Prompts for 17 April 2026 from

• Write about a sculpture

• creative depletion

• “it’s something new”

• A character who is hopeful

  ---

Geraldine washed the last of the plaster of Paris from her hands. She liked the chalky scent of it and had once thought about creating a line of soaps that smelled like the creative process: plaster, clay, metal, stone, and wood. When creative depletion threatened, all she needed to do was breathe in the fragrance of her materials.

The mold she completed this morning was inspired by a smell. She woke up to the smell of something between burning tar and wet mud. She couldn’t place it before it vanished into a breeze scented with lilacs. She thought maybe she had dreamed it.

“It’s something new to me,” she mused. “How does one draw a smell?” she wondered over her morning yogurt—plain so nothing in it could dim her senses.

Instead of sketching a maquette, she freestyled a mold with wire and plaster, trusting the form to reveal itself. As she poured scalding bronze into the space between the walls of the mold, she thought about the next steps.

Geraldine turned to her unfinished soapstone projects, searching for the missing element of the bronze base. She tried to focus on tar and mud, but the lilacs interrupted. She surrendered to her muse and carved by instinct, with the memory of two distinct fragrances circling like the DNA of a new creation that she could not yet visualize.

Days passed. She freed the bronze from the mold and set it on her worktable. The dark soapstone took shape beneath her hands. On the last day of the month, drained of energy and imagination, she joined the pieces and rolled the table outside to cool in the air between workshop and house. Then she slept.

Again, a smell awakened her. Burning petroleum. Burning wood. Burning asphalt. Pulling on a sweatshirt, she dashed outside. Her workshop was fully engulfed in fire.

After the fire department left, Geraldine stood before the rubble. Nothing remained but fragments. Then the fragrance of lilacs broke through. She turned. Her sculpture stood, unscathed.

Leave a comment

Gibberish

FFF - Sculpture

New To Gibberish? Check out Navigation for Newcomers…

Read more

3 days ago · Scoot

• Write about a theater

• iridescent anger

• “don’t wait for it”

• A character who has been practicing

Julie stood in the wings, waiting for the curtain to rise. She had been practicing her lines for a month, but in reality, she had practiced for this role her whole life. When the auditions were first announced six weeks ago, her instinct was to ignore the call, but a voice inside her said,

“This is your chance; don’t wait for it—take it.”

This was her opportunity to flip the script of her life and turn her walls of fear into something more like iridescent anger. She was ready when the director called,

“Places.”

Julie smiled inwardly and moved onstage.

Leave a comment

I love an extra challenge. This one? 100 words and all four prompts.

Gibberish

FFF - Theater

New To Gibberish? Check out Navigation for Newcomers…

Read more

10 days ago · 2 likes · Scoot

• Write about a guardian

• disquieting din

• “I lied”

• A character who doesn’t want to be helped

Chamuel stood in the disquieting din of the chamber. He listened as angels reported their works among the people of the earth to Uriel, the keeper of guardian accounts.

Jophiel told the story of a botanist who dodged out of the way when an imp pushed a rock from a ledge in an attempt to flatten the man. At Jophiel’s nudge, the man moved—and in the process discovered a tiny flower with iridescent petals.

“Love a story where what is meant for evil turns into good,” Uriel chuckled quietly.

Mithra recounted how he brought two warring brothers together with a handshake, quelling generations of animosity.

“Blessed are the peacemakers,” noted Uriel.

Angel after angel, story after story, guardians spoke of protection and guidance, redirecting their charges to something better. Rejoicing over each repentant heart expanded with each report. Chamuel grew increasingly uneasy, feeling the weight of his inability to do the work to which he was called.

When Uriel called his name, Chamuel stood, head bowed.

“This is difficult to say. I rejoice that so many guardians fulfilled their assignments. Sadly, my human refused to listen to my promptings. She pursued her own wisdom, following her heart in its desperate wickedness—even to destruction.

“At one point, she told a friend that she should listen to her guardian angel. That gave me great hope, but on her final day she saw me with a moment of clarity. I cried out to her,

“’You said you should listen to me, yet here you are at the edge of the precipice of eternity without the love of God. Will you look to Him now while there is still time?’

“She stared at me with darkened eyes. All she said to me was,

‘I lied.’

“And then she was gone into the abyss.”

The chamber was silent. Only Chamuel’s whispered lament echoed in the hall. All of the guardians shared the sorrow of a lost soul.

Jeremiel moved toward Chamuel and put a hand on his shoulder.

“My brother,” he spoke gently. “The glory of our work does not rest in the choices of humans. Our task is to reflect the will of the One who sends us out—faithfully guiding, prompting, and whispering to those to whom we have been assigned. They are free to reject our words in the same way they are free to reject the love of the Holiest of Holies. We mourn with you over this lost soul, but we do not condemn you.”

Uriel bent toward Chamuel. “We long to look into suffering and glory, but these are things not meant for us. We serve the Creator by serving the recipients of His grace. If they refuse, they make their choice.”

Chamuel looked up into the faces the guardians around him. Their compassion lifted him. The sorrow of the loss would linger, but there would be time for rejoicing when another soul would choose mercy, grace, and steadfast love.

Leave a comment

Gibberish

FFF - Noise

New To Gibberish? Check out Navigation for Newcomers…

Read more

22 days ago · 4 likes · Scoot

Prompts for 20 March 2026 from

• Write about spring

• glacial onrushing

• “you promised”

• A character who is wearing something backwards

Claire adjusted her baseball cap so that the brim rested on her russet ponytail. She preferred it this way; nothing to interfere with her sightlines. She punched her glove with her fist and watched the batter from her position at shortstop. First game of the spring season, and Claire was ready.

She glanced at the parents sitting on the bleachers. No Dad yet. He had tried to beg off this morning, saying he’d make it up to her later. She hadn’t let him off that easily.

“Dad. You promised. Don’t leave me hanging.”

He had shrugged and turned her baseball cap so the brim shielded her eyes.

“I’ll do my best. Friday afternoons are tough.”

She had glared at him from under the cap, but with the brim in the way, he probably didn’t notice.

Claire reset her attention to the batter. The boy was taller than Claire, but held the bat awkwardly, like it was his first time at bat. Claire relaxed and smirked. This one would be easy. She figured Saul would throw a curve ball, then a change-up, and finish the kid off with a fastball.

THWAK!

The ball arched high toward left-center field. Claire’s body snapped to attention before she could think about the hit. Her eyes followed the ball as she ran, extending her gloved hand as high as she could. The ball slowed in her imagination, a glacial onrushing that gave her time to feel embarrassed for assuming the batter was a newb. Before she could fully shake off the thought, she felt the thud of the ball in her glove. First out of the season.

From the bleachers, Claire heard her father shout,

“That’s my girl!”

Leave a comment

Gibberish

FFF - Cold Spring

New To Gibberish? Check out Navigation for Newcomers…

Read more

a month ago · 2 likes · 6 comments · Scoot

so I’ve included all eight prompts in this one!

Prompts for 6 March 2026

• Write about an escape

• precarious support

• “you have to put it back”

• A character with a twin

Prompts for 13 March 2026

• Write about a good day

• congratulatory sympathy

• “what if I don’t?”

• A character who is naïve

“You have to put it back!”

“What if I don’t?”

“Mom SAID!”

“Fine. Happy now?”

Mona poured her first cup of coffee while the girls bickered in their shared room. She had thought the hardest part of having twins would be the early years of sleepless nights, mountains of diapers, and an endless cycle of bottle washing. Now they were seven. More independent to be sure, but the constant fighting wore on her nerves, especially before that first cup of caffeinated sunshine. She looked at her reflection in the microwave window and toasted herself with a note of congratulatory sympathy.

“Well, you made it through the first seven years. Congratulations. Now to survive the next eleven.” She inhaled the steam from her brew and took the first tentative sip. Hot coffee was good. Scalding, not so much.

Danny rushed into the kitchen, tie flung over his neck, and stopped long enough to pour his own cup and kiss Mona.

“I have early meetings, but I’m off at three,” he whispered into her hair. “Then I’ll officiate the fights while you escape to the library for some peace.”

“That will make for a good day,” Mona replied. “I’ll look forward to that. Dinner ideas?”

Danny picked up his keys. “I’m thinking pizza.”

As he left, he winked at Mona. They may have the most argumentative kids on the planet, but as long as they had each other, they’d manage. First, though, she had to get them to the bus.

“Girls!” she called down the hall. “Stop bickering and get dressed. You’ve got enough time for peanut butter toast if you get a move on!”

The response was the thundering of two elephants in the shape of twin girls. Lurching toward the toaster, they elbowed each other to be first. Mona just moved out of the way and watched for the bus while they made their breakfasts and snatched up their backpacks. They charged out the door, shouting in tandem,

“Bye, Mom!”

“Love you!”

“Love you both! Have a good day. Be nice to each other.” Mona waved at the bus driver through the door as the girls boarded. Once the bus chugged down the street, she leaned against the porch rail, conscious of its precarious support and finished her coffee, smiling.

Leave a comment

Thanks for the prompts every week!

Gibberish

FFF - Good Day

New To Gibberish? Check out Navigation for Newcomers…

Read more

a month ago · 2 likes · Scoot

• Write about a historical artifact

• wondrously uninteresting

• “it belongs in a museum” (h/t Leanne Shawler)

• A character who is an academic

Sharon preferred quiet days in the library. The slightly musty smell of antique books in an old building, dust motes floating through single-paned light, comforted her in a wondrously uninteresting way. It was a familiar cardigan, shielding her from the advances of cold technology and a world gone mad. She never once regretted her PhD in library science. She pushed up her glasses and returned to her work, cataloging the most recent arrivals, feeling content in her quiet world.

She knew James was watching her with his little hand-held moving picture camera, but she was adept at ignoring him. Best friends since childhood, she and James moved through each other’s lives with practiced ease—aware, but never fully engaged. James flitted from hobby to hobby; this current fascination with film would pass and the camera would eventually find its way to a steel box in the library basement, carefully sealed and labeled. It was simply a matter of time.

By the time the bombs fell, James had cycled through a series of hobbies after his experiments in film. Photography turned to oils and then watercolors. James left off trying to capture time and turned to observing time through gardening. Sharon shook her head at his shifts from one thing to the next. She liked the solidity of books. They recorded time and kept it for generations without change. Usually.

It was raining when the library disintegrated into dust. Books, tables, notes, and people rose into a cloud, turned to mud, and hardened into clay. Over time, the clay turned to stone firm enough to serve as a foundation for a new city, built on the remains of what had come before. The city itself waxed and waned, falling into disrepair and eventually returning to the dust from which it had sprung.

The cycle continued for hundreds, or maybe thousands of years. No one knew for certain.

It was an exuberant group of young archaeologists on a summer internship who uncovered the library basement. For decades the site had been carefully dismantled and studied as scholars strove to understand those who had come before. Like all scholars of antiquity, they wanted to connect their present culture to something important from the past.

Previous students dug to the level of the stone and stopped, assuming that it was the first foundation of the city and therefore disappointing. This summer’s group, however, wanted to break through the stone on the slim chance there might be more. On the third day of the fifth week, they did it. The stone layer finally gave way to softer clay underneath. Analysis of the clay showed mixed elements that included traces of human DNA in tiny fragments of what must have been bone.

On the first day of the seventh week, one student broke through to an underground space. It would be more accurate to say he fell into a hole and discovered a vast cave containing neatly stacked, labeled boxes made of some ancient material that had withstood the bombing and the centuries that followed. His shout brought the rest of the team down. They sketched and annotated their observations for their professor, who raced to the dig site to see for herself.

Carefully, they extracted the boxes to the surface. The students, in their excitement, opened one at random before the professor could stop them. Inside was a roll of film, still attached to the reel.

“This belongs in a museum,” one student noted as he unraveled it.

Another added, “We need to get this to the lab before something happens.”

But it was too late. Exposure to the air caused the fragile film to crumble into dust. A gust of wind picked it up and blew it away. Time recorded and preserved. Forever lost.

Leave a comment

It’s Flash Fiction Friday! Welcome back after a long and dark offseason. I am very happy to bring the beloved weekly writing prompts back to help you write and, maybe, get into a habit of writing.

Prompts for 20 February 2026

• Write about an heirloom

• unseemly glory

• “don’t cry”

• A character who wants to run

“Don’t cry.”

The disembodied voice seems to echo all around the canyon. I can’t identify the source, not the direction from which it is coming. I finger the ruby heart necklace around my neck, a gift from my great-grandmother, who received it from her great-grandmother. I just hope I live long enough to pass it down to my own great-granddaughter.

At this particular moment, I’m not thinking about the future with all its unseemly glory. I just want to run from this rocky maze with all its echoes. Cry? I’m not crying—yet. There is an exit if I stay calm and think through the next steps.

Quietly I step left, then three paces later, I turn right. Around the next corner I see it. The final portal to freedom.

And my obnoxious big brother grinning at me, a carnival hot dog in one hand and cotton candy in the other.

Leave a comment

Gibberish

FFF - Inherited

New To Gibberish? Check out Navigation for Newcomers…

Read more

2 months ago · 6 likes · Scoot

• Write about a desert

• mythical commonplace

• “it’s unlikely, these days”

• A character who is in love

In the mythical commonplace of New Mexico, Dexter ruled his herd of humans. With a slight cock of his head, his snaggle tooth on display, his people were incapable of refusing him anything. Sunset walks were his favorite activity; as the heat of the day gave way to the chill of desert evenings, Dexter could see the ancestors weaving baskets, preparing for hunts, and sitting in honor of the gifts of the earth. Always beside them, were little dogs like himself, waiting for treats and affection.

For years the pattern of life remained. Other dogs came and went, each bringing a bit of joy before moving on to somewhere else. His humans changed: they got taller and faster and louder, but at sunset, one of them would whistle for him to leash up.

Until they didn’t. From one sunset to the next, the air in the house became oppressive. Strange sounds emanated from the bedrooms, and no one whistled for him to walk. The first night he worried, but just a little. Surely they would come and get him any minute.

The second night he was hungry. None of his humans seemed to be home, and his bowl remained empty. The backyard hose dripped, so Dexter drank until his belly stopped grumbling. The third and fourth days passed. He grew tired, and took to sleeping near the water. The tiles were hard, but the water was close. It was getting colder.

Dexter dreamed. All the other dogs from his life made appearances: Lucy the Chihuahua with the insatiable appetite, Norman the Beagle who ran away nightly no matter how they secured him, Pico and Taco, the tiniest Poodles he had ever seen, and Mango, the Great Dane who was far and away Dexter’s best friend. They came and went from his dreams, usually in the golden sunsets over desert scrub, but also in monsoons followed by rainbows. The rainbows brightened in every dream. He thought he might follow a rainbow if he ever had the energy.

On the sixth day, Dexter heard shouts and sirens. Suddenly there were strangers everywhere. Big men in dark uniforms with guns. Other men driving beds on wheels. TV people. The chaos made Dexter curl into a tight ball. Lights flashed, people shouted, and one of the rolling beds nearly ran him over. One of the big men—the one with the crooked nose and the skin the color of cedar—knelt beside Dexter.

“Hey, little fella. Have you been hiding here this whole time? It must have been scary for you.”

The man’s hand pulled Dexter up. He smelled like cats. Dexter shivered.

“Guys, I’m going to take this dog to the shelter. Maybe they’ll feed him and someone will adopt him.”

Other men laughed. “It’s unlikely these days. People want puppies, not old boys with googly eyes. And that tooth? Ha. That mutt will be first in line for….” The man clamped Dexter’s ears closed with one massive hand.

The trip to the shelter was short. The big man sat Dexter on a smooth counter and whispered to a lady with kind eyes. Dexter only heard a few words. His humans were not coming back—ever. He hung his head and whimpered as the lady picked him up.

“Thanks Ray,” she said to the man. “I’ll get him bathed and fed. Poor guy. Hopefully someone comes for him before next weekend. Hopefully folks come for all the dogs before then.” She shuddered, but scratched Dexter behind his ears and whispered to him.

Dexter tried not to inhale the kibble she set before him, but he was so hungry. The warm bath relaxed him, and when the kind-eyed lady put him in a cage with a worn blanket, he almost forgave her. He slept without dreaming.

In the mornings, for the next few days, the kind-eyed lady fed Dexter, spoke softly to him, and took him out of the cage. He liked her lap best, but she was busy. People were coming and taking the other dogs away. This made the lady happy, but Dexter started to worry that he would be left all alone again. The lady looked at him, and then her eyes would fill with tears as she returned him to his cage.

When all the other dogs were gone, he heard a van in the driveway and the kind lady laughing. She came to his cage smiling.

“Hey there, sweet boy. You just hit the lottery. These nice people are going to take you to a beautiful farm! You will be safe there. And I hope there is a family that falls in love with you and takes you home forever.” She sniffed, but she wrapped him in the old blanket and took him to the waiting car.

It was a long trip, but the people quietly earned Dexter’s trust. When they arrived at the farm, he wiggled with excitement like he hadn’t felt since his humans were small. There were a dozen or more friends to meet and people who treated him like the distinguished gentleman he imagined himself to be. Before long, he claimed a fluffy red bed without a cage, new friends to run circles with, and a spot in the sun.

And the Carolina sunsets were beautiful.

Leave a comment

Share

Dexter’s story is 100% fiction. If you’d like to meet Dexter — the real dog who inspired this story — here’s his rescue page:
https://carolinapoodlerescue.org/animal-detail/?AnimalID=22243689

To read more about Carolina Poodle Rescue, check out their Substack:

Notes from the Poodle farm – home of Carolina Poodle Rescue

Join us in living with and loving the dogs at Dreamweaver Farm, home of Carolina Poodle Rescue.

By Donna Ezzell

It’s Flash Fiction Friday! Welcome back after a long and dark offseason. I am very happy to bring the beloved weekly writing prompts back to help you write and, maybe, get into a habit of writing.

6 February prompts from

• Write about the weather

• a sharp bluntness

• “who do you think will notice?”

• A character who isn’t from here

  ---

Al shivered. With temperatures hovering near zero on the Fahrenheit scale, he knew it would only be a matter of time until hypothermia set in. His fingers were already a frightening shade of blue, and he assumed his toes were the same. He needed to get out of the weather and into some kind of shelter soon or his mission would fail and the resources spent on it would have been wasted.

“Who do you think will notice if I freeze to death here?” he thought. And then automatically corrected himself: “Whom.” Or was it who after all? “WHOMever created this language did not make it easy to get things correct.”

Al shifted his suit as he followed the map toward the building assigned to him by the project managers. He grumbled with his characteristic sharp bluntness about the haphazard organization and lack of research for this environment. He had done his own research, which was the reason he had insisted on a second skin thermal suit. He wished he had thought about hands and feet, but at least the unfamiliar internal organs were protected.

In the distance he finally spotted the brown roof of the building in the specs he carried with the map. Calculating the distance, he figured he would be there in minutes if he used his full speed. Given the weather and the remote location, he decided it was worth the risk of being seen by one of the natives. Within two minutes, he had traveled the mile and had unlocked the door and entered.

Subscribe now

The building appeared to be an old barn on the exterior, but inside the space held a myriad of specialty devices for measuring time and space on this odd blue planet. Al’s job was to learn how they intersected so that his people could make themselves available for intergalactic commerce. Procyon, the star around which Al’s planet, Cyon, orbited, had recently emitted radiation that triggered photodissociation in Cyon’s upper atmosphere, producing byproducts made up largely of oxygen—useless to Cyonites. Earth was rumored to have large stores of depleted uranium that Cyonites wanted for harnessing procyonid energy. The Cyonite Major Prelate hoped that opening a commerce stream would be mutually beneficial—if Al could learn how to enter the Earth’s space-time continuum.

The first thing Al wanted to do was thaw out. He reset the temperature in the thermal suit to a comfortable (for his species) 350 degrees Kelvin and plugged it in to continually recharge. He removed the boots that covered his humanoid feet and noted that they were also as blue-white as his fingers. That was troubling. He needed to discover a better way to protect this form from the cold. Somewhere in this building was a book.

Al clicked on the light and let out a squeak of discomfort. The room radiated with what seemed like a thousand points of light across an unfamiliar color spectrum and the machinery lost all definition to him. As quickly as he could feel the switch again, Al shut off the light. His head hurt now and he still hadn’t figured out a way to warm his hands and feet. He analyzed his situation.

“I can see enough to work on space and time, but not well enough to absorb information from an Earth-based source. Engineers. Meh. They think of the big complex things, but neglect to account for little things like light. So, what are the options here?”

Leave a comment

Al looked around at his devices. They hummed efficiently, emitting a silvery glow, which gave Al an idea. He remembered insisting on backup screens when the first team visited Earth to install the devices. He moved carefully to the storage area, wincing a bit as his feet and hands began to burn. He thought he remembered that as a good sign, but he wasn’t sure. Sure enough, the containers of backup screens were neatly stacked.

“I think,” he muttered, “three might provide adequate illumination with minimal negative effect as long as I can maintain the spectrum. Should have thought about Earth light before. Engineers are impractical theorists, but I should have thought of it.”

Al grouped the screens together. Since they were designed for backlighting any of the devices, their silver glow was unimpeded by dials, knobs, or information. Grouping them provided a steady light sufficient for reading, but not uncomfortable for Cyonite eyes. Al was pleased with himself, although his satisfaction was marred by the throbbing in his toes and fingertips.

Looking around the quietly illuminated room, Al finally saw the promised shelves of books. They were intended to give him a sense of human culture so he could determine the best way for the Major Prelate’s cabinet to begin talks with Earth leaders about sharing resources. Al was not a diplomat by any stretch of any imagination. He was a practical worker, an inventor, a field master whose main task was to learn Earth’s space-time continuum and whose secondary task was to remain unseen. The humanoid form was hard enough to imitate and maintain; trying to master the details like facial features was above his pay grade.

When Al had studied human language in school, he assumed that it was all oral. Then he learned about books with hard covers over soft paper signatures. The books on these shelves were entirely limp and soft with titles like Good Housekeeping, Vogue, AARP, People, and National Geographic.

“Useless,” he grumbled. He kept looking.

On the bottom shelf he found titles that were more promising: Popular Mechanics, Scientific American, and six editions of The Farmer’s Almanac. Finally he found what he needed: Bushcraft and Survival Skills. Taking it nearer the luminous screens, Al made himself as comfortable as he could, and began to read.

He didn’t get far before realizing he was looking at the problem of his hands and feet all wrong. The human explanations of wrapping the extremities in warm layers wouldn’t work without an actual circulatory system. What he needed was an internal heat redistribution. He shook his head as the obvious solution formed in his mind.

“The cold must have affected my mind along with fingers and toes,” he groused. With that, Al removed the torso portion of his thermal skin suit and draped it over his head. He allowed his hands and feet to return to a more pseudopodiastic form, allowing his own internal radiation flow easily to those extremities. He felt the burning ache as his cells began to heal. He realized it would take some time before he was fully functional again, so he relaxed his entire humanoid form and fell asleep.

Work would wait.

Leave a comment

• Moving to a new place

• the eye of the moon/el ojo de la luna

• “Just a matter of perspective”/”un cuestion de perspectiva”

• A character who is healed

  ---

Cesia looked skeptically at the new room. It was supposed to be a soothing shade of green, but it made her nauseous. Opening her journal, she wrote,

“Necesito pintar. Supongo que un cuestion de perspectiva, pero no puedo dormir aqui.” At some point she would need to translate her needs into English, but keeping her journal in Spanish gave her a sense of privacy.

This hospital was supposed to be better than the others. The brochures showed pictures of grand gardens and an elegant dining room, which was supposed to encourage both rest and recovery from a variety of disorders. She had seen several girls like herself: emaciated and scarred with the need to achieve perfection. Some had gastric tubes. She could tell by the way they moved and sat. She had been there before and did not want that to happen again. She was determined that this time she would learn how to manage her image in the mirror. The resort-like atmosphere promised a sense of a normal life rather than just another hospital. But the green walls had to go.

Sitting on the bed, she looked around. No television or internet access in the room, which was normal. No opportunities to fall into scrolling through the sites that rewarded her with dopamine hits as she discovered new ways to avoid food. There was a bookcase made of a dark wood whose shelves featured fiction stories about healthy relationships. She recognized the cover of Mujercitas, although this one the English version.

“Leetle Whemeen,” she sounded out in heavily accented English. She had loved the book as a child; she loved the nurturing character of Meg, although most of her friends wanted to be Jo. Cesia like Jo, but was drawn to Meg’s kindness. Maybe this book would be a good place to start practicing her language skills. She would ask for an audio version to help. She made another note in her journal.

A smiling nurse came into the room with a iPad.

“Hola, Cesia,” she said, “And that’s the limit of my Spanish, I’m afraid. The iPad will help translate for now, but I’m hoping we can share language study. I want to learn Spanish and you need to learn English, so we both win.”

Cesia caught a few of the words, but she looked at the floor, ashamed for not knowing more. The nurse turned the iPad to her. There were the words in both languages. Cesia looked up and smiled. This place was definitely different. This nurse seemed to be interested in her as a person, rather than a problem to be solved.

Using the iPad, the nurse, Sofia, ran through the usual intake questions. Cesia was amused that the nurse with the Spanish name only spoke English, but she liked her. Sofia turned to the bookcase and opened a door at the bottom, pulling out the familiar steel cart of medical equipment. Cesia shivered. There were terrible memories associated with that cart.

Sofia caught Cesia’s eye.

“I know the last place was not good to you. I need these tools to check your vital signs, but nothing more. As soon as I know what I need to know, this gets put away and out of sight.”

Cesia read the translation and nodded, although her body stayed rigid. Sofia was gentle, explaining everything she did and answering all of Cesia’s nervous questions. As promised, the cart was put away quickly, and Cesia relaxed. Sofia began to put away her iPad when Cesia interjected,

“Wait, please.” She surprised herself by speaking in English, and Sofia turned back to her. Cesia pulled out her journal to share her requests for a different paint color in the room and an audiobook of Little Women. Sofia looked perplexed.

“I don’t think we can paint the room, but I will see what we can do to make it more comfortable. I think we have that book on CD in the library, so I will definitely get that for you. While I do that, you can unpack. My friend, Carli, will come see you in a bit to take you to the dining room…” Sofia stopped when she saw Cesia’s panicked expression.

“It will be okay. Carli has a quiet corner for only three people, so you don’t have to eat in front of everyone. And lunch will be simple. Your tablemate is like you, getting stronger, learning to like the taste of food, but not ready to share meals with the group. I promise.” Sofia opened her arms and Cesia leaned in for a gentle hug. This new place was different, and she felt herself relax a little.

***

As promised, lunch in the dining room was quiet and simple. Carli bubbled over with contagious joy and Cesia’s tablemate seemed nice enough, although she was quiet as she nibbled at the apple slices and peanut butter on her plate. Carli talked about everything except food, eating, or treatment. She was an artist and she brought a few of her watercolor notecards to the table. Cesia thought they were beautiful. One in particular drew her attention.

“Esta pintura?” she said. “Recuerdame sobre un mural en mi casa se llama “el ojo de la luna.”

Carli evidently knew more Spanish than Sofia, because she looked at Cesia.

“The eye of the moon? Not the man in the moon—el hombre en la luna?”

“No el hombre. El es diferente. El ojo de la luna es mas especial porque lo protectame.”

“Protective--like a guardian angel,” Carli mused. Cesia nodded.

“Un angel para mi, si.”

***

The first days in the new center were both terrifying and comforting. Meals were hard; group time was harder. But Cesia felt the beginning of changes in her mind. She took her medications obediently, and on the days when the smell of a meal turned her stomach, she was able to sit with Carli and drink a protein shake that she could tolerate. For the first time in a ling time, Cesia thought that maybe she could overcome this wretched state of despair.

Sofia kept her promise to minimize invasive medical processes and keep the steel cart hidden. She had also found the audiobook of Little Women and a dictionary so that Cesia could keep track of new words. As a result, her English improved dramatically. Even heavily accented, she could communicate most things without the iPad translator.The green walls still bothered her, and nothing could be done about that. Permanent changes were not allowed.

On a dark rainy day, Sofia sat with Carli and Cesia for lunch. Sofia occasionally stopped by, but rarely sat down. Cesia’s tablemate was testing the waters in the intermediary dining room, where up to six patients sat at a single table with a coach, rather than a therapist. Cesia was proud of her, but she missed the girl’s quiet presence. A new girl would arrive tomorrow, and Cesia was actually looking forward to meeting her. Today, however, she was content to sit with the two women who hade made her feel valuable by their consistent kindness.

Sofia and Carli walked with Cesia back to her room. It was definitely not the normal practice, which made Cecia nervous, but she had learned to trust them. There was a unique energy between them today—not quite magical, but something akin to magic. When they reached her door, they led Cesia by both hands backward. Cesia thought it was some new exercise and she didn’t like it. When they dropped her hands, Sofia said,

“Turn around.”

Cesia gasped at the wall six-inches in front of her. Instead of green paint, her vision filled with swirls of blue and purple threads. A large moon anchored the tapestry and Cesia reached out to touch it.

“El Ojo de la Luna,” she whispered. “But how?”

Sofia reminded Cesia of the first day, when she shared her journal about the walls.

“It took some time, but I told you I would do my best. I have a friend who makes the most beautiful tapestries and I told him about you. He nearly fell over when I told him the name of the mural. He had been working on a large piece, but couldn’t find the center in his mind. The surrounding parts, where the colors are, he had finished, but he left a hole in the middle.”

Carli couldn’t contain herself. “I found a picture of a mural like the one you told Sofia about and when we got together with her friend, he actually cried. He told us that he prayed to Mother Mary to bless each piece he made, but this one was not finished. He said he felt strongly that this one was important, but he struggled even to pray over it.”

Cesia looked at them both. “He made it for me without knowing it.” She ran her hands over the seams where the eye of the moon had been sewn into the tapestry. It was still distinct from the rest by its texture, but the swirling colors drew attention away from what might have seemed an afterthought.

Cesia turned to her therapist and nurse. “Did he ever pray over it to Mother Mary?”

Both nodded, but Sofia spoke. “He prayed that this tapestry would remind you that you are greatly loved by the Father, that it would protect your mind and heart from evil, and that His Holy Name might be blessed because of you.”

As Cesia leaned against the vibrant colors, she felt her heart warm and her mind begin to release its burden of perfectionism. El Ojo de la Luna watched over her as she began to heal at last.

Leave a comment

• Write about sleeping in a car

• boxed skies

• “something’s up”

• A character who is just passing through

  ---

Birdie rubbed the sleep from her eyes as the flashlight beam pierced the window.

“You alright in there?” The man’s voice was deep, tinged with a smoker’s rasp. He sounded sympathetic, but Birdie didn’t trust cops. She sat up and cranked the window down a couple of inches.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Just passin’ through and got sleepy. Figured a little nap was better than crashing.”

“Wise thinking,” came the reply, “but you can’t park and sleep here. There’s a truck stop at the next exit where you can take your power nap and get a terrible cup of coffee. I’ll follow you to make sure you get there.”

Birdie looked up with suspicion. “No thank you, Officer. I’ll be fine. Thank you for letting me know it’s there.”

The flashlight moved away as the officer returned to his car without another word. Birdie yawned, started the engine, and eased back onto the quiet freeway. She didn’t understand why rigs like hers weren’t allowed to use the shoulder in the middle of the night on the east side of nowhere. It wasn’t as if she was interfering with the flow of traffic—there wasn’t any. Still, she sighed and headed for the truck stop. Even a bad cup of coffee might help her make it to her destination, where she could unload and pick up a new haul to get her through the week.

The pumps at the truck stop were fully lit but eerily empty. Birdie pulled her truck toward the back, but she didn’t see anyone else around. The quick mart where she hoped to find coffee or an energy drink appeared to be closed and locked.

Birdie jumped down from the cab to double-check, but the doors weren’t just locked—they were boarded up from the inside. As she scanned the windows, she realized all of them were covered the same way. A chill ran down her spine, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

“Somethin’s up here, and I don’t want no part of it.”

She wasn’t sure she’d said the words aloud, but a cackle rose from the pumps.

“Well then, git!” The voice was sharp and scratchy, like a needle rubbing an old vinyl record. Birdie jumped and looked around.

“Who’s there?” she said, hoping her quavering insides weren’t reflected in her voice.

“I’m just the keeper of the tales here. You go on an git before you become one of my stories.”

The crackling voice didn’t need to repeat itself. Birdie ran for the truck and hauled herself into the cab. Before the door slammed shut, she heard singing.

The one who stops and doesn’t stay will not believe her eyes,
But only trusts what she can touch beneath the boxèd skies.
The fears and doubts will chase her down where’er she may flee,
And not until she faces them head-on will she be free.

Birdie locked the cab door and sped away.
She was fully awake.

Leave a comment

• Write about learning to use a new tool

• uncanny familiarity

• “I forgot”

• A character with a twin

Ellen reached for the thick red book with her left hand. The heat from the cup of coffee in her right hand was starting to burn her fingers, but she didn’t see anywhere to put it down except on the ancient teak bookcase. Deftly, she swapped the book for the coffee, hoping no one noticed her violation of the coaster-on-wood rule in the library. Shifting the heavy tome to her still-throbbing right hand, Ellen glanced at the title: The Big Book of Fairy Tales. The gilt image on the cover stirred her memory with an uncanny familiarity, something just out of her mind’s reach.

Hoping the coffee was cooler, Ellen reached for the cup while searching for a chair. Her plan had been to replace the book as soon as she reclaimed her drink, but there was an itch in the back of her head that persuaded her to examine the text more closely. In a nearby corner, she spied a deep wingback chair that pleaded for her to tuck in and stay for a while. Ellen didn’t have anything on her calendar for the day until dinner with her estranged twin sister, Elaine, so she let herself be pulled into the comfort of the old chair that wrapped around her like a hug from an old friend.

Ellen was not generally sentimental, so feeling like she needed to look at a vintage book of fairy tales while enveloped in an antique chair was an unusual experience for her. She couldn’t resist the compulsion, and she decided not to fight it. Maybe sitting still for a few minutes would allow her to process the changes brought by the new year and determine a path forward.

Her company announced the day before that it would be combining offices and that some positions would be merged, while others would be relocated to another area where the cost of doing business was lower. Ellen had been stunned by the news, and the idea of losing her job or having to move—again—filled her with fear. Ellen liked this city. It was old, but not ancient. It was alive without being chaotic, and she had just put the final decorative touches on the little house near the quaint downtown. This library and its coffee shop suited her in ways that modern cities never could.

“Stop this,” Ellen told herself. “You have managed your career for twenty-five years, and this one change will not stop you. You are skilled, smart, and determined. Put away the fear.”

Ellen tucked the feelings into the deep recesses of her mind and locked the door to them, just as she always had. It was better to forget the things she could not control and make a plan to move forward. She traced the gold on the book’s spine, swallowed the last of her coffee, and prepared to stand up.

But she couldn’t stand. The wings of the chair nearly engulfed her, and she felt herself sinking into the depths of soft cushions. The book in her lap opened, and her eyes fell upon a stunning illustration, rich with color. She read the caption: “Cinderella arrives at the ball.” She was tall and regal, with auburn hair ringed around her face. Ellen touched the resplendent gown and could almost feel the brocade and heavy silk. No—not almost. She did feel the gown. The air smelled of honeysuckle, and Ellen heard the music of lutes, viols, and a harpsichord. She was still in the library, but the illustration was fully alive.

Ellen watched the dances, heard the murmuring about the mystery princess, and thought at one point she smelled roast pork. The grandeur and warmth of the gala reminded her of the times her father read this story to her. It was always her favorite story, told by her favorite person, in a chair like the one that embraced her now. She felt a lump in her throat as she watched the princess dance with the prince, carrying the beauty and elegance of her soul into her movements in ways that almost diminished the glory of her gown. Ellen remembered her father telling her,

“When you have love, compassion, and integrity in your heart, you are always beautiful. Never forget that.”

“Oh, Daddy,” Ellen whispered. “I forgot. I forgot it all. I only wanted to feel secure after you died, but I couldn’t find comfort anywhere. Success and independence I could create on my own terms.”

Ellen thought back to the road she had traveled over the last two decades. Every new job was a step up. Every new city was marked by bland furnished apartments. New technology. New tools to learn. No time for hobbies or friendships. Sure, she had stepped over people on the way to success, but that was business, right? Everyone made sacrifices for achievement, didn’t they? Finally, she felt like she could breathe a little. This new office in a quieter town meant a chance to reconnect with the sister she hadn’t seen in years. Meet Elaine’s husband and children and grandchildren—she thought she remembered news of a grandchild. She could start a real life now that she had money in the bank, with a tidy sum for retirement eventually.

And now the news from the company threatened it all, shaking her confidence and shattering the pretense of peace she had carefully curated. Wanting to avoid staining the beautiful illustrations with tears, Ellen carefully closed the book.

Leave a comment

Scoot is taking some time away from providing new prompts, but encouraged his FFF fans to pick and choose from prompts posted throughout the year, listed here. I scrolled around and selected these:

• Write about a long day

• mysterious certainty

• “here it comes”

• A character who likes to send postcards

To be honest, I’m not sure how many more of these I can do. I think I did all of them during 2025, so the prompts send my head back to other stories. We shall see how it goes in January.

Lena put down her fountain pen. She loved this pen, a gold Pilot elite with a fine tip that allowed ink to flow smoothly with her inscriptions. It was perfect for postcards, and she always used it for composing short thoughts sent to random people whose addresses she found in an ancient telephone book. She felt a mysterious certainty that her autographic offerings would speak to the recipients in exactly the way they needed. She liked the anonymity of these missives, and the fact that postcards left no room for return addresses made her confident she could continue her mission without interruption for many years.

Collecting her stack of completed cards, Lena walked to the mailbox at the corner of her street and then stood near a tree to wait for the mail carrier’s truck.

“Here it comes,” she thought, “and there they go.” Lena smiled, knowing that the long day ahead was already a good one.

Leave a comment

Prompt for 12 December 2025

Scoot is taking some time away from providing new prompts, but encouraged his FFF fans to pick and choose from prompts posted throughout the year, listed here. I scrolled around and selected these:

• Write about a favorite food

• well-ordered confusion

• “that’s what you think”

• A character who is a teenager

  ---

“Conjunction Junction, what’s your function…” The large floor television sang out the old song, making Helen roll her eyes. Being 15 was bad enough. Having a seven-year-old brother who thought Saturday morning cartoons were amazing was worse. Spending Christmas with her grandparents who hadn’t updated anything in their house since 1973 was horrifying, but here she was.

“Helen,” her brother called, “Grandma has Fruit Loops and Captain Crunch!” He held up two bowls sloshing over with milk and cereal like they were found treasures.

“Yeah, Ryan, they’re probably vintage,” Helen snorted. She slouched on the plastic-covered burnt orange sofa, wishing her grandparents would at least get internet so she could stay connected with her friends while she was stuck in this throwback place. But they didn’t even have cable, much less WIFI. She kicked at the avocado green shag carpet in annoyance. She could smell cinnamon rolls from the kitchen.

“At least,” she thought, “Grandma makes her own cinnamon rolls from scratch and not from one of those popping cans with plastic frosting.” The television continued to blare and Helen recognized the theme song from The Jetsons. The future she lived in was not the well-ordered confusion of the show’s vision with its flying cars and robot maid, but she did have a smartphone that had videocalls—if she had internet access. Shrugging, she followed her nose into the brick kitchen with its matching goldenrod appliances, where her parents sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee with her Grandpa.

Helen didn’t like much about Christmas in this old house, but she adored her Grandpa. He was the one who told everyone he was taking her fishing, but really drove into town so she could stop at the bookstore with fast internet and interesting book covers. He would settle in the comfortable chairs with a cup of coffee and a book while Helen caught up on all the news from her friends at home and a few videos on YouTube. On the way home, he’d stop at the fish shop by the lake and buy a fish to “prove” they’d really been fishing. He once told her that Grandma believed the fish tale, but Helen knew better.

“That’s what you think,” she’d thought, but said nothing. It was their little secret and she would never say or do anything to jeopardize the tradition. Today, however, would not include a secret trip to town. Christmas Eve had its own immovable traditions, much older than the vintage house, but equally annoying. Helen would go along and put on a happy face for her family, but inside, she just wanted to be home, surrounded by the comfortable things she loved, watching videos made in this century, and hanging out with her friends.

Ryan wandered into the kitchen looking hungry, his cereal bowls empty. He spied the cinnamon rolls cooling on the stovetop, but before he could sneak one, Grandma snatched them up.

“Not until they’re frosted, young man.” She pulled out her whisk and started beating cream cheese with sugar and heavy cream, but then handing the whisk to Ryan. “It’s time you learned to help around here,” she said. Her words were harsh, but her voice was teasing. She whispered to Ryan, “Plus, when it’s done, you can lick the whisk.” Ryan began to beat the ingredient like his life depended on it.

It wasn’t so long ago that it was Helen beating the icing with Grandma. She wondered when she had stopped. Watching Ryan sticking his tongue out with the intensity of his focus almost made her smile. He looked up at her just then, and grinned before sticking his tongue out at her. Helen rolled her eyes at him and looked to see whether any of the adults in the room noticed his insult, but they were busy talking about what time they had to leave for church and whether they could get away with wearing jeans.

Grandma was of the opinion that Christmas Even services were for dressing up, but Grandpa said it only mattered that they showed up. Jesus was pretty forgiving about clothing, especially given that he spent the first Christmas wrapped in swaddling clothes. Her parents smiled into their coffee, knowing that Grandma would prevail, as she always did, and they would be festively attired.

“Helen,” her dad said. Both Helen and her grandmother looked at him. Sharing a name with Grandma was just one more reason to want to be home. Her dad was looking at Grandma, so Helen made her way out of the kitchen before she heard any more of the conversation.

She found herself in the den, less formal than the living room where the television still sang about interjections and elbow room. This room was warm and worn, with comfortable leather recliners and shelves full of books. It also contained the real Christmas tree, not the fake one that graced the living room. Helen looked at the tinsel icicles, carefully hung, one strand at a time. She knew her grandmother spent hours getting the tinsel to hang properly from the Noble Fir’s branches, and she admitted that it was beautiful in the glow of the lamps. She twirled a strand around one finger, wondering why modern trees were decorated with massive ornaments and wrapped in garland. The task was finished quickly, but it was missing something that Helen couldn’t quite identify.

Grandma’s tree sparkled in the light, almost magically. Helen twisted the tinsel in her hand as she walked around the tree, not exactly admiring Grandma’s work, but not annoyed by it either. She noticed a space along the back side of the tree near the wood-paneled wall that didn’t seem quite as detailed. Some of the tinsel clumped, as if Grandma had decided she was done and just tossed the remaining tinsel on the back of the tree where no one would notice unless they looked closely. Helen couldn’t remember a time where the tree wasn’t perfectly polished from any angle.

Without thinking, Helen pulled one of the tinsel bunches off the tree and began separating the strands. Carefully, she hung each icicle along the upper branches of the fir so that the back mirrored the front. She moved to the next handful of tinsel and repeated the process. She didn’t know why she was fixing the tree, but it felt right. She could hear the family laughing in the kitchen, but she remained focused on the task at hand, meticulously hanging tinsel, one strand at a time.

So, what do you think?

Leave a comment

Prompt for 5 December 2025

Yes, I know it is past 5 December, but last week was INSANE. I hope you find the story worth the wait.

Scoot is taking some time away from providing new prompts, but encouraged his FFF fans to pick and choose from prompts posted throughout the year, listed here. I scrolled around and selected these:

• Write about a blizzard

• chaotic annotations

• “What else is left?”

• A character with connections

I also chose this image from Unsplash as inspiration:

Allie fell into the vintage green sofa with a sigh of relief. She had made it to the Carriage House, despite the howling winds and swirling snow. The news predicted a blizzard, and Allie was certain that by the next day she would be snowed in. She couldn’t think of a better place for it.

The Carriage House was her happy place. Cozy and quaint, the owners kept it full of books and record albums. There was internet, but only by request and for an additional fee. Allie never opted for it. This was her place to unplug, decompress, and think. When she stayed there, her mind opened to possibilities that her day-to-day obligations overshadowed. To be snowed in there provided the peace that Allie desperately needed, especially during December. As if on cue, the winds picked up, and Allie dozed off into a dreamless sleep.

Upon awakening, Allie looked out the high window to see a deep blanket of snow. Sighing with relief, she turned on the stovetop kettle for a cup of tea and wandered to the bookcase to see what new delights awaited her. The Carriage House owners kept a few classics on the shelves, but also added selections they knew she would enjoy. Dickens, L’Engle, O’Henry, and Tolkien were old friends with whom she reconnected every year. The newer books, by authors like Richard Paul Evans and Jan Karon, connected her modern mind to the eternal message of the holiday, and she was grateful to make their acquaintances.

Allie had never met the owners, but from what she understood, they were an older couple whose reputation for hospitality kept their bed-and-breakfast filled with contented guests. The Carriage House was the only cottage away from the main house, and Allie loved its solitude. It had a generator for power, a fully stocked pantry, and, most importantly, just enough space to be alone without feeling lonely. Allie discovered it shortly after her fiancé broke their engagement on Valentine’s Day four years before. Since then, she visited at least once during each season. Christmas was her favorite time to visit. All the happy people with their families, all the holiday parties, all the brightly wrapped presents, and all the commercials on television were too much for her. She needed less “Christmas” than she used to, and this space, with its simple pleasures refilled her soul.

As she breathed in the peppermint steam from her cup, she selected a slim volume she hadn’t seen before and curled up on the sofa. Insulated by the snow, she listened to the crackle of the electric fireplace and opened the book. She was disappointed to find only blank pages; she had just gotten comfortable and hadn’t expected an empty journal. Unfolding herself, she stood to replace the journal and choose an actual book. As she lifted the little journal to the shelf, a key fell from an envelope taped to the inside of the back cover.

The key was old and felt heavy in her hand. Adorned with a glass bead that shimmered in the glow of Christmas lights, it seemed to invite Allie to participate in a scavenger hunt for the lock that the key would open. She smiled at the proffered quest, but since part of her need for time away was to refresh her mind, she decided to release her rational, modern sensibilities and follow her imagination.

Allie started with the bookcase, looking on, in, and behind it for a mysterious keyhole that might unlock a portal to another world.

“Not Narnia,” she thought. “No wardrobe here. And no looking glass, either. But something new and delightful.”

Giving up on the bookcase, Allie searched around the tree, behind the couch, and in the darker corners of the room. Just as she was about to give up and laugh at herself for listening to a key, she spied an unimpressive brown box under an end table. She sat on the floor and pulled the box to her and saw the lock on the side. Glass beads like the one on the key surrounded the lock, and Allie heard the click of the release when she inserted the key and turned it.

She wasn’t sure what she expected. Maybe her imagination told her that the box would open with a light and fairy dust or a magical genie, but all the box held was papers. Old papers, some falling apart at the edges, all yellowed and dusty. Allie’s happy anticipation turned to disappointment and she started to close the box. Before she fully lowered the lid, one of the papers seemed to separate from the others. Allie knew that it was probably because she had shaken the box a bit when she opened it, but her curiosity got the best of her, and she opened the box fully again.

The first paper was a letter in script that she found hard to read. It was faded, but also handwritten with flourishes that made her think a little of the lettering used by generations from a hundred years or more before.

“My darling,” the letter began. “The days may be long and cold here, but when I think of you, my heart warms until I hardly notice. This war must end, and I will return to your side. Until then, know that I think of you with the sunrise and pray for you every sunset. Yours, Arthur.”

Allie looked again at the date: 1 December, 1914. That date captured her, and within minutes she stacked the books on the end table and replaced them with the box. She made a fresh cup of tea and immersed herself in the letters from a soldier on the Western Front to his young fiancée back home in England. Many of the letters were faded and stained and impossible to read, but she read enough to follow the young man’s experiences in the trenches: cold, hungry, and surrounded by death. But his letters were always hopeful, never bitter. He wrote of how his faith sustained him, his daily Bible reading, and his hope to be home soon.

She found herself weeping more than once. What must it be like to be so loved and cherished? She had not allowed herself to dwell on the break-up of her engagement. Friends tried to get her to talk about it, and her family insisted she go to therapy. She had acquiesced, but stopped after the first few sessions, telling herself that lingering in the feeling of abandonment only made her feel worse. She determined to move through the ache and to something new. Until she started reading the letters, she thought she was over the relationship and that she didn’t need to rush into the dating world again. She wasn’t sure she remembered how to start a relationship; it had been too long. These letters, however, with their warmth and hopeful love, reopened the wounds.

Allie decided she needed a break after the first ten letters. Carefully placing the ones she had read inside the empty journal that she had never returned to the bookcase, she stretched and peered out the window again. The winds and snowfall had given way to sunshine, which reflected off the snow in a blinding white light. Despite the sun, it was clear that she wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. Snow was piled well above the door, and it would be days before any plows made their way to this remote place. She felt relieved that she could stay in this cozy place while she immersed herself in a historical love story even though her own heart remained broken.

A pen on the end table caught her attention. Made of the same glass as the key and the lock, she wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. She picked it up, feeling its smooth grip in her hand. The journal lay beside her on the sofa, beckoning. Without thinking, Allie opened the journal and began to write, pouring out her sadness, her insecurity, and her desire to be wholly loved without reservation. She wrote about being blindsided by the break-up and by the loss of friends that followed when she was no longer part of a couple. She cried as she wrote about her dreams for a family that seemed impossible now. Her childhood faith reasserted itself here and there, and she wrote about why she had felt it necessary to dismantle her beliefs and pursue the things she could see and hold in her hand: her job, her hobbies, her fiancé. As she wrote, Allie felt the superficiality of her life and the trivial nature of the things she held important. There was something about the letters that seemed deeper and more substantial than her real life. Completely spent after writing for so long, Allie climbed in bed, falling into a deep and healing sleep like she hadn’t experienced in four years.

Allie was awakened by the ringing of the landline phone in the little kitchenette. It had never rung before, but then again, she had never been snowed in, either. She knew from the registration materials that the telephone connected only to the main house, and when she answered, she heard the warm voice of one of the owners.

“Good morning, Miss Allie,” he said. “I hope you are warm and comfortable?”

“Oh, yes. I am delightfully cozy and feeling well rested for the first time in a very long time,” Allie replied, slightly surprised by the truth in her words. She did feel rested and in a strange way, at peace.

“Most excellent. The plows should arrive to our area this evening. The storms are over for the moment, and we expect our guests should be able to begin traveling by tomorrow afternoon. There is no hurry to leave, of course, so enjoy this last day without options of coming or going,” he chuckled a little at the last statement, a cheerful low laugh that made Allie smile.

“Thank you. I have some reading I want to do, so a day without the option to do anything else is perfect for me.” Allie returned the handset to its cradle and made her morning tea. She wanted to keep reading the letters from Arthur to his true love, not knowing what to expect, but feeling open to whatever effect they might have. She already recognized that there was something in this young man’s faith that she needed for herself, and she hoped another snowed-in day might reveal it.

“25 December, 1914

My love, I had written to you of the discomforts of this life in the trenches, but today I write of the most extraordinary sight of my life. About 10 o’clock yesterday morning, I looked over the parapet and saw a German waving his arms about, outside the trenches on that side. We began to prepare to fire, but one of my mates stopped us, because they were not carrying rifles. One of our men went to meet him, and before long, we met the German soldiers on the ground between our trenches and theirs. We only stayed out half an hour or so, but I was struck by the normal relations between us. What is this war?

Last night, you will not imagine the moments, when we remained billeted, I heard a voice floating across the field. A lovely tenor was singing, “Stille Nacht.” It was so cold that the sound was crystalline, almost angelic. My trench mates all stopped what they were doing to listen. For just one moment, I felt transported to that silent and holy night so long ago, when a babe lay in a manger as the hope for the world. The Prince of Peace come to save us. Darling, I am forever changed by that moment, and praying for His peace to come soon. I long to be reunited with you forever. Yours, Arthur.”

Allie read the letter three times. She had heard of the Christmas truce, but it was just another story told at the holidays. In her mind, it was part of the pageantry that drove her to this Carriage House for respite, away from the chaos of activity. This letter, from one who was there, stirred her heart. How would a Prince of Peace be present in the middle of a war? How could someone sing about a holy night and then in a few days, take up the rifles again to kill the same men with whom they had exchanged gifts in no-man’s-land?

Hoping for more insight, Allie looked in the box, but there was only one more letter, a telegram that began, “Deeply regret to inform you…” Allie refused to read any more; she knew that there wouldn’t be any more letters. She also knew that the girl whom Arthur loved had her own heart broken by his loss. The circumstances were vastly different, but Allie felt connected to the girl, whoever she was, understanding how hard it can be to heal. She leaned back into the sofa cushions, wiping her eyes.

“What else is left?” she wondered. “Is there no peace? Is loss the only connection between people, even in love?”

She looked into the box again. There were no letters, but there was still a small, battered, leather-bound book. She picked it up and read the gilt letters, “Holy Bible.” It fell open to Luke 2, covered in chaotic annotations, and the phrase, “But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart,” was both underlined and circled. The annotations were written in two hands: one in the familiar script of the letter writer, and the other, a much more feminine cursive that made Allie’s heart leap. The girlish annotation, “cf Is.9:6,” sent Allie flipping through the little Bible, with its fading golden edges. As dust puffed from the pages, Allie located the verse,

“For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.”

There it was again. “Prince of Peace.” In the margin, she noted another annotation:

“He came to give His people peace, but not absence of trial or war. Cf. Jn 16:33”

Carefully, Allie followed the cross-reference to the gospel of John.

“These things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.”

Allie set the little Bible aside. She didn’t want to damage it, and she needed to write and process what she was thinking. With a fresh cup of tea in hand, she moved the journal to the little table in the kitchenette. She found a new Bible in the bookcase that she hadn’t noticed before, and decided to follow the girl’s train of thought in the newer version and protect the little book that was over 100 years old. Allie briefly wondered how the Bible and letters had remained in decent condition over a century, but set that aside for later. How the fragile papers survived was less important than what they said—and why she found them during this particular trip to the cottage.

She searched the newer Bible for more connections about what the Prince of Peace meant. How did this girl manage to focus on finding peace when war had taken her beloved? What did Isaiah mean about a Prince of Peace yet to come in the middle of a war-torn and exiled people? How could anyone find peace in trouble? Allie wrote, asking questions in the journal with the glass beaded pen, and flipping from the gospels to the prophets, searching for an answer that would heal her own broken heart.

She jumped when the telephone rang again. “Miss Allie, I just wanted you to know that the plows came early and the roads are clear,” came that warm voice once again.

Allie wasn’t sure what to say. “Thank you, sir,” she finally said.

“Have you done the reading you hoped to do? Are you ready to return to your real life?” The voice on the other end of the line did not pressure or demand, merely opening the door for a conversation. Allie suddenly realized that she wanted that conversation.

“I would very much like to meet you and talk about the reading I’ve done. I have so many questions, and I think you might know some of the answers. You put the books and the box in the Carriage House for me, didn’t you?” Allie’s question was more statement than query. It occurred to her that every time she came, the new books spoke into her heart exactly what she needed in that visit. She was certain that the owners were intentional with their selections.

The deep voice responded, “I did put them there, but I never know why the Spirit nudges me to choose certain things. I do know that our guests seem to find something in the books that helps them find hope and maybe even a path to faith when they stay long enough to reflect on the words they read.”

“I knew it. The key in the journal, the box, the pen—they are a set and put there for a purpose. The letters—does that kind of love still work in the world? The Bible—is that kind of peace still possible?”

A laugh burst through the handset. “Yes, Miss, I can see that Spirit is at work. Come to the main house for lunch and the missus and I will try to answer as many of your questions as we can. We don’t know everything, but this I can tell you for certain: the love you need and the peace you seek are waiting for you to say, ‘yes’ to an invitation that Arthur knew well.”

Allie gathered the journal into her arms, but before leaving for the big house, she carefully replaced the Bible and letters in the box and locked it.

“Thank you,” she whispered to Arthur and his love. “I think I’m beginning to understand that peace does not depend on circumstances. Beyond that, I don’t know, but I am ready to find out.”

With that, she closed the door.

Leave a comment

While this story is fictional, the Christmas Truce of 1914 was real. British and German soldiers along several different places along the Western Front stopped firing at each other and instead came together in no-man’s-land. In some places, the truce started with carols, including “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht” (”Silent Night, Holy Night”). Other soldiers played football (soccer) with their “enemies.” They exchanged gifts, smoked and drank, and helped each other bury the dead. The truce only lasted two or three days and was never repeated.

Resources:

The Bible. King James Version, BibleGateway, https://www.biblegateway.com. Accessed 8 Dec. 2025.

“The Christmas Truce | What really happened in the trenches in 1914?” YouTube, uploaded by Imperial War Museums,. Accessed 8 Dec. 2025.

“The Real Story of the Christmas Truce of 1914.” IWM, www.iwm.org.uk/history/the-real-story-of-the-christmas-truce. Accessed 8 Dec. 2025.

Scoot is taking some time away from providing new prompts, but encouraged his FFF fans to pick and choose from prompts posted throughout the year, listed here. I scrolled around and selected these:

• Write about a sailor without a ship

• steaming cold

• “Don’t say a word”

• A character personifying a season

Buy me a hot cocoa—with marshmallows

Hal was cold. Steaming cold, in fact. But then, he was always cold— from his wintry disposition to his ice-gray eyes. He was Old Man Winter, in flesh and imagination. His pointed nose resembled a snowman’s carrot, and the girth of his arms was more twig-like than anything else. He growled like thundersnow whenever he spoke.

Hal had no friends to speak of. No community welcomed his chilly demeanor at their events, and even the neighborhood feral cat avoided him. He secretly liked the idea that he was just a sailor without a ship; that someday he might meet “his people,” who would embrace him with their warmth and thereby defrost his heart and mind.

This holiday season was gloomier than most. It was unseasonably warm with thunderstorms one week, then cold rains and winds swept through town. All the changes in the weather made everyone sick and more cranky than usual, which did nothing to improve Hal’s wellbeing. The sky was dark; Hal’s mood was darker.

Hal slid into a seat at the bar on Fifth Street. The bartender took one look at Hal’s face and held up his index finger.

“Don’t say a word,” he whispered conspiratorially. “I know a Lowland Scotch order before the drinker does himself.” With that he turned toward the tower of bottles behind him and pulled out a bottle half-filled with a golden liquid.

“You’re definitely a single malt man—no blends for you. You usually want an Auchentoshan, but I’m going to offer something different: GlenAllachie Speyside, 12 years old. Slightly warm, balanced acetone to sweet sultanas. Christmas notes from dried apple, orange zest, nutmeg, and cinnamon.” With a wink, the bartender placed the alcohol in front of Hal, who grunted his thanks.

The first sip surprised Hal with its smoothness. It didn’t burn when swallowed, but rather warmed him as it traveled down his throat.

“Not bad, don’t you think?” said the bartender, who was watching Hal carefully. Hal growled a response that might have been agreement or not as he stared into the glass.

Hal swirled the amber liquid and watched as the oils of the Scotch made tears of rainbows down the sides of the glass. He lifted it again to his lips and drank with the bartender watching.

“It’s good,” he muttered. “Real good.”

The bartender smiled. “I can read a man when he sits at my bar. Some men can be easily satisfied with anything, but others, like yourself, require the best I can offer to break through their defensive masks. Only one glass, because anything more is excessive.”

Draining the glass, Hal felt something new deep within him. Warmth without heat that had little to do with the alcohol and much to do with the friendly bartender who served him.

“What do I owe you?” Hal wasn’t really in a hurry to leave, but he knew that bottle was expensive, and he wanted to close out his check before the bartender poured again.

“Not a thing,” replied the bartender. “This one is on the house. I can always tell what a man needs, and sometimes it’s just to know that he is seen and understood. It’s not about the Scotch.”

Hal nodded his thanks and turned to leave. Thinking again, he pulled out his wallet and put two crisp fifty-dollar bills on the bar top.

“That’s for the next man who comes in just needing a warm voice and a good Scotch.” He turned again as the bartender smiled and tucked the bills into a locked box under the bar.

Hal let the door close behind him. He wasn’t sure what had happened while sat at the bar and enjoyed the drink, but he felt the icicles around his heart melting as he walked down the street toward home. Maybe his proverbial ship had finally come in. He looked back at the bar again, not terribly surprised to see that, instead of the warm and cheery bar, a boarded-up facade spray-painted with graffiti filled the space. Hal just shook his head and continued his journey home.

Leave a comment

Always thankful for your tips

Prompts for 21 November 2025 from —who says next week is the last set of prompts until February.

• Write about a storied aircraft

• promethean fire

• “I think this is my stop”

• A character who doesn’t speak the language

  ---

Meeley laid out the newest half coconut shell along the row beneath the palm tree. She adjusted the branches that helped divert rainwater into the shells, husks, and engine pieces that didn’t leak. It was a primitive system, but it worked well enough to keep her hydrated as long as there was rain. When she first hit the island, it was the dry season, and she had nearly died without fresh water. She wasn’t sure how long she had been there, but the rainy season seemed to be drawing to a close, and she wanted to make sure she was ready to catch every drop she possibly could.

Meeley’s camp rested in the funny trees with upside-down roots above the high tide line. She originally thought the lagoon that made up most of the island’s center would be better, but the water was brackish and smelled of sulfur. Preferring the salt smell of the ocean, she settled where she could see any rescue planes approaching. None came.

She built a shelter by cannibalizing parts of her beloved Electra, from the aluminum covering the wings to her cockpit seat. Glass from the instrument panel helped her light fires, but the wind and overcast skies often left her shivering. She would have gladly accepted a promethean fire, even though she didn’t speak Greek. Just the warmth of the flames and the idea that she wasn’t alone would have made the god welcome. It was lonely on the island.

Her navigator died within a few days of the crash. He told her he was going to rebuild her radio and send out another distress call. He climbed into the wreckage to pull out the components and fell, tearing a deep gash in his thigh, bleeding out in minutes. Meeley did her best to give him a respectful burial at sea, but she knew that the sharks probably got to his body before she passed the first rows of the pandanus trees.

Months went by and she gave up on rescue. The remnants of her plane floated away and she didn’t have the desire to follow its path. It could have been in the lagoon or somewhere at the bottom of the ocean. It didn’t matter. She had already taken what she could use from it, and she didn’t want to risk injury by trying to get more.

Meeley had sufficient food: fish, birds, and enormous crabs to accompany the coconuts and pandanus fruit. She learned quickly that only the red pandanus fruit was ripe and tasted of mangoes and banana and fresh cut grass. She wasn’t in immediate danger of starvation, although her 5’8” frame was gaunt rather than slender now. More than anything, she was tired. She thought about her childhood Episcopalian faith often these days. She had her arguments with the rigid structures, especially their views about women, but now and then she would recall a psalm or a prayer from the liturgies.

Leaning against one of the pandanus trees one sunny morning, Meeley looked across the ocean to the deep blue horizon line. As far as she could see, she was completely alone. She smiled her quirky grin and spoke out loud for the first time in weeks. Looking to the cloudless blue sky, she prayed,

“Well, Father, I think this is my stop. I’m not sure how long I’ll be here, but if this is how it all ends, it’s been an adventure worth having. Don’t know what else I can say, but it’s been a ride.”

Leave a comment

(Inspired by the recent declassification of Earhart documents.)

• Write about a legendary figure

• spiraling pyres

• “there’s only one way to find out”

• A character who is an unreliable narrator

  I thrive on coffee and books!

  ---

This story was inspired by picture I scrolled past in Notes. This is not that picture.

“Oh, the story is true,” murmured the old woman. “Whether it is factual may be up for discussion.”

The teenager rolled her eyes. She picked at one of the holes in her black net tights and relaced her scuffed black combat boots before responding.

“If is isn’t factual, Gran, what does that make it? Personal ‘truth?’” She scoffed as she fiddled with the safety pin in her left earlobe. It hadn’t hurt when she pushed it through, but she suspected it was infected, because it was now hot and sore.

“Leave it alone, J. You’ll just make it worse. I have some vapor rub that will help in the second drawer to the right of the sink in the bathroom.” J looked at her Gran skeptically, but wandered from the porch to the bathroom. Gran thought vapor rub cured everything from a cough to a hangnail. J slathered a fingernail’s worth onto the ear and noticed with satisfaction that the dark nail polish had finally chipped to perfect imperfection.

The screen door screeched as J returned to the porch. “Hey Gran, do you think vapor rub will fix the door?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Gran answered. “Bring the jar out and we’ll test it while I tell you something about true myth.”

J returned to the bathroom. Gran was getting more mystical by the day, it seemed. True myth? “Oxymoron,” she thought, testing a word she had read recently. She liked that it included “moron” as part of it. J would never admit to it, but she loved words almost as much as she loved Gran, something else she would never admit. Her mask was more than the heavy kohl eyeliner she wore; it guarded her mind from the people who wanted her far away from them. She didn’t want their approval or their affection anyway. Gran was just odd enough to be acceptable, but even she didn’t get to glimpse beyond the hard shell of J’s preferred look.

The vapor rub did seem to quiet the hinges. Gran looked at J with satisfaction, as if to say, “See? It is a magical compound.” J rolled her eyes again.

Gran looked carefully at the teen. “Tell me what you think about the difference between fact and truth. I’m curious to know why you think only facts can be true.”

“Because facts are the only real thing. Fact, I live in a dump of a trailer. Fact, my dad is long gone and I don’t know where my mother is most of the time. Fact, everyone at school hates me. Fact, I hate everyone at school. Fact, the sky is blue…” she stopped suddenly when she saw warning flashes in Gran’s eyes.

Gran’s voice was quiet when she finally spoke. “J, the things you called ‘facts’ are not complete accurate. Yes, you live in a trailer—with my daughter—remember that when you speak poorly of your mother. Yes, your father left you and your mother, but bitterness will not bring him back and will only leave you miserable. As for hate,” Gran stumbled over the word, “There is too much of it in the world and it only destroys.”

“Yeah, yeah,” grumbled J. “What the world needs now is love, sweet love and all that other hippy-dippy stuff. Do you watch the news Gran? The world is falling apart and the only thing anyone cares about is power, control, and stepping all over us to get it.”

“Have I ever told you about my grandfather, J?” The change of subject startled J, but since she could feel the rage surging in her chest, she went along with it. Getting mad about the things she couldn’t control never made her feel better—and since she couldn’t control much of anything, misery was her most familiar emotion.

“He used to tell me that there are facts and there are perceptions. Most of the time, we react to our interpretation of facts, which means we can’t really know what facts are actual and which are simply perceptions repackaged. In our daily lives we have facts that we know to be actual, like you are my daughter’s daughter and I am your mother’s mother. But when we look at mothers and daughters in this family, you see things differently than I do. So which perspective is true?”

J thought for a moment, pulling a thread from her unraveling tights. “So, what is truth? I guess facts don’t mean truth if perception changes them. Are you telling me that gravity is all in my head and that the sky isn’t blue?”

“Well, scientifically speaking, gravity does exist and we live in that reality every day. But the sky really isn’t blue. A legendary politician expanded on a line from an even more legendary philosopher when he said that there are things we know, things we don’t know, and things we don’t know that we don’t know.”

“What does that even mean?” J felt herself fall into her habit of exasperation if she didn’t understand something. “We know that we don’t know anything? Gran, I don’t know if this is depressing or infuriating. Are we just supposed to go around waiting for everything to make sense while at the same time knowing that nothing makes sense? And what does any of it have to do with my mother, your daughter or the story that you told me earlier being true, but not necessarily factual?” She blew her dark bangs out of her eyes with the last comment.

“Sometimes,” Gran said, “sometimes the story is true despite the accuracy of the facts. There is a deeper and purer love. And it is always true, even when it seems to appear in story. The true myth is one that works beyond and through our perceptions of facts. I know you love your mother, even when she makes you crazy with her comings and goings. I also know that I love my daughter in spite of the terrible decisions she makes. The truth in the story of our family is love—even when it feels like an illusion because we see things that happen that don’t look like we think they should.”

J rolled the thread from her tights in her fingers. “So basically, life is just a series of spiraling pyres of things that happen that we may or may not perceive as facts—but they might be true? Gran, it makes no sense.”

At that moment the clouds broke out in an array of dizzying colors. Gran pointed to the iridescence. “What do you see?”

“A rainbow, but it’s not a rainbow. It’s part of the clouds? It’s not a arc, but the colors are the same as a rainbow. I don’t know, Gran, what is it?”

“That, my dear girl, is an example of an unknown unknown. Five minutes ago you had never seen anything like it, but now you know that it’s something you didn’t know that you didn’t know. It’s called a ‘rainbow cloud.’ You know rainbows because you’ve seen then, but they aren’t facts. They are your mind’s perception of light refracting through water droplets. This rainbow cloud is light bending—technically diffracting— around tiny ice crystals. Those are the facts, but they aren’t true facts because the light doesn’t change. Only your perception does.”

J’s head hurt. She loved her Gran, but she also knew what she saw, and rainbows of course were factual. But she was too tired to argue about it. She was too tired to think about her mother or knowns and unknowns and whether truth even mattered. The rainbow cloud disappeared as quickly as it had come. All J wanted was something she could rely on. Someone who would be there. Something real and factual and true.

Fifteen was hard. J looked at Gran who was still looking at the darkening sky with a small smile.

“Gran?”

“Yes? Can we make cookies?”

“Absolutely. We know we can make them and we know they will be delicious. Those are facts that also happen to be truths because we will make them together with love.”

Leave a comment

• Write about a magical creature

• adamant error

• “this doesn’t seem like the right way”

• A character who is learning to fight

I thrive on coffee and compliments

“This doesn’t seem like the right way,” Jeremiah muttered. He held his fists the way the old pugilist demonstrated, but he felt awkward.

“Fix yer feet,” barked the instructor. “Yer gon’ get tripped up unless ye plant yer foundashun solid. See? The old man set his own feet, one foot slightly in front of the other, and bounced lightly. “When ye set yer feet, ye can move free-like.”

Jeremiah blew his hair out of his face with an exasperated sigh and fixed his feet before holding his fists aloft again. “Like this?”

The old man punched Jeremiah on the left arm; Jeremiah kept his balance. “That’ll do. As long as yer not fallin’ yer winnin’.”

Jeremiah hadn’t planned on learning to fight. He preferred a quiet existence with his books, but last week he had called out the town bully for knocking down the librarian’s carefully stacked encyclopedias, and instead of being praised for his chivalry, he found himself committed to this fight for his own honor. The rules in this town made no sense at all.

He practiced bobbing and weaving, fists up to protect his face, then reaching out with a jab or coming around for a hook. The pugilist who had agreed to teach him remained critical of each move. Unbending as an oak, the old man persisted in corrections.

“Yer comin’ in too close. That’s an adamant error if I ever did see one. Ye sure yer wanton’ to win?”

Jeremiah kept his mouth shut and focused on his form. It still felt awkward, but if he could pull out the win, he could both redeem his honor and ensure people left him alone. He just had to get the fight over with.

Subscribe now

The morning of the fight dawned cloudy and cold, a perfect match to Jeremiah’s mood. His toast burned, his coffee turned bitter, and he stubbed his toe when he tripped over the cat. He dressed quickly, not caring how he looked because he was certain whatever he chose would be tattered and bloody before the day was over. He growled at the old pugilist at the entrance to the square where the fight would be held.

“This is a mistake. The only way I survive this is by a miracle.”

“Hehehe,” smirked the man. “I told ye that when ye first came t’ me. But yer a hard werker, and I expect ye’ll be surprised at the end of the day.”

Jeremiah was surprised. The amount of blood that came from his nose at the bully’s first blow was more than he imagined possible. But after that first punch, Jeremiah found himself placing his feet correctly, bobbing and weaving just as he had practiced. The bully backed up with Jeremiah’s first jab, and switched to defense after a series of hooks and straight punches. Jeremiah invented combinations, improvising as he leaned into he opponent. Finally, the bully went down and refused to get up. Jeremiah dripped with sweat, knuckles raw and red, but his smile was triumphant. It was over and Jeremiah’s victory assured his respect by everyone in town.

Leave a comment

He looked for his coach, to thank him for the training. As hard as it had been, the old man had taught Jeremiah well. He searched the crowd, not seeing the face that had haunted his dreams after hard work. He seemed to have vanished into the crowd, and Jeremiah finally gave up.

“I’ll find him tomorrow,” he thought, turning toward home for a warm bath, clean clothes, and something soothing to drink. The weather had turned from miserable to warm and moody, mirroring Jeremiah’s thoughts. As he adjusted his glasses, he saw movement at the periphery of his vision. Turning toward it, he recognized his trainer—just as he twisted into place as the old tree stump in the church yard. Jeremiah shook his head, but it was no illusion: the tree stump looked exactly like the old pugilist.

Leave a comment

Prompts for 31 October from

• Write about a novice ghost

• unsettled safety

• “don’t go in there”

• A character who hates Hallowe’en

  

  ---

Hazel hated Hallowe’en. Hooligans hopping house to house horrified her heart and set her head hammering.

Alliteration aside, Hazel hated what the holiday had become—something definitively unholy. Not the kids, per se. The toddling ghosts with holes cut in sheets so they could see were cute enough. Even the teenagers coming to the door later hoping for full-sized candy bars gave her a sense of unsettled safety, but she knew those kids. A couple of them took care of her dogs when she was called out of town. She preferred the commercialization, oddly enough. Unlike Christmas and Easter, removing the macabre in favor of princesses and Marvel characters pleased her.

What Hazel hated was the celebration that took up the entire month of October. Where were the apple farms, hay rides, and riotous colors of leaves? She had about 95 reasons to hold this new pattern in disdain. When did everyone start putting spiderwebs, skeletons, and cauldrons in their front yards as early as September? Skeletons in the Encore azaleas blooming bright pink? Ugh. Warning signs saying, “Don’t go in there” or “Beware” popped up before the weather began to cool. It seemed like the whims of darkness sought to stifle beauty and innocence. That was what she hated most of all. Autumn used to be a time of harvest and gratitude. Hallowe’en was a single day—and maybe a costume parade downtown. It was cute and quaint and, above all, short.

Hazel mostly kept her opinions to herself. There were bigger spiritual battles to fight, and free candy for the neighbors seemed a small price to pay for maintaining peace in the neighborhood. She chose a more subtle protest. Instead of ghosts and witches, Hazel opted for something scarier: a full-sized cardboard cutout of Martin Luther nailing his arguments to the door of an old German church. The neighborhood kids didn’t get it, but she knew that her subtle nod to Reformation Day was the right touch for her.

“That puts the hallow back at least.”

Feeling just a little smug and rebellious, Hazel sipped her coffee and settled in, bowl of candy in her lap.

“You hammer your way, Friar,” she said to the cutout.” I’ll hammer back mine.”

Leave a comment