Category: Flash Fiction

Aging Gracefully…Well Almost

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant2 Comments

Wearing her new eyewear that conveniently turned dark in sunlight, Mandy briefly admired herself in the rear view mirror. “Not bad, ole gal,” she said, turning her head first to the left and then to the right. Smiling, she rolled down the windows and opened the moonroof. Before leaving the parking lot, Mandy turned on her playlist. Once she hit the open road, she began belting out the tunes, which currently featured one of her all-time favorites, Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams.”

Like a heartbeat drives you mad

In the stillness of remembering what you had

And what you lost

And what you had

Ooh, what you lost..

Single by choice, the woman enjoyed her life. She had distinguished experience, or as she liked to say, she was “chronologically gifted.” She still felt youthful in all the ways that mattered. She still danced while vacuuming, believed stretchy pants were athletic wear, and could still keep up with the grandkids—well, on most days anyway. In her mind, she was about thirty-two on a good day and maybe thirty-five on a tired one. Still, she avoided mirrors strategically—not intentionally, just…well, selectively.

She was on her way home from picking up her new prescription glasses, which she purchased after noticing that restaurant menus were now printed in “ant font.” Reading had become a chore as she held books at arm’s length, although that didn’t help at all. Reading the daily news was next to impossible, and driving had also become a challenge when she couldn’t make out exit or street signs. She knew it was time to give up readers and invest in prescription eyewear. Her optometrist cheerfully announced that her new glasses would make everything clearer. Mandy felt optimistic and enlightened—and still thirty-two. On the way home, she stopped at her favorite café for lunch, thrilled she could actually read the menu. To celebrate her newfound eyesight, she also ordered a chocolate mousse, promising herself she would swim extra laps tomorrow.

Once she arrived home and pulled into the driveway, she rushed inside. Her newfound eyesight felt invigorating. She grabbed a book that she had shoved aside because it was too difficult to read. Settling into her favorite chair, she sighed happily as the words came into focus. Oh, how she had missed this luxury! The hours flew by, and she began to yawn. Laughing, she told herself she could read some more tomorrow as she scurried into her bedroom to change into her PJs for the night.

Walking into the bathroom, she took off her glasses to wash her face and begin her nighttime care routine. Once she lathered on the night cream, she put on her glasses, looked in the mirror, and froze. She leaned in closer, pulled back, and then leaned in again. Her thoughts racing, she blurted out, “Who is that woman? Why does she look tired? What happened to my neck? Those aren’t laugh lines. Those are full comedy specials!

Her concern shifted immediately to the glasses. Clearly, they were defective or, at the very least, evil. Sighing, she removed them, and instantly, she looked ten years younger. When she put them back on, she screamed, “Oh no, she’s back!”

She hurried from the bathroom with her hand held to the mirror. Sitting slowly on her bed, bathed in soft lamplight, she noticed her features looked less tragic in this light. Next, she pulled a lighter from the nightstand, lit a candle, and turned off the lamp. In candlelight, she even looked acceptable. “Great,” she muttered, “I will now live the life of a vampire, only leaving the house once the sun sets.”

Suddenly, she didn’t even feel like thirty-five; depressed, she felt more like fifty.

Stumbling into the kitchen, she pulled a bottle of peachcato from the fridge and her favorite wine glass from the cabinet, pouring herself a hefty drink. Walking to the living room, she turned on a lamp by her favorite chair, placed the glass on a coaster on the end table, and walked to the fireplace. Once she switched on the glowing fire, she stared at it sadly, wondering exactly where all the years had gone. It didn’t seem that long ago when her daughter was small. Sighing, she returned to her chair, reclined, and sipped her wine as her thoughts wandered.

When did life change? When did she start warming up to just go dancing? When was the last night she slept without risking injury? “Hmm. Those years didn’t just disappear; they accumulated quietly while you were busy living.” Her realization didn’t ease her frustrations. “So much for aging gracefully,” she whined.

Standing up from her chair, she rushed to her room, grabbed her hand mirror, and then settled back into her chair. She wanted to inspect the “old” woman again. Holding the mirror, she studied her face and decided to be easy on herself and find some good. She noticed she had kind eyes and a great smile. Those laugh lines proved she enjoyed her life. She lived and had great stories. “Well…she’s not so bad.”

Finally, reality settled in, and she found a compromise. She would wear those darn glasses but remove them when she unexpectedly passed a mirror. She would still sing in the car and dance while vacuuming. She decided she still felt like she was thirty-two on the inside. After she smiled at her reflection, she slowly replied, “You may have aged, old woman, but fortunately, I have not!”

Writing Prompt: Today’s prompt is to write about someone looking into a mirror.

Mothers and Daughters

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

You should still be here, but silence lingers; your laughter is a distant memory, a mischievous sense of humor, contagious and warm. Your joy spread easily, laughing until you cried at the antics of one of your sons. Miss the advice, even the unwanted, to hear your voice one more time. The hugs…tender, with a wisp of dark roast and cream. Love’s simple lessons and family tales. I share them now so we will never forget you or your love. Truth be told, I see you every day in the clouds, among the crowds, and in a child’s laughing face. I hear you whisper in the gentle breeze when aspens tremble and buntings sing. You are not where you were, but you are everywhere I am. I find you in the hush amid heartbeats, inside the stillness before sunrise, and in the silent moments of my journey; I feel your presence.

One More Ride

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

Stroking Beau’s head, I whispered to my best friend, “The day is all ours.” I inhaled his warm, musky scent, which blended with earth and hay, and finally relaxed, hoping moments like this could last forever. My responsibilities suddenly found their way to the back burner. This morning, I would enjoy a ride with my incredible beauty.

Beau, a breathtaking combination of Arabian and Quarter horse, glistened in the morning sun. He was all black, including his long mane and tail, except for the white blaze on his nose and his four white socks. He pawed the ground, and I laughed. He was ready to hit the country roads and backtrails, too. It was a short ride to Brush Hollow, and we had the whole day to ourselves.

I gathered the reins and quickly placed one foot in the stirrup and swung myself into the saddle, my body moving without hesitation, without pain, without thought. Beau knew where we were heading and turned out of the yard and onto the road. His strength and calm always gave me the right amount of confidence.  Life always felt right when moving along in the saddle with my favorite companion. Even on those days I worked in the garden, Beau would snicker, letting me know he wanted out of his corral.  He followed me around like a puppy, enjoying our closeness as much as I did. I never worried about him running off; he always stayed close, even when I happened to fall off and needed him to wait. We had an unspoken trust. Beau was more than just a horse; he was my anchor, my friend, and my sense of freedom.

As the asphalt turned into dirt roads, we began to canter towards the lake. The spring day offered a cloudless blue sky, and the smell of pinyon and juniper trees and sun-warmed earth filled the air. Cows grazed in green pastures, and occasional moo drifted near us. Spring calves jumped and ran, and made me smile at their antics.

Once we passed the cows, I nudged Beau into a run, wanting to get to Brush Hollow as quickly as possible. The wind whipped my hair, his mane, and tail. It felt like we were flying along that dusty road.

Time slowed and stretched before us, almost standing still as we galloped towards the lake. Dust kicked up behind us while Beau ran as if he could not arrive at our trails soon enough. All thoughts of work and bills dissolved; no future, no past, just this one perfect moment with Beau, a moment I didn’t yet know I would return to again and again. It was quiet understanding, knowing that this day was precious, and I was full of gratitude.

Once we arrived at our familiar path, Beau naturally slowed to a walk, the rhythm of his hooves softening along the trail. The leaves of the cottonwood trees rustled in the wind. A stillness and peace settled in as we began our trek along the path. This rider felt whole, unbroken, and untouched by time. Silence ended when we disturbed a flock of Pinyon Jays. Their cries warned others of our arrival, as if the land itself needed to speak before everything changed. The peace felt too complete, too perfect, the kind that only exists when memory takes over.

And then it happened. The weight of this body refused to move as it once did. Pain returned, along with the heartache and realization that Beau was gone. Opening my eyes, I blinked.  My cane rested next to my nightstand. Slowly, I realized I dreamed of him again.  Sitting up in bed, I winced as pain spread through my back. Grief rested for a moment, as a single tear moved down my cheek. For one lone moment, I allowed the emotional ache of knowing what was lost and could never be again. But I quickly pushed it away, only allowing the pain to last for an instant. For I had lived those perfect moments with Beau, and for that, I would always be grateful.

Prompt: For the first prompt of the 2025 challenge (drum roll, please!): Write a story based on the idea “if you could have just one more.”

Up, Up… and Right Back Down

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant2 Comments

Henry eyed his mom’s balloons—all 250 of them—as they bobbed against the kitchen ceiling like a pink-and-red cloud. He listened to her conversation with Aunt Elizabeth. “Steven won’t take no for an answer,” she laughed. “He doesn’t care if I have a kid. Yes, he really sent 250 balloons with 250 messages. No, I haven’t read them all, but each note gives a reason to date him. What do you mean I should wait to introduce him to Henry?” His mom bristled. “What’s wrong with Henry?”

Annoyed, Henry’s mom ended the call with her sister, but not before Henry heard Aunt Elizabeth laughing hysterically on the other end. Henry’s mom knew Henry could be a handful, but basically, he was a good kid.  He was just inquisitive and challenging, and needed watching every minute of the day to avert any disaster known to mankind.

Sighing, she returned to work on her design for a new client. Her latest customer would call shortly, so she reviewed the papers one more time. She knew her video conference would start in about five minutes, so she ensured Henry had plenty of activities to keep him occupied. Making a mental list, she whispered, “Snacks, check. Crayons and coloring book, check. Books, check. Cartoon channel, check.”

She seated Henry at the kitchen table and warned him to behave during her video call. He smiled and nodded, and she prayed to all that was holy that he would be quiet during her meeting. Surely, what could go wrong? She sighed. Who was she kidding? Her six-year-old son had a wild imagination, was curious about the world around him, and had zero brakes when it came to crazy ideas.

Slowly, the worried mom turned to her office, grateful that it was off the kitchen. Henry began coloring, but quickly grew bored. He ate all his grapes and chunks of cheese and downed his glass of milk. Still bored, he picked up his book and set it on the table. The cartoon was one he had watched many times before. He looked around the room, trying to find something to do. The yellow tabby, Precious, lounged on the windowsill, soaking in the morning sun. He eyed the balloons and then the cat. A science experiment! He sat up suddenly, bounced out of his seat, and ran to his mom’s office.

“Mom, Mom,” Henry shouted. “Can I play in the backyard?”

His mother glanced at the clock on her desk. It had barely been fifteen minutes. How was she to keep him occupied for at least another half hour? She whispered, “Yes, yes, go outside, but stay in the backyard.”

“Yes!” Henry shouted, fist in the air.

At once, the young scientist began to formulate his latest project. He recalled watching a cartoon involving hot air balloons. He eyed his mom’s balloons and then Precious. Unfortunately, the feline was too polite to run and hide.

He carried Precious to the back porch and set her on his mom’s reading chair under the awning. Next, he hurried to gather all the balloons. He knew he had to hurry; Mom would check on him soon. Coming up with a plan, Henry braided the many strings together. He had learned to weave yarn into keychains in art class at school, but this was taking longer than he thought. Finally, he gathered the strings and securely tied them to Precious’s harness. The cat gave one uncertain mewl as she floated to the ceiling. Jumping up and down with excitement, Henry pulled his creation from the porch. A breeze caught the kitty bouquet, and Precious rose three feet… five… then drifted over the garden fence like a smug feline zeppelin.

Still on her business call, Mom heard Henry’s delighted shriek through the window. Alarmed and wondering what her child had gotten himself into this time, she excused herself with a frozen smile and raced outside. In disbelief, she watched, horrified, as her tabby drifted toward the neighbor’s oak tree like a Valentine parade gone rogue. She sprinted to the garage, grabbed a rake, while Henry cheered like a crazed aerospace engineer. Dashing out of their yard and into her neighbor’s garden, she finally snagged the balloon strings before Precious made her precarious ascent to parts unknown and used one of her nine lives in this crazy, madcap scheme.

Sighing with relief, Mom tucked Precious into one arm, thankful that her tabby was only mildly offended. Grabbing the balloons with the other hand, she pulled them into the house, setting Precious on the floor, she then stowed the confiscated balloons in the master bedroom. Taking a deep breath, she returned to her meeting somewhat disheveled, offering the understatement: “Sorry, I got momentarily tangled in a tiny bit of mischief.”


Later that afternoon, Henry was gently schooled on aerodynamics and consent, and he promised never to use Precious in any more science experiments. For the rest of the afternoon, Precious moved from room to room with Mom, careful to avoid Henry like the plague.

As evening approached, Mom began to prepare Henry’s favorite spaghetti dinner. Precious returned to her spot on the windowsill, and Mom sighed, relieved that everything had turned out okay.

Turning her attention back to Henry, she walked over to the kitchen table to see what he was coloring. Her eyes widened. He was drawing a picture titled “Precious Goes to Space,” complete with thrusters, stars, and a very alarmed tabby in a helmet. 

That was all she needed to see.

Terrified at the thought of a sequel to the morning’s escapade, without a word, Mom pivoted toward the drawer, grabbed the grilling fork like a warrior choosing her weapon, and marched into her bedroom. Moments later, behind the closed door, came the rapid-fire pop-pop-pop-pop that sounded suspiciously like a small artillery battle. The baolloons had met their necessary but dramatic end.

When she finally returned—hair mussed, dignity slightly punctured—Henry stared up at her with wide eyes.

“Are the balloons… gone?” he asked.

““They’ve ascended,” she said solemnly. “To a better place.”

Henry frowned, thinking this over. “So… no more experiments with Precious?”

“No,” Mom said. “Not unless Precious submits a written consent form and signs it with a paw print.”

Mom let out a breath that came from somewhere deep in her soul. As the house settled into its evening quiet, Mom caught sight of a single, limp balloon ribbon hanging from the trash can. She shook her head, part exhausted, part amused.

Today, she’d learned a valuable truth: in a house with a six-year-old scientist, anything with helium, fur, or legs was officially at risk.

And Henry? He learned something too—every great inventor needs two things: big ideas… and a mom with very fast reflexes.

Note:

If Henry’s balloon adventure made you smile, don’t float away just yet—tap the Follow Button, leave a comment, or share your own kid-powered chaos below!

Prompt:

Write a story about this image.



Paradise

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant2 Comments

Note: I wrote this short story a few months ago, but after reading it, I felt like it needed some work. Here is my final version. I think….

The bored man tried to relax on a beach lounger with a drink, a Snake Bite, in one hand; he shielded his eyes from the glaring sun with the other. The blue waters of St. Lucia sparkled and stretched before him, an inviting landscape of sea and sand. In the distance, sailboats dotted the calm waters, their sails rolling softly in the breeze. Waves rushed and crashed upon the beach, and seagulls squawked in the distance. Along the shore, couples strolled hand in hand, their laughter carried on the warm, salty air. Although he should enjoy his time in this tropical paradise, the disgruntled male could not shake his discontent. The monotony of his existence was getting to him. 

He could not understand his perturbed attitude. His businesses boomed; his professional pursuits exceeded his yearly quotas, and new associates were trained daily. He sighed, longing to find something new to amuse his lagging contentment; he soundly required a distraction.

Nearby, a group of women in a nearby cabana openly flirted, competing for his attention.  He knew he could have his pick of the women, but they failed to capture his interest. On this vacation, he decided he wanted a challenge, not easy pickings. A new game of cat and mouse would be the perfect way to hone his growing talents of seduction and temptation.  He smirked, amused by this clever tactic. 

Downing the rest of his drink, he silently handed his assistant his empty glass, then ordered another Snake Bite. His aide took the glass, walked to the outdoor bar, and ordered another drink of cider and stout. As the large man waited for his drink, he heard low whispers and gasps behind him. Curious, the man turned his head to discover the source of the commotion. Inspecting the crowd, his gaze landed on the stunning beauty that had captured everyone’s attention.

She was tall, with long, flowing blonde hair and legs that seemed to go on forever. A white caftan draped over her form, with teasing glimpses of the bikini beneath that barely concealed her breathtaking curves. Still, an undeniable innocence graced her presence. Her large blue eyes took in the landscape around her, and she laughed when she witnessed a pair of vervet monkeys escaping the outdoor cantina after hijacking passionfruit from the kitchen. Her face was pure and lit from within like an angelic painting by Master Sandro Botticelli himself. He had to have her. This was the distraction he desired. Rising from his lounger, he moved toward her, determined to introduce himself and uncover more about this enchanting creature.

He watched as people were drawn to her quiet voice and kind smile. The crowd was mesmerized by her gentle nature and beauty.  He quickened his walk; he urgently wanted to steal her away before anyone else had the opportunity. 

This beauty witnessed his approach, and he chuckled as he caught her eyes raking over his body, appraising him with open curiosity. Her expression told him everything; she enjoyed the view. The intriguing lady reddened when she realized she was caught assessing his body, and the man grinned at her discomfort.

“Good afternoon,” he crooned, his voice smooth as silk. “May I offer you a seat under my umbrella?” He gestured toward his shaded spot on the beach. Taking her soft hand in his, the man declared,  “My name is Lucian, and I must say, I’d love to learn more about the woman who has caused such a stir among the island guests.”

She blushed but smiled, and the vile man found himself momentarily breathless. Her eyes, so startlingly blue, pierced through him. Something about her presence unsettled him, a rare and unnatural feeling. He had to find out more about her.

Shyly, she nodded and replied, “I would like that. And my name is Celine.”

As they walked together toward Lucian’s lounger, a strange-looking man suddenly appeared, his eyes darting nervously between them.

“Would you like a drink, mistress?” he asked, his voice low and somewhat wary.

Celine nodded. “I’d love a rosé, a Whispering Angel if they carry it.”

The odd man hurried away, leaving the couple to settle beneath the umbrella. They made an unmistakable contrast: Celine, fair-skinned with light blue eyes and golden hair, and Lucian, towering over her with dark hair and eyes as deep and dark as a tempest sky. Yet, despite his somewhat menacing presence, a faint glimmer shone in his gaze, one that intrigued Celine. She wanted to know more about him.

“Have you visited the islands before?” Lucian inquired, certain that a woman as rare as she could not have gone unnoticed.

“No, this is my first time,” she admitted. “My boss insisted I take some time off and relax. He owns a beach house just down the shore.”

“What do you do for a living?” The curious man asked.

“Well, I,” she stuttered, “I work with children.”

“Oh, are you a teacher or a”

She nervously interrupted, “Not a teacher, a caretaker of sorts.”

“Oh, a nanny,” he announced.

“Yes, a nanny,” she agreed.

Lucian’s assistant brought Celine’s wine and asked Lucian if he would like a refill. But, the preoccupied Lucian just waved his assistant away.

“Maybe we should take a stroll,” he suggested smoothly. “I’d like to get to know you better. Somewhere away from all these prying eyes.”

Many onlookers still gawked at the magnificent pair. She hesitated for a moment as a ripple of longing moved through her. This impulse frightened her, and she knew she was wandering into forbidden territory. But this strange spark took over, and she told the alluring man, “The cottage does have a wonderful view.” Glancing around at the curious stares, she added, “It might also be a little less intimidating.”

Lucian rose and extended his hand, a charming yet devilish grin playing at his lips. As Celine stood, dark clouds suddenly rolled across the sky, and the wind began to blow.  As the skies grew darker, they swallowed the sun in a somber embrace. A loud clap of thunder rumbled, and she gasped, flinching slightly.  

For reasons unknown to him, he felt compelled to protect her. This was a strange and new sensation for the man. Never in his life had he longed to protect another. As he started to pull her next to him, suddenly, her caftan billowed in the wind, and for the briefest moment, he saw them. Wings. Ethereal, shimmering wings. But as quickly as they had appeared, they vanished. If he had been looking at the sky instead, he might have missed them altogether.

Scowling, Lucian leaned in and whispered, “Do you know who I am? Why are you here?”

She stared at him, her brows knitting in confusion. “No, I just met you. And I told you, my boss wanted me to take some time away from work. He thought I needed quiet to clear my mind. I’ve been… distracted lately.”

Lucian cackled, then bent closer, his lips brushing her ear as he murmured the truth of his identity.

Her breath paused until a small cry escaped. Her stunning blue eyes widened in shock, then flickered with unholy fear.

“Easy, love,” the Prince of Darkness cooed, reaching for her hand. His touch seductively burned. “We could make quite the pair,” he mused, his voice a velvet promise. “After all, you wouldn’t be the first fallen angel to touch the earth.”

Today’s prompt is to write about where the devil goes on vacation.

Sisters

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

Running to the end of the pier, the two girls giggled with delight. The sun shimmered on the bay, casting a harsh glare, and Amy wished she had brought her sunglasses. Barb’s large straw hat shielded her face, but she still worried about new freckles appearing across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Seagulls squawked in protest and flapped away from the pier’s edge as the girls approached. With a shared grin, they kicked off their flip-flops, Barb dropped her hat, and the pair leaped into the cool, inviting water.

Axel’s sudden bark jolted the grandmother from her thoughts, and she laughed as she watched him chase a squirrel. But as she settled in her rocker, her mind drifted back to that island memory—when she and her little sister had played in the San Francisco Bay, a lifetime ago.

Today’s prompt is to write about a daydream.

Used Toys

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

“If you truly forgave me, you’d let me come home. I miss my family.”

She sighed. His text unsettled her, putting her on edge. She had no desire to revisit his demands. Life without him was peaceful and relaxing—something she hadn’t realized until their split and his deceit. She hadn’t understood just how much effort went into meeting his outrageous expectations. Friends and family even commented on how much more relaxed and composed she seemed. Her soon-to-be ex was high maintenance, to say the least.

The ping of a new text interrupted her thoughts.

“Well, are you still there?”

Annoyed, she rolled her eyes but suddenly found herself laughing. Remembering the bumper sticker her mother had shown her just a few days ago, she began typing her reply:

“Never get jealous when you see your ex with someone else because our parents taught us to give our used toys to the less fortunate.”

After hitting send, she reminded herself she could take the high road another day. Laughing, she turned off her phone, telling herself she was a work in progress—and tomorrow was a new day.

For today’s prompt, write about a work in progress.

Round Three

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

Grimacing, Taylor brought her hand to her head; it throbbed, and she felt herself sway. How long had she been out? Taking a deep breath, she placed one hand on the bedroom wall and steadied herself while trying to recall a mental checklist in her head.

The woman hurried to finish her packing. Time was not on her side. She stuffed her clothes into her open suitcase, grabbed her jewelry box and the stash of cash she had saved since the last time, and shoved the money deep into her pocket.

As she hurried to the foyer, doubts flooded, but she angrily shoved them aside. Glancing in the hall mirror, she winced. One eye was half closed and swollen as shades of pink and purple marred her puffy face; she ran her fingertips along the angry red welts raised along the base of her throat.

Taylor cynically laughed. “Third time’s the charm,” she said aloud, just before she slammed the door on the life she left behind.

Photo by Sigmund on Unsplash

For today’s prompt, write a story about a project left half-finished.

In a Nick of Time 

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

“You do understand this day is about me, right?” My sister snarled after I asked our friend, Samantha, if my makeup looked okay. As her maid of honor, I wanted to look my best, and makeup was not my specialty.  

Sam looked up at me with sympathy as she put the finishing touches on Kacy’s upsweep. Our old friend had witnessed my sister’s angry outbursts all week. Taking a deep breath, I relaxed in the knowledge that after today, I could return home to Wyoming and my quiet mountain community, leaving my sister, her anger issues, and the busy Bay Area behind.

This week had been hell; she took all her wedding worries and frustrations out on me. This reminded me of why I moved away from our hometown in the first place. Kacy lived in a world of insecurity; she always doubted herself, and now that Dad had passed, her self-doubt worked overtime, along with her ill-tempered flare-ups. 

Stepping back, I apologized for interrupting and watched as she rolled her eyes. I silently reminded myself the wedding would be over soon, and I could make my escape.

“Perfect!” Samantha stated. Kacy stood and twirled in front of the mirror. She looked dazzling in her white off-the-shoulder dress that swept to the floor.

“How do I look? Do you think I will knock his socks off?” My sister questioned.

Gazing at her, I smiled and replied, “I have no doubts.”

Sam handed us our bouquets and snapped pictures before we headed to the clubhouse. Walking along, Kacy grabbed my hand, digging her nails into my skin. My twin angrily whispered, “You almost ruined everything! Everyone adores you! All week, I had to listen to everyone tell me you are just wonderful.”

Before I could pull away and respond, our stepmother appeared at the clubhouse entrance, concern blazoned across her face.

“What’s wrong?” Kacy seethed, her anger steadily increasing.

“Mark is missing,” Andrea softly replied. “And no one knows where he is.”

Frozen to the sidewalk, I watched the two women rush into the charming establishment. Before deciding what to do, I heard a voice behind me. Turning around, I saw Mark in his Jeep. With the window down, he shouted, “Hurry, get in.”

Without thinking, I lifted the hem of my dress and quickly raced to his ride. Climbing in, I sat in stunned silence. Was I really leaving my sister in a lurch, with the bridegroom in tow?  

Mark sped off before I could come to my senses. He pointed to the backseat, and I saw the suitcase I packed earlier that morning. He had also grabbed my faded jeans and Northwest College hoodie that I had left unpacked.

“Where to Cinderella?” Mark laughed. “Looks like we both escaped the evil twin just in a nick of time.”

Writing Prompt:
For today’s prompt, write a story that takes place that takes place in the aftermath of something huge.

What is flash fiction?

Flash fiction is one of the most fascinating creative mediums in this day and age: incredibly difficult but also incredibly rewarding. After all, flash fiction requires writers to effectively cram a whole narrative into 1,500 words or less.

Annie’s Song

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant2 Comments

In the spaces between our busy lives, we found love in fleeting, precious moments. John’s work kept him traveling across the country, sometimes around the world. It wasn’t ideal, but his job was important to him, and I reminded myself that I had known this when I married him. Still, I missed him fiercely when he was away.

That evening, he slipped into bed late, weary from his travels, and drew me close. “Annie, my love, I just want to hear your laughter and stay in your arms,” he whispered, enfolding me against his chest.

I smiled and nodded in agreement as I pushed in closer to his side of the bed, savoring the warmth of his body.

“I wish I could always be with you. This job demands too much of my time. We need this week away.”

His work was demanding, but he always made up for lost time. Drowsy, I let my mind drift to our past escapes together. The last trip, we had fled to a cabin in the mountains in spring, nestled among towering pines. We slept together in a hammock beneath a blanket of stars, breathing in the scent of blue spruce and lodgepole pine. I remembered our spontaneous dance in the rain, splashing in puddles like carefree children, so in love that the world seemed to shrink around us.

Each journey we took left an indelible mark on our hearts; love laced to the regions we visited, each place gifting us its flavor, a token of its beauty.

“Where are you taking me this time?” I questioned playfully

“A surprise, my love, a surprise.”

It didn’t matter. John could take me to the moon, and I would be happy. He always surpassed my expectations, filling me with a love that reached deep into my marrow.

Before we drifted to sleep, he whispered, “Do you remember the storm in Sedona?”

I smiled, recalling the silver flashes cutting through the desert sunset. Thunder rolled like a symphony, and rain misted beneath the pergola, caressing our bare arms and legs as we shivered in the desert heat.

“Or the sleepy ocean at Assateague Island with wild horses roaming the beaches?” I murmured in return

He laughed, ‘You were smitten with the blue of the sea and the splendor of the wild mustangs. Two of your favorite things.”

“You do know how much you mean to me, right?” He earnestly questioned.

“Tell me,” I whispered.

Brushing the hair from my face, he traced my lips with his fingers. “I would give my life to you. I long to drown in your laughter. I want to always be with you.”

Life with my love was an adventure—an intimate voyage traced in breath, laughter, and the secret currents that moved between us. As he murmured his tribute, I quieted him with the softest touch. ‘Shh,’ I whispered, drawing him into the sanctuary of my arms. ‘Come… let me love you.’

The night unfurled around us like silk, gathering us into its dark, shimmering hush until the world dissolved at its edges. And in that drifting, where desire and tenderness wove themselves into something almost sacred, I understood: the heart of a partnership is not simply in the moments we share, but in the way we surrender to them together—choosing, again and again, to meet each other where wonder lives

Photo by Anne Zwagers on Unsplash

Writing prompt:

For today’s prompt, write a story inspired by a favorite song. This could be an old song you still love, a new one you can’t get out of your head, or maybe a song your characters can’t get away from. The choice is yours!