writing

Flash Fiction Writer’s Prompt: The Day the Sky Forgot Its Color

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When reality takes one step sideways, the smallest change can shatter everything you thought you knew.

First Line:

The sky blinked, sighed, and then forgot to turn itself back on.

Starting Paragraph:

No one noticed at first — the morning coffee still brewed, dogs still barked, and Mrs. Caldwell still shouted at the mailman for stepping on her lawn. But sometime between sunrise and mid-morning, the blue drained from the sky as if someone had pulled the plug. By noon, it was an empty expanse of pale nothingness, a ceiling erased. Children stopped playing. Airplanes rerouted. And then came the whispers — not from people, but from somewhere above, just out of sight. The wind seemed to carry messages, half-heard, that made you stop in your tracks. Some swore they could feel eyes on them, others claimed they saw shapes moving in the blankness. The government issued a statement about “atmospheric irregularities,” but no one believed it. You stood there, neck craned, wondering if this was a glitch in the universe — or the moment the truth finally slipped through.

3 Questions for Flash Fiction Inspiration:

  1. Who—or what—caused the sky to lose its color?
  2. How does the world react as the phenomenon worsens?
  3. What personal stake does your protagonist have in restoring the sky?

Reading Life’s Scoreboard: Spotting the Signs That Matter

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The seasons change without asking our permission—so do our relationships. Are you paying attention to the signs before the score gets away from you?

Schools are back in session. Football season is close by. The days are gradually getting shorter. They’re all signs that we will be soon be saying goodbye to summer and hola (Spanish for hello) to fall. Signs are all around us. What are the signs that your primary relationships are working? Can you spot them? Can you spot trouble signs or are you ignoring them? When we are aware of the signs in our lives we can take steps to eliminate the trouble spots and support the things that are working for us. It’s true in our relationships, health, and emotional well being.

Points to Ponder:

  • What signs—big or small—tell you a relationship is thriving?
  • Are there red flags you’ve chosen to ignore? Why?
  • How can seasonal changes remind you to check in on your health, relationships, and emotional well-being?
  • Do you act on signs right away or wait until the “game” is almost over?
  • What’s one sign you’ll look for today in your own life?

Flash Fiction: Smiling in the Shattered Glass

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Love, lies, and a an ex’s vengeance leave Joey with a bloody nose, a broken TV, and a smile he can’t explain.

Smiling in the Shattered Glass

Gail is five-foot-four, never topped 110 pounds. I’m six-two, and a hundred pounds heavier. Her slap loosened two teeth and gave me a bloody nose. That was the end of us. Or maybe the beginning of my biggest mistake. This is how it went down.

I’m a bartender at The Last Round, big enough to double as the bouncer. Thursday night was packed—half-price drinks for ladies, and the guys piled in, ignoring the sticky floors and not minding the cheap perfume as long as they could hook up. It didn’t matter to most if they exchanged names or not. I was pouring rum and cokes when Nicole walked in and wiggled and flirted her way to the bar.

She was the last person I wanted to see. We broke up six months ago at Vincenzo’s. It’s a trendy Italian bistro. We were eating a pricy meal when out of the blue she’d demanded to know if I was cheating on her. I turned away, hoping Nicole wasn’t grasping the steak knife. I tossed her a goofy smile, shrugged, and said, “I was meaning to tell you.”

 I thought Nicole was going to dive across the table and thrust the steak knife into my chest. 

“Who’s the bitch?” Nicole demanded to know my lover’s name.

 I wouldn’t give it to her. She carefully set the knife down, glared at me, and tossed the remainder  of her wine into my face and stormed out. I was left with the bill, a ruined shirt, and my freedom.  

Later, when I went to our apartment to get my stuff, I found it dumped into the parking lot from her third-floor balcony. My PlayStation? Smashed. My MacBook? Dead. My clothes? Baptized in red wine. The next day, she kicked up the revenge theme into the passing lane. There were the hang-up calls, the CHEATER posts on Instagram, and some very unflattering AI “nudes” of me.

Three weeks later, she disappeared from the online revenge. I thought it was over for good.  Until tonight.

“You going to say hi or are you still pouting?” she asked.

“Hi, Nicole. What’ll you have?”

“You know my favorite. And I’m here to apologize—for the calls, for everything. Lunch at Vincenzo’s tomorrow. My treat.”

Maybe she’d changed. Sure. Like a scorpion changes. Like a fool, I said yes. A simple no would have sufficed. I didn’t need a scene. I like my job. I didn’t trust her to calmly accept being turned down.

The lunch went smoothly. She apologized and paid. She begged me to take a selfie with her for old times’ sake. What was I thinking? She took a selfie of us, and she was draped over me tighter than a boa constrictor is around its prey.  

The next day, when I came home, Gail—my straight-laced, daily-Mass love—was in the hall, hands on hips. I thought she’d run into my arms. Instead, it was the slap that loosened two teeth and a bloody nose that refused to quit.

“You bastard. I’m out of here.”

“What? Gail—”

“Get out of my way.” She shoved past, backpack over her shoulder, middle finger raised. The slam of the door knocked my favorite Red Sox mug to the floor, shattering it like my heart.

I called Gail’s cell. Straight to voicemail. Again and again. I called her mom. Her mom told me I was lucky all she broke was my heart.

I was halfway through a pity beer when my cell rang. No caller ID lit the screen. I grabbed it like a lifeline.

“Gail?”

“How’s it feel, Joey?” Nicole’s voice dripped poison. “Remember the selfie? I sent it to Gail. Gail may be my twin, but we were never close. I got even with two at the same time.”

Her laugh followed me into the silence when the line went dead. I hurled the phone into my TV—glass shattered, the Red Sox game froze, then blinked out. My heart was wrecked, my apartment wrecked, and now my TV too. In the cracked screen’s reflection, I almost looked like I was smiling. Hell, maybe I deserved every bit of it.

Flash Fiction Prompt: The Day the World Skipped a Beat

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What if time hiccupped for everyone… except you?

First Line:

The second hand froze mid-tick, and the silence slammed into me like a brick wall wrapped in velvet.

Opening Paragraph:

One moment, the city was a symphony—horns blaring, footsteps slapping the wet pavement, a street vendor shouting about the “best tamales in the world.” The next, it was as if the air itself had congealed. The man mid-bite into a hot dog was now a statue. The steam rising from his bun hung in the air like a ghost. A bus stopped inches from the crosswalk, the driver frozen with a half-blink that made him look almost… scared. My phone still ticked forward. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. The world hadn’t ended—it had just… stopped. Which meant that for some reason, I was outside of whatever force had hit pause. And that left me with one question that tasted like adrenaline and fear: if I was the only one left moving, what exactly was I supposed to do now?

Three Questions for the Writer:

  1. What’s the first risk your character takes in the frozen world—and why?
  2. How does the stillness reveal something hidden about them?
  3. What happens when time suddenly restarts?

Why Money Only Takes You So Far

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Money can buy comfort, but not lasting motivation. Here’s how the seminal researchers—Herzberg, Simon, and modern science—all prove it.

The research may be over half a century old, but it’s still true today. We’ve all heard “Money isn’t everything,” but psychology and economics give that cliché a sharp, evidence-backed edge.

In the 1950s, Frederick Herzberg found that pay is a hygiene factor: it prevents dissatisfaction but doesn’t fuel deep motivation. Around the same time, Herbert A. Simon introduced satisficing—choosing the first “good enough” option instead of endlessly maximizing. Money often plays this role, meeting basic thresholds and freeing us to stop searching.

Fast-forward to modern behavioral economics. Daniel Kahneman and Angus Deaton proved that income boosts happiness only up to a point—after needs are met, the effect flatlines.

The takeaway? Money’s job is to clear the runway, not fly the plane. Real, lasting motivation comes from meaning, growth, and purpose—things no paycheck can buy.

I’ve known plenty of folks who let money rule their choices—and watched those choices come back to haunt them. Happiness and satisfaction aren’t for sale. They’re built from the inside out.

Flash Fiction Prompt: When Trouble Comes Calling, Don’t Answer Too Fast

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When danger raps on your door, will you answer—or pretend you’re not home?

First Line:

The knock came like the sound of a jackhammer—loud, sharp, and carrying the promise of trouble.

Starting Paragraph:

It was 2:17 a.m. when the pounding started. Three hard raps, a pause, then two more, each one rattling the thin wood like a judge’s gavel in a case that had already been decided. I froze mid-step, coffee mug halfway to my lips, the bitter steam curling into my face like a warning. The streetlight outside cast a crooked shadow across my door, and in that warped silhouette, I thought I saw a fedora tilt forward—old-school, like something out of a black-and-white movie where no one smiles. My heartbeat was a snare drum in my ears. I wasn’t expecting anyone. In fact, nobody should even know I was here. My eyes flicked to the drawer by the sink. Inside was a loaded choice: a .38 revolver wrapped in a dishtowel… or my phone. Neither option promised safety. The knock came again—slower this time, almost polite.

Three Questions to Spark the Story:

  1. Who is on the other side of the door—and what do they want?
  2. What is the secret the narrator is hiding?
  3. How will the choice between the revolver and the phone change the outcome?

The Last Knock at Midnight

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When a sound shatters the night, what you open the door to might change everything… or end it.

First Line:

The knock was so sharp and sudden it felt like it split the night clean in half.

Starting Paragraph:

I had been sitting alone in the living room, the only light coming from the dim lamp in the corner, when it came—a single, heavy knock. Not a polite tap. Not a friendly rap. This was the kind of knock that made the air stand still, the kind that made your bones remember old fears. The street outside was empty; I knew because I had checked the blinds not ten minutes ago. I waited for a second knock, but none came. My pulse quickened. I thought of ignoring it, of letting whatever was on the other side stay there, locked in the night. Then I heard it—soft breathing, right beyond the door. No words, no movement, just that steady, human sound. I stood, my hand halfway to the doorknob, wondering if opening it would be the bravest thing I’d ever done… or the last mistake I’d ever make.

3 Questions to Spark Flash Fiction:

  1. Who—or what—is on the other side of the door?
  2. What unspoken history connects you to this midnight visitor?
  3. What changes forever once the door opens—or stays shut?

Flash Fiction Prompt: She Woke Up in a Room That Didn’t Exist Yesterday

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Sometimes the best fiction begins where reality ends. One strange room. One lost memory. One chance to find the truth—before it finds you.

Opening Line:

She didn’t remember falling asleep, but she sure as hell remembered the blood on the doorknob.

Starting Paragraph (175 words):

The walls were bare—concrete gray and pulsing slightly, like they were breathing. A single metal chair stood in the center, beneath a bulb that flickered as if unsure it wanted to stay lit. Her phone was gone. Her shoes were gone. Her name… was gone. She reached for the doorknob, slick with something warm. It smeared across her fingers—red, unmistakably red. Panic clutched her chest, but somewhere deeper, in that quiet place behind fear, a strange calm whispered, You’ve been here before. She just didn’t remember. Or maybe she wasn’t supposed to. The light dimmed again, and this time, it didn’t come back. From the other side of the wall, something heavy dragged across the floor. She had one choice: stay still and forget again—or open the door and remember everything.

Three Flash Fiction Questions:

  1. What memory is she repressing, and why is this room the key to unlocking it?
  2. Who—or what—is on the other side of the wall?
  3. How do the rules of this world bend once the door opens?

What Gives You a Reason to Live? Ask… and Then Really Listen

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Joe Cocker sang it with passion—“You give me reason to live.” But what about you? What’s big enough to get you out of bed with purpose and joy?


There was a song popular in the 1980s titled, “You Can Leave Your Hat On” sung by Joe Cocker. One of the lines in the song says, “You give me reason to live.” Joe Cocker was speaking about a sensuous woman. His his line, however, is pertinent to each of us. We can ask ourselves this question: what gives me a reason to live? Then we can follow it up with this question: is my reason to live big enough and powerful enough to get me up each morning filled with energy and excitement? How we answer those questions goes a long way to determining how much we are enjoying life. A line from the prayer of Saint Francis reads, “It is by giving that we receive.” When our why to live is powerful enough, it usually is related to what we are giving to life and to those who are part of our life. How are you answering those two important questions?

💭 Points to Ponder:

  • What truly gives you a reason to live—not just to exist, but to thrive?
  • Is your “why” big enough to energize your mornings and steady your storms?
  • How does giving to others shape the meaning and purpose you feel?
  • Can your reason to live evolve as your life and relationships deepen?
  • What would change if you measured your life not by what you get—but by what you give?

Flash Fiction Prompt: She Vanished at Noon—But Her Shadow Stayed Behind

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Every small town has a mystery. This one started when the sun was highest… and her footprints led nowhere.

First Line:

The clock struck noon, and in that exact second, Josie Finch dissolved into sunlight—leaving behind a pair of shoes and a pool of rainwater on dry ground.

Starting Paragraph:

It wasn’t raining that day. Not a cloud above Crater Ridge. Just a dry, dust-blown summer Tuesday when Josie Finch walked into the square wearing her red boots and vanished in front of four stunned witnesses. Old Man Kemp said her outline shimmered like heat waves, then poof—nothing. Just the boots and a perfect circle of water on the sunbaked bricks. Sheriff Bell tried to cordon off the area, but no one wanted to step near it. Even the pigeons gave it space. Her brother, Davey, sat on the courthouse steps for hours, staring at the puddle like it might offer a clue. By sunset, rumors grew teeth—aliens, government experiments, a curse whispered from old Choctaw stories. The shadow her body cast at high noon never faded. It stayed etched in the bricks like a scorched ghost. And now, every day at noon, it returns—waiting, maybe, for something. Or someone.

3 Questions to Spark Flash Fiction:

  1. Why did Josie disappear—and what secret was she hiding before she vanished?
  2. What significance does the puddle—and her shadow—hold in the larger story?
  3. What happens when someone dares to step into the exact spot where she stood?

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