The Phoenix Rises...

Have you ever paused in a task and stepped away, presumably for just a moment, only to look up, startled to discover that hours... days... months... even years have passed?

Welcome to my world.

It's been six years since I last posted to this blog. I could list a dozen different reasons, all of them completely genuine, for this lapse in the continuity of my self-expression. But in the end, it all comes down to my daily struggle with my own personal demons: Anxiety, Depression, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, PTSD, and Agoraphobia.

Mental illness is a strange companion, manipulative and possessive, distracting and destructive. It plays havoc with one's family life and social interactions, not to mention one's creative output. It is a beast that prefers consuming to producing.

Sometimes it is simply easier to give it what it wants. It can be exhausting and overwhelming to fight against. Sometimes I consider it a win if I can simply function through the day-to-day business of living on any given day without curling up into a ball on the couch to sleep. During these times, I’m compelled to flip the switch from production to consumption, devouring book after book after book, without ever producing one single word of my own. Since my last blog post, I have binge-read well over 1,500 books. I lost track of the exact count somewhere during the transition from my Nook to my Kindle.

Hence my prolonged absence.

Once upon a time, as some of you may remember, I had a fairly prolific, semi-successful writing career. Even though I wasn't earning much in a financial sense, I was at least a fairly well-known name in small press writing circles. I had quite a few short stories, essays, articles and poems published in a variety of small press horror journals and anthologies, as well as several articles on the craft and business of writing published online and in print zines. I also edited and published a small press literary magazine called Bloodreams from 1991 to 1997, followed by an online version and specialty print anthology collections from 1998 to 2000. Some freelance editing work came my way during these years, too, as well as offers to speak to writers groups, instructing beginning writers on the dos and don’ts of submitting and what an editor looks for in an unsolicited manuscript. My career was on track and I had outlined the first of a series of middle grade books I was planning to write.

This being said, my creative flow hit a brick wall in 2001, around the time of the 9/11 attacks, which corresponds to my first prescription for antidepressant medication. Since that time, it has been a constant uphill struggle to assemble one word after the other in an attempt to form coherent sentences that even remotely build upon each other in any sort of recognizable structure.

The joy of creation… I remember how that felt. It still teases at the edges of my senses like a phantom caress, a memory of pleasure. Where the words used to flow as easily and as steadily as a mountain stream, it now seems like a major undertaking, an excavation or exhumation, like blasting through a concrete dam or chipping away at a frozen pond.

To say that it's frustrating is a vast understatement. As a writer, I constantly feel that inherent drive to create. It's as much a basic component to my nature as breathing. So, to be unable to fulfill this need feels something akin to being locked in a sensory deprivation tank. After a time, you cease to have the ability to perceive where you end and the external world begins. Through my writing, I have always been able to discover the differing aspects of myself  and discover my own personal philosophies and parameters. In essence, it's always helped me define my identity and understand myself and my motivations. Without that tool, it's easy to simply drift along on the surface of life, getting caught up in the mundane day-to-day tasks, never truly connecting with my inner self. I bombard my mind with constant input from the television, online social media and, as I said earlier, book after book after book.

But then last week something remarkable happened. I wrote a story. The first story I have written - from concept to completion - in well over a decade and a half. I've started plenty and tinkered with several, but this is the first one I've sat down and written from beginning to end in well over a decade and a half. It started with a story prompt tossed out in a writers group I joined recently. I had so much fun with it and it flowed out of me with an ease I feared I'd never experience again. When it was finished, I felt both a bit giddy and a bit stunned. It's a ridiculous little, tongue-in-cheek story about witches and dragons, but I'm hoping this means my creative drought has ended.


For anyone who is interested, here is my ridiculous little tale. It's full of magic and nonsense. But since it is the first story I've written in over 12 years, I'm a little pleased with it.

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Tea and Tempests

Copyright © 2018 by Kelly Gunter Atlas

Caledonia Wicke leaned her face over the steam rising from the amber liquid in the antique Damask Rose teacup. The warmth felt healing on her chilled skin. The cottage was like an icebox left open as the weak autumn sun began to wane. She breathed in the smoky scent of Lapsang Souchong, instantly conjuring uninvited visions of lush Chinese mountains and flickering pinewood fires, the sights and smells, tastes and textures as vivid as if she were in their midst. She banished the illusions with a quick shake of her head. The familiar surroundings of her cozy New England kitchen returned.

That was the problem with her inherent abilities. They were both a blessing and an annoyance. Much like the menopause creeping up on her, she thought, wryly. The  hormonal brain fog was definitely not helping. With advancing age, she must develop a stronger defense for her sensory and emotional triggers. She could not risk an episode catching her unawares in the company of non-magical people. They'd assume she'd grown addled. Or worse, that she could no longer manage on her own.  

But that brief glimpse of the fires had her casting her eyes once again on the large, immaculate logs stacked three deep on the hearthstone. Now that was a dilemma, especially with the wind rising and the temperature dropping steadily along with the twilight. She'd tried adding more kindling. She'd struck a box full of matches to no avail. In her frustration, she'd even attempted a fire spell, even though fire had never been her kindred element. The logs would simply not catch flame.

As she rocked slowly in her chair, sipping her tea and pondering the situation, Beckett scurried into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him with a backward glare at the blustery breeze whipping leaves around the back garden. He huddled deeper into his coat, black curls escaping the red wool cap pulled tight over his ears, and blew briskly on his clasped hands in an effort to warm them.

"It's colder than a witch's... " He caught himself just in time as Caledonia cut her eyes toward him in reproach. "Well, you know," he stammered. Blushing a rosy pink along his high cheekbones, he drew closer to her and waved his hands in the direction of the fireplace. "Why haven't you lit the fire?"   

"Well, it's not for a lack of trying," she assured him. "If you think you can do any better, have at it." She took another sip of tea, curling both hands around the cup and grinning up at him as she set it aside and rose from the chair. "By the way, nephew, I've been meaning to thank you for that electric kettle you bought me last birthday. I never imagined it would come in so handy. Would you like me to make you a cup of tea to knock the chill off your bones?"

"Please," he replied. He dropped a kiss on her cheek and smiled as she headed toward the cabinet.  Kneeling close to the hearth, he examined the logs and the charred papers and burnt matchsticks surrounding them. After a moment, he sat back on his heels, a frown forming on his face. "Auntie, where did you get this firewood? I haven't had a chance to replenish your woodpile yet."

"From your friend, Jack, of course." Perplexed, she turned toward him as she waited for the tea to steep. "He told me you asked for it."

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, "That son of a..."     

"Beckett!" she scolded, wagging her finger at him as she brought him his tea. "Watch your tongue, young man."

He climbed to his feet and accepted the cup from her, gratefully, and wrapped both hands around its warmth. "Sorry, Auntie. It's just that Jack appears to be manipulating me and, what's worse, he's dragged you into it."

"I don't understand. I thought you two were becoming quite the item."

"Yeah," he sighed. "So did I."

He bowed his head over the teacup, breathing deeply before taking a long swallow from it. Meeting her eyes at last, he said, "Apparently we weren't on the same page about our exclusivity." He ran his fingers through his hair, dislodging his hat in the process.  He caught it before it hit the ground and shoved it in his pocket. "When I found out he'd been seeing half a dozen other guys in town, I told him we were done. I didn't want to see him any more. Needless to say, he did not take it well." 

"Oh, sweetie," she said, pulling him into a hug. "I did warn you about consorting with a boy who has dragon blood in his veins. They can be quite greedy and possessive, at the best of times, and ruthless when denied what they covet."

He rested his forehead against her shoulder. She could tell he was trying to hide the tears that sprang to his eyes. Gently, she rubbed her hand up and down his back while he pulled himself together. She peered over his shoulder at the stack of wood, realization beginning to sink in. "So, the wood is spelled? Is that what you're telling me?"

He nodded as he drew away from her embrace, wiping his eyes with the palm of one hand while clasping the forgotten teacup to his breastbone. "Either that or it was taken  from the Fairy Wood. Jack is also part fae, don't forget. He has access to that part of the forest."

"And he doesn't want to give you up," she stated, the picture becoming clearer by the minute.

He began to pace up and down before the hearth. "My guess is he expected me to either go out in this weather to chop more wood or, most likely, he expected me to give in and call him for help. Dragon fire is one of the few things that can ignite those logs."

That got her blood up. The nerve of that impudent Jack! How dare he treat her sweet nephew with such cavalier behavior. Thinking he could finagle his way back into Beckett's orbit with such an underhanded maneuver, he had failed to consider one very important thing. He'd forgotten who he was dealing with.

Caledonia felt the heat of both indignation and fluctuating hormones begin to build in the center of her chest, radiating up her throat and out toward her arms. Her face and scalp felt like it was on fire.

"Step back, my boy," she said.

Once Beckett had moved a safe distance from the fireplace, Caledonia channeled all that  inner fire and directed it out through her fingertips toward the bewitched logs with all her rage and might. The flames leaped and danced along the surface of the wood, the fire catching and holding, as the fairy logs began to burn.    

Beckett stood speechless, eyes wide and disbelieving, mouth agape.

"You can tell that Jack, next time you see him," she said. "Never trifle with a menopausal witch."