Kristine E. Brickey

pluviophile On this rainy morning, a new word in my vocabulary bank. How did I not know this word, a word that describes me so perfectly? I will add it to my author bios: pluviophile-a lover of rain, a finder of peace in rainy days.  When I was young, my mother would call me in from the branches of my secret apple tree nook when the drops began their descent. Her call was easy to ignore, and I would nestle a bit deeper and watch the sky change hues and try to count the droplets. As an adult, in charge of my own self, I no longer climb into trees, leaving that to my younger mini-me. However, when I wake to soothing drops on shingled roof overhead, a smile begins even before my eyes open wide.  Rainy days promise hot mugs of coffee, snuggled in chocolate brown softness of my couch nest, pen in hand, words flowing across the pages.  Rainy days make for sleepy dogs, peaceful hours of watching the latest novel unfold in my mind as I read hundreds of pages ...

Mo Rúnsearc (roon-hark) secret love Lulled by her maid, Aileen’s, gentle brushstrokes upon her thick auburn hair, Maebh sighed and closed her  lavender  eyes. Sparks crackled with each stroke, bright spots in the candlelit room. She was so relaxed, that Maebh didn’t understand what was happening as her small seaside town’s warning bells chimed. Aileen snatched her by the elbow and hastily shoved her into the small hidey spot used since she was young. After an unnecessary reminder to stay quiet, Aileen scurried to find safety elsewhere.  Hidden in the recesses of her closet, Maebh watched through a sliver of space as a large, swarthy man moved through her doorway. Though she knew he couldn’t see her, she instinctively pulled back. All Maebh needed to do was wait silently for Aileen to retrieve her once the thieving marauders had gone.  He stopped in front of the mirrored table where she’d so recently sat, and Maebh saw him pick up her delicate strand of u...

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/34647324-ghost-boys Ghost Boys by   Jewell Parker Rhodes                                                        Wow! This book has been on my 'to be read' list for a while, and last night I picked it up and read the first few chapters before going to sleep. As soon as I woke, the book was back in my hands. It had to be read.      Rhodes has done an outstanding job of combining current social injustices with the historical importance of Emmett Till's story (and the story of so many other murdered 'ghost boys'). Though I am familiar with the horror of Till's murder in 1955 Mississippi, the power of connecting Jerome's new ghost with hundreds of murdered ghost boys, the daughter of the officer, and his living relatives brought it all to new heights.       T...

     Yesterday my alarm beeped at 6:45 a.m. Groggily, I made my way into the kitchen, sleepily turned the coffee maker on, and looked out across the misty morning. It took that long for it to hit me. It was the first day of the new school year. My grin spread wide across my no longer sleepy face. Energy rushed through me. Yes, I was awake, but an hour later than 'normal' for this day. I was up in order to meet a friend out at Brighton State Recreational to ride my awesome horse through the early temps and still freshly spider webbed trails of Michigan.      All I heard last spring were the warnings of people of how I would be so sad when this day came. As I poured my coffee and made my way to the front porch, I enjoyed my leisurely coffee breakfast as cars on the way to work and buses on the way to Mason Public Schools roared past. I felt like the Grinch must have after he saved the sled overflowing with Whoville's Christmas.      After a b...

What a beautiful and amazing summer is has been for me. One of my retirement objectives, hosting and facilitating writing retreats, has begun a year earlier than expected! From August 6-8, I was lucky enough to write with a group at Bay Pointe Inn on the beautiful Gun Lake in Shelbyville, Michigan. Our group filled the Boathouse and a few extra rooms as well, did some writing and sharing together, had hours of small group and individual writing time, and took full advantage of the beauteous location. Here are a few selections from that event that some of the writers were gracious enough to share with me to share with my readers.  Enjoy! From Kristin Kochheiser, a Grief poem: Grief Grief greets me like an unexpected visitor who should have called before knocking at the door breaking into my day, my routine with its quick, incessant knocking on my heart. Just when I think I have seen the last of my unanticipated guest a voice, a smell, a taste, a touch, a picture...

Homeless Beauty on Barracks I cannot stop thinking about the homeless beauty outside Café EnVie. Tall, athletic, dirty. White t-shirt tied in a tight bow above her belly button. Walking home from St. Cecilia’s, the taste of brown butter still on my lips, potatoes Lyonnaise crunch still savored by taste buds. I had eaten every bite, my only meal since breakfast. Redfish Almondine, somehow flaky and tender. Only one of our five carried leftovers, the result of earlier Willie Mayes fried chicken. Her ‘food baby’ wouldn’t let her finish her own flaky fish dinner. Barracks Street was busy, of course, and as I was transported to San Francisco’s foggy bay by a friend’s words, I needed to move behind and beside to make room for evening strollers from opposite directions. We crossed over Decatur, music from further away filling the air. A clump of people crowded, crouched over at their waists on the adjacent corner, like kids roasting marshmallows around a campfire, leaning in to check the...

Powerful Writing made possible via New Orleans Writing Marathon  “Why don’t you take a pause and clean your room?” This last line delivered in a humorous anecdote while breakfasting at Croissant D’or, and as I laughed, something clicked in my head and I immediately had to write.             I was reminded of all the times I had said something similar to my own two kids. Robbie’s carpet was a deep, dark blue, but I only know that because I bought it. Katie wanted red, bright like summer tomatoes, but settled on a dark forest green when Momma put her foot down.             How many wasted moments, worrying/nagging/fighting about the stupid rooms?             “I can’t even see your floors!” I would argue. “Why did I pay for carpet if we were never going to see it again?”       ...