Flash Fiction

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.

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 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!

Exit, Stage Left

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She needed to breathe; to relax and just let go.

Five years. Enough. Audition after audition. Waiting tables at Marco’s for lousy tips with far too many sleazy propositions. Moist hands reaching for her. Patriarchal, inebriated, entitled pats on her behind. Then home to a seven-story walk-up studio shared with two roommates. Also acting wannabes. She’d tried. Oh god how she’d tried. But zero call backs and enough Ramen noodle suppers to last a lifetime.

She sat slumped in her Greyhound seat during the city’s never-ending rush hour, traffic holding its breath. Sky a tense diaphragm with black billowing threatening clouds. Of course she’s leaving during a severe weather alert! Thunder and lightning? Bring it on. Not exactly a substitute for booming applause. But she’ll take it. Just let it rain like hell!

She closed her eyes to let the Xanax do its job.

Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Kim introduces us to the poem Twice Shy by Seamus Heaney. She asks us to include its line Traffic holding its breath, sky a tense diaphragm in our piece of prose (flash fiction) of 144 words or less, sans title. We must include it word for word; only the punctuation may be changed.

Exit, Stage Left is 144 words. Image by David Mark from Pixabay

Hope Grows in Beneficence

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Violet was born after a spring storm. She emerged from between the rainbow’s green and blue arcs. I am a centenarian angel, called to witness her birth. I’d been handmaiden to Death through all my years, grief skewing my existence. I was granted this new assignment, my aging wish. To assist non-humans within a species immersed in flights of fancy and joy.

I nudged Violet’s tiny fairy wings, guiding her through the sun’s rays toward the Land of Beneficence. Here she would learn to interact with the young offspring of humans when she journeyed to their earth. To spark their imaginations before ideas of difference and negativity took root. The hope of humankind lies within Violet and all her pixie kin, born every time a rainbow appears. My task, your very livelihood, is within the rainbow. Everything I do is stitched with its color.

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

Today we are to include the line “Everything I do is stitched with its color” in a piece of flash fiction, composed of 144 words, sans title. The required line is from a poem written by William Stanley Merwin, 17th Poet Laureate of the United States.

Image from Pixabay.com

What’s Your Dream?

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She dreamed of becoming a famous poet. On her eighteenth birthday, she outgrew the foster-care system. She walked out of old man Henrys’ flat for the last time, carrying her journals, writing supplies, toothbrush, two pair of socks and underpants, two flannel shirts, and twenty dollars, all stuffed in her backpack.

In Central Park, she sat down and began writing about what she saw. Children playing tag; people jogging; women pushing baby buggies. As the sun set, she lay down on the bench, looking up. Just to get a different perspective. Everything was upside down. She saw how in the street of the sky, night walks. Scattering poems in her head, the stars blinked telling her it would all be okay. She’d sleep now. In the morning she’d stop in Starbucks and see if they’d hire a poet who could double as a barista.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.

Today Linda is hosting Prosery Monday where we’re given one line from a poem, and expected to insert that line, word for word, into a piece of prose that is 144 words or less, sans title. In essence, it’s the one time poets at dVerse write flash fiction! We may add punctuation to the line; but we may not insert into or delete any words out of the line.

The line Linda chose for us to use is ‘In the street of the sky, night walks. Scattering poems.” It comes from Tulips & Chimneys by E. E. Cummings and is the last line of  IX- Impressions.

Photo from Pixabay.com

Breaking Point

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That was it. She’d had it. Sliced away, leaving a scar on the ancient bark, the tree looked raw. Desecrated. His handiwork obliterated.

That night of infatuation, he carved a heart with their initials right there for all the town to see. “We’re forever entwined” he said. Except they weren’t. He left for college and never returned. It’d been years. She’d waited tables at the Oleander Café. Endured the town folk’s talk behind her back. Their whispers haunted her. They knew she’d carried his child for six months before the miscarriage. People pitied her.

She knew he was never coming back. She dropped the knife and walked out to meet the dusty road. She hailed the first bus she saw. Paid cash and finally got the hell out of there. No matter the bus’ destination, it was her turn to leave it all behind.

Written for dVerse where today Sarah is hosting our Prosery session. She asks us to include the line “she’d had it sliced away leaving a scar” from Michael Donaghy’s poem, Liverpool.

What is Prosery? A Prosery prompt gives a line from a poem and we are to include it in a piece of flash fiction of 144 words, sans title. The line must be word for word, although the punctuation may be changed.