Finding New Paths: My Tale of Discovery

by Lyza Fennell | Jun 8, 2025 | Writing

Finding New Paths: My Tale of Discovery

What is etched in clay is my story.

I saw a glimpse of it one day. I walked, in solitude, into the forest when I came upon it. A tablet with my story. I didn’t like what I read. I panicked. I felt unsafe. No; who wrote this for me? I wouldn’t have. Did I land here on this Earth accidentally and come upon a life already etched in clay?

My eyes darted. I slowly turned myself in a circle, my eyes looking up and down, my ears pricked for any noises, my skin for any reaction, and smell. What was that smell? It was damp. I am in the woods, and it has rained. The sun does not find me.

I found a stick, too flimsy. I found another one. Yes, this will do. Its tip is damp, jagged, broken from its branch. It told me it didn’t belong in this forest either.

Together we walked to the inscription in the clay. With all my determination, we tried to scratch the words, change the meaning, tell a new story.

The stick continued with all its might, with my strength behind it. My feet firm on the ground, pushing, my legs strong for balance and to provide additional support. My torso leaning, my shoulders, arms, hands, fingers holding the stick, pushing against the clay.

But the stick broke and fell to the ground. “I’m sorry I let you down,” we said simultaneously.

Then it told me, “Find the stream, but you must find a way to gather its gift.”

“But how?” I respond, my eyes searching.

Desperately, I get the urge to move. An anger washes over me; how can my life be already written, I did not plan it. I kick the tablet with all my might. Kick, kick, kick. Three times.

Then I walk over to it and move behind it. It’s resting on a fallen tree, so innocent, so naturally.

Who am I to change it? And still, I must.

I look around. A skinny tree is behind me, fighting for its place in the forest, reaching for the sun. It is not too young. It can help.

I grasp its trunk. Its deciduous leaves greet me with a gentle song. It’s a birch, I realize, my favorite tree.

“I come in peace, my friend,” I say to it and bow my head. “This tablet has a story etched on its face, claiming to be my life unfolding. But I do not like what comes next. I’ve never belonged, you know, but there is cruelty in its script.”

The tree’s leaves rustled and stood strong, and still. I leaned in and gave it a kiss. Its papery surface felt smooth on my lips.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

I put my hand against it again and push with my foot, pulling all the strength from body and the birch tree’s steadiness.

Yes! It falls to the ground. I pat the tree and smirk, then walk back over to the tablet. The words are now hidden.

So, what does this mean? I look around for an answer. I stand in front of it, legs spread out, my arms both outstretched, and I close my eyes.

I see a stone come into view in my mind’s eye. I open my eyes, bring my feet together and lower my arms.

“I’ll be back,” I announce, then pivot and walk away.

The ground beneath me is soft. The composted leaves and needles cushion my steps.

From the corner of my left eye, I see a set of rocks stacked in front of the trunk of an old oak tree. I immediately go over. I kneel before it.

“Thank you. I’ve always believed in rocks. I love you. You’re magical.”

I pull out my shirt to create a pocket to carry.

I take one stone at a time, until I could hold no more.

“I’ll be back,” I say and walk back. But where is it? I’m sure it was here.

Carrying my rocks, held in my shirt, I walk around. But now I am lost.

How far did I walk?

How could this be?

I look for my birch and the fallen tree.

My arm feels tired. I look for a place to sit.

In the near distance, I see another fallen tree. I walk to it, my legs feel heavy. I’m dragging.

I crouch down and gently place my rocks on the ground. I sit on the tree’s trunk and rest. I notice the light. It is fading. I must exit the forest. I search for a clearing to walk toward that is yet unseen.

Can I really leave my story behind?

Author’s Note: This story emerged from a moment of reckoning—a time when I questioned the path that seemed laid out before me. I wrote it as a way of exploring choice, resistance, and the quiet possibility of renewal.

Melissa Changes Everything

by Lyza Fennell | Feb 7, 2025 | Writing

Melissa Changes Everything

Melissa always thought she didn’t matter, just a speck of dust in the universe. She tried to convince herself otherwise, repeating the mantra: “I am important, I am loved, I matter, and I have fun!” She set an alarm on her teal blue iPhone 14 for 9:00 AM every morning. The “Dollop” ringtone had an upbeat tempo she thought would help.

Melissa tried not to feel sorry for herself. She tried therapy, journaling, meditation, and even cocaine—anything to lift her spirits. Despite having moments of fun and joy in her life, she could never fully silence the nagging thought that she didn’t matter.

When Melissa turned fifty—a milestone she had dreaded more than most things—everything truly began to fall apart. She was diagnosed with a devastating, terminal disease. Her genetic report came back showing several pathological mutations, prompting her doctors to run even more tests.

The results were grim: she was at high risk for pneumothorax and renal cancer, with cysts riddled throughout her body. Her strength was whittling away like a ship lost in the fog. To make matters worse, her follow-up MRI flagged a suspicion of cancer.

How could this all happen at once? And why now, in her fiftieth year?

Melissa was despondent. Tears came and went without warning. She couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the universe’s way of telling her there wasn’t enough room for her anymore. She sat with the weight of it all, trying to make sense of the chaos.

Melissa didn’t want to be a sob story. She didn’t want others to feel sorry for her. So, she distracted herself by turning on the TV.

It was the news. Ronald Drumf and Felon Tusk had rigged the recent election, and democracy was crumbling.

She stared in disbelief as the United States, now barely united, fell into the grip of fascism and oligarchy—a pattern repeating across the globe. Terror washed over her. What could she possibly do?

Then, a wry smile crept across her face. She mattered! She was falling apart, and so was democracy.

“Thank you, universe!” she shouted.

The world wasn’t able to function without her, so it fell into the hands of evil. She realized, in that moment, she was responsible for saving the world—saving democracy itself.

Melissa was determined to heal, to get better. She immersed herself in therapies and self-help classes, convinced that saving herself would save the U.S. and the Earth. The power of the mind, she decided, was a valuable weapon.

Weeks of relentless positivity began to yield results. She started seeing glimmers of hope. An underground coalition of more than 100,000 federal workers, lawmakers, judges, and citizens was fighting back.

Her doctors were astounded. Her body was healing. Melissa knew she mattered, and she made every moment count.

“I’ve heard of miracles, but I’ve never really seen one,” her doctor said, studying the computer screen in front of them. “Not that I’m calling this a miracle. I am, after all, aware of the placebo effect. Look here—your nerves have revived, and your cysts have disappeared. But how are you feeling, Melissa?”

Melissa smiled and lifted herself slightly, pressing her hands against the chair. “I am important, I am loved, I matter, and I have fun!” she declared.

Then she looked at the doctor for approval—but quickly looked away. She didn’t need his approval. She already had the answers within her.

The doctor smiled back. “That’s great, Melissa. Well, we should still keep a close eye on things. I’ll order some labs, and we’ll follow up in eight weeks.”

“Great, thanks, Dr. Kevorkian,” Melissa replied, her voice light. She couldn’t wait to get home for her 4:00 PM alarm: “People love me, people learn from me, people love helping me.”

As she left the small office, the television in the lobby blared with breaking news.

“Breaking news!” the newscaster announced. “Countries worldwide have been working together and have finally arrested the authoritarian leaders. They are being tried at The Hague for war crimes and treason.”

The Night I Met Jack

by Lyza Fennell | Nov 29, 2024 | Writing

The Night I Met Jack

I remember the night I met Jack. It was sometime after 1:00 a.m. on November 30th, 1999. Christina and I had been hanging out after work at the downstairs bar at Penang’s, a Malaysian restaurant on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. The bartenders there treated us well. Was it free drinks, extra booze, or engaged conversation? It’s hard to recall, probably a combination. The restaurant closed at 1:00 am, and Craig invited us to meet him after work at a bar down the street. We went ahead of Craig to Peter’s on Columbus Avenue between 68th and 69th streets. I was warm from the Cosmopolitans and didn’t notice the cold November night. The taxis and cars whirled past us.

Christina had a crush on Craig, but Craig had a crush on me.

Craig walked in and breezed past us without a glance. Christina pulled her sad puppy dog face. “He’s ignoring me,” she whined. Craig was talking to a couple of guys – one of them was Jack, my future husband.

I was pretty sassy back then. I walked up to Craig and said, “Hey, Craig, you walked right past us. Is that any way to treat your friends?” I teased.

Craig, with his blonde rockabilly hair, smiled at me, his grin wide. “Hey, meet my friends, Andrew and Jack. Jack’s in the band RoxVox.”

They both said hello, and I immediately had a visceral reaction to the tall man with splotchy blond streaks in his dark hair. His skin was pale and effervescent. My heart fluttered, my gut tightened, and a smile painted my face.

“Oh, cool. Well, nice to meet you guys.” I said nonchalantly. “Say, do you want to dance?” I said to the man named Jack.

He smiled and spoke with a British accent. “Where are we going to dance?”

“Outside on the street! I have a boombox with mad bass. We’ll throw a dance party on the street.”

The three men grinned. “Sure!” They said, like obedient dogs.

I pulled my boombox out of my handbag and expanded it to half my size. “Could one of you carry it? It’s always a bit awkward when I have to do it myself.”

“No problem,” the British guy said to me. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Sure, I’ll have a cosmo,” I said, locking my eyes with his.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, his sultry voice luring me. I blushed.

We had a couple of drinks at the bar. Poor Christina was sitting at the end of the bar, nursing her drink, looking down, and concentrating on her drink. Poor self-pitying, Christina. She’s missing out on a good time.

“Hey, Christina, come join us!” I encouraged, keeping an eye on Jack, as he would never leave my sight now.

Andrew said, “I’m ready to dance with you, babe.” I glared at him.

“I have a name. Don’t call me babe.”

“Sorry. Yes. I just got carried away,” he said solemnly.

The five of us walked out of the bar, drinks in hand. Jack carried the boombox. I like him, I thought to myself. We got outside, and I put on the beats. Kenny Loggins’ “Footloose” blasted out, and Christina and Andrew started dancing. Blood rushed to my cheeks; so embarrassing.

“Oh, that wasn’t supposed to be there! That was a joke from a dance class earlier.” I switched discs. This time, it was Moby. Moby I could groove to. I started dancing with Jack. He was a fierce dancer, and the three others stopped and watched us. Soon, the 2:00 a.m. crowd circled around us, drawn in by the music and the energy of our impromptu street performance.

Someone from an apartment above yelled out of the window, “If you don’t shut up, I’m calling the cops.”

Jack turned down the music.

“Hey, let’s go back to my place and order Chinese food,” said Andrew, his corkscrew curls bouncing on his shoulders.

Jack looked at me. “Are you coming?” His almond-shaped eyes mesmerized me. I smiled at him. “Sure, I’m game, but I don’t want Chinese food.”

“Yeah, me neither. I never eat and drink,” he said to me, a slight smile parted his lips.

I folded the boombox back into my bag, and we started to walk down Columbus Avenue to Andrew’s place. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp concrete and a hint of cigarette smoke, the remnants of a bustling evening fading into the quiet of the late hour. The night air was crisp and biting, carrying the faintest whisper of the Hudson River in the distance, mingling with the earthy coolness of Central Park just a block away. I was tipsy and twisted my ankle on a curb in my 4” heeled boots.

“Ouch!” I said, leaning down, rubbing the pain away. “I don’t know if I can put pressure on it,” I said, discouraged.

The three men all said, “I’ll carry you!”

I looked at the three of them: Andrew with his salt and pepper corkscrew hair, Craig with his Colgate smile, and Jack, perfect in every way. “Sure, thanks, Jack,” I jumped on his back, and he carried me to Andrew’s place. I rested my head on his broad shoulders; his leather jacket cooled my flushed cheeks.

Christina was lagging behind, whining. Poor Christina. “Wait for me!” She complained.

We arrived at Andrew’s apartment. Jack set me down gently, and I smiled up at him. We sat down on Andrew’s L-shaped black velour couch; the air hung heavy with the scent of stale cigarettes. Jack brought me a drink from the kitchen and sat beside me.

Christina sat down next to me on the other side. “Craig’s not talking to me. He doesn’t like me. Will you talk to him?” she pleaded.

I leaned into her and answered quietly, sympathetically, “Go talk to him yourself.” Christina moped and took another sip of her drink.

Jack put my hand in his, and I felt an electric jolt of energy, like the start of something I couldn’t yet define. I felt a connection to him, one that would never leave me. The rest is history.

Zoe’s Throne

by Lyza Fennell | Nov 12, 2024 | Writing

Zoe’s Throne

Zoe sat quietly by the side of the road, she sat upon her throne—a rock large enough to be that throne. It was larger than a chair, but not as big as a mountain.

The rock had been there for generations, but only there for Zoe. The throne was her best secret, one of many, we’ll come to find out. She wouldn’t tell you about the time she crawled under the road or the time she kissed Billy Joe on the cheek because he made her laugh. That was a rare, spontaneous moment; usually, she planned things more carefully.

She first found the throne while hiding from her older brother. It had a sort of seat carved by time on itself. It was not soft, as you would imagine with a rock. She spoke to it, listening for its story.

She guessed its story began long before humans, maybe even before the dinosaurs. Rocks came first, after all. Rocks come in all shapes and sizes, just like people, and they evolve, too, over time, yet always keeping their personality from their inception.

Zoe thought it was silly that people didn’t see how similar rocks and humans were. Or maybe they did, and she just hadn’t learned it in school yet. “Stupid school,” she told her rock. “They never teach the interesting stuff.” Zoe saved her best thoughts for her rock instead. That’s why she always stopped at her throne, lost in the woods for all to find—but only Zoe did, because others were too busy to notice.

Zoe didn’t mind keeping the rock to herself, a place to meditate in the quiet woods when the noises became too loud. She slept on the floor at home. She likes hard surfaces, yet she is not hard herself, but rather, she is gentle and kind. Kind, like the time she sang to a bird that landed on her throne. Every spring, she waited for the bird, but one year it didn’t return. She shouted her song, “Three Little Birds Upon My Doorstep,” hoping it would hear, but the bird never came. The throne and Zoe sat there crying together. After that, Zoe brought her sketchbook and sketched whatever she saw, like the bear she never finished drawing. We aren’t sure if that’s where the story ended.

Zoe shared her stories with her throne: a princess who saved herself, a dinosaur who only slept on Sundays, a frog who wore goggles because he hated getting water in his eyes. She offered snacks to the rock. It was passive, receptive, and reserved, yet it listened in a way only a throne sharing the DNA of a little girl could. Sometimes, Zoe yelled, “Why won’t you listen to me? You never listen!” But all the throne did was listen. She threw pebbles at it when she got mad, and the rock stood silent, accepting.

Zoe wondered if she could ever be as wise as her throne, feeling sorry for herself.

She sat beside it, dejected. She wondered if she could ever have a best friend like her throne.“But you don’t even have a name, do you?” she whispered. The throne, as per usual, didn’t reply.

“If you won’t tell me your name, I’ll name you myself. You’re…you’re…you’re… stupid. No, I’m sorry. That was mean. You didn’t deserve that. I’m the stupid one.” She slapped herself in the face. “I want to call you…” She paused, a frown creeping over her face as she noticed the fresh spray-painted letters: Kilroy was here.

“Kilroy? Who’s Kilroy? Do you have other visitors? Aren’t you loyal to me?” she demanded. “Fine. I’ll call you Traitor!” And she crossed her arms across her body and pouted.

Then she looked at her rock with sympathy, “Oh, you didn’t invite Kilroy.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t have gotten jealous. I’ve known you for years and yet don’t know anything about you…your name. Why won’t you tell me your name?” She admired its soft shades of gray and how the sunlight danced on its surface, speckled through the trees. She rubbed her hand across its surface.

Zoe turned to look at her throne, “I know! I’ll call you Dusty.”

Dusty sat there pondering its new name as a breeze swirled leaves around them, brushing dust into Zoe’s eye.

“Oh, you don’t like the name? How about Felicia?” She giggled as a downpour began, soaking them both. They laughed together, Zoe and her rock. She leaned down, gave it a kiss, and said, “See you tomorrow, Amon, the hidden one.” And Zoe skipped away.

Worst Week Ever

by Lyza Fennell | Nov 7, 2024 | Writing

Worst Week Ever

The mind is a powerful tool, they say. Tara watches her thoughts turn to reality as if by magic. She wonders if a lobotomy would make life more bearable or electroshock therapy might be enough, it’s come back in fashion.She’d recently had a nerve conduction test, and those zaps felt like repetitively sticking her wet finger in an electric socket. And why would my finger be wet? And why would I do that repetitively?

She spends time every day with tools to help her: meditation, a vision board, visualization, journaling, and a rubber mallet to the head. She doesn’t always make the best choices.

She feels like she’s been saying for five years solid, “This is the worst week ever.” But she feels that, maybe, just maybe this week takes the cake.

She also complains sometimes, maybe she’s a bit negative, but maybe anyone in her situation would be. She loves to say, “I just want someone to take care of me.” Recently, she had a birthday that put her into the next age bracket. She doesn’t think she was being negative by saying,”I don’t want to age! I don’t want to get old!”

She’s hoping these thoughts that become reality as if by magic haven’t come true as she opens her health portal and reads the doctor’s note.

“A terminal, debilitating disease is suspected as a cause for symptoms. Tara must see a neurologist as soon as possible.” She remembers that moment quite well. She mutters, “No. What the fuck?” Then the tears fall slowly down her cheeks–her children.. Grief and fear take over.

But her sick child calls from the other room, “Mommy?” Tara wipes her tears off her face and composes herself. Then, she throws something—anything—angrily across the room and walks in to see her kid.

The kid spiked a high fever, 103.8, a flu-like virus taking over their febrile body. The flu turns into an infected lymph node, and after eight days of fever, pneumonia, and an ear infection. Oxygen level is 92%, respiratory rate is 30, and sounds in the left lung are diminished. Two antibiotics and a follow-up in two days.

Tara’s other child met with the rheumatologist. Their lupus is flared, and the fatigue and joint pain are unrelenting—the nerves are raw, on fire, shooting missiles of pain. Now, even holding a fork feels like a chore. The doctor said, “If we don’t get your symptoms managed soon, we might need to admit you to the hospital.”

Her 6-month-old puppy had her left eye removed yesterday and has to have a cone on her head for two weeks. It’s squishing her ears, and she can’t smell or touch the ground. So she’s lost her ability to use her other senses that she relied on when her blinded, glaucoma eye was still intact.

Tara is pretty sure this is the worst week ever, and that’s not all.

Tara grapples with the looming suspected diagnosis she read in her chart. Why would the doctor put it in her chart that he discussed it with her and that she fully understood the cause of her symptoms? That’s false. He never told her anything.

“That’s malpractice,” people have told her. Yes, maybe. But then she remembers those thoughts that turned into reality as if by magic, and she wonders if this terminal disease is how her thoughts turned into reality as if by magic. “I want someone to take care of me,” and “I don’t want to age!”

Terminal thoughts and she scrambles to visualize better outcomes; she forces thoughts of independence and old age. “If my thoughts turn into reality as if by magic, then I’m going to imagine the best week ever.” She sits there squeezing her brain, searching for positive thoughts and an open mind. She tries to squeeze the scary thoughts out of her head but can’t squeeze hard enough.

She hopes that next week will be the best week ever because she’s done with shitty weeks filled with stress and fear. She’s ready to throw off her shoes and socks and ground herself on the ground outside. But she steps on a small stick, then a sharp rock cuts into the bottom of her foot, and she bleeds.

She sits on the ground, squeezing her foot, thinking to herself: It’s going to get better; life will be blissful… and suddenly, she’s swallowed into the ground. A crevice opens, the Earth beneath her, and she gets pulled into a strange underworld. It’s warm, maybe a little too warm, but she likes it. A man walks up to her. He’s wearing a scarf that says, “Go Devils.”

“Hi, my name is Tom. I’m sorry I’ve been controlling your life down here. I had the wrong Tara. All that stuff was meant for the Tara two streets over. Please forgive me.”