Flash Fiction

The Innocence of Youth Unveiled

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We were raised in families where the television show “Father Knows Best” was also the way of the household. Travel happened twice a year for me: a visit to my grandparents’ home in Florida and a vacation week in the Wisconsin Dells. I always sent her a postcard. It never dawned on me that I lived in a white privileged world and she did not.

I went to college and she left home. She took jobs where she found them. Eking out a living, then moving on. She sent postcards along the way. In 1963, from DC. She’d heard MLK’s “I Have a Dream”. In 1969, from the Catskill Mountains. She’d found love and acceptance at Woodstock. “The granites and schists of my dark and stubborn country have accepted me. My new partner and I can be ourselves here. Come visit!” I never did.

Image by Karl Egger from Pixabay

Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Prosery Mondays are the only prompts where writers are asked to write prose, not poetry. We’re given a line from a poem and we’re asked to insert it, word for word, within a piece of flash fiction that is 144 words or less in length. Today Merril gives us the line “The granites and schists of my dark and stubborn country” from Nan Shepherd’s poem “The Hill Burns”

The Innocence of Youth Unveiled is fiction. It is not autobiographical.

Remembering that Glorious Year

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We trekked our way through glorious scenery that year. The Teton mountains witnessed our love grow as we explored their many trails. We held hands walking through fields of wildflowers as spring bloomed. That summer we ran along Jenny Lake and finally took the plunge into her pristine but cold glacier-fed water. Autumn brought changing colors below tree-line and  beautiful evenings spent under star lit skies.

I remember the day sludge colored clouds rolled in. We realized quickly, they were precursors to an approaching storm. Setting up camp early that afternoon, the sun disappeared quickly. Clouds turned obsidian-like black and rain lashed our small tent. Daylight disappeared and never returned that day. Even in those cold and frightening moments, I felt warm and safe lying beside you. I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones, if only we’d had more time.


Written for Monday Prosery at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Prosery Mondays are the only time we write flash fiction rather than poertry at dVerse. It is a genre created by dVerse that unites poetry and fiction: a given line from a poem must be included word for word within a piece of fiction that is 144 words or less in length, sans title.

Today Kim asks us to include the line “I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones” from the poem Dark August by Derek Walcott in our 144 word piece of flash fiction.

Image by Mike Goad from Pixabay

I Can’t Believe It

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I have no skills for flight or wings. To skim the waves effortlessly, like the wind itself, I’d much rather do that.

I grew up next door to Amelia and her sister, Pidge. We climbed so many trees together. I’ll never forget the day Amelia said she was sure I could fly. So convincing was she, that I lept from an apple tree with arms outstretched. I held a grudge against her for a long time after that debacle.

All these years later, here I am, happily married, still in Atchison. I follow Amelia’s adventures and marvel at her courage. She’s world famous while I’m best known for my prize-winning apple pies. In summers, I always enjoy canoeing on Lake Warnock. Sometimes I stop to stare up at the sky and think about her. Imagine my shock today, when I heard the awful news.


Written for Monday Prosery at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe.

EXPLANATION. I’ve inserted myself into history in my flash fiction, pretending to be a neighbor of Amelia Earhart in her early childhood days.

HISTORY: Amelia Earhart (1897 – 1939) and her sister, Muriel (nicknamed Pidge; 1899 – 1998) were born and raised in Atchison, Kansas. There is indeed a Lake Warnock in the town. In 1928, Amelia Earhart became the first female passenger to cross the Atlantic by airplane. In 1932, she became the first woman to make a nonstop solo transatlantic flight and was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. On July 24, 1937, she disappeared over the Pacific Ocean while attempting to become the first female pilot to circumnavigate the world. She was declared dead on January 5, 1939.

WHAT IS PROSERY? For this form, we take a line of poetry and place it into a prose piece. The prose can be fiction or non-fiction, but it must be a piece of prose, not poetry. It can be no longer than 144 words, sans title. We are not permitted to insert words into the given line, but we may punctuate it. We must acknowledge the line, the work, and the poet.

THE LINE WE MUST INCLUDE: “I have no skills for flight or wings to skim, the waves effortlessly, like the wind itself” The line is from The Magnificent Frigatebird by Ada Limon.

IMAGES of Amelia and her sister, Pidge; Amelia as a pilot; and Amelia as a young girl.

The Wildlife Knew . . .

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We proved ourselves using their prescribed survivor skills. Four days required with no outside contact. We foraged, used water purifier tablets, huddled together sharing body heat when temperatures dropped unexpectedly.

The accident was no one’s fault. His leg was most likely broken and I hoped my make-shift splint eased the pain. I had no choice but to carry him out on my back. The skies that looked threatening when we began the trek, turned black at midday. No signs of wildlife. They sensed the hell about to break loose. No sounds. No movement.

Keep moving. Just keep moving. The still air suddenly turned into howling winds. Rain pelted us sideways. We were in abject darkness. Where can we find light? In the never-ending shade of trees bent in terror? Just keep moving. Hold on, James. Hold tighter round my neck. It’s not far now . . .

Written for dVerse, the virtual blog for poets (and writers) around the globe. Today is Prosery Monday. Merril explains what prosery is:

“For this form, we take a line of poetry and place it into a prose piece. The prose can be fiction or non-fiction, but it must be a piece of prose, not poetry. You are not permitted to insert words into the given line, but you may punctuate it.  This is sort of a slippery slope, using someone else’s words in your own work. Please acknowledge the line, the work, and the poet. The piece you write can be no longer than 144 words.”

The line Merril asks us to include is “Where can we find light in the never-ending shade?” from Amanda Gorman’s poem “The Hill We Climb” which she read at President Joe Biden’s Inaugural in January 2021.

Image created on Bing Create.

Smoke Rings . . .

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The last of my generation. Savoring my cigarette, I sit blowing smoke rings. They dissipate into wispy nothingness, metaphorical for my existence these days. I’m not alone in this assisted living complex. But I am lonely. With my failing eyesight, I no longer escape on adventures with Agatha Christie or James Patterson.

I have so few pleasures. Sometimes I’ll listen to Duke Ellington records and I’ll bury my soul in a scrapbook with the photographs there. And the moss that I imagine in my dreams, always beneath my husband’s feet. I can see it when I bend over the pages with my magnifying glass, in the picture of John standing beside our first tent. Memories come alive on the pages. My children’s birthday celebrations, cheeks pooched out, blowing candles. I’ve been blessed. My life has been good. But oh Lord, it’s time. It’s time.


Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Kim asks us to include the line “And I’ll bury my soul in a scrapbook, with the photographs there and the moss” in our piece of flash fiction that is 144 words in length, sans title. The line is from the poem Take This Waltz by Leonard Cohen. We may change the punctuation of the required line, but must use the words exactly, in the exact order as appears in Cohen’s poem.

Image created on Bing Create.

Birthday Week with Gramps

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She’d lived with her widowed grandfather since she was orphaned at twelve. He proudly walked her down the aisle when she married. Every year since, she’d returned to the cabin to spend his birthday week with him. They watched movies on VHS tapes. His favorites were the old ones starring Cary Grant, Spencer Tracey, or John Wayne.

This year, she’d brought the Harry Potter series on VHS tapes. They were twenty minutes into the first one when he complained loudly. “Wizards? This is ridiculous!”

She started to ask, “What does it matter that . . .”

“The stars we see are already dead. The ones we always watch. They’re in plots you can understand,” he harrumphed. “I’m gettin’ a beer and goin’ out to watch the moon. Seein’ a man up there is more real than this!”

She smiled, “Okay, Gramps. You win. I’m coming too.”


Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Dora is hosting and introduces us to Amy Woolard. She asks us to include the line “What does it matter that the stars we see are already dead” from Woolard’s poem, Laura Palmer Graduates, in our post.

Prosery was invented by dVerse: one line of poetry is provided and we must include that line, word for word, within a piece of prose/flash fiction that is 144 words or less (sans title). It’s the one type of prompt on dVesre, that does not involve writing poetry.

Image created in Bing Create.

After All These Years . . .

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They were so young. Grins on their faces more often than not. Dressed in wool caps, fuzzy mittens, and brightly colored scarves. The backs of their snowsuits still showed evidence of the snow angels they’d just completed. An annual tradition at the first deep snow. Jill’s yard was always the scene. More often than not, they’d be in the midst of a wild dance to the blizzard gods when Mrs. Cranston called out to them, one by one. All of the names swallowed up by the cold, but loud enough so they knew her homemade hot chocolate was ready.

All these years later, Jill looking so beautiful in her wedding gown, they sat looking expectantly at Mrs. Cranston. Snow falling outside the church fellowship hall’s window, she held up her champagne flute: “To lasting friendship, my dears. You will always be my cold-nosed angels!”

It’s Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe. Today Bjorn is hosting from Stockholm, Sweden. He asks us to include the line All of the names swallowed up by the cold in our piece of prose/flash fiction that is 144 words or less in length, sans title. The line is from the poem “After Someone’s Death” by the late Swedish Nobel Laureate, Tomas Tranströmer.

Annie Boaden

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As a little girl, she often escaped the city’s bustle by visiting the public library. She’d sit quietly reading Betsy, Tacy and Tib stories and smile with Winnie the Pooh. Sometimes she’d spin the large globe with eyes closed, stop it, and imagine moving where her finger landed.

Years passed until she was alone, eyes clouded by cataracts, still living in the same small house. She adored its flower garden, tending it so carefully. Hollyhocks, primroses, lilacs grown tall over the years. Today, it rained so she sat beside her kitchen window gazing out. Screen door open, she could hear the rain patter, smell her city lilacs release their sweet, wild perfume, then bow down, heavy with rain. The teapot would soon whistle, and she’d pour herself a cup to share with Jane Austen, escaping into the world of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy.


Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. In Prosery, we’re given a line from a poem and must include it, word for word, within a piece of flash fiction that is 144 words or less in length. Today we’re asked to include the following lines from British writer, Helen Dunmore’s poem City Lilacs:
“. . . city lilacs
release their sweet, wild perfume
then bow down, heavy with rain.”

Photo taken some years ago on Lilac Sunday at the Arnold Arboretum in Boston.

A Dancer’s Tale

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I was where I am when the snow began: back row in the corps de ballet. My first professional performance with a prestigious company. My first performance in The Nutcracker.

We’d practiced Act I’s ending snow scene many times. Dress rehearsal was a joy as soft snow fell all around us. As a newbie, nobody warned me about the two three-hundred pound fabric bags of confetti snow in the rafters. Nor did they tell me in the real performance, the snow would increase in intensity until we ended up in a veritable blizzard!

I was afraid I’d fall. It stuck to my eyelashes. I warned myself: don’t breathe through your mouth! But I did. With my back to the audience, I coughed like a cat hurling a furball. The curtain dropped to tumultuous applause and I’d survived. “Welcome to the real world of ballet!”

Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I didn’t have time to write to Merril’s Prosery prompt for Monday, so did it late and am posting here. The prompt was to use the line “I was where I am when the snow began” from the poem The Dead of Winter by Samuel Menashe. Prosery is a piece of prose that is 144 words or less in length and includes a specific line of poetry given in a prompt.

A Dancer’s Tale was motivated by an article in the December 5th, Boston Globe, “The Snow Must Go On.” It actually quotes ballerina, Seo Hye Han who plays the Snow Queen in the Nutcracker about how the snow sticks to everything and tastes terrible because of the flame retardant on it. Boston Ballet actually does have two 300-pound fabric bags of confetti snow in the rafters for each performance of the Nutcracker. The bags are rotated and the snow slowly falls at first and does indeed, end up in a blizzard at the end of the scene. After the curtain comes down, stage hands immediately use machines similar to leaf blowers to clear the stage and save all the snow. They put the used snow through a machine to “sift out” false eyelashes, feathers, sequins etc. so there is just “pure” confetti snow left to reuse. According to the article, Boston Ballet goes through over 2,000 pounds of confetti snow in each season’s performances of the Nutcracker. Fascinating article to read! A Dancer’s Tale is purely fictional.

Image was created by me in Bing Creative! Thank you Bjorn for showing us how to use this AI!

A Conversation Sometime in the Future . . .

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“I left the farm for the big city sixty-plus years ago. I embraced feminism and burned my bra. Then I met a guy and several months later I was shaving my legs and curling my eyelashes again! He was an English major so I became a romantic poetry sop. One night I even recited a line for him: ‘I want to be pretty for you. I have dropped two seeds of turnsole in the dark of both eyes.” I gravitated to him like sunflowers turning their heads to constantly feel the sun’s rays on their faces. Thank god I came to my senses and never looked back. Enough of this tangent. No more questions, Miss Parkander! Please call the Vice President and tell him he has to be at the Climate Accord meeting I’m hosting at Camp David. The Secretary of State as well.”

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sanaa asks us to include the line “To be pretty for you I have dropped two seeds of turnsole in the dark of both eyes” from the poem Garden by Isabel Duarte-Gray in our piece of flash fiction that is 144 words or less in length. Turnsole is a type of plant, like a sunflower, that turns its head or stem to follow the movement of the sun. And my question for you is, when will the US have a female President….so many qualified women out there!