Kristine E. Brickey

*Today in our Mid-Michigan Word Gatherers meeting, one of the prompts was to rewrite a fairy tale, setting it in 2020. This version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs is authored by my very talented daughter, Katie. She was kind enough to let me share. I hope you enjoy it as much as we did this morning! Seven little men mourned for Snow White.  There was no witch’s apple,  she never took a bite. Covid struck the princess, put her in a snooze,  but since they were all quarantined,  the prince never got the news. A messenger did finally spread word,  but in today’s day and age,  no one speaks the language of the birds. So in the woods Snow White waits, in her coffin full of grace,  until the day comes at last,  when we put Covid in the past.

I’m not a Scrooge, or the Grinch, well, maybe I am. It isn’t that I don’t like the holidays, well, maybe it is.               I used to love Thanksgiving. Food. The signaling of only a few remaining weeks to survive before Christmas break, always needed to refuel before leaping into the new year and the long stretch through winter until spring.              Decorating for Christmas used to be my jam. Craft shows loved to see me coming, leaving with bags stuffed with new purchases, painted Santa and reindeer sets, ornaments, gifts for myself and for others.              But things are different since…well, since. I never know what to expect, what my heart will want in order to survive. Survive. It seems like a season of survival now.              Last year I met Christmas in overdrive. Hallmark movies playing almost 24/7. Fat tree. Lights upon the mantel. Baking until my freezer was full and my countertops were covered with frosted, sugar sprinkled delights.              This year, thou

It's been awhile since I posted. My apologies.  NaNoWriMo kept me busy in November writing Thor, the Mighty Friesian for Reality's Chance Rescue and Sanctuary. F*CK It, I'm 50! is in final revisions/editing stage, with an early 2022 publication date. Drafting, very early stages, of my memoir about my son have been in full swing, and another new project is in the works as well. I've been busy!  Life is stressful, but tonight I was gifted with a bright surprise. This evening I went outside for night feeds.  My old donkey was green faced and happy, while little Red (not so little, like a barrel with legs my sweet boy!) pouted because he always wants more. Cinder finished her feed and I opened the back door of the hog barn which opens onto the middle pasture. I pulled a hay bale down from the top of the stack, swung around, and there was Cinder, half inside the doorway, dubbed the hobbit door due to its size. There stood my mare, chestnut head and shoulders leaning toward

Fullmoon light seeps through 4 a.m. darkness, Coating grass and field outside like an eerie wintry frost.           I am mesmerized as  strands of mist creep forward, as film noir flower beds disappear, wrapped beneath ghostly blankets.  Palms pressed flat against my window,  what lies hidden in fog meets glassy fingertips.                                     Protected, though I feel the powerful presence. I wait, Wondering as I step backwards;  Wary, even as I am drawn to the mystery. Hypnotized, I watch as it  ebbs away.  The entity dissipates, returning  to its birthplace.

     You know that feeling when something goes awry and you KNEW moments before what you should do, but you didn't? I do, too. Too many times.       It's why I suffered an injury my first day of horse camp in Hungerford on August 13th. I KNEW shortly into the ride I needed to adjust tack, but I brushed my inner warning aside. At the top of a hill I thought, "Get down. Fix the bridle," but there was another group, so I told myself I'd take care of it at the next open area. Bad. Choice. It resulted in the early ending of what was supposed to be a week of riding with two amazing friends and led to weeks of recuperating until I was able to get back in the saddle.      On April 25th, 2021 I brought home my little red Mustang, Cinderella. She's 11, but wasn't gentled or even really handled by people until last fall when Naomi Rutter chose her for Reality's Chance Rescue & Sanctuary Mustang Challenge. Cinder and Naomi won, and Cinder went north...way nort

This little piece came from a place I didn't know was there until I was sitting in Sozo's meeting room with MMWG last week. During another writer's sharing, I suddenly saw my Grandma (pronounced Gra-maw) Brickey sitting in her favorite chair, me and other grandchildren strewn around the floor at her feet. We were listening as she told stories. I jotted down a few words, and kept listening to my friends read. The next prompt was, 'I Needed...'   I loved my Grandma Brickey so much. She was feisty and brave, tender and strong, and though there wasn't much about her life that was 'easy', she always had love and laughs for us. Grandma, this is for you and all of us lucky enough to have you watching over us from the Heavens. I Needed... One of my favorite memories has me sitting at Grandma’s feet, her stories flowing over me. I needed her words, words that painted movies in my head. Uncle Miles as a teen, sliding down the mountain side, a shovel for a sled. My

The woods called to me, whispers from my childhood. I drove past Charlie’s Apple Orchard, missing the gravel and potholes now that the road was blacktopped. Paved roads now. When I was a kid, it was all dirt until you hit the main roads to the south and east. I remember how Tracy C. and I had to trot her little Shetland mare from her house, her driving the cart and me as safety lookout, until we made it the short distance from her house to the dirt.  Before I knew it, I was pulling into the driveway. There were more houses now than fields, but I pushed away my melancholy and got out of the car. The woods used to be so far away from the house, I thought, as they now loomed too closely behind the barn. The ten acres had seemed so massive, and we loved going so far away from the house as kids, taking the fenced grassy lane along the hayfield until we reached the woods. Now, it took me less than a few to step inside the coolness of the woods. My siblings and cousins spent entire days out h

For years, I have believed and shouted out that there is no such thing as coincidence. What happened this week had simply reaffirmed!  We are supposed to be on vacation this week, floating in the lake, enjoying the view of my horse in the mini-paddock as we laze under the camper awning, laughing with my parents over grilled burgers and brats.  Life happened and we had to stay home. Sad. Life happened and we had to stay home. Whoo!  The multiple events I was going to miss instantly popped into the emptied vacation slots on my calendar.  Making lemonade from lemons. Silver lining.       Thursday morning writing with MMWG in Ionia. Yay!      Friday night, Artist's Umbrella: Art is Shelter. Yay!      Saturday afternoon I can go visit my cousin at the Grand Ledge Arts & Crafts fair and Sunday I can ride my Mustang with friends all day long. Yay! Any of these would have been enough to ease the loss of lazy vacation days with my hubby, dogs, horse, and hilarious parents. Last night, T

*Note: This has been spinning around in my head since early June, and then, last night, I listened to brilliant artists speak at The Creative Collective around issues of discrimination, injustice, and equity. I listened to Mason families share horrifying experiences of being attacked and assaulted by racist terrorists, in my own town. This morning, I woke early, knowing it was past time to write this piece. It isn't much. It probably won't change the stock of options. It certainly hasn't erased the images evoked last night or from the card shopping, but writing is what I do, and it will lead to more. Change can't happen if we ignore the world around us. Father's Day was approaching, as I  stood before the cards. Hundreds before me to choose from, I began picking up one, skimming the words briefly, knowing instantly if it was right, for Dad, from me, his daughter. Card after card, almost blindly searching, and then one hit me, perfect I thought, reading the inside ag

  Breathing out memories   Take a deep breath, I told her. No, deeper. Breathe in for five seconds. Hold it for five. Now, breathe out for five…six…seven. I held her hands for round after round, guiding, leading, until she quit shaking, could look at me without tears flooding her cheeks.    Life hurls us into moments we might wish had never happened, that seem impossible to survive, but then we keep breathing. In for five. Hold for five. Out for five.    Loved ones die. Breathe in. Breathe out.    Lovers betray, batter, make us believe less of ourselves. Breathe in. Breathe out.    One day passes, and we survive. We breathe in the memories of that person, that event. We take it all in. Remember their smiles, their laughter, the silly and the painful. We hold the memories tight, fight the heaving in our chests that try to split our hearts wide open. We breathe them out, releasing the tightness, the pain, the horror of loss, no matter the reasons. We breathe in, and breathe out.    A wee

Surviving my first was expensive but empowering.  Surviving my second almost ended me.  It wasn’t the financial ruin he actively attempted, though that could have been enough. It wasn’t the social ruin he felt he could impose. It was the internal shame he set off. It was replaying the red flags, knowing that I should have acknowledged them well before we married. It was knowing that I had felt the breeze from those red flags, heard the whump of snapping fabric as the winds of ‘holy shit, what did he just say/do to you?’ raged around me. After leaving, after counseling, after building up my strength and finally standing proudly on my own, I stopped questioning myself, and instead began asking:       Why did HE do this, why did HE treat me this way, why did HE feel it was acceptable to lie and steal and bully, why didn’t THEY believe ME? I became a survivor.  I chose this path.  I didn’t quit.  I didn’t drive my car off that curved section of highway into the solid bulk of that ancient o

It's been over a decade, over eleven years, over eleven years one month and days. Today, one month from what should have been his twenty-eighth birthday, I sat still and watched the latest Pink documentary. To be clear, I fckn love Pink. Her music helps me manage, helps me survive, and most importantly, helps me release the pressure valve when I least realize it needs releasing. I was prepared to love the doc, to learn more about her recent tour and her beautiful family. I figured there would be tears. However, completely unprepared for feeling all the feels that watching 'All I know so far' tore from me. SO much love. Not just the love of music and performing, but love at so many levels. The family she's built from years of performing with the same people. The family she's built with her husband, son, and daughter. Seeing the reactions of fans as Pink performed, how she embraces all people and draws emotions from so many. Yeah, all those lovely bits had me tearing

     I gave everyone fair warning, not out of self-pity or loathing, but because I felt they needed to understand, to have an ‘out’ if you will, an acceptable path to walk away from my crazy, my grief, my dysfunctional manner of functioning after my mother’s nightmare became reality.      I watched their faces upon hearing my words: Listen, I get it. I’m a lot right now. I’m going to be a lot for a while, possibly, for a long while. If you can’t handle me, I get it, no blame, no worries, no explanations necessary.                   I watched as they heard my offer, as to a person, each individual scoffed or waved away my words, as they assured me of their steadfastness.               I have repeated my offer over the years, and their reactions never change; but, there are fewer people to hear it, as I have watched some skulk away, unable to admit they needed an out, that my honest appraisal of how I am doing on any particular day is too much for them to input.                   I don’t

It had been an overwhelming, happy tear inducing, exhausting and exhilarating five days at High Knob Campground in southern Illinois’s Shawnee National Forest. Riding Cinder in extreme, challenging terrain, sharing adventures with my daughter on horseback for the first time in five plus years, and being awed on a daily basis by the beauty of the area should have prepared me for Rim Rock’s effects. Yet, there I was again, surrounded by a view from high above the clouds, mouth agape in wonder.  The flat stone walking path had been built in 1962 by the YACC’s and our group of four had made it about halfway around the quarter mile path without too much difficulty, teasing each other about the downhill slope and what that meant for our legs and lungs during the final portion of the trek. Seemingly out of nowhere, a stairway appeared to the left of the wooden observation deck. Clearly not built half a century ago, the treated lumber rails and steps led sharply downward where they disappeared

I am exhausted, but in the best possible way and for the best possible reasons. Only one month ago tomorrow, I brought home an eleven year old 14h shiny chestnut Mustang mare who was only handled since last fall by Naomi Rutter via Reality's Chance Rescue & Sanctuary. Green, green, green as far as trail riding. I let her settle in for a week, and then rode her out at Waterloo the first Sunday I had her and again the following Saturday.  At the 3 week mark of our relationship, we hauled down to High Knob Campground deep in Shawnee National Forest in southern Illinois. For Cinder's 3rd trail ride (ever, of her life), we rode over 8 miles in the challenging terrain; the next day was 9+; the next nearly 14 miles. We took Thursday off, because we BOTH needed a rest! Friday we rode almost 9 miles with my daughter, Katie, led once again by the incredible Tali. Saturday I chose not to ride, to let Cinder rest her unshod hooves and body for the eight hour haul home yesterday. When I

Yesterday, as I do on most Thursday mornings, I headed to Ionia's Sozo Coffee Roasting to write with MMWG. During these mornings we share out any 'homework' prompt creations and then spend time receiving prompts, writing, and sharing out with the group if we so choose. There is always powerful writing, and yesterday was no exception. When this first was read, however, it seeped into my heart and I asked to share it here, with all of you. Please enjoy this magical story written by a talented writer and friend, Jim Kinsey, and inspired by 3 prompts:  No one expected the giraffe barn to catch on fire  I am suddenly jolted awake! You see, long ago…                                                        JOLTED A LONG TIME AGO! An azure blue colored dome arched over Mama Gator’s Bayou and its sand spit village of the same name.  Mama G, oscillating tail propelled, glided pond center to await Saturday’s feast. Fourteen multicolored pelicans kited over bald cypress tops and dropped

I feel the tension leaving her body as the morning writing progresses.  To others, it may seem she sits quietly; yet, I know that on the inside, there is only movement.  Her pen tap, tap, taps.  Blue lines on white paper remain word free, but the percolator is brewing. In my periphery, her fingers begin moving upon phone keys, words are written, ideas captured, no matter or not if they are shared out loud today. On the drive home, she tells me how much these days help, how as each person reads, it is as if she enters a different room where words dangle from the ceilings; and I am blown away by the beauty of the images she paints for me. I am pulled into her mind. I am inside that room, dangling words overhead, moving gently in the breeze of our presence. She is unaware of her brilliance, unable to see how her light shines brightly and adds to so many lives.  So I will keep reminding her, reinforcing her strengths, refreshing the pride I feel as she fights her way through turmoil and to

     Everyone seems to know everyone else and their business. Landmarks like: across from the old white silo, just past the big white barn that got moved, and you know, where that field fire burned recently are used and recognized. Teaching all thirty years in the same town, eventually having former students sitting across from me at parent teacher conferences, their son or daughter, now my student beside them…well, it makes for a unique, once in a lifetime sense of belonging.        I’ve lived in “The Old Lovette” homestead now coming on fourteen years. It’s longer than I have ever lived in one place my entire life. In our little town, when my husband and I walk about during the much loved yearly festivals, my name is called out as we pass by folks of all ages. One year, as we went into the fair on a hot summer evening, Chad straightened his fancy tuxedo t-shirt (thanks, Katie) and announced he was ready to fight off my paparazzi. Before my dismissive scoff had fully completed, from o

 *I wrote this piece last Thursday during one of my writing groups as I pondered the end of my journey with my Mesa Blue. She seems to have found a better place for her, but as I wrote to the 'What are you thinking about today' prompt, I couldn't help but remember and hope for her future.      This morning I’ve been thinking about the drive I have tomorrow to take Mesa to Kentucky. I pray for an uneventful 7 hours there and another 7 home. I’ve been imagining myself in the darkness of the really early morning, loading her up, and heading away from Mason with Mesa. She was supposed to be my forever horse, my easy, short, dark, and dependable horse after the troubles and heartache of losing my sweet, monster sized Snickers. I’ve been thinking about how in many ways Mesa was exactly what I hoped for: easy to load, to haul, to unload; easy for the vet and mostly quiet for the farrier; and in the beginning, so damn great out on the trails.             I can’t stop thinking about

      Something that wasn’t cancelled, she prompted, and the one thing that is boldfaced in my mind is the living entity of Grief. In fact, as each event, each portion of my social and author related life fell off the rails, Grief grew in proportion to everyday moments. It multiplied exponentially, fueled by the erosion of cancellations. No CrossFit. No counseling. No massage therapy. No chiropractor. No Sozo, school visits, F440, RCWP sponsored Bay retreats/workshops/marathons. No week in New Orleans, wandering with dear friends and fellow writers seemingly aimlessly through the French Quarter, notebooks in hand, decadent food in bellies and music in our hearts.       But Grief, oh, the monster that is Grief breathed deeply of all I was losing, savored the weight of loss that settled heavily upon my shoulders and heart, and laughed an evil cacophony as my physical, mental, and emotional well-being faded with each passing day.      Yet, recently I was shocked to find that one other imp