Tracie Hicks | Updates

The Ko-Fi Cup

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The bakery had been dark for three hours when Tonya finally opened her laptop. She sat at the small wooden table in the back room, the one Mrs. Bellamy used for paperwork and ordering supplies, with a mug of chamomile tea cooling beside her elbow. Outside, snow fell in thick, lazy spirals past the frosted window, each flake catching the yellow glow of the streetlamp on the corner. The rest of Main Street slept, shops shuttered, Christmas lights blinking their patient rhythm into the December night.

Tonya pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders and clicked over to Ko-Fi. She'd started the page six months ago, mostly at Kent's insistence.

"People want to support you," he'd said, leaning against the bakery counter with that easy grin of his. "Let them."

She hadn't expected much. A few dollars here and there from regulars who appreciated the cinnamon rolls. Maybe the occasional tip from someone who'd stumbled across her Instagram photos of sourdough loaves cooling on wire racks. But the donations had trickled in. Small ones, mostly. Three dollars. Five. Sometimes ten, with messages that made her chest tighten in ways she couldn't name.

For the bread that saved my morning.

Because your bakery makes Snowhaven feel like home.

Keep doing what you're doing.

Tonight, there was a new notification.

Winterbound donated $5.00

Tonya clicked on the message.

I've been following your Ko-Fi for months now. I'm stationed overseas—can't say where, but it's cold and far from anywhere I've ever called home. I work most nights. The kind where you forget what daylight looks like, or what your mom's kitchen smells like, or what it feels like to bite into something warm that someone made because they cared, not because it came out of a vending machine.

I know it's impossible. I know you can't send bread across oceans. But I saw your sourdough this morning (well, my morning, your yesterday), and I thought: I wish I could taste that. Just once. I wish I could know what it's like to eat something that looks like it has a soul.

Anyway. Thank you for sharing your work. It helps, even from here.

—W.

Tonya read the message three times. Then she set down her mug and pressed both palms against the table. Her heart was doing something complicated in her chest, something that felt like recognition and longing and the particular ache that came from knowing someone was hurting and being too far away to fix it.

She knew that ache. She'd spent fifteen years cataloging it, tracking it, learning to recognize its particular shape in other people's lives. Houses that had gone too quiet. Families holding their breath. The specific quality of silence that meant someone, somewhere, needed finding.

But this was different. Winterbound wasn't in crisis. Not the kind the Midnight Baker visited, anyway. No one was dying. No one was facing eviction or bankruptcy or the kind of grief that hollowed a person out from the inside. Winterbound was lonely. Far from home. Cold in a way that had nothing to do with the weather.

And bread couldn't travel across oceans.

Except.

Tonya's fingers hovered over the keyboard. Except maybe it could. If she was willing to bend the rules she'd been so careful to follow. If she was willing to trust that the magic, whatever it was, wherever it came from, could stretch further than midnight deliveries and anonymous porch drops.

She glanced toward the kitchen, where the ovens sat dark and cool, waiting for tomorrow's 2:45 AM wake-up call. Then she stood up, crossed to the supply closet, and pulled out three small mason jars.

* * *

The Midnight Baker's magic worked in person. That was the rule Tonya had learned from fifteen years of watching. The rule she'd absorbed from her own childhood miracle, from the gingerbread house that had arrived on a frozen Christmas Eve and brought her mother back from the edge of grief. She remembered the way her mother's hands had shaken when she'd lifted the lid of that unmarked box, the way her breath had caught at the sight of the little candied windows glowing amber in the kitchen light. The gingerbread had smelled like cinnamon and cloves and something else, something that didn't have a name but made the whole house feel warmer just by existing.

In person. In crisis. In the dark hours between midnight and dawn. Those were the conditions. Those were the patterns she'd tracked in her notebook, the ones she'd mapped across fifteen years of anonymous deliveries and impossible timing. The Midnight Baker appeared when someone needed finding, and the magic worked because the baker was there, present, close enough to leave a package on a porch and disappear before anyone saw.

But Winterbound wasn't here. Winterbound was thousands of miles away, in a place that couldn't be named, working shifts that swallowed daylight whole. And the crisis wasn't dramatic. It wasn't the kind of emergency that made headlines or brought neighbors to their doors with casseroles and condolences. It was slow and grinding, the kind that wore a person down one cold, lonely shift at a time. The kind that made you forget what your mother's kitchen smelled like, what warmth tasted like, what it meant to eat something made by hands that cared whether you lived or died.

Tonya set the jars on the counter and stared at them. The glass caught the faint glow from the streetlamp outside, three small vessels waiting to be filled with something she wasn't sure she knew how to give. She could do nothing. That was always an option. She could send a kind reply, maybe a digital postcard of Snowhaven in the snow, the kind of gesture that meant well but landed soft and dissolved like sugar in rain. She could follow the rules she'd so carefully documented, the ones that said magic required presence, required proximity, required the baker to be close enough to feel the weight of the need.

Or.

She could trust that kindness didn't need proximity to land. That magic, real magic, the kind that lived in intention and care and the particular way flour felt between your fingers when you were making something for someone who needed it, could travel as far as the person carrying it was willing to send it. She could trust that the distance between Snowhaven and wherever Winterbound was stationed wasn't measured in miles but in the space between wanting to help and deciding to try.

Tonya reached for the flour canister. The metal was cold under her fingers, familiar in the way that only things touched daily for years could be. She lifted the lid and breathed in the dry, clean scent of unbleached wheat, the smell that meant morning was coming, that bread was possible, that someone somewhere would wake up to something fresh and warm because she'd chosen to make it so.

"Okay," she whispered to the dark kitchen. "Let's see if this works."

The words hung in the air, small and certain. Outside, the snow kept falling, covering Main Street in another layer of white. Inside, Tonya pulled the first jar toward her and began to measure.

* * *

Tonya didn't tell anyone. Not her mother, who would have worried about postage costs and the risk of glass jars breaking in transit. Not Mrs. Bellamy, who would have asked too many questions. Not Kent, who would have grinned and said something about Tonya going full Midnight Baker, and she wasn't ready to hear that out loud yet.

This was hers. A small experiment. A single, quiet act of faith.

It took her two nights to get it right.

The first night, she worked in her mother's kitchen after dinner, spreading ingredients across the old oak table while her mom graded library returns in the living room. She started with the Midnight Baker's sourdough starter, the one that had been alive longer than Tonya herself. The starter lived in a ceramic crock on the counter, its surface bubbling with the slow patience of something that had learned to wait.

She measured flour into the first jar. Not bread. Not yet. Just the promise of bread. Flour, starter, salt, and a small cloth bag of sugar, each ingredient layered so the colors showed through the glass like sediment in stone. White and cream and gray-white crystals, a geology of intention waiting to be activated.

She wrote out instructions on an index card in her neatest handwriting.

Add 1 cup warm water.

Stir until smooth.

Let rest 30 minutes.

Knead for 5 minutes.

Let rise 2 hours.

Bake at 375°F for 30 minutes.

Some warmth travels better than others.

No signature. That was important. The Midnight Baker never signed her work.

But it wasn't enough. Tonya held the jar up to the kitchen light and turned it slowly, watching the layers shift against each other. It was practical, sure. Mail-safe. But it didn't carry the weight she needed it to carry. It didn't hold the intention. It was ingredients in a jar, nothing more. Anyone could buy flour at a grocery store. Anyone could mail a care package overseas. This needed to be something else. This needed to be the kind of gift that arrived already warm, already loved, already knowing who it was for.

The second night, she started over.

This time, she worked after her shift at the bakery, staying late after Mrs. Bellamy had gone home. She locked the front door, turned off the lights, and stood in the kitchen with only the glow of the streetlamp coming through the window. The ovens were cool, and the mixers were silent.

Tonya lit a candle. Not for ceremony; she wasn't religious, not in any formal way. But it felt right. The Midnight Baker's deliveries had always carried warmth, and warmth needed fire. The flame cast dancing shadows across the stainless steel counters, turning the industrial kitchen into something older, something that remembered when bread was made by firelight and every loaf was a small miracle against hunger.

She layered the ingredients again, but this time she slowed between each one.

Flour first. She held the measuring cup in both hands and thought about Winterbound's message. The kind of nights where you forget what your mom's kitchen smells like. She poured the flour slowly, watching it settle into soft white drifts at the bottom of the jar, and she let herself remember her own mother's kitchen on the Christmas Eve when the gingerbread house arrived. The way grief had made everything gray and muted until that box appeared on the porch, until the smell of spices filled the house, and her mother had smiled for the first time in weeks.

Salt next. She pinched it between her fingers, felt the crystals' sharpness against her skin, and thought about preservation. About the way salt kept things from spoiling, kept them whole even across distance and time. About the way love could be packed into something small and sent into the world with nothing but hope to carry it forward.

Sugar. A small cloth bag, tied with kitchen twine. Sweetness. The thing that made bread more than fuel. The thing that made it a gift.

And finally, the starter. A small glass vial of the Midnight Baker's sourdough culture, pale and alive, smelling faintly of fermentation and possibility. This was the heart of it. This was the part that couldn't be bought or replicated or faked. It was handed to Tonya when she met the Midnight Baker. When the Midnight Baker trained her one night. Tonya got the recipe and an old wooden spoon.

She sealed each jar, testing the lids twice to make sure they were tight.

Then she sat down at the prep station and wrote three identical notes.

Add 1 cup warm water.

Stir gently.

Let rest overnight.

In the morning, knead for 5 minutes, let rise 2 hours, bake at 375°F for 30 minutes.

This bread has been rising for a long time. Longer than you know.

Some warmth travels better than others.

She tucked one note into each jar, wrapped them in brown paper and kitchen twine, and addressed the first package in careful block letters to the APO address Winterbound had included in their Ko-Fi profile.

At the post office the next morning, the clerk raised an eyebrow.

"Overseas?"

"Overseas," Tonya confirmed.

"Gonna take a while."

"I know."

She paid for the postage, watched the clerk stamp the package and toss it into the bin marked INTERNATIONAL, and walked out into the cold December morning with her hands shoved deep in her pockets and her heart hammering against her ribs.

Faith, she thought, was just another word for waiting without proof.

* * *

A week passed. Then two.

Tonya went about her days the way she always did. Rising at 2:45 AM when the alarm cut through whatever dream she'd been having, stumbling to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face, pulling on the same flour-dusted jeans and thermal shirt she'd worn the day before. The drive to the bakery took seven minutes in the dark, past houses with their porch lights still burning and the gas station where Tommy worked the overnight shift and always waved when her headlights swept across the lot.

She lit the ovens first. That was the ritual, the thing that made the rest of it possible. The click of the pilot, the soft whoosh of flame catching, the slow climb of temperature on the old analog dials Mrs. Bellamy refused to replace. The kitchen warmed around her in increments, chasing the December chill from the corners, and by the time she pulled the sourdough starter from the walk-in, the space felt like something living.

Kneading came next. The dough was cold and resistant at first, fighting her palms, but she knew how to wait it out. Fold, press, turn. Fold, press, turn. Somewhere in that rhythm, the dough stopped fighting and started yielding, becoming supple and elastic under her hands, becoming bread.

She shaped croissants by five-thirty, layering butter between sheets of dough the way the Midnight Baker had taught her. She pulled cinnamon rolls from the oven at six-fifteen, golden and fragrant, the glaze pooling in the spirals like amber caught in tree rings.

The construction crew arrived at six-thirty, stomping snow from their boots and filling the small dining room with the smell of sawdust and cold air. Tonya handed out sourdough loaves wrapped in brown paper and didn't charge Earl for the extra roll he always tried to pay for. The choir ladies came at eight, ordering their usual assortment of pastries and lingering over coffee while they debated hymn selections for the Christmas Eve service. Gary from the hardware store stopped by at nine for his daily baguette and the weather report he could have gotten from his phone, but preferred to get from Mrs. Bellamy.

"Snow through Wednesday," Mrs. Bellamy told him, wiping down the counter with the same rag she'd been using since Tonya was twelve. "Then clear through the weekend. My knee says so."

"Your knee's never wrong," Gary agreed, and tucked the baguette under his arm like a newspaper.

Tonya listened to Mrs. Bellamy's stories about her grandchildren. The twins were learning to ice skate. The oldest had gotten into a fight at school and then apologized without being told to, which Mrs. Bellamy considered a sign of moral fortitude. And the youngest had asked Santa for a puppy, which Mrs. Bellamy considered a sign of impending chaos.

She let Kent steal bites of her lunch and pretended not to notice. He'd perfected the art of the casual reach, the hand that wandered toward her sandwich while he was telling her about the leak in his apartment ceiling or the new true crime podcast he'd discovered. She let him have the pickle spear and the corner of her grilled cheese and didn't say anything, because saying something would mean acknowledging the pattern, and acknowledging the pattern would mean having a conversation she wasn't ready to have.

But part of her was somewhere else. Part of her was crossing an ocean, tucked inside a brown paper package, traveling toward someone she'd never met. She pictured the jar rattling in the belly of a cargo plane, or nestled in a mailbag on a ship cutting through gray water, or sitting in some sorting facility in a country she couldn't name, waiting for the next leg of a journey she couldn't track.

She didn't check her Ko-Fi page. She was afraid to. Afraid there would be nothing, or of something being there. Afraid that whatever she found would prove the whole experiment had been foolish, a woman playing at magic she didn't understand, sending ingredients across the world as if flour and hope could survive customs.

* * *

The notification came on a Thursday night, three weeks after she'd mailed the package.

Tonya was home, curled up on the couch with her cat purring on her lap and a book she wasn't reading open in her hands. She'd been on the same page for twenty minutes, her eyes moving across the words without taking any of them in. Her mother had gone to bed an hour ago, and the house was quiet except for the wind rattling the windows and the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. The Christmas tree in the corner threw colored light across the ceiling, red and green and gold shifting in slow patterns whenever the heat kicked on and stirred the branches.

Her phone buzzed against the arm of the couch.

Tonya picked it up without thinking, expecting a text from Kent, a weather alert, or another notification from the library app reminding her that her holds were ready. But the screen showed something else.

New Ko-Fi message from Winterbound

Her heart stopped. Then it started again, too fast, hammering in her chest like it was trying to escape. The cat lifted his head and gave her a look of pure feline irritation, disturbed by the sudden tension in her body.

She opened the app with shaking hands.

There was a photo attached.

It showed a pair of hands, small, with short nails and a band-aid wrapped around one thumb, cupped around a white ceramic mug. The mug was filled with something thick and pale, steam rising from the surface in soft spirals that caught the light from somewhere off-frame. In the background, barely visible, a narrow bed with military-issue blankets tucked tight at the corners. A tiny desk with a lamp. A window showing nothing but darkness, the kind of darkness that could have been anywhere in the world, any time zone, any distance from home.

The message beneath the photo was short.

I don't know how you did this. I don't know how something that started as flour and a glass jar turned into this. But I made it tonight after my shift, and it tastes like…

I don't even have words. It tastes like my mom's kitchen. Like the bread my grandmother used to make on Sundays. Like someone, somewhere, remembered I was cold and decided that mattered.

I ate it with butter and honey, and I cried, which probably sounds ridiculous, but I haven't cried in eight months, so maybe it's not ridiculous. Maybe it's just what happens when you remember what home tastes like.

Thank you. I don't know who you are. I don't need to. Just… thank you.

—W.

Tonya read the message four times. The words blurred on the third reading, and she had to blink a few times to bring them back into focus on the fourth. She saved the photo to her phone. Then she set the device face down on the coffee table and sat still in the dark living room with her hands pressed over her mouth.

The Christmas lights blinked their patient rhythm. The wind pushed against the windows. Somewhere in the walls, the old house creaked and settled, the sounds she'd been hearing her whole life, the sounds that meant home.

The cat chirped. A small, questioning sound, the one he made when he wanted attention or food or simply acknowledgment that he existed and mattered.

Tonya laughed. She picked up the cat, all twelve pounds of orange fur and rumbling purr, and buried her face against his neck. He smelled like the lavender sachets her mother kept in the linen closet and the particular dusty warmth of a cat who spent his days sleeping in sunbeams.

She let herself cry. Just the overwhelming fullness of knowing that kindness had landed. That something she'd made with her hands and sent into the dark had found its way home to someone who needed it. That the magic, whatever it was, wherever it came from, could stretch further than she'd ever dared to believe.

The cat tolerated the embrace for approximately thirty seconds before squirming free. He jumped to the floor, gave her a look of dignified reproach, and stalked off toward the kitchen in search of compensation.

Tonya wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater and reached for her phone again. She opened the photo one more time, studying the hands wrapped around that mug, the steam rising, the darkness beyond the window. Somewhere on the other side of the world, someone was warm tonight. Someone had tasted bread that carried intention across an ocean, and it had landed the way it was supposed to land.

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My Nightly Prayer

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Our Father, who art in heaven,

hallowed be thy Name,

thy kingdom come,

thy will be done,

on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread.

And forgive us our trespasses,

as we forgive those

who trespass against us.

And lead us not into temptation,

but deliver us from evil.

For thine is the kingdom,

and the power, and the glory,

forever and ever.

In Jesus’ name

Amen.

Dear Lord Jesus Christ

God bless every single living creature

On this planet and others.

May everybody's hopes and dreams come true

Let there be no more evil in this world.

Let everyone be created as one

And let there be peace throughout the universe

In Jesus’ name

Amen

Now I lay me down to sleep.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

And if I should die before I wake,

I pray to God my soul to take.

God bless,

Bruce,

Patches,

Spooky,

And Mayflower

May they live long,

happy, and healthy lives.

Kumbayah, my Lord, kumbayah

Kumbayah, kumbayah

Oh, Michael, row your boat ashore, hallelujah

Oh, Michael, row your boat ashore

Glory, glory, hallelujah!

His truth is marching on.

This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine.

This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine,

Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

Jesus, God

My condolences go to those

whose loved ones have passed away,

Both human and animal.

May they find peace

In your everlasting loving arms.

Let those who are lost be found

And let there be justice around the world.

Jesus, God

I am grateful for

Having a home to live in,

Clothes to wear,

Food to eat,

And the money,

to pay for it all

Jesus, God

I am thankful for the

Love I receive from you, God

And you Jesus

As well as from

Bruce,

Patches,

Spooky,

And Mayflower.

Hello, God

Hello, Jesus

Hello, Mother Nature

Hello, spirit guides

Hello, guardian angels

Hello, angels.

I hope this day

Has gone well for you

Angels, thank you

for all that you do

In doing God’s work.

Thank you,

For recording everything

For watching over us

And the whole universe

Thank you,

For watching over Heaven

And defending it against

All evil.

Thank you,

Guardian angels

And Spirit guides.

Thank you,

for watching over us

And keeping us safe

From all evil,

Not just here at home

But also out in the world

Thank you

for watching over Bruce

And keeping him safe

On his travels

And at work.

You don’t know

How much that

Means to me.

Mother Nature

Thank you for all you do

in doing God’s work

And taking care

Of the planet.

Jesus,

King of Kings

Lord of Lords

Thank you

For all that

You have done.

Thank you

for choosing your disciples

For they help spread your word

So we get to know you better

And it is through you

Jesus, that we get

To know your Heavenly Father,

King of the Universe

The Great I Am

Thank you, God

For allowing me to be born

And live and grow as a human being.

Thank you for bringing Jesus into my life

As well as

Bruce,

Patches,

Spooky,

And Mayflower,

Thank you for all the healing

You have given us

Past, present, and future.

Thank you,

To all of you.

Please

Stay safe

And take care

In Jesus’ name

Amen

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The Edge of Everything

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Tom Henderson stood on the edge of the Grand Canyon, holding his phone like it was a detonator. Behind him, his best friend Gary whispered, “Man, one more step back and you’ll have the most viral video in history.”

Tom grinned. “That’s the point! Extreme yoga, Edge Edition.” He bent one knee, extended his arms, and wobbled dangerously. The wind picked up like it had a grudge.

Gary’s eyes widened. “Dude, it’s a live stream. Maybe chill?”

“Gary,” Tom said, adjusting his balance, “if you want to be someone, you gotta live on the edge.” His foot slipped.

Gary screamed, lunging forward, but Tom didn’t fall. He froze mid-air, hovering six inches below the rim, horizontally suspended like an action figure.

They blinked at each other.

“Um,” Tom said. “Is this gravity taking a break?”

Gary leaned over, squinting. “You landed on a selfie stick.”

Tom craned his neck. Sure enough, wedged perfectly between rocks was a forgotten selfie stick from some other reckless tourist.

Gary burst out laughing so hard he nearly fell himself. “You’re literally being saved by someone else’s Instagram dreams.”

Tom dragged himself back up, covered in sand, dignity leaking like a punctured balloon. He looked back at the canyon and muttered, “That’s it. From now on, I do yoga in the living room.”

Gary wiped a tear. “Nah, man. You live on the edge, just try not to monetize it next time.”

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MIDNIGHT EXCHANGE

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The first time Olivia saw the flyer, it was taped crooked over the laundromat bulletin board: MIDNIGHT EXCHANGE. BRING WHAT YOU CANNOT KEEP. No fee, no phone number, just an address across town.

She went as a joke. That was what she told herself while she walked the six blocks in the cold, fingers shoved deep in her hoodie pocket around the small plastic hospital bracelet she had never thrown away.

The address turned out to be the old roller rink, the one that closed long ago. Its neon sign flickered a dull blue, buzzing like an insect stuck in a jar. The front doors were unlocked.

Inside, the rink had been cleared of everything except a circle of lawn chairs and a single folding table in the center. A boom box muttered static from the DJ booth. Seven people sat waiting. They looked like grocery-store cashiers, exhausted teachers, the guy at the gas station counter. Ordinary faces, all turned toward her.

A woman with streaked gray hair and a Cubs sweatshirt stood up. "You must be new," she said. "I’m Rita. Tonight, you are Participant Eight."

Olivia almost laughed, but the sound died on the slick floor.

"Set what you brought on the table," Rita said. "Then the bell goes around."

The object in the middle of the table was a brass handbell, the kind teachers used decades ago. It gleamed, polished bright. One by one, the others placed things beside it.

A broken watch. A folded wedding photo. A bus pass snapped in half. A collar with no tag. A worn-out inhaler. A baby sock.

The man from the gas station, whom Rita called Carl, gestured to Olivia. "You too."

She set the hospital bracelet on the table. Her name faced up. The dates did not.

"Rule One," Rita said. "The Exchange takes only what you cannot keep. It will not take what you pretend you can let go of."

"Rule Two," Carl added, eyes on the bell. "You must ring it when the moment feels wrong."

Olivia frowned. "Wrong?"

Rita smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. "You will know."

The lights above the rink hummed and dimmed until everyone’s faces were pale coins floating in gray water. Carl picked up the bell and started it around the circle.

When it reached the woman with the dog collar, she rang it once. The collar shuddered, then slowly unwound, threads separating like smoke. Within seconds, nothing was left on the table where it had been.

"Good trade," Rita murmured.

The baby sock’s owner rang next, jaw clenched. The sock dissolved more slowly, as if reluctant. Tears ran down his face. No one moved to comfort him.

Then the bell came to Olivia.

It was heavier than it looked. The brass was cool against her palm, but her hand sweated around the handle.

"Think of what you are giving away," Rita said softly. "Think of what will fill its place."

Olivia pictured the bracelet in the trash, imagined her kitchen drawer without it, her dreams without that weight at the back of them. She tried to imagine mornings that did not start with counting what was missing.

The bracelet materialized on the table.

She lifted the bell. The moment felt almost right.

Then she heard it: a high giggle, echoing where the DJ booth used to cast colored light over the floor. It was not in the room, not exactly, but it was like someone whispering through a wall.

Olivia froze.

"Wrong," she whispered.

Her hand shook. The giggle came again, closer this time, wrapped around her name the way it had sounded only in her head. Cold rolled over her scalp.

The moment cracked sideways.

She did not ring.

"Pass it," Carl said quietly.

Her throat closed. Olivia passed the bell to the next person. The bracelet stayed on the table, bright white under the dim lights.

Rita watched her, expression unreadable. "Sometimes the Exchange refuses," she said. "Or you do. Either way, it remembers."

The bell circled the room, swallowing grief one object at a time. Each time it rang, something vanished. Each time, the air grew a little lighter and a little stranger, as if the rink were hollowing out from the inside.

When the last object dissolved, the lights brightened with a pop. The boom box snapped off mid-static. Everyone stood, chairs scraping.

"Thank you for participating," Rita said. "You may notice changes. Side effects. That is the nature of imbalance."

"What about mine?" Olivia asked. "It did not work."

Rita glanced at the untouched bracelet. "You brought what you cannot keep," she said. "But you also brought what does not want to leave."

On the walk home, the streets felt narrower than before, as if the houses had leaned in to listen. The air smelled faintly of popcorn and floor polish.

In her apartment, the bracelet waited on the kitchen counter, right where she had left it, though she was certain she had not carried it back.

Olivia touched it with one finger.

The giggle bloomed again, unmistakable this time, bubbling up from under the linoleum, from inside the walls, from the space directly behind her ribs.

"Next month," a small voice said, sounding like both memory and hunger. "You will ring it next month."

She snapped her hand back and stared at the plastic circle that refused to be thrown away.

Outside, somewhere in the city, a brass bell chimed once, clear and distant, as if agreeing.

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The One Wish

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The room felt small when the doctor left. The walls leaned in as if they wanted to listen. I sat beside his bed and held his hand. His pulse tapped a thin rhythm under my fingers, like it was trying to stay steady for me.

Night settled over the house in slow layers. I closed my eyes and asked the dark for one thing. Not riches. Not time, or anything the world could weigh or count. Only this, to let him be whole again.

A breeze slipped through the open window, though the air outside was still. A soft stir brushed his hair. His breathing eased. His pain loosened its hold and drifted off like dust shaken from a curtain.

He opened his eyes, and they were clear.

He sat up without the wince that had lived in him for months. His shoulders lifted as if a weight had been peeled off bone. He looked at his hands as though they belonged to a stranger, then reached for me.

“Feels like I slept a year,” he said.

I pressed my forehead to his and listened to his steady breath. A wish isn’t something you bargain for. It’s a doorway you stumble through, barefoot and trembling, grateful for the floor beneath you.

His heartbeat thumped strongly under my palm.

The walls didn’t lean anymore. They stood quietly, holding our new morning.

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Letter From the End of My Life

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

My dearest you,

As the last candle of me flickered, it didn't just fade away. I settled quietly into the rooms you still enter. I learned the shape of your breathing in the middle of the night, the way you trace your fingers on the windowpane when you don’t know I’m watching.

Do you feel the whisper of the sun on your shoulder and wonder who brushed it there? I did. I moved the light so you’d know that you are not alone.

All your regrets, they’re towels damp with rain, folded now inside a drawer in the heart. I’ve sewn the edges with threads of forgiveness. I sit by the loom at midnight, weaving the patterns of our everything-we-didn’t-say into soft golden threads you will, one day, touch without knowing.

When you weep, I do not cry. I lean into your membrane of sorrow and press my palms into the soft walls of your living. Let the tears travel downward. I will catch them in the garden we planted once, the one with daisies and wild mint, remember? We planted hope instead of waiting for it. The flowers are perennials there.

I am more with you than I ever was before. If you ask the measure of eternity, I will answer: “How wide is your heart?”

Tonight I’ll ride the hush of your dreams. Tomorrow I’ll tiptoe across your kitchen floor, leaving footprints of salt, of laughter, of the time we danced barefoot in a field of fireflies before everything changed.

Don’t look for me in stars, I am in the quiet house-bones of your life. I am in the note you tuck under your pillow when no one knows you’re scared. I am in the stranger’s smile at the bus stop that gives you hope. I am in your own chest, beating, breathing you.

With love that bends space and folds years,

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Johnny

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The fog rolled in off the river, thick and gray, swallowing the last of the streetlights. Silas stood at the edge of the pier, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, watching the water churn beneath him. The city had changed, but the docks hadn’t. They still smelled of salt and dead fish.

He remembered Johnny, his brother, laughing as he hauled crates in the rain, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms streaked with grime. Johnny used to work at the docks, back when the ships still came in and the night was alive with shouts and the clang of chains. Now, the silence was broken only by the occasional groan of a distant barge.

Silas pulled out a cigarette, the flame from his lighter flickering against the damp air. He didn’t smoke much anymore, but tonight felt like the kind of night that demanded it. The type of night when the past pressed close, whispering through the fog. He thought about the last time he’d seen Johnny, standing right here, saying he’d be back after one more run. That was years ago. The river had taken him, and Silas had never found the words to say goodbye.

He flicked the cigarette into the water, watching it sizzle out. The city lights blurred in the mist, and for a moment, he could almost hear Johnny’s voice, calling him to come home. But home was gone, washed away like the old docks, and all that remained was the river, the fog, and the memory of a man who used to work at the docks.

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The Five of Abundance

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

She finds the card tucked under the edge of a dusty ledger in her grandfather’s office, a collage of gold and fruit gleaming against a velvet background. In the image, a man sits surrounded by riches. A crown between his hands, tin cans transmogrified into sumptuous vessels, apples polished to an unnatural sheen. There is a face, but no name; only the suggestion of hunger quelled.

As she palms the card, she feels its weight. Is a subtle thrum in her fingertips, like the pulse of coins sliding across a counting tray. Rain rattles the window. She remembers every small feast hidden in their pantry: canned pears for birthdays, a single truffle her grandfather split five ways, the quiet joy of plenty after brutal winters.

Tonight, she places the card beneath her pillow. In dreams, she gathers gold and apples, refashions emptiness into overflowing bowls. When she wakes, memory tastes sweet against her tongue, a promise etched in cardboard, the echo of abundance found in want.

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We Are Longing

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

We are longing for the rain to return, pressing our palms against the cloudy pane and memorizing the way dust rivers itself through the yard. The porch boards creak with our weight, morning after morning, while the air cools but never quenches, always promising... never giving. Every night our voices twist into the ceiling beams, prayers sweet and sharp as honeysuckle, hope thrumming under our ribs, brittle as starlight.

There’s a photograph tacked above the stove, watered edges curling. It shows us in green. Grass up to our shins, shadows plump beneath a merciless sun. Still, we gather at dusk, counting the cracks in the cracked earth, inventing names for the shapes wandering in the distance, vague, shimmering, nearly real. We say, “Maybe tomorrow.” Every tomorrow slips slyly past.

We are longing for the world as it was, or maybe as it could be, if only the sky remembered us. Yet we stay, salt on our skin, hope blooming stubborn as wild morning glory along the fence. One afternoon, thunder stumbles beyond the horizon, shaky and uncertain, and for a moment, we believe. For a moment, we are more than our thirst.

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Cold Whispers

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The wind carried a strange sound that winter night. A scraping on the back porch, soft like claws against frozen wood. Tara turned down the radio and listened again. For a moment, everything hushed, even the ticking of the wall clock.

Then came a low whine.

She opened the door with her flashlight trembling in her hand. A coyote stood at the edge of the porch, snow catching in its thick fur. Its eyes shone amber, calm but heavy with knowing. Beneath its jaw hung a black leather collar, cracked and stiff with age.

Tara’s heart stumbled. That collar had belonged to Scout, her dog, gone three winters now, buried beyond the shed.

The coyote didn’t move when she whispered Scout’s name. It only blinked slowly, and a faint rasp echoed in its throat, halfway between a growl and a sigh.

When Tara stepped closer, her flashlight flickered out. The darkness deepened.

By dawn, the snow outside held only a single trail of paw prints that stopped halfway through the yard, then changed into a pair of human prints before vanishing.

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Write a 19-word story

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

He smiled at the rescue team through the viewport, until he realized they were not wearing helmets in space.

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It Hasn't Snowed For 213 Days.

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

It hasn’t snowed for 213 days, and the town of Winterbend is smelling like dust. The pine trees stand bare and gray against a sun that refuses to dim. The lakebed cracked weeks ago, splitting along the old dock like puzzle pieces forced apart.

Harper Cole keeps a tally on his porch railing, tiny notches he carves with a steak knife, one for each day without snowfall. People tease him about it, but they still glance up at the sky when they pass his house. Same blank blue. Same weightless quiet.

The ski lodge never opened this season. Todd from the feed store says the weather doesn’t feel right, like something is holding its breath. The news keeps promising “unprecedented weather stability,” which sounds too neat for what this really is—an absence spreading wider by the hour.

Last night, Harper heard a faint crackle over the radio. It was under the county announcements. It sounded like static until a voice came through, soft, whispering, “We’re still falling, Harper. We’re just not reaching you.”

This morning, he wakes to find frost on his porch railing. Not ice, not snow. Just a dusting of white shimmer that melts before he can touch it. He sharpens his knife anyway and carves one more mark into the wood.

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Be Careful of What You Eat

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

When Catrine Hovland called Merrin in from the shed, twilight wavered across the backyard, turning the crabapple trees the color of bruises. He paused at the door, always wary lately, while she laid the battered copper pot in the center of their small table.

A sigh drew through the walls. Catrine ignored it, serving two heaping ladles into chipped bowls. The stew’s aroma curled and shifted, not quite settling, sometimes sweet as dandelion, other times acrid as blood.

Merrin lifted his spoon, glancing sidelong at her. “Where did you find this?” he asked, voice stretched thin.

Catrine’s lips twitched. “By the willow, just where Dinah said.”

He froze. Dinah, their daughter, had vanished six months ago, after whispering about the willow’s promises. Since that night, Merrin swore he caught glimpses of her reflection in still waters and heard her laughter threaded through the wind.

Now, as he tasted the stew, the flavor was familiar. It was of childhood and copper pennies, grief, and binding roots. His tongue burned with the memory. Across the table, Catrine watched closely, waiting not for praise, but for something to shift. The shadows rippled, stretching long fingers beneath his chair.

Outside, the willow creaked. Something knocked at the glass, gentle and persistent, until the pane shivered.

Catrine poured more wine, ignoring the soft giggle that bubbled up from the bowl. “Eat,” she said, “before it answers back.”

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SAMHAIN POEM

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

As the nights

swallows the days.

As the farmers

bring in the harvests.

As the families

prepare the feasts.

They light the bonfires

and donned their costumes.

For, on Samhain,

the dead returns.

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WHEN THE GRIM REAPER COMES A CALLING

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

When it comes time

for the Grim Reaper’s call.

Don’t mourn me at all.

No tear will you shed.

No sorrow will you feel.

When the Grim Reaper calls for me.

Your life is your own.

That, I will not disrupt.

No need to let you know,

when the Grim Reaper called for me.

You don’t know me in life.

Why know me in death?

Remain where you are.

No need to know

when the Grim Reaper called for me.

My one true love

is all who knows,

when the Grim Reaper called for me.

It is him,

and him alone,

who will set my ashes free.

After the Grim Reaper called for me.

My ashes are one

with Mother Earth.

They fly in her breeze,

nourishes her soil,

and swims in her seas.

All thanks,

to the Grim Reaper’s call for me.

Now my soul awaits

for the Grim Reaper’s call

for my one true love’s soul.

Until that day,

when the Grim Reaper

calls for him.

I will haunt you all.

My fiery rage,

you will know.

The damage,

the suffering,

will grow.

You may ignore me

in life,

but not

in death.

For when the Grim Reaper

comes a calling,

I will be the one

calling you.

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The Voice

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I stand in the middle of a meadow.

Stars sparkle in the night sky.

The moon’s beams embrace the

open petals of the moonflowers.

The wind plays with my hair

as she whispers into my ear.

She wants me to know,

the words of my ancestors.

She tells me

she is the voice

of the ancient ones.

Those lost to time.

She is the voice

I hear in the rain,

in the intertwined flames,

and the rumble of the land.

She tells me

her sadness,

her hunger,

and her pain.

She tells me

She is the voice

of the past,

of the present,

and of the future.

She knows why I am here.

To get back to what is true

to what is right,

back to her.

I embrace her,

the wind frees me

the fire warms me

the rain hydrates me

the land nourishes me.

I am stronger with her.

You are stronger with her.

We are stronger with her.

For, without her

death comes

to me,

to you,

to us.

Hear the voice.

Heed the call.

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My Tomb

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

My tomb,

My one window crypt.

There, alone,

It protects me,

from the horrors of the world.

I sit and stare.

Out of my one,

Window crypt.

I have seen the sunlight’s rays.

Illuminate the azure sky.

As the white marshmallow,

Clouds drifted by.

I have heard the birds warble,

Their love songs,

As they nestled in their nests.

I have seen the rage of the heavens,

As it turned black as the midnight sky,

And the clouds turned gray.

I felt the Earth tremble,

As lightning streaked the welkin.

I heard the rain beat the roof of my tomb,

Like a hammer smashing a nail in a piece of wood.

I have watched as people strolled by,

Whispering in each other’s ears.

But,

On occasions,

I heard them roar,

And it sent shivers down my spine.

They come from far and near.

To visit loved ones lost.

But, for all the years

I have been in my tomb,

My one window crypt.

No one visited,

Out of love or out of loss.

All I have known

Comes on a fall night.

When the wolf howls

At the fullness of the moon.

When the veil,

Between the worlds,

Is at its thinnest.

It is then,

And only then,

Visitors come to seek me.

They dare each other,

To peer in my tomb,

My one window crypt.

It is then,

It is there.

I reach out

To say,

“Hello.”

But they stop,

Inches from my window crypt.

I banged and banged.

I waved and waved.

I yelled and yelled.

I watched and watched.

As their blood slowly drained from their faces.

They turn and run.

Leaving me,

Once again,

Alone in my tomb,

My one window crypt.

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A Conversation With The Husband

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Fire Ant in the hip.

Scurrying down my stump,

Engulfing my paw.

Snake restricts.

Unable to shift.

Hot water,

Epsom salt.

Subdue the sting,

Relax the grip.

“Come, my husband.

Sit a spell,

And answer me this,

Why do I love cats?”

No thought, no concern.

Words found their way,

Through the maze,

He did say,

“Because you’re a psychopath.”

Once again, I did ask,

“Why do I love cats?”

Small thought,

Some concern.

Wheels turning,

Then he churned,

“Because they’re fluffy and cuddly.”

Third attempt I did seek,

“Why do I love cats?”

Candle lit in his eyes.

The joker came through.

With no concern,

Out of the tunnel

The river of words did flow,

“For the same reason, I love your breasts.”

Sitting in my pond,

Full of salt,

Suddenly, it clicked.

Just for a moment,

The Fire Ant and

The Snake

Both drown.

My husband did tell me why I love cats.

Cats distract,

Cats make me laugh,

Cats make me forget.

Just like he did.

He distracts,

He made me laugh,

He made me forget,

About the Fire Ant and the Snake.

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If I Should Die

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

If I should die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take.

But before you do, make sure I’m dead.

Then burn me up and spread my ashes all over this land.

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The Night Beyond Quill Meadow

Tracie Hicks — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

They said Wendell Garrow drowned out by Quill Meadow, but that’s not true. I saw him yesterday, walking along the ditch with his red scarf still tied neatly as always. His boots left prints like commas in the mud. You don’t get that kind of order from the dead.

The sheriff came around this morning, hat in hand, asking if I’d been down near the water the night Wendell went missing. I told him no. Said I’d been home with a bottle and my thoughts, staring at the cracked ceiling. He nodded as if he believed me. People usually do.

Quill Meadow isn’t much to look at. It's just reeds and silence. But Wendell’s house is on the far side, and that’s where the lantern glow came from.

I told them I didn’t follow it. Told them I didn’t step in the cold mud or call his name. Told them I didn’t see the scarf floating like a red fish belly-up. But the thing about lies is, they start hearing you back. Every night since, I hear Wendell on the wind, asking me why I left him there.

And that’s the part nobody believes: I didn’t. He was already gone by then.

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