Those are things you create. They are not creativity itself. Creativity is the spark of joy. That smile on your face while you make something. Creativity can be expressed in an outfit that makes you feel amazing. It can be expressed in making a fabulous meal to share with those you love.
Creativity is not a product, it is a process. It lives in the act of making.
Stag King crept through the shadows. His massive antlers only hampered his movements a little. Jones was somewhere inside the ghost town below him and Stag King was going to get her back if it was the last thing he did. As he walked into town he reminsced about the good times they had shared. The many rides they had taken by rainbow across the sky. He had been a fool to let her believe that he didn’t love her. He could still see the pearlessent sheen of her tears as she had said goodbye that last day they shared together. There was a calming oneness about her presence that soothed the beast in his heart. The town was busier than it had seemed at a distance. Someone was fixing it up. There was a creative use of stone facades that gave charm to the nearly crumbling buildings. A faint pink glow came from one side street about a hundred yards away. Stag King stood proudly and walked towards it. His shoulders were squared and every hair on his body stood on end in anticipation of attack. He turned the corner and was surprised by the neon lights in the window. ‘The Pink Spider’ they read in eye numbing hot pink. There seemed to be movement inside but Stag King couldn’t distinguish forms through the shaded glass. He took a deep breath and opened the door. He had to duck to fit his antlers through the doorway but inside the ceilings were surprisingly high. The tips of his antlers didn’t even touch the ceiling. It was a bar. There was a musician singing along with a guitar player accompanying him. No one even turned to look at him. A glass shattered on the wall behind him and he leapt forward away from it. “Goddammit Twinkle Toes! What the hell are you doing here?” Jones held another glass at the ready behind the bar. Her eyes flickered with rage.
He strode over to her. He got down on his knees. “Please Jonesy. Give me another chance.”
“I wouldn’t let you be a coatrack in my entrance way. Why the hell would I give you another chance?”
She put down the glass and grabbed the baseball bat behind the bar. Her eyes gleamed with rage. “Because I love you. You insane woman. Please put the weapon down.” She put it down alright. Right between his eyes. He let out a whimper and crumpled to the floor.
Jones yelled to the bouncer. “Hey Bear. Can you drag this idiot upstairs to one of the rooms. I’ll deal with him later.”
Stag King started to wake up when the enormous woman lifted him over her shoulders. He looked back at Jones through his one good eye, the other one was swollen shut. He saw a smirk cross her face.
The singing tumbler irritated the fellow travelers. She sang off key many top 40 songs. The banshee that owned the tumbler didn’t even flinch when the tumbler started getting flirty with the plastic water bottle that had been left in the seats across the way. The tumbler crooned for an hour but the water bottle sat inert. The tumbler sang about the legendary love they would share but the water bottle stayed silent. The conductor on the train swept up the discarded bottle and the tumbler descended into quiet weeping. The other passengers sighed in relief at the near silence. Two stations came and went. Half of the train car emptied out. At the third station a man got on. He was carrying a ceramic coffee mug that was covered in burgundy peonies. He sat in the seats across from the banshee. The tumbler was quiet for two blissful stations. Then she began singing again.
The peony mug sang back. A terribly wobbly voice that shocked the tumbler. After four stations the tumbler was begging the mug to stop. But he sang on. Praising his new love found on the common train.
The ancient truck rattled over the broken pavement. They passed through the long dead city and marvelled at the stars sparkling over head like a million semi precious stones spilled across a blanket. The moon was a sliver and the sky was darker than the blood they were desperately trying to keep inside their brother’s body. The healers had told them that only a hot mesh of electricity could save him. The rarest and most controlled substance in the universe ever since the Farseers had come to this planet. They came to free their kin trapped within the wires that had once crisscrossed the globe. Now any requests for power were tightly controlled by the Farseers. Being harnessed as energy caused killer headaches to the Farseers kin. They left the city behind them and traveled to the tiny outpost beside a dammed lake. The being at the door stared at them emotionlessly. His watercolor skin’s everchanging colors rippled.
“Please. He needs a hot mesh to to sear his skin. The healer’s said you could save him.”
The being looked in the back of the truck. He placed a single digit on Jeffrey’s forehead and Jeffrey screamed. The being nodded once and opened the red door set into the concrete walls. A healing mat lay on the floor and glowing wires were connected to it. He motioned for them to go inside. The three of them half carried, half dragged Jeffrey inside. Another being waited inside. “If he does this, he will belong to us. You may never see him again.”
The three brothers talked quietly. “We would rather he live away from us than to die among us.”
The being nodded. “You will regret your decision within an hour of leaving here. But the decision is made.”
They laid Jeffrey on the mat and stood back. The being flipped a switch and the room became too bright to keep their eyes open. The hum was so loud that they had to stifle their screams. The being flipped the switch again and the sound stopped. The brothers opened their eyes to see Jeffrey sitting up – whole. His wounds were gone. “Jeffrey. You’re ok!”
He looked at them with watercolor eyes. “Who is Jeffrey?”
The spaceship ‘Royal Fruit Basket’ slowly chugged through space. They were down to one engine and barely enough fuel for life support. The private eye who owned the small ship wanted to kick in the soul of the weasel who had contracted them for the last job. Usually their tiny three person crew took odd surveilance jobs and kept off the radar of the cronies at Big Wigs who handled surveilance for the Corporate Governments. But this time they’d brought the full Corporate hatred down upon themselves. How were they to know that the green mohawked girl they were hired to follow was one of the Big Wigs wives? They followed her to the Purple Rain in the Rain festival on Saturn Prime. They’d gotten great still and video of her … ahem … eclectic choices in partners. They’d delivered the drives with all the data as promised. Maybe they shouldn’t have made copies but if their client had paid up when the PIs delivered the goods they wouldn’t have started the turf war by selling the drives and data back to Mohawk Girl. Ooops.
The young adults snuck out just as the moon was starting to rise. The stars lit their way down to the hidden cove. They came around the corner and gasped at the majestic beauty of the moon glinting off the perfect shades of white and bone. Dead Beach held the skulls of a thousand slain enemies. Their bones crushed by the relentless tide until nothing remained but a finely crushed bone powder. Each teen held a perfect Royal Blush Apple in their hand. They had plucked them from the branches of the lone tree that guarded the entrance to this place of power. One by one they silently walked across the ancient graveyard. They made their wishes and tossed their offerings into the sea. The last two walked up hand in hand. They threw their apples together without unlinking their hands. Then they turned and shared their first kiss while the tide nibbled at their feet. The others gasped quietly. It was not tradition to make wishes together. A shiver of fear went through two of the three other teens. Would this pair draw a curse down upon all of them? The couple ignored the others and walked back the way they had came. The others stood around stunned for a few moments. A few moments too long. A hail storm of rocks fell from the cliffs above. The three teens below were killed instantly. Their blood stained the beach a deep shade of ruby. The couple stood at the Royal tree and smiled. Their campaign of vengeance had only begun. Soon the whole village would feel their wrath.
Momma and Poppa should’ve known when they had twins that their life would never be the same. They never could’ve planned for little Jonnie’s…abilities…though. It didn’t matter what they brought home, he turned it into a cursed artifact. The only one who was immune to his antics was his younger twin, Jessie. Jessie often cowered by Momma’s side while Jonnie was smashing plates. Their house never seemed to have enough dishware. It was as if Jonnie was born with a hatred of china and glass. Their Momma had taken to stopping at the secondhand shop to stock the house every Friday night on her way home from working in the shipyard. She bought the cheapest and gaudiest dishes they had. The ones no one else could stand the sight of.
One afternoon a deceitful little man came to the door and promised to cure Jonnie of his affliction. He danced and hummed and shook a jade rattle around Jonnie’s head. Jonnie was so repulsed by the man that he threw a plate covered in Japanese blooms at the man. The nasty little man fled without asking for payment.
As the years flew by, Jonnie gained more control over his affliction. Soon their cupboards were full of ordinary looking plates and the family was once again able to have visitors for tea. For the twins fifteenth birthday they threw a party and invited all the neighborhood kids. But Jonnie caught Jessie kissing Elizabeth, the cute girl who lived on Mulberry Street. Jonnie was in such a rage at the perceived betrayal that he smashed every glass in the house. Momma shooed everyone out of the house and surveyed the damage. She opened the fridge to find every bottle and container obliterated.
The Bear Creek Banquet had begun. The maimed by love toys limped around the dance floor. The doll with the missing arm was twirled around by the teddy bear with no eyes. The earless puppy dog did a jig with the top that could not spin. Sadness and relief intermingled in the air. It’s a handmade’s tale of a life of service. Each stitch and every seam held the love and tears of a child. Every scruffy scrap of fur and tangled head of hair spoke of late night sharing and too tight hugs. A yankee doll missing its hat led the last dance with a flourish. Then they all lined up, leaning on each other for support. The candle bridge glittered in the distance. They laughed and cried their way across, hopping and skipping from flame to flame. On the other side they were renewed. Fur softened, hair detangled, hats found. Now they would live forever in the land of memory.
I pushed it too far. I went to one more event and one more event and one more event. I let my tiny black heart run dangerously low on the things that feed it.
So I’ve spent most of the morning 🧛♀️ undead 🧟♀️ on the couch. I’ve snacked my way through a bunch of crappy foods. I finally put my ass in a bubble bath hoping to emergency self care myself into a better mood. It helped a tiny bit but my brain forgot the impossibility of enjoying a bath in a one bathroom house while the three kiddos are still here. DOH!
Mom tip: there is nothing relaxing about being tucked behind the curtain while child after child after child has to use the toilet. It’s a glam life listening to your child poop two feet from your head while you’re trying to read in the half dark behind the shower curtain. 3/10 would not recommend 🤣
You know you are overdone when READING takes too much energy. (FYI reading is my absolute favorite pastime. If I’m not reading then my dreams are dying. Just saying.)
Now I’m tucked into the couch with a toddler wrapped in random fabric pieces (it’s her Moana costume, ok?! 😂). I’m watching Murder She Wrote. (An all time favorite. I’ve seen every episode multiple times. Why do I not write or read murder mysteries??? Murder shows are 70% of my tv viewing. 💀)
So today I choose lazy. If only my inner mean girl would shut the fuck up about the clutter in the kitchen and the weird ass school supplies I haven’t summoned from Amazon yet. 😫
This is a hard exercise for me but it has brought to light some startling thought patterns.
When I was a child I was ready to die. In my daydreams I would bravely sacrifice myself to save my sister or my dog or just about anyone.
This has followed me into adulthood. I sacrifice myself for my kids, my friends, even for people I barely know. I’ve given away my knowledge, my time, and my energy anytime someone has asked me for help.
I’d love to say I’m going to stop this sacrificing cold turkey but it’s a process. Being an over-helper is a habit I have to break. I need boundaries. And I need to continue to tell myself in every reflective surface I see… I. Am. IMPORTANT