Scribble, Doodle & Bleed Podcast

A Friendly GrizzlyThis week’s words were grizzly and closed, which of course pushed us toward bears, cabins, and places that may or may not be safe to enter.After a few minutes of bantering, we began, as usual, by definition-dipping. A grizzly isn’t just the bear. It can also mean gray-haired or gray-streaked. Huh! Who knew.Leah brought a drawing of a very sweet-looking grizzly, done in ink and colored pencil, with extremely kind eyes for an animal that is known for ripping things apart, including parting people from their own scalps.Leah also shared “Margot and the Unexpected Guest,” a story about a woman living alone in a remote cabin who decides to welcome a mysterious visitor in from the cold. Michelle followed with “Grizzly Closed,” a quieter, dreamlike piece about an abandoned art shop with a single painting titled Grizzly. Somewhere in the middle we noticed that both of our grizzlies ended up feeling… kind. gentle. Then we drifted into real bear (grizzly or otherwise) stories. Leah once nearly biked straight into one in the dark. Another time a DoorDash delivery (the delivery, not the driver) was eaten by a cub plopped down just outside her gate.And then a surprise guest arrived: David Kirby (Leah’s dad, Michelle’s husband), who joined us by phone from just a few rooms away to tell a Yosemite camping story involving a bear ripping open a tent!!!Yup. That’s how it goes around here.If you came up with anything from this week’s prompts, please send it to us. A photo, a text, a voice note. We’d love to see what you created, and we’d love to share it too.And if you have any words to add to our jars, send those along as well. :)Next week we have: 1970s Sitcoms + Knives (that should be interesting)Stay Wild,Michelle & LeahListen to us on Spotify! Leah’s Piece:Michelle’s Piece:Grizzly ClosedThe art shop on Main Street had been closed for weeks.A “For Sale” sign clung to its windowstheir glass dim with dustlike sleepy eyes that had forgotten how to blink.When Tress stepped inside,the bell above the door did not ring.It sighed.Inside, the quiet gathered softlyin the way old libraries and winter mornings are quietBooks long untouched,mornings that never quite wakeIt was empty other than a few dustballs.A breeze from a cracked window brought up a loose piece ofbubblewrap trapped skidding in a corner.Kinda eerie, she thought,this vast emptiness.Except on the far wall she saw a single, large painting.She approached it and reada brass plate beneath it:“Grizzly”The paint was thick,rough,LushRivers of brown and gold ran across the canvas,shadowsfolding into deeper darknessthreads of lights seeping,peeking throughhereand there.It looked less like a paintingand more like a feeling someone had trapped in color.Not really something seen,Something remembered.Tress stood very stilllooking closer, trying to find a grizzly…She listenednot with her earsbut with that small hidden place inside each of uswhere wonder livesThe painting seemed to breathe.Strangely, this did not frighten her.It only made her curious.Instead of turning away, she stepped closer.Just one more step, and the world softened around herlike snow melting into water.And then, just as Alice stepping through the looking glass,Tress stepped through.A forest openedstretching wide and patient,trees rising like pine green towers.Wind moved through the brancheslike a lullaby the earth had been singing.A lullaby too old to have a beginning.There were no wars here.No shouting leaders pounding their chests andboasting like restless boys.No borders scratched into the soil.Only grizzly.A great many grizzlies.Soft giants with fur the color of mountains at sunset.They moved through the forest like slow rivers of life.PowerfulSteadyPeaceful.A cub tumbled out of a patch of clover,soft and unsteady as laughter.An old one leaned into an ancient tree,scratched its backas though time itself lived in the bark.Everything breathed togetherThe forest,The light,the quiet turning of the world.It felt like a deep breath the universe had finally finished taking.Tress walked into a meadowwhere tall grasses brushed her hands,and sunlight fell in warm, scattered pieces.The same cub found herIt came without fearand sat beside heras though she had always belonged.And in that stillness she understood…This place was not wild like storms or fire.but of kindness,A quiet kingdom where the only rulers wereforests, rivers,and gentle grizzly hearts,made of strength that did not need to rise,because nothing here asked it to.No voices broke the air.No lines divided the earth.There was only the steady hush of living thingsbeing exactly what they were.The cub leaned against her.Warm.Real.In that moment Tress felt she had not stepped into another world at all,but into the peaceful dreamthe earth had been trying toremember. Get full access to Scribble, Doodle, & Bleed at scribbledoodlebleed.substack.com/subscribe

A Little Polish, A Few JonathansThis week’s words were Jonathan and nail polish, which sounds like the start of either a very specific apology letter or the world’s strangest beauty tutorial.We began with our usual definition-dipping and learned that Jonathan comes from Hebrew meaning gift of God, though Urban Dictionary would have you believe it’s actually the name of the world’s most interesting man with an eight-pack. As definitions go, we’re choosing to believe both are technically possible.Leah shared a piece addressed to the many Jonathans she’s encountered across a lifetime: the funny ones, the frustrating ones, the writers, the politicians, the quiet boys who turned out to be something else entirely. It’s part letter, part memory collage, and part reckoning with the strange way people echo through our lives long after they’ve left the room.Michelle brought a wildly imaginative apology letter written to the sun, confessing to a catastrophic mistake involving bright yellow nail polish and an attempt to make the universe just a little shinier. The result? A cosmic disaster, a guilty conscience, and a narrator who may or may not be Jonathan Livingston Seagull.Along the way we wandered through writing prompts, the chaos and freedom of the 100-Day Project, Italian language practice, seagulls with questionable personalities, and the creative magic of constraints that accidentally turn into entire stories.That’s the rhythm of it. Two words, a handful of stories, and a reminder that creativity usually begins somewhere between curiosity and complete nonsense.Next week’s words are Grizzly and Closed.If Jonathan or nail polish sparked something in you, send it our way. And if you have words for the jar, keep them coming.Stay Curious,Michelle & LeahScribble, Doodle, & Bleed is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Scribble, Doodle, & Bleed at scribbledoodlebleed.substack.com/subscribe

A Little Paint, A Little ResidueThis week’s words were paint and residue, which immediately felt like the aftermath of something. A storm. A project. A feeling you can’t quite scrub out of the corners.We started by definition-dipping, because apparently paint is not just a substance you smear on a surface. It’s also a verb, a radar term, and somehow connected to piebald horses and basketball courts. Residue, on the other hand, is simply whatever refuses to leave.Michelle shared a new poem, Aftermath, inspired by a thunderstorm painting. It wandered through silver light, rain-soaked earth, and the emotional traces that linger after love, grief, and joy move through our lives. Turns out storms clean things up and leave things behind at the same time.Leah found herself thinking about the earliest memories of paint, including lying down on giant sheets of butcher paper in elementary school while classmates traced each other’s bodies and turned them into life-size paintings. One of those small creative rituals that somehow follows you through decades.Then our surprise guest arrived. Axel read from his original book Seiko the Squirrel, the Mastermind, written for Grandpa, which includes garden heists, mysterious radiation, retractable claws, and at least one well-timed water balloon prank. Squirrels are now significantly more suspicious than they were before this episode.Somewhere along the way we talked about ekphrastic writing, watercolor’s chaotic personality, childhood art projects, and the strange way certain memories stick while entire years disappear.That’s the rhythm of it. A couple of words, a few stories, and the realization that the real subject is always whatever lingers afterward.Next week’s words are Jonathan and Nail Polish.If paint or residue sparked something in you, send it our way. And if you have words for the jar, keep them coming.Stay Colorful,Michelle & Leah Get full access to Scribble, Doodle, & Bleed at scribbledoodlebleed.substack.com/subscribe

Arrrr Matey!This week’s words were pirate and funk, which kinda felt like either a dance party at sea or a hygiene problem below deck??? We did just enough definition-dipping to know pirate can plunder more than ships and funk can be both bassline and musty mood, and then we let the words set sail all on their own.Michelle, Dad (Dave lol), and grandson/nephew Axel built three exquisite corpse stories, folding pages and passing them around until we had funky cheese, a stuffed parrot named Eleanor, multiple wall-punching incidents, and a humongous bug with four peg legs and an eye patch. No one lived happily ever after.Leah’s piece, Full Mast Fever, imagined a neon-lit pirate ship hosting an all-night dance battle, complete with breakdancing parrots and peg-leg showdowns. That story somehow evolved into a full song experiment, complete with “eyepatch, baby” background vocals.We drifted into reliving the costumes of Halloween Past and the 100 Day Project and the idea of daily creative repetition, that quiet discipline of making something small every day and letting go of perfection. Leah also shared that her 100-word micro was accepted by Ratbag Lit Mag! It’s the small wins, guys.That’s the rhythm of it. We start with a word, follow it wherever it leads, and discover it was never just about pirates or funk in the first place.Next week’s words are Paint and Residue.If pirate or funk sparked something in you, send it our way. And if you have words for the jar, keep them coming.Funk On,Michelle & Leah Get full access to Scribble, Doodle, & Bleed at scribbledoodlebleed.substack.com/subscribe

Scribble Doodle Bleed: ScrewdriverThis week’s word was screwdriver, which immediately required clarification because… are we talking about vodka and orange juice or the thing you keep in a junk drawer that may or may not actually be there when you need it? We didn’t have one on hand, which both felt very wrong but also very on brand. We clinked imaginary glasses. There was brief Googling. There was a small historical detour about oil workers stirring drinks with actual tools, which may or may not be true but we accepted it because its fun and why not?From there it split in two and then somehow became the same thing.Leah’s piece unfolded behind a bar, where a perfectly pleasant older woman orders an espresso martini and her husband walks past the menu, past the signs, past the gentle cues of how this works, and asks for a screwdriver. Which of course can be made. Obviously it can be made. That’s not the point. The point is the tiny flare of irritation, the internal monologue that spirals into ego and aging and the fantasy of slipping a literal screwdriver into the drywall of the afternoon and turning until the room loosens. It’s about listening. It’s about control. It’s about how sometimes you want to follow the menu because the menu is what’s keeping everything from wobbling.And then Michelle read You Are Sunlight in a Glass, which took the same word and made it tender. Suddenly the screwdriver wasn’t abrasive at all. It was steady. It was quiet usefulness. It was the thing that doesn’t get applause but keeps the shelf upright. Oranges surrendering their brightness. Noon arriving without its shoes on. By the time the plates are cleared, “the day has been unscrewed.”We wandered into butter-on-ham-sandwich debates, craft breweries multiplying and collapsing, Dobby losing his head mid-episode, and then veered into Exquisite Corpse and folded-paper chaos and platypuses and detached toes and existential limbo and somehow that all made sense too.That’s kind of the rhythm of it. We start with a word. We follow it. It tightens something. It loosens something. It turns out to be more than hardware and more than a drink. It turns out to be whatever we’re carrying that week.Next week’s word(s) is (are) Pirate & Funk, which is sure to be entertaining.If you made something inspired by screwdriver — writing, drawing, anything strange and small — send it to us. We love seeing where the word takes you.If you have any words you’d like us to do, send those to us to! We’ll either do them right out or we will throw them in the jar(s)!Cheers,Michelle & LeahMichelle’s:Leah’s: “I’ll have an espresso martini,” says the sweet older woman with the short white bob and rosy cheeks. She wears a floral silk blouse riddled with color, and her ears are adorned the same way, flowers streaming down from sagging lobes. She is a delight. She’s come for a treat. She’s come to experience life while she still holds it in her hand, gently, like a baby bird.Her husband walks up behind her. He’s been “perusing.” Walked right past me the moment they came in. Walked past her, even. Ignored all the signs. Ignored the other folks in line. He walks in with his shoulders pulled tightly back, his nipples pressing through his shirt. The loose skin at his collarbone hangs forward. Tufts of white-gray hair poke out above it.“And I’ll have a screwdriver.” He leans onto the counter, smirks.“I’m sorry, we don’t make those,” I say, out of spite, because the old man wasn’t paying attention when I gestured to my small morning menu, making pleasant conversation with his bubbly wife. His bubbly wife who was now horribly embarassed. Of course I can make a screwdriver. I can also make a White Russian or a skinny margarita. But I don’t want to.Because they’re not on the goddamned menu. And I told them what was on the menu.So maybe the better idea is for you to go back to kindergarten and relearn what it means to listen to instructions, to read directions thoroughly before proceeding.His balding white head makes me angry.The way he stares past me at the glass wall behind the bar, scanning his own reflection floating between liquor bottles.He tries ignoring himself. Succeeds in ignoring me.He studies the whiskey like it’s an exhibit. Like he understands oak and smoke and burn. Like his tongue remembers anything at all.He doesn’t want whiskey. He doesn’t want mezcal. He doesn’t want Japanese rye.He wants surprise.He wants youth.But he can’t have those.Because he has a need, and that need is for something assembled simply enough that he doesn’t have to think at all.He’s had too much time to think.A screwdriver.The idea is a screw in his head already, twisted in so tight the surface is stripped smooth. The threads are worn. The metal is rusted. He’s been trying to turn it deeper for years, turning and turning until he can find the part of his brain that will shut it off for good.Vodka and orange juice.A tool disguised as breakfast for a tool.I imagine slipping a screwdriver into the soft drywall of the afternoon instead. Turning it slowly. Feeling the room loosen around its screws. The lights sag. The bottles tilt. The old man leaks into the floor like pulp.Instead, I reach for the vodka. Get full access to Scribble, Doodle, & Bleed at scribbledoodlebleed.substack.com/subscribe

Scribble Doodle Bleed — FormaldehydeThis week on Scribble Doodle Bleed, our word was formaldehyde, which led us into conversations about preservation, memory, taxidermy, art-show nerves, and the strange emotional territory inside ordinary materials. We found ourselves circling the uneasy relationship between care, decay, and permanence, and the ways creativity often begins in small observations.Michelle shared a poem that begins with embalmed rooms and pressed wood and moves into ghosts, cabinets, and “good intentions committing light murder,” which feels like exactly the kind of sentence this project exists to discover. We also talked about the difficulty of editing creative work, how cutting language can feel like removing pieces you still remember writing, and how childhood memories and creative rituals continue to surface in unexpected ways.As always, Scribble Doodle Bleed is less about arriving somewhere and more about paying attention to what appears while we’re talking. The conversation wandered, circled back, and landed somewhere unexpected, which is kind of the point.Next week’s word: Screwdriver.If you created something inspired by formaldehyde — writing, drawing, collage, anything — we’d love to see it. Get full access to Scribble, Doodle, & Bleed at scribbledoodlebleed.substack.com/subscribe

In the debut episode of Scribble, Doodle, & Bleed, mother-daughter duo Michelle Scott (visual artist) and Leah Scott-Kirby (writer) spin gently, and occasionally wildly, around the theme of dizziness.The conversation begins with Michelle sharing a poem inspired by a disorienting moment in a grocery store, exploring how the body can interrupt the ordinary and quietly insist on attention. From there, Leah reflects on her own history with dizziness, from youthful, questionable adventures with substances to a very different, deeply unsettling experience with vertigo during her honeymoon.Together, they wander through the many shapes dizziness can take, physical, emotional, celebratory, and chaotic. Michelle shares stories of the playful blur that arrives during evenings of “designer drinks” with her sister, while both artists explore how altered balance can shift perception, memory, and creative expression.This first episode sets the tone for the series: candid, layered, occasionally irreverent, and rooted in the ways lived experience bleeds into art across generations. Get full access to Scribble, Doodle, & Bleed at scribbledoodlebleed.substack.com/subscribe