll have tears falling all over my keyboard … so I will say, Thank You to God for healing and restoration. Thank you for this amazing man, my son, who is a part of my every day world, who stimulates my mind, makes me laugh, shares interests with me that no one else does (he says that’s all my fault because as a stay-at-home mom, I raised him and played “The Phantom of the Opera” soundtrak loud and proud when it was just me and the kiddos at home).

He is an incredible human. A Reader. A Writer. A Poet. A Musician. An Appreciator of Art. Capable of manual labor, but would rather avoid it like the plague. Hilarious. Sensitive. Talented. Intelligent – he taught himself how to code at 22 years old, and now he is a software engineer – level 2. I say that like I know what it means … I don’t, but I am PROUD of him. He is a coffee connoisseur and enjoys a great cigar. He embraces his uniqueness and wears suits when he feels like it. He learned how to play rugby. He learned how to play pool from old men in a bar, and now it’s one of his favorite pastimes. He has amazing friends and lives a life that combines the best of “Cheers” and “Friends.” He is a good man. He’s walked through very hard times because of Asperger’s, fighting parents who eventually divorced, self-doubt, and finding his place in life – through it all, he remembered he is God’s child first. He loves the Lord, and he reads the Bible. He has older friends from whom he seeks wisdom and counsel. He is a seeker, and I find myself now learning from my son … what an incredible twist in life. This man. I adore him. And I am grateful to him because he respects my husband. He accepts Patrick as a friend, and it thrills this momma to listen to them talk. He’s the best. Really. Love this guy. What a privilege it is to be the vessel God chose to bring him into the world through.

Happy Birthday, my son! Happy 30th! WOW! (I’m not ‘old’ enough to have a 30-year-old kid. CRAZY!)