Creative writing from the classroom and beyond. Home of The Word Pool Method — a simple, powerful way to spark stories using unexpected word pairings. ✍️ Each week: new prompts, short pieces, and writing challenges.
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.
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.
The Word Pool – Creative Writing Prompts. This piece is based on “Agonizing System” – Written by my bonus son, Joey. It blew me away, so I’m sharing it here.
Lament.
By: Joseph M. Cunningham.
The System was never built with a soul. It measured, calculated, categorized, and optimized, yet it could never love. It rewarded efficiency over compassion, speed over wisdom, and endless consumption over quiet reflection. Humanity willingly surrendered to its rhythm, believing every advancement would lead to freedom, while unknowingly forging stronger chains with every generation.
At first, the distance between humanity and God was almost imperceptible. Prayer became postponed. Worship became optional. Truth became negotiable. The eternal was traded for the immediate, and the sacred slowly gave way to convenience. Few noticed because the change was gradual, wrapped in promises of progress and prosperity. The System never demanded people reject God outright; it merely kept them too distracted to seek Him.
As years passed, silence settled where faith once flourished. Churches became monuments to forgotten devotion, equally to teaching deceit through means of cupidity. Scripture was quoted more for decoration than conviction. Humanity learned to answer every question with data, every fear with technology, and every emptiness with entertainment. Yet none of these could touch the aching void buried within the human spirit.
That void within is agonizing.
It was not the agony of broken bones or open wounds, but the relentless pain of separation. A hunger that no feast could satisfy. A thirst untouched by oceans of success. Every achievement was followed by another restless pursuit because nothing within the System could restore what had been lost. Humanity had disconnected itself from the very source of life while convincing itself it had become more alive than ever.
People smile while their souls wither. Families gather without truly knowing one another. Cities grew brighter as hearts grew darker. Every screen offered connection, yet loneliness reached unprecedented depths. Every voice clamored to be heard, yet few remained willing to listen. The noise became unbearable because it drowned out the whisper that had once called mankind into communion with its Creator.
The system had become humanity’s greatest cathedral all throughout life.
Its commandments were productivity, status, influence, and control. Its prophets were algorithms. Its miracles were machines. Its salvation was promised in future innovations that never arrived. Every solution birthed another crisis, every invention another dependency, every triumph another reminder that the deepest wound remained untouched. Seeming to find a cure, but it never worked.
God lives. Pay attention to your hearts.
His presence lingered beyond the machinery, beyond the endless streams of information, beyond every empire humanity constructed in its own image. He waited where silence still existed, where humility could still kneel, where repentance could still soften a hardened heart. The distance had never been created by His absence but by humanity’s relentless pursuit of everything except Him.
Mankind became so fascinated with the System that we have created only to realize the agonizing cry of a soul desperate to return home. The fish in a bowl cannot be heard under the water if it weeps. No machine, no kingdom, and no System could ever mend what only God could restore. We have created our own Agonizing System. Do you hear that cry of another’s soul?
Thank you to Miles Rogoish (www.mrface.art and/or IG: @milesrogoish) for the beautiful artwork for the book! “Shifting Identity” was the perfect art prompt for Miles. He recently discovered an appreciation for coffee, and this piece depicts that … his identity shifting!
The new edition on Amazon includes more artwork and short stories all drawn from the prompts in this book.
Our son, Joey, wrote a piece with the prompt, “Agonizing System.” It blew my mind!
A current student wrote a horror piece using “Campbell’s Mode” as an assignment in Comp I. I enjoyed it so much, I asked her if I could include it in the book!
There are millions of prompt possibilities in this book! And, there’s excellent information on continuous writing for those who claim writer’s block from time to time … and for those who don’t.
I’m pleased with this project, and I use it myself.
When the traumas of life weigh heavy on my soul and a single vocal utterance threatens to bring tears to my eyes and my voice, I tend to stay silent. I carry the weight of heartache deep inside, invisible, pressing, hidden … a spoken word from that depth of pain carries whispered gravity … the weight of my soul. Only to one or two, maybe, can I utter these words … or so I think. That’s what my mind tells me – no one will understand. You carry this alone. Don’t tell anyone what you feel. But my mind is wrong.
In fact, my mind lies.
My mind and my soul are separate.
I have come to understand this.
I have come to understand that when I share the weight of my soul – those things that once I kept hidden and unspoken, that gravity that I pressed down where no one could see – when I share those things, I discover that I am, in fact, not alone, and that people all around me walk through similar things to my own.
Yesterday I was in a meeting, and in small talk, where I listen with purpose nowadays, I discovered that a woman I know and I both have a family member in hospice. Same stage. Same pain. Same helpless feeling. We connected in a new way – call it a trauma bond, if you will, but it is that knowing that you’re not alone that can silence the mind and feed the soul.
Life is hard.
There’s so much pain.
A friend of mine lost her husband in May.
My best friend’s son died on the first of June.
My family member is transitioning to Heaven, and we are sad, mad, glad, and all the emotions.
An ‘adopted’ daughter was in an accident and in jail.
Another ‘adopted’ daughter has her head stuck so far up her own bootwah that she can’t see the forest for the one tree, and I needed her. She wasn’t there.
My child is struggling with a pain that I cannot fix.
Half of my children are estranged from me.
A former student’s boyfriend was killed in a car accident this week.
The media fearmongers want us to all hate each other.
If you don’t align with someone else’s political beliefs, you’re ‘canceled.’
My mind says hide, cry, isolate.
My soul says … NO. Talk about it. Share. Find peace in the midst of the storm and share that testimony with others. Be grateful. Find the things to be grateful for in this life, as I live each day as if it is the only one I have.
Celebrate today! Get grateful, Dacia, BECAUSE …
Today, God is King, and He is on His throne, and His Word is Living and Active!
Today, the grass is more than green.
Today, I have a husband who treasures me.
Today, I attended the BAD Girls meeting, and it was awesome. If you don’t know what that is, well, you’re missing out. It’s an Anonymous thing.
Today, I ran into my friend, Kristi, and it was lovely to see her so unexpectedly.
Today, I met a woman named Vicki, who, it turns out, I’ll see again in three weeks, and the meeting was more than fortuitous.
Today, my sourdough starter smelled just right.
Today, I realized our puppy has stopped nipping us! Blessing!
Today, I messaged my two best friends as I do every day, and I’m beyond grateful for them.
Today, my baby girl told me she loves me.
Today, my husband and I shared sweet moments at the bedside of a family member – precious moments – the kind to treasure because those will soon be gone.
Today, I listened to my mechanical valve ticking when the room was quiet.
Today, I ate some banana bread loaded with coconut, flaxseed, almonds, pecans, and chocolate chips.
Today, I had a double vanilla cappuccino, and I think I’ll have another one.
Today, I briefly discussed poetry with my oldest son.
Today, I graded poems in my Intro to Creative Writing class that brought tears to my eyes.
Today, my sister-in-law told me my haircut is classy.
Today, our air conditioning works, and it’s forever hot outside.
Today, I choose to have appreciation, respect, and understanding for all people.
Today, I have lovely friends to call whenever I am down, tempted to be down, or need to be told to get my head out of my a*s and get grateful.
Today, I do not have to let life’s gravity weigh me down. No more holding it in. No more whispering.
Today, I choose to share my experience, strength, and hope.
Today, I choose to share my soul.
Today, I’m talking for and to myself. Reminder to shake off gravity and embrace gratitude!
“Whispered Gravity” – The Word Pool Prompt for June 27, 2026.
Using the word pairing, write a sentence, a story, or a poem, or draw a sketch or 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!
They cut my chest open and fixed my broken heart on this day two years ago. Dr. Tharakan and the throng of nurses and doctors buzzing around the operating room are bodies without faces in my memory now, but what I do remember is peace in that room. As I looked out the window, the anesthesiologist talked to me, explaining what he was about to do. Cars went by outside that window; we were at street level – the window near the ceiling, and I could see tires and lower portions of cars, and it struck me that life went on as normal outside of that room where I was about to be asleep, and my existence changed. Still looking out the window despite the people moving all around me, all there for me, I silently prayed, and I said, “Jesus, I either wake up with you or with work to do.”
Over the next few hours, my chest was opened, and my heart was literally in Dr. Tharakan’s hands. From what I understand, I was on a lung machine during the procedure. My mitral valve was replaced with a mechanical valve. Leading up to surgery, my natural, born-with mitral valve was severely leaking. One of my surgical cardiologists told Patrick that he was astounded I was able to even walk around, it was leaking so profusely. Blood was not pumping through my body even close to how it should. So, on 6-21-24, that issue was fixed. And now, I’m the bionic woman.
Well, not like Lindsay Wagner, but I do have a mechanical device in my heart, keeping it pumping, keeping me here – living and with work to do.
Recovery was a long process. My WordPress blog documents those days and weeks after surgery. I made it a point to write about the recovery process every week with updates regarding how I felt and what new things I learned about myself and my body, and my faith. It was close to ten weeks before I could sleep comfortably in our bed. Months before I could roll on my side. Still to this day, I have sharp pains in various places in my chest – these are leftover pains and aches from being fully cracked open and wired back together. So, it’s not just the mechanical valve; I also have wires that are now fused with bone, which initially held the sternum together like I’d take a twisty tie and wrap it around two items to hold them as one. Only, these wires are much tougher and larger than twisty ties.
Taking Warfarin every day is … interesting, as is testing my INR (blood thickness) each week and reporting those results to my nurse. My diet is different from before surgery – spinach, jalapenos, banana peppers, green peppers, green onions – all things I miss daily – they’re high in Vitamin K, and well, that’s no bueno for me unless I eat it on a consistent weekly basis, same day, same time-ish, and that’s a lot of order that makes me feel a tad verklempt, so I just cut most of those food items out, and I’m adjusting to that. It’s a dance. A Warfarin dance, and I’m still learning the steps.
The scar is still there, and I’m glad. It reminds me every day that my life is a gift. It always was, I just didn’t know how to appreciate it as such. From day one after waking up in the ICU, I have fully understood that every day I have is a literal gift from God, and I strive to never take that for granted.
I proudly wear this pendant around my neck that bears the medical symbol encircled by rhinestones. On the back, it explains I have a mechanical valve and am on Warfarin. It also says ICE with my husband’s phone number. Along with my necklace, I daily wear a medical alert bracelet. I’m taking no chances that an EMT would miss that I need extra care. I’m “special.” In more ways than one. I say that with all the love for my life, my situation, and my God-given purpose. I realize that life is special, and while I’m still here, I will step forward with gratitude, faith, and joy. Come what may.
This 2nd anniversary feels monumental. I’m excited to be at this point. In the ICU, it felt like the pain would last forever … but blips here and there I can easily handle. I am just grateful. So grateful. And whatever time I have left here, I will spend in gratitude and in being of service to God each day, choosing to do the next right thing as often as I possibly can.
“The Word Pool” has MILLIONS of Writing and Sketching Prompts. Don’t Believe Me? Read This. Today’s Prompt? OPPOSITE STUDENT DIFFERENTIATES. WTH?!?! Right? Nope. My Brain Had This.
Inside this book is a creative system disguised as a game—built from over 5 million word pairings designed to spark unexpected connections, challenge your thinking, and unlock your creativity. Whether you’re a writer staring at a blank page, an artist unsure what to draw, or someone who “just isn’t creative,” this book gives you something most people are missing: A way to start.
Using simple but powerful techniques like Continuous Writing (Dr. Price’s “Rule of Apple”), associative thinking, and structured challenges like Campbell’s Mode, you’ll learn how to:
generate ideas on demand
push past creative blocks
connect unlikely concepts into stories, characters, and visual scenes
build confidence in your creative voice
This isn’t just a writing book. It’s a tool for teachers, students, writers, artists, and creators of all kinds.
Open the book.
Pick two words. Or three.
Write it. Sketch it.
Let’s go.
Here’s an example of exactly how to use “The Word Pool.”
Randomly, I’ve chosen “Student,” “Opposite,” and “Differentiate.” Now, a verb isn’t always necessary. Most of the time, I begin with simply an adjective and a noun. Recently, I had my Comp I students write a short story with 4 out of 6 adjective/noun combos from “The Word Pool.” Their combos were: Noxious Room, Incessant Secret, Fortunate Painting, Faux Email, Disloyal Blood, and Approaching Lantern. They chose 4 of these 6, which I had randomly chosen from “The Word Pool.” Their stories were AMAZING, verging on King-worthy creepy horror stories! I was thrilled to say the least, and enjoyed reading each one of them. Those students didn’t have those stories in their heads BEFORE the word combinations came their way … the word combinations sparked the ideas! This book gives birth and gives life to creativity! So, let’s get back to … “Opposite Student Differentiate!”
I’m going to set a timer for 10 minutes and see where my mind goes. I have no plan. Literally, I opened the book a bit ago, chose words at random by looking away as I flipped pages, pointing to a spot on the page at random, and then looking at where I landed. So, here we go.
The light came in through the window as she sat staring off into the distance. To an outsider, it looked as if she were pondering which book to pull off the grand bookshelf, but that’s not what reality was in that moment. She hurt inside. She didn’t think she could pull it off, and everyone kept telling her she’d be fine; she could do it. But, she knew she couldn’t. She knew that she’d fail. She knew she was the opposite of what a student ought to be. She didn’t want to acquiesce to anyone else’s way of doing the things before her. She liked to live by the seat of her pants, be carefree, but they wanted to put her in a box … and she let them. Traveling. Disappearing. Hiking. Exploring. Go. Go. Go. That is what she wanted. She wanted to learn from life – meet people in strange places, delve into their cultures, experience humanity and landscapes, and all the beautiful things. But no, here she was in the great library, surrounded by books, the light from the outside pouring in through the window taunting her, telling her all that she was missing out on by being stuck in that space.
Learn all the things – learn the business.
It will be yours soon.
You have to study.
That’s what her grandfather said. He wanted to leave it all to her, and she didn’t want it. The whole family said their future rested on her shoulders, and she wanted to burst out of her skin. They all saw no other future for her, but she sat there knowing that she, the opposite student, differentiated between freedom and a state of giving up – and in that moment, as she sat staring at the bookshelf, lost in thought, looking like she was doing as expected, the escape plan began to shape in her mind. She had to leave, run, fly. Anywhere but here. They’d figure out how to pick up the pieces without her. She needed the sand between her toes, eagles soaring high above her, snowflakes hitting her face – so many wonderful places and so little time, and she would not waste a moment. No. Not me, she thought. I will be free.
“Mary Ann, your grandfather wants a word.” The voice snapped her out of her plan.
She looked toward the voice, and there stood her grandfather’s solicitor in his crisp three-piece suit. It was black, and it made him look like a funeral home director. For her, that’s what he felt like, and she simply nodded understanding. She looked out the window where her freedom lay, just briefly. She sighed, then looked at the solicitor’s unsmiling face. Quietly, she followed him out of her grandfather’s grand library and down the hall to the dining room, where she knew, at this time of day, her grandfather was having his fifth cup of coffee …
I don’t know Mary Ann, and I don’t know why she doesn’t want to run the family business, and I certainly do not know where that’s coming from inside me. We could have a psychology session, I suppose, and sit and dissect how Mary Ann represents a part of my psyche, and that could be fun, but that’s not the point. The point is, without the prompt “Opposite Student Differentiate,” that story would never have surfaced from my mind.
Sometimes my posts are non-fiction. Once I choose my word pairing, I sit down, open the laptop, and words just start spilling. If I “get stuck,” I employ my friend Doug’s continuous writing method (which is discussed in “The Word Pool” book) … apple, apple, apple, I just got a text from my son. He said something about eating breakfast. Wish I could be eating it with him. I hate the distance between us. And then, when I’m ready to get back on task … get back on task. Words can be edited. Rearranged. Changed. Just keep writing. Beautiful things come when we stop trying to control them.
Ah … that’s a lesson for life, too, is it not? Beautiful things come when we stop trying to control them. That’s bumper sticker stuff!
Long story short here … use “The Word Pool” to spark your creativity. It’s fun, and you never know where it will take you! Every time you sit down to write, something NEW happens. Or when you need an idea to draw … it’s in this book.
My student, Izabel Baker, permitted me to share the short story she wrote for Comp I. The assignment was to take 4 of the 6 “The Word Pool” word pairings and freewrite – let the words take you wherever they want. Those pairings again were: Noxious Room, Incessant Secret, Fortunate Painting, Faux Email, Disloyal Blood, and Approaching Lantern. Here is Izabel’s story. See if you can find the word pairings.
Why? Why did I pick up the phone? Why did I listen? Why did I come here? Why? Why, after all these years, these long ten years, why?
Every morning, all the same, I awoke, I made breakfast, the phone rang, all the same. I ignored it, all the same, like every morning. It would pass, the tone would end, and it would be gone. I went on with my day. I got dressed, got my shoes, and got my keys. Then, unlike every other morning, the phone rang again.
That was wrong. It never rings twice; it only rings once. It couldn’t ring twice, no, no. There was no one to call twice; they were gone by this time. Every morning, they made the phone call and shortly after were gone forever. How could they call again? But all the same, I ignored it, as I should. Answering would be a grave mistake, grave indeed.
I left, left the house, left the phone behind, there, couldn’t answer it now. It couldn’t reach me now. I’ve moved one, moved one from that, left it behind me, gone forever—no point in answering.
Then I returned home, the phone was ringing when I arrived, and it rang all night; it didn’t stop. Finally, I couldn’t take it, that droning noise, piercing my skull, rattling my bones. I made a grave mistake, I picked up the phone, and I answered it.
“Sadie, are you coming home? We found your bed empty this morning. Mom’s really worried about you. We all are. I- I really need you, Sadie. Please, your little sister really wants you to come home. Please, Dad’s really mad, Mom’s just crying in the kitchen. Sadie, please come home.”
She sounded so real, so alive, so vivid, so visceral. I couldn’t. The sound of her voice chilled me, froze me. So why? Why did I listen? Why did I return?
The house emerged from the ground, surrounded by open fields. There were a few cows out there, what few could survive without human aid on just the grass that grew. I stared at it for a long time; that thing loomed over the road. Why didn’t I turn back then? All I would’ve had to do was turn the key and drive away, but something pulled on me.
Then I saw it and saw her. A young girl standing on the porch, holding a lantern, a small, dim lantern close to her chest. She was almost hiding it from me, like she didn’t want me to take it. It wasn’t Tammy, no, Tammy was only twelve years old; that girl was much taller, older, something about her felt a little familiar, though.
I got out of my car, and she turned into the house, but she left the door open. It was dark inside, and I could barely see in. I couldn’t decide how I felt. I felt repulsed, my mind told me to run, to leave, but deep inside of me, I felt compelled to enter. Maybe that’s what they call a soul; maybe it was calling for me inside. Left behind when I left here ten years ago. Now that I think about it, it was exactly ten years ago that I got the first phone call.
Every day for ten years, the phone rang every morning at 7:34, every morning since.
I took one step inside, then another, then another, then another, then the door slammed behind me. When I turned to open it, it was locked. I couldn’t leave. I never should have come in here. Why, why don’t I listen to my gut?
Then there she was again, past the foyer, at the end of the long hallway, that girl, but she was closer than before now, and her lantern was held so tightly; she held it just in front of her chest. I went down the hall toward her; dust floated in the air, the wallpaper was peeling, the floorboards creaked, bugs crawled this way and that. The water and termite damage had gone long untreated, ten years untreated.
When I looked up, she was gone, but to my left, there was a door. A faint light came from within; I turned inside. The study. I never came in here. Dad would yell if I ever did, but yelling was all he ever did. A lamp flickered in the corner, the books on the shelves were sloppily thrown in, and the old computer was covered in dust. I doubt the keyboard even worked, not that I cared to see what he had been doing on it, just when he was on it. He was occupied then, in his own room of the house, for just a few moments, I could forget about him.
On the wall, there was a painting. What a fortunate painting it was. All of us, mom, dad, me, and my little sister, all smiling. It didn’t see the real us; it saw the nicely kept home, not the stains and messes. It saw a happy family, not the horrors left by our father. It saw an able-bodied woman, not a mother whose health declined further every day.
Tammy, you bright little girl, you had the biggest smile. I like to believe a little bit of it was real. You were always so positive. I did my best to keep you safe so that you could keep smiling. I’m sorry I left, I’m sorry, you probably didn’t smile again, did you?
There she was again, that girl with the lantern; she was standing in the doorway, holding the lantern a little closer to me. She turned away down the hall, but when I got there, she was gone again. There wasn’t a faint light this time; it was darker than before.
There wasn’t any direction; I just wandered for a bit, turning through the halls. The home was larger than I remembered. There was a stairwell; the boards had been chewed through in some places, probably termites, possibly mice. The railing had fallen out in some places and was left in pieces on the floor below. I found myself ascending the stairs, up to the top, then down to the right, a room with an open window; the wind blew the curtain around.
This was Mother’s room.
This was where she looked out, her only window into the outside world. She used to knit blankets, clothes, and tablecloths. Then her health declined; she stopped smiling, stopped knitting, barely moved, only to cook and clean when she could, when the pain wasn’t too much. But it usually was, so I did.
The room hadn’t changed, except for the condition of it; like the rest of the house, the wood was damaged, but even more so up here. I didn’t trust the floorboards; I shouldn’t have. I made my way downstairs, then… the floor gave in.
My heart lurched for a moment; it felt like a moment in a cartoon where the character is suspended in the air for a moment before falling to the ground. But just like in the cartoons, I eventually fell. Unlike in the cartoons, I wasn’t fine and revived after. My breath left me; maybe it was my lungs that had been suspended in the air, not me.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even scream.
I had fallen through the floor onto the dining table, which cracked in two. It felt like my back had done the same, but I managed to get up. A part of me wished I couldn’t so I could lay there and die, but something called for me, not a voice but a feeling. She was closer than ever before, that girl, her lantern stretched out towards me, almost a full arm’s length. For the first time, her mouth moved, and she spoke, “Remember, remember what you did. Those splats of blood, that disloyal blood. Remember why you left, why you abandoned everyone.”
I looked beside me. There were drops of blood on the table where I had fallen, bits of wood had scratched into my skin, leaving gashes. I tried to wipe it away, but it smeared across my arm. I burned everywhere: the bruising on my back, the cuts on my sides, but I had to keep moving.
I felt bits of resentment towards that girl with the lantern, forcing me to come here, forcing me to feel this pain, forcing me to relive this place, forcing me to remember.
I felt tears come up; they came through gasps of pain and gasps for air. I struggled to move forward on the other side of the door, leading out of the dining room was the kitchen. I went to the wall and slid down it. I didn’t need to know what was on the other side; I could smell it, that thick, pungent odor of blood. There must have been so much on the other side; the wounds must have gone deep. They must have been in so much pain. It was my fault, wasn’t it? If I hadn’t left, I would have stayed. If I had come home sooner, maybe then.
I almost began to sob, but the shaking of my body was so excruciating that I clenched my throat in an attempt to stop it. That noxious room on the other side felt like it was growing larger, more powerful, more gruesome. The longer I waited here by the door, the stronger the smell grew; I heard dripping.
Blood dripping, drop by drop by drop, onto the tile.
I knew I needed to turn the corner. One inch at a time, then another, then another, I peered around the door. I never should have, never should have picked up the phone, never should have listened, never should have come here, never, never. Never should have turned that corner. I never should have left, never should have left Tammy behind. I should have taken her with me, should have gotten help, and done something. But no, no, I left by myself, escaped, I used to say, but no. I didn’t escape this place; I abandoned my sister, my little sister. It was my responsibility to keep her safe, to protect her. I hated my mom, my mom never protected me, never kept me safe, why then, should I for another? Why? Why did I let my resentment for her allow Tammy to get hurt?
She was there, right on the floor. She must have run to the door, tried to escape, but bullets are much faster. Blood soiled her clothes, spilled around her in a pool on the ground. I started to tremble, felt like screaming, felt like running, but I couldn’t. I was frozen, stuck staring at the scene.
Mom lay on the ground, shot straight through the stomach. My eyes followed her to a large metal pot in front of her, to a pair of large boots, and up to a man. I knew who it was, but if I were a stranger coming across the scene, he would have been unidentifiable. His face was gone; the skin seemingly melted off in a spot where his left eye should have been. Large blisters swelled around the area across his neck and arm down to his hand, where a gun still lay. Oil and blood dripped from his face onto the cold tile.
What happened first? Did mom attack him, and then he shot her? Did he shoot Tammy, and Mom throw the pot at him? How? How could something like this happen? Why? If I had stayed, was there something I could have done?
“No point.”
I turned around, there she was again, right behind me, holding her lantern, but still far away enough that I couldn’t quite make out her features.
“No point in asking questions, you know what must be done. Now go, do it.”
She didn’t sound sympathetic; I wouldn’t either. Who else was there to blame myself? But I knew what she meant. I knew what must be done. I went to the back door and found it unlocked. I dug three holes, took what felt like hours, but the sun wasn’t even considering rising yet. I went inside the house, for a moment I considered leaving my father there, but in the end decided he ought to be placed in the ground anyway, it wouldn’t be fair for my mother and Tammy to be laid below our father.
I couldn’t fashion a true gravestone, not now at least, but I found old scrap wood and a knife from the kitchen and scratched into it plates for my mother and Tammy. “Here Lies Tamala R. Julias. May 2, 2004 – April 10, 2016. Rest in peace, Bright Child.”
I didn’t make one for my father; he ought to be buried, not honored or respected.
I stood, my work was done, and I saw an approaching lantern. The girl came all the way to me. This time, she was close enough for me to make out her features, my own features. She was fifteen years old, with a bruise on her arm, sullen cheeks, and so much shame.
Maybe, maybe I ought to forgive myself, or rather, forgive her.
She was only fifteen, I was only fifteen then, the past is behind me. I can only move forward. That old version of myself, a ghost, a memory, whatever the vision was in front of me, handed me the lantern. It felt nice, expelling some sphere of warmth around it. I looked at fifteen-year-old-me, “You poor thing, please, please move on, I forgive you.”
With that, a smile, albeit a painful one, stretched across her cheeks, and she faded away. I was alone now, but then again, I had been alone for many, many years.
Tammy would forever be gone, but I found a new part of myself.
Life wasn’t over, mine wasn’t. Tammy would probably tell me I should keep on living.
I found a picture of Tammy, Mom, and me, one of the few that was just the three of us. I decided to keep it; every night on my bedside table, I told them goodnight, and maybe beyond the veil, if there is one, they said it back.
Dacia Lené Cunningham is an Assistant Professor of English at Tulsa Community College, where she blends creative writing with real-world communication in courses ranging from Novel Writing to Composition.
She is the author of novels, short stories, and children’s books, including A Kiss in the Rain and The American Queen, and she founded the TCC Writers’ Series to bring authors and publishing professionals directly to her students. https://guides.library.tulsacc.edu/TCCwritersseries
She believes anyone can write—you just need the right tools.
Alice LaPlante – “The Making of a Story” – p. 130 – “Render a Tree, Capture the Forest.” Part 2. Exercise 2.
Using 12 details, describe a place. I chose my hometown. And … well, in true Dacia style, I used far more than 12 details for you. The piece I used as an example for class did not expand to quite this length. Once you start describing a place, details tend to crop up … and let me tell you, I have far more in my head and heart than are contained here. McAlester people, how’d I do describing our hometown?
When the bombs go off at the Ammunition Plant, you feel it through your bones, and even though it has happened your entire life, it still raises the hairs on your arms. The Ammunition Plant is on the southernmost end of town, and I didn’t go to that side of town often. I was a north-side kid.
There are only 18,000 people in McAlester, Oklahoma – the same population as it had when I was a teenager there in the late 1980s. The town is large enough for you to stay in your own area, your own zone, where your people are for the most part. As a north-side kid, I grew up on the north side of town, a block from the city limit, which was just on the other side of that last street in town, which is aptly named North Street. St. Joseph’s Catholic Cemetery was on North Street, a block from the rock house I grew up in at 602 E. Ashland Avenue. You could see the cemetery from my front yard, and that is where my two lifelong best friends, Lana and Jackie, and I played as children. The gravestones in there were ancient, dating back to the early 1800s, and in my head, I made up stories about the people buried there – especially the mass grave dedicated to Italian coal miners who lost their lives in 1892 in an explosion in the hills and ‘mountains’ of Southeastern Oklahoma. Lana, Jackie, and I rode our bikes around and around and around that cemetery. Played hide-and-seek. Climbed on Jesus. Popped wheelies out of ditches.
My favorite restaurant, where I grew up, is in Krebs, Oklahoma, just outside the McAlester line, where Krebs butts up against it like a suburb. Krebs is an old Italian settlement, and the family-owned and operated restaurants I grew up eating in are still there. You can go to Pete’s Place; that’s whatever. It’s the most popular … but just a bit further down the road sits Roseanna’s Italian Food, and that is where my car goes whenever I get the opportunity. Home-style and home-style-served Italian dishes with giant meatballs, tangy salad, and pasta that will cause you to kiss your fingers like an old Italian grandmother. Mwah! After that, going to Lovera’s Market in Krebs is a must – home-raised meat, homemade Italian sauces. Or don’t go. Leave that food there for those of us raised on it, who appreciate the treasure existing there just outside of the McAlester city line.
McAlester is the town of Monroe in my book “A Kiss in the Rain.” Those who’ve read it and grown up in McAlester like me knew their town as they read of landmarks, stores, and roads in the pages of that novel – a grocery store in the middle of town which used to be “Safeway,” the old Busby Theater (which is gone now), the Courthouse, which once was a grand hotel in its hay day – tunnels ran underneath it to the theater, the prison – OSP – we are all so proud, the grand yellow home at the corner of 2nd and Miami that once belonged to friend of my parents. Tandy town. Highway 69, which curves around the eastern side of the town, separates McAlester and Krebs. Walmart, which only locals know how to get to because of someone’s idea of improvement to the highway structure there. The church I grew up in – Lakewood – sits on the most curved part of Highway 69 as it rounds from the eastern side of the town to the southern portion of town. The movie theater is still there, holding memories – some I’ll discuss, some I won’t. The high school. The signs on every road leading out of town that say, “Warning: Hitchhikers may be escaping convicts.” I’ve always read “escaping” as an adjective until recently, when my husband read “escaping” as a verb … and now, I can’t take those signs seriously.
McAlester is where I was born and where I’m from. It gave me my best friends, and a host of other people from school and church alike that I hold dear in my heart. McAlester is the town that raised me, and there’s much more I could say about it, but for now (to my students), knowing I grew up playing in a cemetery and eating fine Italian food is what you get to know. Another little layer pulled back on the onion of who Mrs. C. is.
Live every moment as if it might be your last. Make JAUNTY CHOICES.
It has been two weeks since I made a “The Word Pool” post; maybe it has been three weeks. Most likely three weeks. My 85-year-old mother-in-law was in the hospital with pneumonia for 10 days; she has COPD and A-Fib as well as some other complications. The following week, my best friend’s 30-year-old son died from complications of Type 1 Diabetes, which had gone undiagnosed/undetected. 30. He was 30. Devastating is not a good word, but it comes close to capturing the emotions surrounding this loss. I sat with her in the ICU and sat next to her at his memorial service. She’s been my best friend for 47 years, and her pain is mine – though my experience with it is not as his Mom but as his Mom’s sister – his aunt, if you will. He was ornery and perfect – a country guy who loved racing and building vehicles. He gave his mom white hair, which she colors. I’ll miss his messages and phone calls, but not like she will – not to the same degree. He was her baby.
My mother-in-law is home now from the hospital, but she’s not improving, and she doesn’t want any more hospital visits. She’s tired, she keeps telling us, and we know what she means because she’s making no bones about it. She’s ready to go ‘home’ to be with God, whom she loves, and her husband, who has been gone from her for almost 40 years. Never have I once heard her refer to him by his name, only “my husband.” That touches me deep inside. All these years apart, and he is still with her every day. Everyone who encounters her says, “She’s so cute.” She is. Sparkly, ornery eyes. Sicilian. She loves food, and to extend life with medication and hospital visits and “eating right,” which means no salt, she would have to have no more salt, no more sweets, and she does not want that kind of life—no more doctors. No more telling her she can’t have this or that. We started hospice this past Friday, and mom is quite content eating pretzels and cake, smiling with every bite. We don’t know how long we will have her with us, but we will treasure every moment.
Mom loves to get her nails done, and usually, she wears a jaunty choice of nail color. Yellow. Lime green. Bright blue. You never know what she’ll come home with on her fingers and toenails. With twinkling eyes, she shows her nails off proudly, and I think … I want and need to be so bold. Make jaunty choices, Dacia! Be free of concern about what others think. Wear what makes you joyful! All the hoop earrings. Every pair of cowboy boots. All the rhinestones. Sparkle! Heck yeah. Just not to the yellow fingernail stage of not giving a flip what people think just yet, but I’ll get there. Seeing mom smile after we comment on her nails is joy-giving to her and to me, to us. Maybe that is why she does it.
Lesson to learn here … live joyfully. Every moment. We never know how many moments we have left. Live each one.
Let go of what my sober-for-39-years husband likes to call the “flowers” that continually try to bloom in us in negative ways and steal our joy – the seven deadly sins. Our defects of character. Ask God to remove from you each day … or let me talk to myself here … ask God to remove from me each day dishonesty, envy, greed, lust, pride, anger, gluttony, and sloth. I added dishonesty because that is a ‘flower’ that has rooted deeply in my life that I daily ask for help weeding. Dishonesty, pride, greed, gluttony, anger … these root deep in me, and I daily ask for help to remove these unwanted ‘flowers’ – and that they be replaced with the beauty of humility, generosity, chastity, kindness, temperance, patience, and diligence! These things bring JOY to our lives – and as a result – serenity and peace.
These are not virtues I can grow on my own. These require God’s intervention in my life, so I daily ask him to remove the deadly ‘flowers,’ and to instill in me that which comes from him – the true beauty – flowers from heaven, if you will.
In the midst of all we have been through in the last three weeks, I opened “The Word Pool” today, for the first time in a while, and I randomly chose “Jaunty Choice Wears” – and my freewriting took me from an explanation of why I’ve not made a post all the way to a pathway for JOYFUL living, no matter our circumstances. Live each moment with God’s assistance. Living according to His will for your life.
People always want to know what God’s Will is …
It is quite simple. Be grateful. Admit you need a higher power, that you, in your own power, mess things up, and ask to be of use to Him each day. Then, set about doing the next right thing as your day goes along. Make good choices. Make jaunty choices.
Paint your fingernails lime green and share a smile with every person you meet.
Tell them your experience, strength, and hope.
Live each moment as if it might be your last.
So be it.
“The Word Pool” is a Creative Writing / Drawing Prompt book with millions of writing and drawing prompts.
The Word Pool” is a beautifully written book devoted to writers who love to play with language. The idea of pairing unrelated adjectives and nouns together to impregnate them with new meaning makes for unforgettable writing, Thomas Paine wrote about the “summer soldier and the sunshine patriot.” His purpose was to steel the resolve of the American Army in the face of overwhelming British military power. His use of words was unforgettable, inspiring Americans for 250 years.
“The Word Pool” gives writers the tool to match unlikely words together to create new meaning. Complete with exercises and examples, this work is pure genius. It is a “must have” for every writer’s library.
He was in the ICU on Sunday. Passed away Monday morning. The funeral was on Thursday. His name is Hunter Williams, and his momma has been one of my two lifelong best friends for 47 years.
To say she is shattered is not adequate.
To say we are not all broken is not true.
He was 30 years old.
My best friend’s baby, who called her multiple times a day to say, “Have a great day,” to check on her, to tell her all the things, to tell her nothing, to aggravate her, to share his dreams … and now, her phone is silent.
He has an identical twin who is devastated.
Two younger brothers and a sister. Four step-siblings.
Strong friendships and deep family ties.
His friends and his family – all of us walking around in a fog of “How did this happen?” But at the same time, we all know that Hunter lived life on his own terms. He was a small-town guy from Southeastern Oklahoma who wore mismatched clothes and had an ornery smile. He was strong-willed, wild at times, got into trouble, and made friends with most every person he encountered. He loved making people laugh; he loved hunting. He loved the race truck he built; he named her “Black Betty.” The thing that we will all remember most, though, was how Hunter willingly gave help to people – quietly, without telling anyone, without wanting or needing attention. He had a servant’s heart. This week on Facebook, the stories have kept coming – friends and family telling memories of how Hunter went out of his way for them or someone they knew. He was a beautiful human, and my best friend adored her precious boy, though, quoting her, he’s “the reason I color my hair.” Hunter loved big and lived each day without fear or regret.
My husband, Patrick, officiated the chapel service in honor of Hunter.
In his message, he spoke profound words – words he shared with me early in the week as he prepared for the service. Words that changed how I saw a Bible story I grew up hearing in Sunday School. A new layer exists in that story now, and I want to share it with you. What you do with it is for you. After I share it, I’ll tell what I will do with it.
What follows is a close transcription of some of Patrick’s words.
~ There was a woman who had an “issue of blood” for 12 years, and she spent her whole living on physicians and doctors and everything to try to find an answer to it, but nothing resolved her medical concern. So she came up behind a certain man and touched the border of His garment, and this man, named Jesus, was in a crowd of hundreds, if not thousands of people. This book, the Bible, in Luke 8, uses the word throng, which means he was pressed by a massive crowd. So people are pushing up against him left and right. Some of his disciples were with him, and Jesus said, who touched me? You can look at that as being a matter of a physical touch, but I read a little further into this, and I don’t believe that’s what happened.
I can’t believe that’s what happened because there were hundreds of people around him pushing on him – a throng. And even the disciples said, Master, the multitude is all around us and pressing on us. How can you say who touched me? And he said, Somebody touched me because I felt virtue go out of me. And I believe what he was saying was that somebody touched him among all those people pushing and shoving him. Someone touched him – through faith – a spiritual touch – and He felt virtue, or power, go out of Him. In the midst of all of those people physically touching Him, He felt her faith. The woman admits it was her, and Jesus tells her that her faith made her whole. She had touched the heart of Jesus.
I would be so lucky to touch God that way.
I believe that Hunter touched God that way. I really do. There were times when this young man did things under the radar – for instance, he took gas out 20 plus miles to a lady who had run out of gas, and she went to pay him, and he wouldn’t take the money, but she insisted that she was going to pay him. Well, he took the money, and he went and bought her children some toys. That’s the kind of young man Hunter was. He took care of his sick grandfather for a year. Took care of his mother. He was taking care of his grandmother. He did these things quietly – while still hanging with his friends, his brothers, building his race truck, hunting, and all of the other things he did. He served, and he lived.
This young man lived his life fearlessly.
I believe he had it in his mind that I’m going to live my life, and when it’s done, it’s done. And he didn’t want to hear any business about it. I have to wonder how many people I run across have that fearlessness about life. Hunter knew there was something greater than him, and he wasn’t worried about it. This young man was not worried in any way, shape, or form about that. He just lived life, he did what he wanted to do, and he served other people – touching the heart of Jesus. ~ (Patrick Cunningham, 6/4/26)
There were so many people touching Jesus, bumping into Him, calling out to Him, but it was the woman who quietly, in faith, reached out and touched the hem of His garment, that He felt in Spirit … Jesus felt her faith.
That gives me pause.
Does Jesus feel my faith?
Do I live fearless in His name, knowing He can carry me through whatever comes?
Not always.
I wish the answer to my own question was “YES!” But it’s not. It’s “Not always.”
I want to live fearlessly in faith – unconcerned about how much time I have here on this earth, in this place. I don’t want to get caught up in worldliness, but rather in service – to serve others quietly – as Hunter did.
We are going to miss him. My best friend’s soul aches for the presence of her son … but she knows our Father in Heaven, and she knows Jesus. Through faith, she knows she will see Hunter again, and she knows that it is for her to live as he did – there are even a couple of Hunter’s acts of service that she intends to carry forward – things most people don’t even know he did.
But Jesus knew.
And his momma knew.
Last night, my husband and I had a conversation. He said to me that I needed to remember a prayer we say often in AA – a simple prayer. I knew which prayer he meant, and I said, “I know which one you mean.” He said, “Tell it to me.” So, I began … “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change …” and Patrick stopped me. He said, “There are many things in our lives that we cannot change. What are we to pray for? What are we asking for in this prayer?” I said, “Serenity.” He said, “Another word for that is peace.” There are things we cannot change – and because we cannot change them, we are to seek peace in those things. Ask God to comfort us in times of grief, pain, anxiety, stress – in things we cannot change. He can change them – bring good out of bad, but He won’t move until our faith activates – even faith the size of a mustard seed. When I hold it all in, though, and try to fix and change everything myself, things tend to get worse. Psalm 46:10 tells us, “Be still and know that I am God.” Have faith. Be still. Be patient. Be at peace.
Patrick said, “How does the rest go?” And I said, “Courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.” He reminded me that we are to do what we can. We cannot change all things, but those things that we can, we are to be brave – FEARLESS – and step forward in FAITH – asking for wisdom to navigate the things of life.
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