“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.
It had to be here. Somewhere. It had been years since she visited. Decades. But she knew this place; it was etched in her memory and in her heart. Take the first county road after passing the Victorian cottage with the bay window and the rocking chair. Her heart beat faster as she passed the little yellow house and smiled when she noticed an orange tabby curled on the rocker’s cushion. She was close now.
Her rickety blue Ford pickup turned right onto the county road. Soft clouds rolled in, and the skies darkened. She knew a summer rain would break at any moment, so she hurried up the old logging road. As the high desert plains shifted into forest, she smiled at the sight of the aspen grove to her right. She remembered that a side road would be nearby, one that ambled toward the old log cabin, inhabited by a family over a hundred years ago.
She remembered the day she and her love had explored it, surprised by the remnants left behind. Old canning jars, a wooden kitchen table in the single room with a loft above the living space. Dusty red gingham curtains hung over a window near the water pump. An old wood cookstove sat by one wall, and the coal bin still had splintered kindling, as if waiting for its occupants to return and start the evening meal. Postcards decorated one side of the wall. One, in particular, had caught her eye—a little red fox looking up at blooming wildflowers, its eyes closed in a smile.
By one window sat a sewing rocker with a small table beside it. A bowl held tiny, round wooden buttons, each one carefully carved by hand. She patted her pocket and felt the small clasp she had taken with her—the only memento of that day, so long ago.
Once she spotted the side road, she turned and traveled a short distance until the old cabin appeared in sight. She slowed, her breath catching. The years had not been kind to the cabin. It looked as sad as she felt. She pulled off the road, turning off the truck’s ignition.
“Wish you were here,” she whispered, closing her eyes. She could still see his smile from that day when he took her hand as they walked to the cabin. She remembered showing him the postcard of the fox. He had smiled, too.
“I’ll plant you a flower garden one day, in the country. That way, we can have foxes visit our yard,” he had promised.
She brushed away her tears, wishing for the time of her first love.
“If only,” she whispered softly.
Inside the cabin, her heart sank. It had been ransacked. The old cookstove was gone, along with all its furnishings. She searched for the fox postcard but found only a torn corner clinging to the wall. She ran her fingers over the frayed edge, still able to envision the picture. A bittersweet smile tugged at her lips.
She wanted to visit the creek, to see if their tree was still there—the one where they had carved their initials inside a heart. She turned to leave, but something caught her eye. A dusty piece of paper had slipped under an old crate. Turning it over, her breath caught in her throat. It was the fox postcard.
She smiled through her tears, brushing the dust off with her jeans. This time, she would rescue this treasure. She rushed to her truck, tucking it safely away, then hurried toward the creek. She needed to find their tree.
The aspens stretched out before her in every direction. It would be like finding a needle in a haystack. But she didn’t mind. The thought of seeing their tree, of finding something that tied her to him again, made her heart swell. After walking for some time, she realized she had gone too far. The skies reminded her that an afternoon rain could begin at any moment. Reluctantly, she turned back.
Though she hadn’t found the tree, she felt a sense of peace. She had found the old cabin, the postcard, and had revisited memories of a love long past. As she walked along the creek, she noticed wildflowers growing just off the path. Unable to resist, she ventured closer.
Columbine, lilies, and lupine blanketed the ground beneath the quaking aspens. She wished Jay were with her to see the vibrant garden spread out before her. She turned in a slow circle, taking in the colors, the beauty.
And then, she saw it. A darkened heart carved into the bark of one of the trees—her initials, and his.
Stunned, she sank to the ground among the flowers. His voice echoed in her mind, “I’ll plant you a garden…”
She started to cry, and the heavens wept with her, as the summer rains began to fall.
2025 February Flash Fiction Challenge: Day 1
Write a piece of flash fiction each day of February with the February Flash Fiction Challenge, led by Managing Editor Moriah Richard. Each day, receive a prompt, example story, and write your own. Today’s prompt is to write about a garden.
“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.
For today’s prompt, write a story where the title appears in the story word-for-word.
Breathe just breathe. Walking along the corridor, voices echo, but my heart beats so loudly it drowns out the sounds. “Twelve minutes, you stupid b**tch! ” The guard cruelly whispers.
As we round the corner, the glow from the room illuminates the metal gurney. Father Day silently prays; head bowed. When he looks up our eyes meet, and he smiles and nods. A silent understanding passes between us.
A searing jolt rips, I falter and gasp, “Jokes on you.” Dropping to my knees, I kell over, and lose consciousness, just before my heart pulses, one last time.
As she sat in her usual seat, I watched her. The quick lunch with a glass of Chardonnay, the quilt of drinking and returning to her job, the breath mint to cover any telltale signs.
Adrienne rarely displayed her emotions and lived a private life. She had few friends, and even her closest companions knew little about her past. But I knew everything, her painful struggles, and her losses. Wearily, I watched in fascination as she picked up the pieces of her life, time after time.
As a child, the girl lost her parents at such a young age she could barely remember them. Her parents died in a cross-country skiing accident in Colorado. The avalanche took her parents in an instant, and she soon moved in with her grandmother.
Over the years, she shared a happy life with her Gram. The woman doted on her granddaughter. The time the two spent together was a gift to Adri, and she treasured the grandmother who loved and adored her. Still, another life ended unexpectedly. When Gram passed, she took a piece of Adri’s heart with her.
And my Adri became another young girl locked into a heartless system of bouncing from home to home. Her fragile life became a series of heartache, one catastrophe after another. Then it settled into a life she found tedious and boring, hence the Chardonnay to get her through the afternoon.
A market research analyst sounded exciting on paper; however, the tedious research on women and their needs and wants left her frustrated. Inwardly, she screamed, “We can do better.” It became her daily prayer. She wanted to chuck it all in a world of face creams, the latest body sculpting techniques, diet crazes, how-tos on makeup, and how successful women juggle families and careers. Still, she did have one favorite research topic: the wines of Napa Valley.
Today, after work, she rushed to the corner bar and grill and ordered her classic chef salad with the ranch on the side. From her research, she knew an oak-aged California Chardonnay would pair nicely with her lean meal and ordered accordingly. Next, she pulled her tablet from her Bottegga Veneta, a gift from a client, and continued her research on Lost Alabaster. The shoe giant wanted to know the latest on a woman’s desire for mid-top sneakers. Colors, styles…oh, she sarcastically thought, maybe throw in comfort and support just for fun!
Sighing, she polished her drink and ordered another. She halfway picked at the salad. She pushed her favorite toppings to one side – the tomatoes, the homemade croutons, the pieces of boiled egg, the cubed cheddar, and small slices of grilled chicken. Always a picky eater, she learned to eat what was on her plate from her teenage years. Now she had the luxury to pick and choose, but old habits died hard. Three bites of the Romaine, one bite of cheddar, followed by the chicken. Three bites of Romaine, two bites of the croutons, after all, who could resist, followed by a cherry tomato. It would take a third glass to finish her meal.
Sighing, she shoved her plate from her and sipped on her third, or was it a fourth glass of wine? She decided to go with three; the one at lunch did not count. She wondered how her life had become so routine and uneventful.
After her Gram died, she lived in a series of foster homes. While living in these shelters, coping skills kept her going. Strange eating habits, listening to music on headphones to drown out the sounds of “family.” Keeping emotions in check. Applying herself in school maintained a steady stream of excuses to stay away from her current dwelling. That’s probably how she became involved in market research. In foster homes, wifi and cell phones were a luxury she lacked. Adri didn’t mind; it gave her the necessary pretext to stay away from the life she abhorred. She spent hours at the library researching school projects on various history, English, and Science topics. She liked the distraction that kept her from dealing with the missing pieces of her life.
At one home, she almost felt she belonged. Adri trusted her foster mom. Zoe tried to make her feel welcome. She never lied to her and even told her the truth. Money was tight, and she needed a roommate, ergo Adri. The two grew close, almost like sisters. One weekend the two binge-watched the entire series of Charmed and ate Ben and Jerry’s straight from the carton. Zoe was a faithful friend who ensured she had wifi for school, clean clothes, and decent meals, well, most of the time, anyway. She allowed Adri to bring home friends and talked to her about boys and birth control. At last, Adri felt she could actually inhale and breathe.
I was at her school the day when her social worker, Ana, arrived. The woman took her to the counselor’s office and methodically and rather coldly told her that Zoe had died on I-80 earlier that morning. The foster mom had been the victim of road rage, and while the shot was not meant for her, she had unknowingly driven into the line of fire. The shooter fled the scene in a silver Volvo or was it a Hyundai? No one glimpsed the driver’s face. Hell, no one even knew if the driver were female or male. Safe to say the shooter was still at large.
That night Adri slept in her first group home, the Kinship House. Two nights later, she woke to a frenzy of wails and screams. One girl in the dorm had slit her wrists and was rushed to the emergency room by ambulance. I watched as that girl recovered, and the girls at Kinship House did not.
A week later, against Adri’s wishes, Ana found her a new placement. A tired couple with grown children took the bewildered girl into their home. Adri’s latest family included two foster siblings, a 14-year-old boy named Isaak and a 12-year-old girl named Nevaeh.
“I saved the lower bunk for you,” Nevaeh gushed.
“Whatever,” sighed Adri as she hopped into the sanctity of the upper bunk. She slipped on her earphones and blasted some Wolf Alice:
She needs a lover to escape her father and mother
She hopes for some other way out of the hole
She’s overachieving, chasing her dreams
And coming down slowly, yeah, it’s out of control
I watched as she navigated life at the Clay residence. It was tolerable as long as she was home by curfew and did not complain about the endless stream of boxed mac and cheese. Still, East Oakland was not the safest place. After Isaak was knifed, the Oakland Tribune rushed an article about foster homes and safety. Social workers scrambled to find new homes for the children. Nevaeh went to a house somewhere in Eureka, Isaak to Stockton, and Adri landed with a young couple in Sausalito.
The Canes were kind, but Adri kept them and everyone else in her life at a distance. Senior year stay on the path – apply for scholarships – no distractions – no commitments – no attachments – no more deadly situations. Did death really seem to follow her?
College at UC Berkley came and went. But, after a brief affair with a married college professor, Adri stayed on course with her mantra of zero involvement.
After college, her business management degree landed her a place with Samuel, Inc. near North Point in San Franciso. Thus, her life of endless tedious research. “Life,” she laughed, could not become any more dreary.
On her days off, Adri made the most of her time. She decorated her apartment on Pierce. On the weekends, she rode her bike along the Presidio or visited the galleries or the Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park. San Francisco had really become her home.
But she knew she would eventually have to give it all up if she wanted to remain semi-sane. Her research gig paid the bills for her lifestyle, the apartment, the clothes, and the weekends in Napa, but she knew she would have to find another job soon. Life was too short to work from nine to whatever and chase after the empty ads of false promises and dreams.
One day after scanning work sites, she read a job ad that caught her eye.
Save our planet!
Wanted: Research Assistant for an upcoming global sustainable company. Pay
negotiable. Nice perks. Interested?
650-523-1900.
She scanned the requirements and knew a pay cut would be in order for any save-the-world type of employment, but she sent in her resume anyway. Two days later, she received a call from the owner. It really was new and upcoming. His office was in a spare bedroom in his North Point apartment. Still, she agreed to meet him, not at his apartment but at a nearby pub. Her meeting was in two days.
Although she was nervous about the new prospect, she was also excited. I noticed she smiled a little more for the first time in a while. She laughed a little more and drank slightly less wine. I hoped the tide had turned.
The night before her interview, Adri unexpectedly had to work late. As she finished her menial tasks, she couldn’t wait to leave. She wanted to get home, kick off her shoes, and sip on her favorite Zinfendal from the valley, another gift from a client.
After calling for a ride, she slipped on her Versace Sneakers and a light Moncler jacket. It had been a long day, heels were out, and it was dark; she laughed. Who would know? Grabbing her tote, she headed out of the office and took the stairs, not waiting for the elevator.
Once on the street, she lingered in front of the building for her ride. Watching from across the street, I smiled. Adri looked happy. Tomorrow was her interview, and I hoped her life would become more enjoyable for the young woman that had known so much heartache. Whistling, I walked to the corner, for I was still on the clock. This old soul enjoyed walking the streets of North Point in the evenings, something Adri and I had in common.
Suddenly, I had been summoned. “Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!” I cried. I recognized the address. At full speed, I rushed to my next destination, and as I feared, Adri sprawled on the sidewalk. People were screaming; others called 911. A woman sat on the cold walk with Adri’s head in her lap. She uselessly pleaded with my girl to stay with her. But the bullet from the driveby found its mark. Senseless slaughter.
Taking Adri’s hand, the young woman looked up at me and asked, “Do I know you?’
I smiled, “No, not really. We never formally met, but I have wandered in your life from time to time and marveled at your persistence to make it in your world.”
She gazed up at me, rightfully confused.
“Let me explain,” I continued. “I first met you when your parents passed. The next time we crossed paths was when Gram and Zoe died, a terrible tragedy. Then I was summoned twice again, once when the girl from Kinship House slit her wrists and again when Issak was stabbed. Thankfully, the two survived.”
I nervously laughed before I continued. “My career is rather bleak. I am summoned all hours of the day and night. I find my client and leave. After some time, you caught my attention; you were often present at my appointments. I watched as you mourned for your parents, grandmother, and friend. After those occasions, I watched over you, hoping your life would improve. But then, after the girl from Kinship house and then Issak, I worried. Plus, your job at Samuel was so insanely mortifying.”
I rambled on, “And I will have you know I literally jumped for joy when you called Ron about the new job. You would have loved it!”
Sighing, I hung my head before I continued. “I was warned about getting attached to the people left behind, but here I am, my dear, mourning you like I would my own child if I were allowed to be a father.”
“Wait!” She screamed. “Am I…am I”
“Dead?” He finished for her. “Yes, my child, I am afraid so.”
Writing Prompt:
For today’s prompt, write from the perspective of a guardian angel. Whether that’s a supernatural being or just an angel on Earth, let your creativity soar!
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
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!
“There are two lasting bequests we can give our children: One is roots, the other is wings.” Teaching children values and giving them the opportunity to excel is essential to good parenting. However, I feel I must also provide my children (and myself) insight into the ones who came before us: our ancestors whose lives and stories have shaped us into who we are. This is my journey; these are their stories…
Tales of a Family 