Tag: writing

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:

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.



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.

Just Dance

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant1 Comment

As an inspiring writer, I find great joy in discovering wisdom from published authors. My latest read, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, has been a truly sensational experience. I love how she intertwines her life experiences with insights about writing. Her sense of humor and creative teaching style have given me the freedom to let go of perfectionism.

Having grown up in a household that often demanded 110 percent, it’s been challenging to write without the looming pressure of getting everything “just right”—a mindset that often kills inspiration. Thanks to Lamott’s guidance, I’ve learned to simply type to the end, no matter how imperfect the words may be. Later, I return to my work, carefully revising and perfecting those phrases that once frustrated me. This shift in my approach has been transformative.

Years ago, a college professor recommended Bird by Bird, but I’m only now getting around to reading it. It’s been lighthearted, encouraging, and deeply impactful. One of Lamott’s quotes resonates with me: “Don’t look at your feet to see if you are doing it right. Just dance.”

I’m finally learning to dance without looking at my feet—a liberating and joyful experience.

My Writing Journey

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant7 Comments

From an early age, reading and writing were essential to me. My mom taught me to read when I was four because I loved books. Writing quickly became just as natural. I kept journals, wrote poetry, and found joy in crafting words. But the real magic began when I started college. Professors encouraged my writing, I earned scholarships, and poems and articles were published. That period marked a turning point in my life.

After college, however, life took unexpected turns, and my writing was set aside. It wasn’t until one summer, when an old back injury forced me onto bed rest for weeks, that I rediscovered my passion. With only so much Netflix to watch, I turned to researching my family tree. I uncovered fascinating stories about my ancestors and decided to put it all into writing.

Shortly after, I started a family blog. I wanted a safe place to preserve my stories and memories—and honestly, I knew it would be the best way to keep my writing organized (something I’m not always great at). Since my daughter was homeschooling, I often wove the stories of our ancestors into her lessons. It was exciting to add our ancestors to her history lessons.

Over time, my blog grew beyond what I’d ever imagined. I found myself enjoying writing again. I joined writing challenges and began experimenting with poetry, flash fiction, and short stories. Today, I have over 1,500 subscribers.

Last year, my daughter gifted me a subscription to Storyworth, prompting me to share even more family history and personal stories. Soon, I’ll have a family book filled with these memories—an experience that gave me the push I needed to keep writing.

Alongside blogging, I began working on a novel, though progress has been slow. Frustration crept in, and I found myself hitting pause. During this time of reflection, I decided to pursue another master’s degree. This summer, at the age of sixty-three, this grandmother will return to school to earn a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. It’s a dream I’ve had for years.

Last year, a new language arts teacher joined our school, and we quickly became friends. She shared her excitement about her MFA program in creative writing, and her passion was contagious. Inspired by her enthusiasm, I decided to take the leap and finally pursue my long-held dream.

So, this summer, I will follow my heart’s desire once again and return to the classroom—not just as a teacher, but as a student of creative writing.

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

The Perfect Place

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment
Daily writing prompt
You get to build your perfect space for reading and writing. What’s it like?
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If I could build the perfect space for reading and writing, I would design a room with large windows that let in soft, filtered light from the nearby pines. The trees would sway gently outside, casting a peaceful, natural glow throughout the space. On one wall, a fire blazes in the hearth, providing warmth and an inviting ambiance. In the corner, a plush, overstuffed recliner would beckon, its cushions soft and cozy. I’d settle into it, pulling a warm comforter over my legs, ready to start the day. Balancing my laptop on my knees, the soothing crackle of the fire would be my backdrop as I begin my writing, the words flowing as the world outside quietly fades away.

Next to the chair, a small side table would hold my morning coffee, the rich aroma of the brew sparking creativity. It would sit within arm’s reach, a comforting ritual to help me ease into the day’s work. With the fire’s warmth, the calming view, and my trusty coffee by my side, I’d be perfectly equipped for whatever thoughts or stories might emerge, ready to write the day away.

Unexpected Teaching Journey: From College Grad to Women’s Prison Instructor

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

Never in a million years, as a grandmother, did I ever believe I would begin my teaching career in a women’s prison. It was not my first choice, but fresh out of college and separated from my spouse, my limited options and looming debt reminded me that I could not be picky.  While I enjoyed living in a rural community, teaching opportunities did not come along often.  And my old truck was on its last legs.  Whenever I traveled outside the county, we rumbled along on a wing and a prayer. So, after subbing for three months, I jumped at the chance to work evenings at the women’s prison.  

Before I could begin teaching, I had to spend time at the training academy. Days were spent in class, listening to lectures on law. Others were spent in the old dormitories of the former boy’s school, searching for contraband. When the day came to begin self-defense classes, I was more than a little nervous.  The instructors paired the class with people of the same height, and my partner was a young kid half my age.  I told him, “Be gentle with me; I’m a grandma.” 

Nodding his head, he sweetly smiled and said, “Yes, ma’am,” before we began sparring. 

Listening to our instructor, we threw punches and kicks until I just wanted to find a secluded corner somewhere to hide and rest before I collapsed from exhaustion. Although I lifted weights and worked out, this granny was no match for the young man.  

To add to the commotion, the instructor began barking orders like a crazed drill sergeant. He marched right up to me and screamed in my face, “Hit him harder!”

Flabbergasted by his order and demeanor, I stepped back and replied, “I don’t want to hurt him.”

He loudly laughed, and the room grew quiet.  Everyone stopped to watch the trainer as he criticized and mocked. In true military fashion, he began to berate his student, me.  He cooed in a sickly, sweet little voice, “Oh, is that what you’re going to tell your little inmates? Huh? I don’t want to hurt you?”

Everyone laughed, and I fumed. I pushed all doubt from my mind, ready to prove my mettle. I ignored the aches and pains; at that moment, I was determined to show Ole Sarge that I was more than capable of defending myself.

The young man and I began exchanging jabs again as everyone watched. The trainer continued to shout instructions to block, jab, and kick.  Although I did my best, Ole Sarge didn’t think I was up to par.  With more conviction, he again started screaming in my face, “Hit him harder.”

At that moment, all I wanted to do was punch the instructor. He was relentless.  I was tired and hot and sweaty, but he continued to scream at me.  In frustration, I finally gave all I had and punched the kid square in the face.

To my absolute horror, he went down and didn’t move. And he did not respond to any commands. In shock, I realized I had knocked him out! Frozen, I stood motionless as people rushed to the young man’s side. Although he was not out for long, time had slowed to a crawl, and my heartbeat quickened, and I began to tremble when he finally responded, “I can’t see.”

At that moment, I wanted to disappear as all eyes turned to look at me.  Tears welled. What had I done?

Within seconds that seemed like an eternity, his sight returned, and the angry young man jumped to his feet.  He glared at me, and through clenched teeth, he growled, “A grandma, my ass!”  

Relief washed over me.  The young officer stormed off, refusing to work with me. The “drill sergeant” mumbled, “I should take a break.”

Before Ole Sarge could change his mind, I rushed from the auditorium, found a dark corner, and slumped to the floor. While I listened to echoes of grunts and Ole Sarge barking orders, I tried to relax as I again questioned my sanity. At least this round was over, and soon it would be forgotten, or so I thought until I showed up for my first day of teaching.  

Walking along a path to the school building, a smiling officer approached.  “Are you the new teacher?”

“I am,” I replied, returning his smile.

“Glad to have ya here, teach, or should I say Bruiser?”

He laughed as I groaned. 

A group of inmates overheard our conversation, and one of the ladies asked, “Why do you call her Bruiser?”

Laughing, he told the woman, “You don’t want to mess with her.  She knocked out a kid half her age…”

Sigh. Well, at least my teaching career was not going to be boring.

Photo by Johnson Wang on Unsplash