Tag: writing

Echoes of Laughter

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

I always loved visiting Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger. The moment I arrived, there was a feeling, something warm and unmistakable, that settled over me like a favorite sweater. Their home buzzed with laughter, the kind that spilled from room to room, mixed with the clink of coffee cups or the hum of the TV as Uncle Roger watched his favorite news channel. 

Aunt Jan was funny in a sharp, delightful way. Her eyes sparkled when she told a story, and she had a talent for delivering a perfectly timed comment that made everyone laugh, sometimes even before they realized why. She was a little ornery, too, playfully so, never afraid to tease or speak her mind. Yet beneath that humor was a deep kindness. She noticed things. If you were quiet, she knew. If you were hurting, she softened. Her love showed up in small, thoughtful ways: an extra hug, a hand resting gently on your shoulder, a question asked just when you needed to be heard.

Uncle Roger matched her energy in his own way. He had an adventurous spirit and a mischievous grin that hinted he was always just a step away from some harmless trouble. His voice carried confidence and warmth, and when he laughed, it was full and contagious. There was kindness in him, too, the quiet kind that didn’t need recognition. He showed it through action, through showing up, through making people feel welcome just by being himself.

Together, Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger were a perfect pair. Their playful banter filled the room, a rhythm of teasing and affection that made everyone feel at ease. They balanced each other through humor layered with heart and adventure grounded in love. Watching them interact taught me that relationships didn’t have to be perfect to be strong; they just had to be genuine.

Visits with them were never rushed. Time seemed to slow down in their presence. Conversations lingered at the table. Laughter echoed down hallways. Even the quiet moments felt full, comfortable silences that didn’t need filling. Their home wasn’t just a place; it was a feeling of belonging.

Now, when I think of Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger, I don’t just remember what they said or did; I remember how they made me feel. Loved. Seen. Happy. Their humor, kindness, and adventurous spirits left a lasting imprint on my heart. They taught me that life is meant to be enjoyed, that laughter matters, and that love is often found in the simplest moments.

Loving visits with Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger became memories I carry with me still, not as distant recollections, but as living reminders of what matters most. Their home taught me that laughter can be a form of love, that kindness often arrives wrapped in humor, and that joy is something we create for one another. Long after the visits ended, the feeling of being with them remained, steady and warm, a quiet inheritance I continue to hold close.

I always loved visiting Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger. The moment we arrived, there was a feeling—something warm and unmistakable—that settled over me like a favorite sweater. Their home buzzed with laughter, the kind that spilled from room to room, mixed with the clink of coffee cups or the hum of conversation already in motion. You never had to knock long. The door opened quickly, usually mid-laugh, as if joy itself had been waiting for us.

Aunt Jan was funny in a sharp, delightful way. Her eyes sparkled when she told a story, and she had a talent for delivering a perfectly timed comment that made everyone laugh, sometimes even before they realized why. She was a little ornery, too—playfully so—never afraid to tease or speak her mind. Yet beneath that humor was a deep kindness. She noticed things. If you were quiet, she knew. If you were hurting, she softened. Her love showed up in small, thoughtful ways: an extra cookie placed on a plate, a hand resting gently on your shoulder, a question asked just when you needed to be heard.

Uncle Roger matched her energy in his own way. He had an adventurous spirit and a mischievous grin that hinted he was always just a step away from some harmless trouble. He loved telling stories—stories that wandered, grew larger, and became funnier with every retelling. His voice carried confidence and warmth, and when he laughed, it was full and contagious. There was kindness in him, too, the quiet kind that didn’t need recognition. He showed it through action, through showing up, through making people feel welcome just by being himself.

Together, Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger were a perfect pair. Their playful banter filled the room, a rhythm of teasing and affection that made everyone feel at ease. They balanced each other—humor layered with heart, adventure grounded in love. Watching them interact taught me that relationships didn’t have to be perfect to be strong; they just had to be genuine.

Visits with them were never rushed. Time seemed to slow down in their presence. Conversations lingered at the table. Laughter echoed down hallways. Even the quiet moments felt full—comfortable silences that didn’t need filling. Their home wasn’t just a place; it was a feeling of belonging.

Now, when I think of Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger, I don’t just remember what they said or did—I remember how they made me feel. Loved. Seen. Happy. Their humor, kindness, and adventurous spirits left a lasting imprint on my heart. They taught me that life is meant to be enjoyed, that laughter matters, and that love is often found in the simplest moments.

Loving visits with them became memories I carry with me still—treasures from a life rich with connection, warmth, and joy.

Whispers of the Redwoods

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment
Daily writing prompt
Do you play in your daily life? What says “playtime” to you?
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The first time I entered a forest of towering redwoods, it felt like stepping into another world, where time moved slowly and the trees whispered ancient secrets. My first camping experience occurred in fourth grade with my Girl Scout troop. Our leader, Mrs. Gardner, took me and three friends—Kim Regan (Murphy), Rene Gardner, and Krissie Earl—to Big Basin in the Santa Cruz Mountains for a tent camping adventure. The first night was chilly and rainy, but the weather did not dampen my spirits. It was my first encounter with the redwoods, and I found the place magical. The fresh scent of pine and damp earth greeted us upon arrival, and the towering trees stretched endlessly toward the sky.

Big Basin Redwoods State Park, established in 1902, is California’s oldest state park. The ancient redwoods there are thousands of years old, some predating the pyramids. Walking among them made me feel both tiny and awed by nature’s power and patience.

I shared a tent with Kim, and we were literally washed out that first night when a small stream ran through the middle of our tent. Soaked and shivering, we sought refuge in Mrs. Gardner’s tent for the rest of the night, listening to the rain patter on the canvas and the wind rustle the massive trees outside. Despite the soggy start, the forest quickly captured my heart.

The trees were incredible. On the second day, we visited the ranger’s headquarters and nature center, where rangers taught us about the local wildlife and the trees. We learned about various plants, the foxes and raccoons that inhabited the forest, and how the redwoods had survived for thousands of years. We even saw a tree ring from a redwood that had lived before Christ was born—a humbling reminder of nature’s grandeur and the passage of time.

Once, the Grizzly Bear roamed the forest, but the ranger explained that they were wiped out during the settlers’ earlier arrival. If a bear attacked livestock or people, hunters would kill at least five bears in the area to ensure they had eliminated the attacking bear.

Later, we hiked the Trail of Giants, marveling at the towering trees and the quiet majesty of the forest. I ran my hands along the rough, reddish bark, looked up at branches disappearing into the clouds, and felt the soft crunch of needles under my boots. The experience left a lasting impression on me. In the morning, fog enveloped the area, dew settled on spiderwebs, and tiny streams reflected sunlight like ribbons of silver, making the forest appear magical and otherworldly. It was unlike anything I had ever seen, and I couldn’t wait to return.

Although I have visited many places since then, Big Basin is one destination I would return to repeatedly. The damp ground smelled earthy, and the air was so fresh and clean it felt like drinking pure water. The tall canopy of trees shaded the forest, allowing slivers of sunlight to peek through the branches, casting a soft, golden glow. Gentle winds rocked the trees, creating a soothing lullaby at night that helped tired campers fall asleep quickly, while the occasional owl hoot or distant rustle of wildlife reminded us we were guests in a living, breathing world.

Even now, years later, whenever I think of Big Basin, I feel a deep pull to return. It is more than a forest; it is a timeless sanctuary that leaves a mark on your heart, one towering tree, one soft breeze, and one magical morning at a time.

My Childhood Secret Retreats

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant2 Comments

Somewhere between the rustle of avocado leaves and the creak of a hidden stair, I learned that the best places in childhood were the ones where no one could find you unless you wanted to be found.

Favorite Hiding Places as a Child

Growing up in a large family definitely had its benefits. I always had a playmate and a buddy close by. But there were times when this only girl longed for space and quiet moments of privacy away from the constant buzz of siblings. Early on, I discovered two special places that offered the perfect cover to hide from the world and escape the prying eyes of nosy little brothers. One place was outdoors, tucked beneath branches and leaves, and the other was hidden inside our home, a place few ever ventured. Both became sanctuaries where I could daydream, read, and slip away from the noise.

The Avocado Tree

When we moved to our home on Lincoln Avenue, we had a neighbor named Mr. Pippen who loved children and animals. He and his wife never had children of their own, so he often lingered nearby while we played outside, always smiling and ready to visit. He even took the time to teach our Cocker Spaniel, Lady, a few tricks, which delighted us just as much as it did him.

In his backyard stood the most delightful avocado tree. Although it rarely produced edible fruit, it offered something far more valuable to me, an irresistible escape from the neighborhood. Its wide branches formed a generous canopy that shielded me from the rest of the world. When I leaned my back against its sturdy trunk, completely hidden beneath its leaves, no one would ever know I was there.

It was the perfect place to read or simply let my thoughts wander. Along the back fence sat a small, unused chicken coop, weathered and quiet. I often wondered what it must have been like when chickens once roosted there and families tended vegetable gardens nearby.

On warm summer afternoons, I loved slipping away beneath the tree’s branches. The shade offered cool relief from the heat, while sunlight flickered and danced through the fluttering leaves above me. A sea breeze from the bay stirred the branches, sending dust and tiny seeds sparkling in the air. Children’s laughter drifted through the yard, creating a comforting soundtrack as the rough bark pressed through my shirt while I rested against the trunk.

As I grew older, I began climbing my hideaway. The sturdy lower branches gave me the confidence to explore higher and higher. From there, I could see across our backyard and catch glimpses of the surrounding neighborhood. Nestled against the trunk, I often stretched across one branch, resting my chin on another, watching clouds drift overhead. I searched their shapes for animals, dolphins, horses, playful pups, while listening to the familiar sounds below. Sometimes I had to stifle a laugh when little brothers or neighbors called out my name, puzzled about where I had disappeared.

That tree felt magical. Knowing no one else shared my secret gave me a sense of independence and quiet power. It became a place of escape whenever I needed solitude or time to think. I climbed that tree often, even into my teenage years, whenever I wanted to feel invisible for a while. It brought me comfort knowing my special place was just yards from home, waiting whenever I needed it.

The Stairwell

My second hiding place was tucked away on the ground floor of our Victorian home. Reaching it required perfect timing, when everyone was distracted and no one was paying attention to a chubby little girl with brown hair. I would linger in the large foyer, waiting until I was certain no eyes were watching.

Beneath the grand staircase, hidden at the very back of the room, was a tiny, dark door stained to match the rich wood of the stairs above. Holding my breath, I would slowly turn the knob and duck into the narrow space beyond. Inside was a steep, narrow stairwell leading down to the first-floor barroom. My favorite spot was a step beside a small window that let in just enough light for reading.

It was cool and quiet, the perfect hiding place on rainy days. No one ventured down those stairs very often, so no one ever thought to look for me there. Once settled with my book, I could hear the muffled sounds of life above me; my mother’s voice drifting through the floor as she talked on the phone, or the television playing while my little brothers watched afternoon cartoons in the living room.

Reflection

Both of my hiding places offered the same quiet comfort of not being seen. I felt clever and safe as I observed the world around me without being part of it. Each place gave me an escape into books, an activity that has always shaped who I am. Though one was open to the sky and the other tucked deep within our home, both offered solitude, imagination, and peace. They remain among my favorite memories of childhood, gentle reminders of a girl who learned early how to find her own quiet corners in a noisy world.

Even now, I can still feel the cool stair beneath my legs and the rough bark pressed against my back. I can hear the hum of distant voices, the rustle of leaves overhead, and the quiet turning of pages in my hands. Those hiding places no longer exist in the same way, but the girl who sought them out still does. She lives in every book I open and every quiet moment I claim for myself, still knowing that sometimes the best way to be found is to first be unseen.

A Relationship That Has Had a Positive Impact on Me

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant2 Comments
Daily writing prompt
What relationships have a positive impact on you?
View all responses

One of the most positive and meaningful relationships in my life has been with Jan and Keith Lacy. They were my youth ministers, beginning their work in the early 1970s, and I have known them since I was nine years old. From a very young age, they played an important role in shaping who I am today, and their influence has remained with me throughout my life.

I first met Jan and Keith Lacy in Alameda, California, where they immediately stood out as people who genuinely lived out their beliefs. Their strong faith was not something they merely spoke about; it was reflected in their actions through kindness, patience, and sincere care for others. Being around them made me feel supported and valued. Even as life changed and distance separated us—especially after their move to Colorado—they continued to be a steady and encouraging presence in my life.

What made my relationship with Jan and Keith so meaningful was their constant compassion and encouragement. They were always praying for me and my family, always willing to listen, and always ready to help in any way they could. Their kindness never felt forced or conditional; it was consistent and heartfelt. They treated me as someone who truly mattered, which had a lasting impact on my confidence and sense of self as I grew older.

Because of Jan and Keith, I became a better person. They helped strengthen my faith and guided me toward making positive choices, even during challenging times. Their example taught me the importance of caring for others, staying grounded, and living with integrity. During difficult moments in my life, it brought me comfort to know that I had people who believed in me and were always supporting me from afar.

The impact of Jan and Keith Lacy has lasted far beyond my childhood. Their guidance and love continue to shape how I see the world and how I treat others today. I am deeply grateful for their presence in my life and for the faith, kindness, and support they shared with me. They are a lasting reminder that one caring relationship can truly make a lifelong difference.

Moments of Joy

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant6 Comments

Often throughout our daily lives, we stumble upon small, unexpected moments that feel like treasures—instances that settle into a special place in our memories. These simple occasions, whether shared conversations, bursts of laughter, or quiet pauses in a busy day, usher in fun-filled times that linger long after they’ve passed. Over time, we come to realize that these fleeting moments, gathered almost without noticing, have become some of our favorite memories, reminders of a life well lived and richly felt.

When I moved to Colorado in 1979, I soon found employment with the Bureau of Land Management Young Adult Conservation Corps, based in Canon City. For this former city girl who loved the outdoors, it was my dream job. I was able to visit so many amazing places and witness incredible beauty and wildlife.

In the beginning, we were mainly an all-girl crew of three girls and one guy, and our work often took us to Bighorn Sheep Canyon, located between Canon City and Salida. We worked long days in all seasons. The canyon was a great place for outdoor adventures, hiking, camping, fishing, and river rafting. At Five Points, a favorite stop for fishermen, we often cleaned the area, hauled out trash, built fences, and made repairs. The surrounding area was breathtaking. Rugged mountain terrain ran along the highway to the south; a sliver of land between the river housed the area known as Five Points; and the railroad tracks ran along the canyon across the river, with mountains as a backdrop. Often, we would spot the bighorn sheep that lived in the canyon. For this former city girl, my heart always soared with excitement when one was spotted.

One winter, only the girls showed up for work. We drove to Five Points with our crew boss, Pete. I never tired of the view. On that day, the landscape was covered in white brilliance; the river formed a frozen sculpture of frozen ripples along the edges and floating, glistening ice patches that resembled large chunks of broken glass. Pete drove the truck, and I sat in the back in the crew cab with my nose pressed against the window, taking in the beauty. Pete had already gone over the instructions for the day. We were repairing a fence at Five Points, cleaning the site and the bathrooms, and hauling out the trash. Our little crew enjoyed each other’s company, and everyone talked and laughed about weekend plans.

Once we arrived, we pulled on our government-issued winter gear. Our winter pants were several sizes too large and cinched with belts, which made us look like we all had duck tails. That day, I wore a large sweater over my YACC uniform shirt and my bomber jacket over my sweater. We all wore knitted beanies to keep our ears warm. Other than the truck, no one would guess we were a YACC crew for BLM.

We quickly cleaned the area and the restrooms and began working on the fence. While we worked, travelers stopped to use the facilities, take pictures, and admire the winter wonderland. One man stopped, parked his car, and exited with a camera. He looked around and began to walk toward us. He was lean and lanky, dressed in jeans, an off-white winter coat, and expensive hiking boots. He had a warm, easy smile and a manner to match.

Pete was not with us and visited with some of the tourists who had stopped and wanted information about the area. As the young man approached, he smiled and began to talk. It was so cold that our breath was visible, like small moving clouds. Curious, he introduced himself and explained that he was a reporter from a nearby newspaper. The reporter began asking questions, and soon it became clear he thought we were inmates from the Women’s Prison.

The girls and I exchanged looks; honestly, our gear could pass for prison work gear. In a moment of complete wickedness, I decided to play along. I don’t know why I did it or where my acting skills sprang from in that single moment. But I gave an Oscar-worthy performance as the reporter began asking questions.

“Why, yes. We are from the Women’s Prison,” I sweetly answered, barely batting an eye.

“Do you mind if I ask how much you are paid for your labor?” the man kindly asked.

“Our pay? Oh, we make 50 cents a day,” I stated in a matter-of-fact voice.

His eyebrows furrowed in earnest, unnerved by my answer. In a low voice, he questioned, “Do they treat you well?”

“Yes,” I replied. “They treat us well. The work is hard, but we don’t mind because we get outside. Five days a week, and we enjoy Colorado’s beauty.”

I made quite a performance, and the rest of the crew tried not to smile.

“Our crew boss, Pete, is right over there. He keeps us in line,” I told the reporter. Pete happened to be watching us, and I waved; he responded with a smile and a quick wave of his own.

The man asked if he could take some photos, and I agreed. The three of us posed together, smiling for the camera.

As he walked away to visit with Pete, the three of us broke into laughter.

“Pete will make us pay for this one,” Kim chuckled.

Trying to look innocent, we started working once again but secretly kept glancing as the reporter approached Pete. In quick order, we watched Pete’s face change as the two men began talking, and the reporter began asking about the inmate program. We tried not to laugh as Pete’s face transformed from confusion to dawning realization to absolute disbelief.

From across the parking lot, Pete, red-faced, bellowed, “ANNIE!!” And the girls and I could no longer hold in our laughter. The reporter turned and looked at me, realizing he had been had. He threw his head back and howled with laughter, then turned and gave me the thumbs up. He and Pete spoke for a few more minutes before shaking hands. The reporter walked back to his car, his boots crunching in the snow. He smiled and gave us one last wave before climbing into his car and pulling out of the parking lot.

We turned and looked at Pete. With a stern look, Pete stormed over to us while marching like a general on a mission, ready to scold. We honestly tried not to laugh but could not hold it back.

“Annie, what were you thinking?” He angrily admonished.

Trying not to smile, I recounted, “Well, he assumed we were women prisoners, so I played along, and well, it just snowballed from there!”

Once he heard our side of the story, he couldn’t keep up his stern demeanor. The scowl on his face slowly softened, then broke entirely as he burst into a deep, unexpected laugh. In the end, he even rolled up his sleeves and helped us finish the job. For us, it was just another extraordinary day with the crew, a day full of hard work, good humor, and the kind of moments that made this team feel like family.

Looking back, that day at Five Points became one of those stories we told over and over. It was the kind of story that only comes from long hours, frozen fingers, and a bond forged by shared hard work. Life in the YACC wasn’t glamorous, and it certainly wasn’t easy, but moments like that reminded us why we loved it. We learned to laugh when the cold bit through our coats, to find joy in the absurd, and to hold tight to the friendships that made the work worthwhile. It proved that even the smallest shared moments can reveal the joy of a life shaped by connections and experiences. And even now, every time I drive past Five Points, I can still hear Pete’s voice echoing through the snow and feel the warmth of that laughter cutting through the cold.

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:

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Prompt:

Write a story about this image.



Breaking and Entering

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant4 Comments

Stepping outside to grab the mail, Ellie barely sets foot on the front porch when she hears the quiet but unmistakable click of the locked door. The elderly lady, with her hair in a messy grey bun, glasses dangling precariously on her nose, and wearing mismatched slippers, groans. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Ellie hollers, realizing her keys are once again inside the house. Her back twinges, her ankle throbs, and her patience evaporates.

“Old woman, you sure do know how to get yourself into the darndest messes,” she mutters, shaking her head. “When are you finally going to hide a key outdoors? It’s not like this hasn’t happened before, many times before. And walking is a chore already, let alone breaking and entering into your own home, for pity’s sake.” She continues lecturing herself about aging and “situational stupidity” as she limps toward the garage.

The late morning air warms her, but the fragrant scent from the honeysuckle vine wrapping over her back fence does nothing to alleviate her agitation. She scoots along the path. At least the side door is unlocked. She exhales in relief and slips inside, whispering a silent prayer that the kitchen door might be unlocked too. She rattles the knob.

No such luck.

On the other side, her two dogs, Franke and Molly, explode into a frenzy of barking, convinced an intruder is trying to breach their domain.”Hush, now! I don’t need to hear all your yapping,” she snaps, prompting them to bark even louder. Ignoring the canine chaos of her miniature dachshunds, Ellie scans the garage and spots the dusty ladder leaning against the wall. It seems to stare back at her in judgment. “Yeah, I know,” she grumbles. “This is how hip replacements begin.”

Determined, she hoists the ladder, triggering an instant sneezing fit as dust clouds fill the air. “Judas Priest!” she hollers when she finishes.

Balancing the ladder on one shoulder, she clumsily hauls it out to the backyard. She remembers leaving her bedroom window cracked open last night for fresh air—her one stroke of luck today. Halfway across the yard, she sets the ladder down and wheezes. “Oh, blazes! I need to start walking again. But come on, old girl, you’ve got this. And hey, if ya croak, at least you’ll look productive.” She laughs at her own joke, only to start wheezing again.

Finally reaching the window, she slides it open. Molly and Frankie barrel into the bedroom, nails tapping on the hardwood floors, and barking as if reporting a home invasion. They skid to a stop when Ellie’s face appears over the windowsill, tails wagging so hard their whole bodies wiggle.

“You might want to stay back,” she warns them. “This could go sideways in a hurry.”

She positions the ladder beside the window and gives it a good shake. “Seems sturdy enough,” she declares, trying to sound braver than she feels. After all, what could possibly go wrong? Just a sixty-something-year-old woman about to reenact a cat burglar scene.

“Oh, suck it up, Buttercup,” she coaches herself. “Climb the ladder, slide one foot over, straddle the sill, then ease inside. Voila! Home free!”

She wishes she felt as confident as she sounded. Taking a deep breath, she starts climbing; the old ladder creaks with each step, and her ancient muscles protest with every rung. “Traitors,” she mutters under her breath.

At the right height, she braces herself and slides one leg through the opening. She refuses to look down; falling is not on the agenda today. Just as she shifts her weight, the ladder wobbles and crashes to the ground. Ellie drops onto the sill with a graceless thump.

“Oh, I am going to pay for this later,” she groans, but relief washes over her.

Once her heart settles, she edges one foot toward the bedroom floor. She’s just starting to steady herself when she feels a tug on her pant leg. Frankie decides her cuff looks like a chew toy. “No! Frankie!” she yelps, but it’s too late. Her foot slips, and she lands on the floor with all the grace of a falling laundry bag. The dogs rush in, showering her with kisses, thrilled that their mom is home safe after her harrowing self-induced break-in. Wheezing again, Ellie tries to catch her breath. As her heart rate slows and her breathing returns to normal, she pats her pups, stares up at the ceiling, and reconsiders her recent life choices. She is increasingly convinced she has some sort of death wish.

Once she recovers, Ellie decides she’s had enough excitement for the day, maybe even for the week. Slowly, she gets on her knees and crawls to her bed. Using the bedpost as support, she pulls her achy body up and slumps across the comforter. Although she doesn’t want to move, she decides to change back into her pajamas. This was a day better spent in bed. She kicks off her slippers, and Molly chases the red flannel one that slides under the bed. Going into the master bathroom, she quickly changes into her nightie and then returns to her room and climbs under the covers. The pups scramble up the ramp, nails tapping, and settle beside her. She turns on the TV and contentedly sighs as her head hits the pillow.

Ding dong.

She freezes. “No, no, no. You’ve got to be kidding. Maybe they’ll go away.”

The bell rings twice more, followed by urgent pounding. Ellie groans, climbs out of bed, and slips on her robe. She can’t find her slippers and figures the Muttley Crew must have hidden them somewhere in the house. Grumbling, she trudges to the door in her bare feet. Peeking through the peephole, she spots two uniformed police officers.

Of course. She exhales loudly, opens the door, and the officers give her a cautious once-over.

“Ma’am, we got a report of a break-in at this address,” the older officer explains.

Frankie and Molly erupt in barking again, so Ellie steps outside and shuts the door behind her.

“You’re looking at the culprit,” she says. “I’d appreciate it if you list it as ‘attempted.’ I barely made it in.”

The officers stifle smiles. One gestures toward her nosy neighbor, Mrs. Agatha, across the street, who annoyingly waves. Of course, her neighbor is dressed in her Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes.

Ellie waves back, but not before pulling her robe closer, trying to hide that she is in her nightie at this time of day. “Oh, Lord, the neighbors will talk,” she thinks to herself.

Interrupting her thoughts, the older officer says, “Your neighbor was worried. She saw someone climbing through your window.”

Ellie deadpans, “Next time, tell her to call me first. I could use the encouragement when I’m breaking into my own home.

Laughing, the older officer hands her a card and gently suggests hiding a key.

“I’m on it,” she promises, thanking them for checking on her.

She watches them drive off, eager to return to her peaceful afternoon.

She reaches for the doorknob.

It doesn’t budge.

She jiggles it again.

“Oh, Sweet Mary and Jooooseph…!”

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.

Cellphones and Dinosaurs

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant3 Comments

“I hate this stupid thing, and I’m sending it back!”

Sigh. My first “real” cell phone was a nightmare—I hated being stuck with that new contraption. In the past, I’d used inexpensive flip phones on vacation, paying only a modest monthly fee. They were simple, nothing fancy, and often I’d keep them just until I eventually forgot about them and stopped paying the bill.

And oh the horror! Once, some of my eighth graders joked that I must be a drug dealer because I carried a burner phone. I just shook my head, gave them the “look,” and remarked, “You watch too much TV.” Back then, I had no desire for a phone glued to my hip 24/7. I believed phones belonged on the kitchen wall—safe from loss and easy to ignore—and I never worried about leaving home without one.

Still, nearly two years ago, circumstances shifted. My sweet daughter insisted it was time for me to get a phone—or else she’d get me a life alert. I wasn’t thrilled; Still, I even imagined the fun I could have if firefighters showed up every time I pressed the alert button. But Leslie reminded me that, eventually, they’d send the sheriff. Total buzz kill. Reluctantly, I accepted that it was time for this dinosaur to step into the 21st century. I didn’t have to love it, though, and to add insult to injury, my new smartphone proved to be much smarter than I was.

My family and my students laughed at my early struggles, yet they also helped this Grammy navigate the strange device. Despite the initial hiccups, I eventually grew to like—and even love—my phone, just a little.

I mean who wouldn’t appreciate having a camera at the ready or the ability to listen to audiobooks on a whim? And forget about traditional alarm clocks—the one on my phone is far more convenient. I now navigate road trips with ease, and with a single tap, my favorite tunes are ready to accompany me on drives or workouts. Of course, I love receiving texts from my kids, and, dare I say it, my phone has become a trusted sidekick. After all, nobody puts Baby in the corner—or in this case, back on the kitchen wall!

Oh, and this picture? Captured on my iPhone.

The Garden

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

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.