writing

Flash Fiction Prompt: The Night Stalker’s Knock

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The news warned her. The sound at 2 a.m. confirmed it. Would you open the door—or hide in the shadows?

First Line (grab hold):

Alice jolted awake at 2 a.m. to the unmistakable sound of her doorknob twisting.

Starting Paragraph

The 11 p.m. news still echoed in her mind—the anchor’s solemn voice describing the “Night Stalker,” a serial killer who preyed only on single women living alone. Alice had checked her locks twice before climbing into bed, assuring herself she was safe. Yet now, the metallic rattle from the front door turned her blood cold. She froze, straining to hear. It wasn’t the wind, not the house settling—someone was there. A slow, deliberate jiggle, followed by silence. Then again, sharper this time, as though testing her resolve as much as the lock. Every instinct screamed to call the police, but her phone sat charging in the kitchen—too many steps away. She thought of the kitchen knives, the back window, the long wait until dawn. Her mind raced: should she stay silent and hope the lock held, or take action before the intruder did? The room pressed in, each second stretching thin with terror. The doorknob rattled once more—harder.

If you were in Alice’s place, what would you do next—fight, flee, or hide?

Building Optimism One Ordinary Day at a Time

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True strength isn’t found in grand gestures—it’s in the quiet persistence of everyday hope.

“I don’t think of all the misery, but of the beauty that still remains.” ― Anne Frank

I never knew my family was poor until I was out on my own. We lived in a four room cold water flat second floor apartment. The kitchen stove provided the only heat during the cold New England winters. One might think my parents might have complained about what life handed them. I never heard it. My parents never talked about optimism either. I’m not sure I ever heard them say the word.,yet, I think I got my optimism from them. I got it from their actions. They got up each morning and went to work. They paid their bills on time. They never despaired. They kept on doing what they had to do. I think that’s optimism. You keep on doing what you have to do. Implicit in that as a sense of hope that if I keep on doing what I have to do somehow everything will work out. Like Anne Frank, who was a victim of the Holocaust, they refused to look on the dark side. The dark side for my parents was the depression and World War II. They didn’t quit they kept on doing. And that is the foundation for optimism.

What small actions in your life—or in your family’s past—have quietly built a foundation for optimism and hope?

In the rhythm of ordinary days, hope is quietly built, one step, one breath, one act of courage at a time.

Flash Fiction Prompt: The Conversation He Was Never Meant to Hear

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Some secrets demand silence—others demand action.

⚡ Grab Hold First Line

The hiss of the espresso machine almost drowned them out, but not enough.

He sat with his laptop open, pretending to scroll through emails, when their words cut through the café’s chatter like a knife: “Tonight, after he falls asleep, it ends.” His pulse spiked, the latte cooling untouched at his side. The man leaned in, voice low but edged with menace, while the woman nodded, eyes darting nervously toward the door. They were planning her husband’s death, and here he was—an accidental witness in the wrong place at the wrong time. His brain screamed to call the police, but his legs moved before reason caught up. The couple left, their laughter floating behind like smoke, and he followed them into the night. Every step closer raised a thousand questions: Was he brave, foolish, or already marked? The streetlights flickered, shadows stretching long and hungry. He knew nothing about them—yet he knew too much. Curiosity and dread wrestled in his chest as he trailed them past the neon blur of shops. One thing was certain: whatever path he was on now, there was no turning back.

If you were the man in the café, would you call the police immediately—or follow them into the dark?

Laughter Is Sacred: Choosing Joy Over Anger

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Laughter is more than amusement—it’s a sacred act of healing, freedom, and connection.

Laughter is a holy thing. It is as sacred as music and silence and solemnity, maybe more sacred. Laughter is like a prayer, like a bridge over which creatures tiptoe to meet each other. Laughter is like mercy; it heals. When you can laugh at yourself, you are free. ~Ted Loder

I like to laugh. I like to watch shows that make me laugh. I like to be around people who make me laugh and are fun to be with. When we lighten up and stop taking ourselves and everything too seriously life suddenly becomes better. It’s difficult for me to imagine how some can go through life always being upset. Lots of people make money from being upset. They rant on social media sites. They make videos sharing their anger with us. The good news is we have a choice. We can choose what we watch. We can choose who we associate with, for the most part. And we can choose what we read. Make a goal to bring some laughter into your life. Make a goal to take an inventory of the people you hang out with. Do you feel good after hanging out with them or do they leave you feeling blue? Do they make you happy or make you angry? Make happy, love and laughter filled choices.

Flash Fiction Prompt: She Lost Her Identity—Now She’s Taking It Back

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Losing her identity was the beginning; discovering the thief was only steps away made her hunger for justice.

Grab Hold First Line

She thought the hacker lived a world away—until she discovered he lived just down the hall.

Flash Fiction Prompt

Identity theft wasn’t just a headline to her; it was a nightmare that hollowed out her life. Bank accounts frozen. Credit ruined. Even her driver’s license—gone. She felt invisible, erased. It took weeks of desperation before her tech-savvy friend traced the trail. The hacker wasn’t an untouchable ghost behind endless screens. He lived three doors down, smiling as he passed her in the hallway, carrying groceries, blending in like any other neighbor. The betrayal was worse than the theft. Fury replaced fear.

Her friend showed her the digital fingerprints, the sloppy mistake that gave him away. Now, it wasn’t about passwords or bank accounts. It was about reclaiming herself. She could run to the police, but some part of her screamed for more. A plan was forming—dangerous, bold, and dripping with the promise of justice. When the hacker stole her identity, he thought she’d fade. Instead, he awakened the part of her that refuses to be erased.

If this were your story, would you call the police—or take matters into your own hands?

Flash Fiction Prompt: Stolen Packs, Stolen Peace: A Colorado Nightmare Begins

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They came for adventure. The wilderness offered something far darker.

Grab Hold First Line

The fire had died to embers, and in the silence of the Colorado night, they realized their backpacks—and their peace of mind—were gone.

Flash Fiction Prompt

They woke to cold air biting their skin, the scent of pine heavy in their lungs. Where their packs once rested—food, maps, water, even their phones—nothing remained. Just flattened grass and the shadow of absence. Panic rose quickly. Who had crept into their camp as they slept?

The man scanned the dark ridges, the woman gripped a stick as if wood could fend off dread. Something was wrong beyond the theft. It wasn’t just what was taken. It was what remained. A feeling. A presence. Eyes. Watching.

The wind in the trees seemed to carry whispers, too deliberate to be chance. Every crack of a branch made them flinch. Hiking out without supplies was already dangerous, but now the thought of someone stalking them—waiting, toying—gnawed at their courage.

They were no longer alone in the wilderness. And whoever was out there wasn’t finished.

If you were stranded in the Colorado backcountry with someone stalking you, what would be your first move—fight, flee, or outsmart them?

Flash Fiction Monday: One Flick of a Stranger’s Hand Over Her Drink

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A woman alone in a crowded bar spots something in the mirror—a flick of a stranger’s hand over her drink. What follows is a chilling duel of wits between instinct and danger.

I caught it in the bar mirror—a flick of his hand over my drink. Too fast to be casual.

Did I imagine it? Or did he just drop something in my wine? 

He was old enough to be  my dad.I didn’t know his name. Late fifties maybe. Nice suit, dyed hair, the confident smile of a man who always gets what he wants. Tonight, apparently, that was me. I’d be his next conquest. 

He picked up his glass and said, “Here’s good days ahead.” 

I lifted my hand toward mine, then turned sharply and waved toward the crowd. “Marcia!” I called out to no one.

My elbow knocked the glass, spilling red across the bar and his gray pants.

“Oh no—I’m so sorry.”

He laughed, smooth as maple syrup. “No problem. I’m Matt. And you are…?”

“Me?” I asked.

That took him back. 

He didn’t hesitate, “You’re the woman who will make all my dreams come true.”

He snapped his fingers at the bartender and waved a twenty. “Get this beautiful woman another of what she was drinking. Keep the change.

My drink arrived before I could take a deep breath. I took hold of it and pulled it close to me.

“Let’s start fresh. Hi my name is Matt and you’re . . .”

I don’t know why I didn’t  walk away. Something inside me felt if I did, he’d follow me into the parking lot. I’ve got to stop watching the true detective stories on TV where trusting girls like me always end up in the morgue. 

“I get it. You don’t know me. Why should you trust me? It was true about me thinking you are the girl of my dreams. I believe in love at first sight and you pushed all my buttons.”

I was afraid to take a sip of my drink. Maybe he was in cahoots with the bartender. After all, he gave him a huge tip for five dollar glass of red wine. I was trying to think of an excuse to leave.  My mind felt like a gerbil on a gerbil wheel, going as fast and stuck in the same place.

“How’s the wine?”

“I haven’t tasted it.”

“Why?” 

“That’s a really good question.”

“What?”

“That one too.”

“I get it, why and what are questions?”

“Gee, you’re so smart. I bet you went to college.” I zinged him. I saw him turn red.

“May I check your wine’s aroma? It could the wine’s not right..”

“Sure,” I said sliding the wine to him.

He was good. He smiled, reached for hand. My eyes wanted to turn away from he touching my hand. I couldn’t. I know he slipped something in my drink, but I’m sure I couldn’t prove it. It was so fast. 

He lifted the glass, swirled it, and then sniffed. “It has a wonderful bouquet. You’ll love it.” 

He slid it back to me and took his drink into his hand.

I opened my purse and pulled out my phone.

“What are you doing?

“I’m calling my boyfriend.”

“Your boyfriend?”

“Yes. He’s a cop. He’s working the evening shift.”

I watched his face drain of color. “He should be here any minute. I want him to test my wine.”

Sometimes intuition whispers before danger speaks. Have you ever trusted that quiet voice inside and felt it protect you when reason hesitated? Share your thoughts below—your story might remind someone else to listen to their inner warning light.

Flash Fiction Prompt: The Stranger’s Warning

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A simple envelope on the subway platform carries a message no one should ever read.

Grab Hold First Line

The subway screeched into the station just as a stranger shoved an envelope into his hand.

Flash Fiction Prompt

He thought it was a mistake, some frantic commuter misplacing a bill or a love letter. But the man’s eyes had been deliberate, and his footsteps vanished into the crowd as if he had never existed. Standing under the harsh fluorescent lights, he tore the flap open. Inside was a single sheet of paper with eight words scrawled in jagged black ink: “You will be dead by this time tomorrow.”

His pulse hammered louder than the train roaring past. He looked around, searching for cameras, for laughter, for any sign this was a cruel joke. But no one watched him. A young woman scrolled through her phone. A businessman adjusted his tie. A child tugged on her mother’s sleeve. Normal life, continuing untouched.

The paper trembled in his grip. Did this note seal his fate, or was it an invitation to change it? With twenty-four hours to live—or to fight—he had to decide whether to flee, to hide, or to chase the truth down the tunnels of the city.

If you opened that envelope, what would your first move be—panic, run, or track down the stranger?

Your Life Is a Gift: Lessons from the Changing Seasons

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Every season has a purpose, and so do you—your presence is a gift to the world.

I love fall. The longer nights, the cooler days, football, and thoughts of the holidays flashing in my mind. Each season has its gifts. The gifts are different. It’s much like you and me. We’re different. We have different gifts. The gifts, however, are all good. When we use our gifts in the right way we bring benefit to other people. We make a difference with our life. Your life, no matter where you are on your journey, is important. You have something important to offer to each of us.

What unique gift do you feel you bring to others, and how has it made a difference in someone’s life?

Flash Fiction Prompt: Twenty Years Later, the Past Wants Blood

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What if the man who destroyed your life reappeared? Would you finally take your revenge—or let the past walk free?

💥 Grab Hold Prompt

The moment he walked into the bar, I knew the past hadn’t stayed buried—it had just been waiting for me to dig it up.

It had been twenty years since I last saw him—the man who smiled as my world collapsed. He sat at the end of the bar, older, softer, but his eyes still carried that smug glint. My mind flashed back: the lies, the betrayal, the day I was marched out of my job like a criminal. I’d promised myself then that if I ever saw him again, I’d end it. My hand curled around the cold glass in front of me, but my pulse pounded hotter than fire. He hadn’t seen me yet. I could walk away. Or I could walk toward him and fulfill the vow I’d carried like a shadow all these years. The bartender leaned in, asking if I wanted another. I nodded, but my gaze never left him. I wondered if he remembered, if guilt had ever touched him. One step could decide whether I lived with this wound forever—or made sure neither of us walked away unchanged.

If you were the man in this story, would you choose revenge, forgiveness, or simply walk away? Why?

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