Prompts for 26 June 2026 from

• Write about a surprising hidden treasure

• predetermined randomness

• “I will keep going”

• A character from another country

“Seguiré adelante.”

The whisper caught Josefina off guard. She hadn’t heard her native language since arriving in this small forgotten town. But this was her mother tongue, spoken with the accent she remembered from childhood.

“Who is there?” she asked. “¿Quién está?”

No one answered and the voice vanished. Josefina tried to forget the whisper, but it repeated with predetermined randomness. When her life seemed too hard to move forward, she would glimpse a shimmer or shadow that whispered to her again, in the language of her youth.

When she was old, the voice whispered one last time, saying, “El viaje ha terminado.”

Josefina looked up. Before her was a shimmering being, holding out a hand. “¿Quién?”

The being nodded. “Creo que sabes quién soy.”

And she did. Josefina took the hand of her guardian angel and kept going, forward into eternity.

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Photo by Yoann Boyer on Unsplash

Photo by Kevin Andre on Unsplash

• Write about a difficult command

• agile inevitability

• “I have to think”

• A character trying to avoid someone

  ---

“Tengo que pensar.” Sophia dodged around the corner of the roof with the agile inevitability of someone trying, but failing to avoid a conflict. She knew she could accomplish the difficult command from her boss; the question was, did she want to? She heard footsteps.

“No hay tiempo.” She jumped.

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FFF - Inevitable

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a month ago · 6 likes · Scoot

Prompts for 29 May 2026

• Write about a long night

• unequivocal confusion

• “where are you going”

• A character on the phone with someone

  ---

“Where are you going?” Crystal shouted, hand over her phone.

“Out. You’ve been chattering for hours!” Cordel tried every trick he knew, but Crystal’s long night gossiping meant sleeplessness. He felt the unequivocal confusion of fatigue.

“Whatever,” Crystal returned to her call.

Cordel visited a pharmacy.

Tonight, he would sleep.

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FFF - Night

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a month ago · 6 likes · Scoot

• Write about a happy return

• authoritative disparity

• “both good and bad”

• A character who doesn’t know what they want

Sheila slammed the package on the return counter. She was fed up with the authoritative disparity behind products marketed to women: higher prices, lower quality, endless returns. She wasn’t certain what she wanted, but she was furious about constantly returning items—ironically through a carrier called “Happy Returns.” She recognized both good and bad elements of online shopping, especially easy returns, but would prefer better quality that she could use.

The clerk shook his head in disgust. How many of these returns came across his counter every day? Hundreds? What a waste of time and money.

And no one was happy.

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Gibberish

FFF - Late

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2 months ago · 7 likes · 1 comment · Scoot

• Write about being late

• belated sincerity

• “I wish you were here”

• A character experiencing brain fog

The train was late. The schedule clearly said it would arrive at 09:12. Five full minutes late. James tapped his pocket watch making sure he read it correctly. One, two, three taps. He wasn’t wrong; the train was definitely late.

He tapped his left foot. One, two, three. “I wish you were here,” he thought. Why was the train late?

He walked around the station. One, two, three laps. No train.

A dog growled at him during his third lap, and he jumped. The owner apologized with belated sincerity. No matter. James had lost count. He would start again.

One, two, three laps. Each lap exactly 1,000 steps. One, two, three thousand steps.

The train was thirty minutes late. Ten, twenty, thirty minutes. James didn’t understand. His mind started to cloud over, like the haze before a summer storm. He needed to go home.

The train wasn’t coming.

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FFF - Late

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2 months ago · 6 likes · 1 comment · Scoot

• Write about writing

• unequal kindness

• “I don’t deserve this”

• A character who is window-shopping

Joanna peered through the window. The display contained the usual laptops and accessories, but what held her gaze was a typewriter on a pedestal, swathed in white crepe. Not quite a ghost, the old machine held stories by writers long gone.

A young man appeared, picking up the typewriter with unequal kindness. Joanna approved. Among sterile boxes, the old keys carried a regal character deserving of special treatment.

Joanna entered the shop. A frail woman sat in a wheelchair, a small table open over her knees. When the man placed the typewriter on the table, she raised her hands to the keys like a lover.

“I don’t deserve this,” she said quaveringly, but he simply inserted a piece of crisp paper. She began to type. The keys remembered.

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FFF - Writer

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2 months ago · 6 likes · Scoot

• Write about a new medicine

• frenetic exhaustion

• “where did you come from?”

• A character who is not a doctor but asked to help heal someone

  ---

“This may hurt some.” The nurse approached Dale holding a syringe like a weapon. Her eyes shone with the frenetic exhaustion normal for the end of a 24-hour shift.

Terrified, Dale pulled the blanket tightly; he wouldn’t let this stranger near him with that needle.

“Where’d you come from? Where’s my nurse?”

A grin spread across the nurse’s face. “Polly’s down the hall. She told me to administer new medication. Now, bottom’s up!”

She rolled Dale over and plunged the needle into his thigh.

“You’ll be better in a minute,” she said. Dale looked at her as his heart stopped.

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FFF - Medicine

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2 months ago · 2 likes · 1 comment · Scoot

bonus: 100 words 😁

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.

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Gibberish

FFF - Sculpture

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3 months 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.

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

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FFF - Theater

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3 months 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.

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FFF - Noise

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3 months 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!”

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FFF - Cold Spring

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4 months 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.

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Thanks for the prompts every week!

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FFF - Good Day

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4 months 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.

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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.

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FFF - Inherited

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5 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.

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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.

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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?”

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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.

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• 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.

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• 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.

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• 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.

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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.

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