This story will take around 3 minutes to read.

Audio of the story, read by the author:

Lido Deck Libation

The ocean breeze caressed my skin making sure that the sun felt warm, but not scorching. With my eyes closed I listened to the gulls, the waves, and the melodic murmur of fellow cruisers enjoying the time with their fellow travelers while I had been enjoying my time alone in the sun.

Then Roger’s shadow covered me whole.

Without opening my eyes, I knew it was him. It was as if the sun had set, or a large storm cloud blew in without warning. Neither was true – at least not in the physical sense.

Hovering over me, knowing I was there working on my tan, his message was clear: he was not happy. The specificities of his discontent could fill a tome. Perhaps he took issue with my bathing suit’s inability to sufficiently hide all my bruises. Perhaps he caught sight of the drink I ordered that may loosen my tongue. Most likely of all, he was infuriated by my momentary joy in his absence.

As his shadow lingered and began to affect the warmth of my spot in the sun, I felt an inner warrior awaken. I would not return to the cabin with this man tonight. I would not follow his lead to learn what message his lingering was meant to send.

If the great Titanic could sink, so could my monster husband, given the right opportunity. I sat up and turned away from his shadowed gaze. I saw a deckhand mopping the poolside deck.

I remembered the tour of the ship we took when we first arrived. There was a spot there where carelessness would be punished (or rewarded, depending on your intentions). Roger was huge, I remembered the rails only came up to hips.

“Hey Rog,” I said, shielding my eyes from the sun he was already blocking. “Let’s go to the Lido deck for drinks. I’m in the mood for something icy.”

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Are you a cruise person? Yay or nay? Why?

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The inspiration

Once upon a time I co-hosted a monthly Writing Party for another Substack called Fictionistas. This particular story began in response to the party I hosted back in January 2025. You can see the prompt and the prompt tool I used here:

Fictionistas

January's Let's Write Together

We had our first writing prompt party of the year tonight, but we get that not everyone can make it, so it is time to reveal the prompt we shared…

Read more

2 years ago · 20 likes · 5 comments · Nicole Rivera and Jackie Dana

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This story will take around 5 minutes to read.

Remnants of the Storm

“Mommy! What is that?” one of the girls cried from their darkened bedroom.

Amanda shook her head as she ran to console them. The thrashing trees outside the front window were not the monster her girls feared, but they were an indicator that the weatherman might have been rightfully full of shit. “Let’s have a basement bedtime party!” Amanda said as she entered the kids’ room. She called her husband (figuring she better make contact before the power went out) to let him know their status.

“Jerry, listen. The storm is hitting here by the house. The maple is threatening my window. Don’t freak out, me and the girls will be in the basement. Love you, hon, see if Cap won’t keep you on the desk tonight, alright?” She rolled her eyes as she ended the message, knowing full well her husband had no interest in desk work, no matter how dangerous it might be out in the field. Being a cop’s wife was especially shitty when Jerry got the night shift.

Jerry’s phone was buzzing, but he was too busy dealing with the creation of the bare-bones task force he was asked to throw together at the last minute. The mayor was insisting the storm in their region wasn’t the actual hurricane, just a remnant, so the only conversation she was willing to have was about evacuating basement apartments in case of flash floods. That was her current political hot potato and nothing else mattered as long as she made sure she wasn’t the last one holding that flaming spud again. Jerry knew the city couldn’t bare another swath of deaths from basement floods, but what about the rest of the city? There was bound to be power outages, falling tree limbs, breakdowns in communication — in short, what about the types of things that would be affecting his home and his family? Where was their task force?

“We not suppose to close that door, Mommy…” Jessica mumbled as she held her smaller sister, Bianca, between her knees scooting down the stairwell one step at a time.

Bianca nodded sleepily. “It too sticky.”

Amanda maneuvered around their bumbling bodies —both swiftly and calmly — to pull out the sleeper sofa and the extra linens, hoping that the girls wouldn’t drift too far from the reaches of REM sleep before cuddling beneath the fresh covers and snoring again. As she did all this she said, “Mommy and Daddy are strong enough to open the sticky door. We’re closing it so we’ll have quiet and not be worried by the scratchy trees.” She pulled the blankets up over each girl, kissed them on their heads and never mentioned that she was concerned one of those big old tree branches was ready to crack and smash through her beautiful bay window in the front that sold her on the house in the first place. It was important she didn’t scare the girls – or herself. It was important they all fell back asleep and let the storm fly over.

Amanda slipped in next to the already dozing girls, pulled the covers up over herself and angled her phone to get a selfie of the three resting heads. Undoubtedly, Jerry was busy and wouldn’t check his phone until his breakfast break at sun up, but she wanted him to know his girls were safe, so she sent him the photo with a message, “Find us in the basement where we will sleep soundly now that we won’t hear those trees anymore. xo”

Jerry didn’t see the message and didn’t think to check on his family. He was confident they were safe in that big old house he worked all this overtime to afford. Every house he visited that night made him count his blessings over and over again that his family never had to live in such dangerous conditions. He spent the night riding the line between prideful and judgemental, questioning who dropped the ball in each of those family units, who wasn’t making sure these families were safe in the storm. Too often he caught himself thinking, Thank goodness I’m here to pick up the slack.

In the end, Jerry saved over fifty lives that night. He missed the three that mattered most.

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Do you have any storm stories? Fact or fiction?

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The inspiration

Every month, over in the Stop Writing Alone writing community, I host a live Writing Prompt Party on a Zoom call. We get together, I pull one of my prompt tools out and read a prompt out loud to the writers who have gathered. I then set a timer for anywhere between 15-18 minutes so everyone present can write a draft to a flash fiction piece based on the prompt. After we write, we then read the drafts aloud. This is the prompt we followed this month from three six five by lucy ives:

Stop Writing Alone

June 2026 Let's Write Together

It’s time to write to our June prompt…

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3 months ago · 4 likes · Nicole Rivera

I share the prompt on the Stop Writing Alone Substack each month, so even if you can’t make it to the party, you can still try your hand at it and write “with” us. At the end of each month, I invite writers to a “Story Share” where they can share their completed versions of the stories for others to read if they have posted it someplace public. If you’d like to see if anyone else has shared a story based on this prompt, check out the comments section of this post (I’ll be adding a link to this story once it is live!)

Stop Writing Alone

June's Story Share Thread [three six five by lucy ives]

We had our writing prompt party earlier this month. Now it’s time for you to do three things…

Read more

2 months ago · 7 likes · Nicole Rivera

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This story will take around 2 minutes to read.

Part of This is a True Story

I spent the morning filling the house with sound, because, if I am honest, some mornings are lonelier than others. First, I turned on the radio, hand washed the dishes, clinked and clanged pans while cooking up scrambled eggs and bacon. I sat down to eat, put on the television at an unnecessarily high volume, and started to plan for the rest of my day.

A to-do list was created as the last crunch of bacon was consumed. I stood up to carry my plate back to the kitchen when gunshots rang out in the middle of the crime drama I had put on in the background. When I glanced at the screen I released a guttural scream plucked from the depths of my fear-stricken soul that was so loud it concealed the crash of the ceramic plate’s destruction on the kitchen floor.

It wasn’t the show I was reacting to, it was the large, black, furry spider dangling in front of the screen. The web that held it afloat as its legs twitched in and out, was invisible to my eyes, but the physics of his suspension dictated where it must be.

“Are you friendly?!” I screamed as my heart pounded and my breath quickened. There seemed to be no way to find my inner calm. “No! You can’t be here!” I stepped forward, then back, twitching just like the creature, but with no reasonable need to do so. “Why are you here?” I was still shouting, at the top of my volume as if I thought the tiny creature was hard of hearing.

It somersaulted midair and began to climb back up the invisible, but clearly present, web thread. “Aahh! Where are you going? Ohmygodohmygodohmygod…” Beyond rationality, tears welled in my eyes as I began to laugh at all of my overreactions. “What do I do?” I muttered.

“Sit down,” the spider said.

The blood curdling screams returned. The heart palpitations, too. “What did you say?” I shouted, with both eyes shut tight.

“I said,” the spider began slowly, with a sigh, “sit down. I’d like to add to that, ‘calm down.’ I will answer all your questions in turn, but I do believe the first one is the most important one.”

I sat down on the couch, across the room from the spider’s ceiling perch.

“Yes,” the spider continued, “I am friendly, and you seem like you could use a friend.”

“Oh…” I said quietly. The spider was right. I had been lonely that morning.

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Spiders in your home, yay or nay?

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The inspiration

Back in 2012, Nancy Stohlman started an online challenge for fiction writers not interested in taking on the (by then) infamous NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) novel writing challenge. She was looking out for the flash fiction writers seeking community and inspiration, but not wanting to spend 50K words in the same project. She created FlashNaNo, where she shared 30 prompts in 30 days challenging writers to write one flash piece for each prompt. In November 2025, after over a decade of showing up for her immense community in this way, Stohlman announced this would be The Last FlashNaNo. On her website, you can still find “FlashNaNo Forever,” but I made sure I participated in 2025 for the final live event. I have lots of drafts of stories from that month. The story you read here today was written thanks to Day 20’s prompt:

That prompt, plus a real-life terrifying encounter, came together to inspire this tale.

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This story will take less than 1 minute to read.

Another One Extinguished

I remember the first time you offered me a cigarette.

We were standing by your locker and you caught me drifting into an aromatherapy memory of nicotine wafting out of a coat. I told you it reminded me of my dad.

You said I should light one up in his honor. I asked if you to give them up instead, to live forever with me. You said forever was overrated, we should live for the day.

I remember you were ever the fire, I, the smoke. One bright, wild, and burning; the other left quietly behind, lingering on the lonely wind.

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How do you feel about 100 word stories (drabbles) — are they too short or just right?

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The inspiration

Manawaker Studio asks writers every month to

Submit to 100 Word Project

On this submission page they explain they are looking for stories that are exactly 100 words and, each month they provide a prompt. I do not remember which month I wrote this story for, but I do remember the prompt was “SMOKE.”

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This story is a 2 minute read.

What They Didn’t See

“How could you forget what happened to me?” The sobs nearly swallowed the words, but Sheila continued, darting her bloodshot eyes at her brother. “You were there!”

At that point Steve had it. “Sheelz! Jesus! I was six years old. You honestly think I saw past my LEGOs? You gotta give me a fuckin’ break here.”

“And I was only eight!” she screamed.

“I know!” Steve matched her tone, then took a deep breath. “It’s beyond fucked up, but I’m not the one who can help you with this. I was right there with you —”

“--playing with fucking LEGOs,” Sheila muttered.

“Yeah,” Steve snapped back. “That’s right. I was playing with LEGOs, trying to figure out which set the fucking hypodermic needles came from. All right?”

Sheila gasped. “They didn’t.”

“Come on. You know they did. I hated when you went to school and left me all alone with them. So, no Sheila, I don’t remember what happened to you, but I do remember what happened to us, and it wasn’t my fault or your fault, and it wasn’t our responsibility to stop it – it was theirs and they failed us.” A long held sob escaped Steve’s soul.

Sheila jumped up, throwing her arms around the man, remembering the boy. “I didn’t know,” she whispered.

Steve cried into his big sister’s shoulder. “But you were there… how could you forget what happened to me?”

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Do you think this prompt (below) and story would be better served if this were written as a screenplay, or are you cool with dialogue-heavy stories?

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The inspiration

This prompt was from the May 5th page of the 2026 THE WRITER’S YEAR CALENDAR. It said, “Start a short dialogue scene with this line: ‘How could you forget what happened to me/’”

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This story is a 7 minute read.

All The Brick Walls

According to their mother, the brothers’ fighting began before they were even born. She claimed Martin and Jacob bickered in the womb. She said they nearly killed her fighting over who’d come out first. Story went that even after an emergency C-section and 8 weeks in the NICU struggling to survive together, they never, ever, stopped fighting. Neither of the boys ever argued this point unless, of course, the other said it first.

The strange thing about their relationship was that even through the constant fights, competitions and inability to compromise with one another, neither one of the men seemed capable of going it alone. The clearest path to a peaceful life – one lived outside the shadow of their twin – was utterly unthinkable.

Then Martin met Celia, a beautiful barista who fell in love with him over his morning coffee orders. As their relationship grew, Martin felt liberated to set off and build a life for himself without Jacob at his side. Martin and Celia selected and purchased a plot of land to grow their lives together. Once the sale went through, Martin got to work. He began by building Celia a home. Brick by brick, he slaved in the hot sun, constructing walls, doorways, windows — the full outline of a home. Each night, when the sun set, he’d go home and tell Jacob of his joys.

What Martin did not know was that Jacob didn’t need to be told of any of the story. While Martin had liberated his life from his twin, Jacob was still under the same thrall he had always been, unable to live without conspiring to one-up or defeat his brother. Jacob had been watching Martin’s every action. The more apparent Martin’s independence became, the more Jacob’s obsession grew. By the time Martin had begun his construction project, Jacob had become so unhinged, he surreptitiously followed his brother to the build site and hung out in a tree at the edge of the field to watch the man work. Every single day Jacob spied on his brother’s work squatting in a tree branch like jaguar stalking its prey. As the sun set each night, Jacob crept down the tree, into the construction area, and robbed Martin’s bricks, one small bag at a time.

Time passed and Jacob’s secret obsession was becoming as difficult to hide as his stash of stolen bricks. Jacob lost his job and his apartment. The stolen brick stash was about to grow larger than the hedge down the road he hid it behind. In the meantime, Martin’s pride was growing, his excitement overflowing, and his memory of his own animosity between him and his twin had all but disappeared. Martin not only wanted to tell Jacob about this house, he wanted to show him. The first night Martin tried to invite him, Jacob nearly fell out of the tree when his cell phone rang. The second night, Jacob left his phone home, but on the third night, Martin was ready to try something new.

You see, on the third night instead of calling his twin, Martin decided he was going to go to their mother’s house where he thought his brother was staying out of a sense of duty to their aging parent in her time of need. He figured he could bring Jacob back to the build site himself. It was a special night because Martin had finished the entire structure of the primary bedroom. He was especially proud. He placed the last brick on the wall where he imagined his headboard would rest, then brushed off his hands and rushed out to his car. When he got there, he realized that in his haste he left his car keys behind. He ran back to the house startling his robbing brother in the middle of his nightly brick grab. Jacob shouted, dropped the bag, tried to quickly grab it again and ended up crushing his thumb in the process.

Martin, blinded by the love that built the structure around him, assumed his brother had come to help build the home with him. As he drove his brother to the Emergency Room he switched from gratitude to apology for all the years of strife they had shared. Martin’s guilt over his brother’s present pain and the years of previous pain they caused each other overwhelmed him. The tears ran hot and heavy as his chest heaved with sobs he did not know he was capable of.

Jacob, still unable to release the hatred in his heart, fumed at the show of emotion. “You can’t drive like that, idiot!” he shouted as he grabbed the wheel and cut it dramatically to the right. “Pull over!”

Jacob wanted to take control of the wheel; he didn’t want his brother to drive. In the dark, all the hedges looked the same from the road. The question that remains is, did Jacob know that was the exact hedge where he had stashed his stolen bricks?

According to their mother, the fighting started before they were born. For Jacob, it lasted all the way up to their untimely death.

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In your opinion, which brick wall killed the brothers?

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The inspiration

Check out the prompt that inspired this story over on the Stop Writing Alone Substack page. Stop Writing Alone is my other Substack page designed for writers seeking writing community and fun activities to support their individual writing journeys. We recently started opening up our Writing Prompt Parties to all writers (in other words, it is no longer behind the paywall), so, if you are a writer looking to have some fun with fiction, please come join us!

Stop Writing Alone

January's Story Share Thread [Rory's Story Cubes - ACTIONS]

We had our writing prompt party earlier this month. Now it’s time for you to do three things…

Read more

8 months ago · 3 likes · 1 comment · Nicole Rivera

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This story is a 1 minute read.

Just a Reminder

Sherri reminded him of Mabel. Sitting with Sherri at the diner counter that night took him back to a once beautiful beginning when he believed there was a future to dream of. She sat at the counter turned toward him with body language and eye contact all screaming that they were together. Mabel was his first love, a love that, in the end, was unrequited.

Sherri tapped his arm as she laughed at something he said and his skin prickled in that knowing way. They laughed together. He wanted to believe that his skin was knowing and not fooling.

He took a sip of his coffee, then asked her if they should order pie. When she said yes, he let his fingers brush hers.

She felt it, he saw that. She looked down and interlaced her fingers with his. Her skin was soft, but delicate, her hands warm, but not clammy. He wondered what she made of his callouses.

She leaned in. “There’s something sweeter than pie at this diner tonight,” she said.

He blushed, “What’s that?” he asked.

“Us,” she said, and then gave him a kiss.

He didn’t think about Mabel any more after that.

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How old do you think the characters in this story are? Why?

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The inspiration

The Online Writing Salon from the Narrative Method provided a photo prompt of a man and woman sitting at a counter. The first prompt question was:

We were then given 7 minutes to write. After the 7 minutes we were given the second prompt:

We were then given 7 more minutes, after which we read aloud our draft to a small breakout group.

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This story is a 3 minute read.

Audio of the story, read by the author:

Here’s What I Was Thinking…

Turtles all the way down, they say, and, of course, that’s all I can think of when I need to be sleeping.

                                                                I tried counting sheep.

I tried just counting: I imagined an abacus with wooden, colored beads sliding and clicking,

                                                                 one	by	one

in ROY G BIV order like a rainbow of rest and relaxation, but no sleep ever came because

                                                                              it’s

                                                                            turtles

                                                                               all

                                                                               the

                                                                              way

                                                                              down.

There’s nothing underneath holding us up or cradling us.

                                                                      We are floating, 

each a

                                                                           solitary fish     

out in the ocean whose lost its school, filled with questions, lacking basic illumination upon the singular question that nags us all in the deep dark night:

                                                              What is the meaning of life?

We live in some stage of autopilot, flying around, wondering if the altimeter reading is right. Wondering if maybe there’s a way to steer our own life-plane higher if we could grab the controls, or if it’s safer to

                                                                            g  l  i  d  e  .

Let the computer do the work, or hand the work off to our co-pilot. Use our time to cruise the cabin, hang with the flight attendants and toss back a couple of those tiny bottles of Jack while we’re at it.

Grab a seat in first class.

Ask for a blanket, a pillow, an eye mask. Ask them to close the shades, lower the lights, and tilt that big, comfortable seat

                                                                                                     All

                                                                                            The

                                                                                Way

                                                                    Back

Get a little sleep before the plane lands and the entire world expects you to disembark and reengage with the insanity on land that is balanced on the back of a turtle, balanced on another turtle and even more because it’s just

                                                                            turtles

                                                                                 all

                                                                                 the

                                                                                 way

                                                                              down.

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What do you think of when you can’t sleep?

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The inspiration

Check out the prompt that inspired this story over on the Stop Writing Alone Substack page. Stop Writing Alone is my other substack page designed for writers seeking writing community and fun activities to support their individual writing journeys. We recently started opening up our Writing Prompt Parties to all writers (in other words, it is no longer behind the paywall), so, if you are a writer looking to have some fun with fiction, please come join us!

Stop Writing Alone

November 2025 Let's Write Together

Welcome back to our month-long Let’s Write Together Prompt Party! We had our LIVE Writing Prompt Party tonight on Zoom, but there’s still more to come. If you are new to this whole thing, this is our monthly pattern…

Read more

10 months ago · 8 likes · 5 comments · Nicole Rivera

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This story is a 2 minute read.

The Nightmare of Eternal Days

I never used to dream. Mom said it was part of my inheritance. We were a whole family line of women lacking nocturnal visions. She didn’t mention that there was something else previously dictated in this reality.

Come to think of it, maybe she couldn’t tell me. Maybe she’s still in her own loop. Maybe the matriarchal lack of imagination in life was reserved for our deaths. By the way, I can’t make that word plural enough.

Deathssssssssss…

This plague of pain and grisly conclusions to my life has been going on for thirty days. I don’t know how the spell works, or if there’s some magical choice I can make so that it’s undone. All I know is this:

I will die today. Again. Just as I have for the last thirty days.

Every single death has been different, new, unpredictable. I’ve been to seven different emergency rooms, been involved in four random acts of violence, the victim of a targeted robbery and murder by a neighbor who, I guess, hated me, I lost count of the “accidents,” and – Christ Almighty, let me tell you – and embolism REALLY hurts!

Not sure what’s in the death stars today. Suicide does not break the spell – I tried that yesterday – so, at this point, I’m rooting for the Apocalypse.

You are disquieted by this wish of mine. You’re thinking, Why the hell do you need to take me with you? Aren’t you grateful for your immortality?

And I’ll tell you, honestly, I’m not. This is not eternal life. It’s eternal death. I have yet to squeeze a full 24 hours out of one of these days so I can’t even make any cool “last day of life” plans that might make this a little fun.

Everything, and I do mean everything, gets inter—

Fuck…

My…

Chest…

Oh my effin shit, you gotta be kidding me….

Check off cardiac arrest, friends.

Wonder if anyone will ever be able to read th—

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Theories on the protagonist’s final wondering: in her world does anyone get to read her writing?

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The inspiration

Check out the prompt that inspired this story over on the Stop Writing Alone Substack page. Stop Writing Alone is my other substack page designed for writers seeking writing community and fun activities to support their individual writing journeys. We recently started opening up our Writing Prompt Parties to all writers (in other words, it is no longer behind the paywall), so, if you are a writer looking to have some fun with fiction, please come join us!

Stop Writing Alone

October 2025 Let's Write Together

Welcome back to our month-long Let’s Write Together Prompt Party! We had our LIVE Writing Prompt Party tonight on Zoom, but there’s still more to come. If you are new to this whole thing, this is our monthly pattern…

Read more

a year ago · 7 likes · 1 comment · Nicole Rivera

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This story is a 4 minute read.

Audio of the story, read by the author:

What Ant Knows

I’m not supposed to be alone. That’s my first thought.

I came through the wormhole, knowing that the space suit Evans designed would ensure my survival, but I’ve come out the other side different. Alive, but different.

Maybe it’s because mom always called me “Ant” instead of “Anthony,” maybe the wormhole read my identity wrong. It morphed me into something new, something part man and part ant. My space suit was replaced with slime, my ship transformed into some sort of bubble floating right toward what I can best describe as a slime planet – everything that happened to me is beyond any of our expectations and calculations, except that I survived. And, yet, with all this new data before me, all the biological impossibilities and paradigm shifting experiences that any science-minded person would be frothing at the mouth to both experience and record, all I can think is,

I’m not supposed to be alone.

…Ants are never alone.

My mind, unable to escape some instinctual obsession, can not stop to think about what the slime on me or the planet consists of –

Where is my Queen?

It can not question the reasons the bubble sustains me –

Where is my Army?

It doesn’t even question this new body –

What path should I follow?

The human part of me prepared for this journey, studied techniques for mental and psychological fortitude to guard against the inevitable loneliness a journey to unknown corners of space would present, but this new form, this ant-ness of me is biologically longing for others in such a visceral way I am unable to think of anything else.

Meanwhile, the bubble vessel continues to rocket toward the slime planet. It seems drawn to the thick, oozy atmosphere.

Where is the Earth?

I want back in the wormhole.

Where are the others?

I want to find Evans, my mother, the ants of Earth. I do not want space and slime.

Ten years of planning –

multiple ant lifetimes

– is meaningless.

The technological leap for humanity and the discoveries reaching beyond our home universe do nothing to fill this internal void.

I must go back.

I turn to face the wormhole. I wave my spindly arms as if some swimming motion can turn me back. My antennae dance toward home, smelling for something too far out of reach.

I will use my strength!

I punch a hole in the bubble, leaping for the wormhole, knowing that this is the path to soil, Earth, mother, Queen. Instead I find space, lack of oxygen and certain death, but it’s ok because I know–

I’m not supposed to be alone.

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What

The inspiration

Check out the prompt that inspired this story over on the Stop Writing Alone Substack page. Stop Writing Alone is my other substack page designed for writers seeking writing community and fun activities to support their individual writing journeys. We recently started opening up our Writing Prompt Parties to all writers (in other words, it is no longer behind the paywall), so, if you are a writer looking to have some fun with fiction, please come join us!

Stop Writing Alone

September 2025 Let's Write Together

Welcome back to our month-long Let’s Write Together Prompt Party! We had our LIVE Writing Prompt Party last night on Zoom, but there’s still more to come. If you are new to this whole thing, this is our monthly pattern…

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a year ago · 6 likes · 1 comment · Nicole Rivera

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If you’ve been enjoying this newsletter, and are interested in buying me a coffee to help fuel my fiction, you can do so at my Stop Writing Alone | Story Hoarder Ko-Fi page. Thank you for reading!

A Side Note from Nicole:

Before I continue on to the story, I would like to take a couple of lines here to thank everyone that has ever come here from Fictionistas, participated in the prompt parties and month-long celebrations I co-hosted there, or, like the magnificent (if you’re looking for more fiction to read, head over to Jim’s Substack after this read!), provided some much needed behind-the-scenes cheerleading, reminding and expressions of interest in the project. My other Substack, Stop Writing Alone, was inspired by, and hopes to further encourage such collaborations between writers of all levels of experience and expertise, so to be able to be a part of The Great Substact Prompt Celebration for so long has been a dream come true. If you are a writer ever looking to collaborate in a similar way, don’t hesitate to direct message me — if my schedule allows, chances are I’ll be all in! In the meantime, let’s dive into some fiction.

This story is a 6 minute read.

Audio of the story, read by the author:

P.O.W.: Prisoner of Wondering

I’m tired of staring at the shadow on my cell wall, making hash marks of the days passed in this prison, eating meals unfit for my dog back home.

I can’t help but wonder, Is my dog back home?

The first five hash marks were so straight and orderly. I try to do the mental math of counting by fives, dividing by 365s, figuring out the years, the months, the days these hash marks all add up to, but it’s a moot point. Like I said, the food is crap and my brain is melting. I don’t think I can trust my mind anymore. I don’t even remember which war sent me here.

Some soldier I am.

This is not surprising, I was in it for the college money, not the patriotic duty. Mom thought it was a smart move. Things were peaceful back when I signed, the commitment carried no tangible threat. Maybe I would have understood the nuance of a serviceman’s surrender to political passions if I already had my college education, or if Mom had hers. We were the blind leading the blind.

But, listen to that! Here comes more food!

“I’m coming in!” someone shouts from the other side of my door. I’m impressed by how clear the guy’s English is, it seems I may have a new kind of keeper.

“That’s on you, dude,” I say. “I lost control of that door upon admission.”

The door clangs open and the kid –

I can say “kid” because I’ve aged while here and he looks like my once upon a time reflection.

The kid is empty-handed. He has no food, no drink, no washing bowl. What’s worse is he enters my cell and then SHUTS THE DOOR BEHIND HIM.

“Dude! What the hell?”

“I’m staying,” he says, walking around me, looking at all four walls like he’s a real estate agent sizing the place up for an open house.

“No. You’re not,” I say.

“It’s better here than in those woods out there!” he shouts, pointing out the hole I call a window.

“I bet you it’s not,” I say, pounding my fist on the back of the door.

“If you’re getting food instead of being hunted as food –” he pauses, looks down, and plops down on my sleeping mat. “I think you have the posher digs.”

“Yo! Get off my mat!” I’m on my knees ready to push him with both hands, feeling the deterioration of my long untested muscles.

He smoothly rolls off the mat before I get to him and into a cross-legged seated position against the wall. He raises one finger like he’s the Dali Lama imparting some great teaching as he says, “If you have a mat and a roof, and do not have to sleep on the bug-infested forest floor, I think you have it better.”

“But I am in prison!” I shouted. “I can not leave!”

“Have you even tried?” the dude says with a shrug.

I look over at all the hash marks again.

The first five were so straight and orderly.

I squint at them and wonder, When did this all begin?

I had gotten separated from my troop. I was in those woods. The kid was right, it was a mess out there. Nothing felt safe. The colors were familiar – greens and browns just like the forest back home – but the smells and the thickness of the air, the sounds, the shapes and the movements were all wrong. I didn’t know which way was up and I didn’t know what was chasing me. I only knew I was being chased.

I ran. In which direction, you ask? Forward! My goal was to run ahead of whatever it was that was behind me. There was a clearing – yes, I remember that now – the trees and the wilderness parted, the soil on the ground was packed tighter, like it was more solid and lived on in a civilized way and, most important of all, there was a building.

I ran up to the door, I didn’t care what was inside, because whatever it was, it had to be better than what was behind me, but I didn’t just barge in. I announced my entrance first. I shouted, “I’m coming in!”

A guy mumbled something from within, he sounded American. That was my all clear. I opened the door with a clang.

The guy was a mess. He looked like my uncle. He was mad that I closed the door. He wanted to get out when I wanted to get in. I remember that now. That’s how I got here, I ran in here, I opened the door just like he did.

…and here was someone else here. I remember that now,

too.

Where did he go?

I turn around, the shadow on the cell wall has moved.

I am so tired of staring at the shadow on my cell wall, making hash marks of the days passed in this prison, eating meals unfit for my dog back home.

Man… I wonder if my dog is back home.

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What’s your theory? What’s going on with our POW here?

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The inspiration

Check out the prompt that inspired this story over on the Fictionistas Substack page. That a great community to join if you are also a fiction writer here on Substack.

Fictionistas

June's Let's Write Together

If you didn’t make it to our final Writing Prompt Party, no need to fret, your prompt is here…

Read more

a year ago · 10 likes · 4 comments · Nicole Rivera and Jackie Dana

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This story is a 1-2 minute read.

Snow Globe

Outside my window snow falls in magical, slow swirls giving the illusion that I live inside a snow globe. I do not live inside a snow globe. I do, however, live in an illusion.

The fireplace in front of me doesn’t crackle or smell. It just blows heat out of the slats above the projection of a flame. I am warm to the touch, but the glow doesn’t find my heart. I am icy with worry as my love is traveling home on another flight from afar amidst inclement weather. I sit here in our living room feeling like Rapunzel trapped in her tower waiting for her prince to come, though I am waiting in a tower built of doubts.

After living through both the comedies and tragedies this life has thrown my way, I know better than most that this trip is just a toss of the die – there’s nothing but chance between a safe landing or a tumultuous decline of that plane. No amount of pilot preparation or air traffic training can save my love, if today is his day. And so I wonder, while knowing all of this, if I shall be saved from mourning, or will my heart break open just the same.

My phone rings.

This is it.

It is either him or an authority.

I take a breath, not looking at caller ID, giving myself one more precious moment where both outcomes are equally true.

I clear my throat, pick up the phone and end an illusion as I say, “Hello?”

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Have you experienced any snow globe like snow this year? The week before I drafted this story I had a moment when looking out my own window gave this exact sensation. I absolutely loved it.

…the hour+ of shoveling the snow around my house that followed that night was not quite as magical.

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The inspiration

Check out the prompt that inspired this story over on the Fictionistas Substack page. That a great community to join if you are also a fiction writer here on Substack.

Fictionistas

February's Let's Write Together

If you didn’t make it tonight’s Writing Prompt Party, now is your chance to join this month’s fun with a little chat and your opportunity to write to our prompt…

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2 years ago · 19 likes · 2 comments · Nicole Rivera and Jackie Dana

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This story is a 3 minute read.

Audio of the story, read by the author:

Dancing or Daydreaming

Clink clack clink clack woosh scrub clink clink. 

The white noise of the washing takes over and my brain thinks the warm water from the kitchen sink is as soothing as a hot spring. 

I’m drifting again.

I remember when Mother used to say my daydreaming was my greatest weakness – distracted in class, disconnected in social situations – but now? How would I survive this drudgery without it?

The tree outside my window sways. It reminds me of a song Father used to sing that would immediately distract Mother from whatever she was doing, pulling her into a dance. He’d pull her in close and she’d be consumed by his presence. As a result, she walked through her life always awaiting his cues, ever alert and paying attention. 

Mother never wanted to daydream, she was ever attentive and waiting.

Clink clack clink clack woosh scrub clink clink.

The dish rack is almost full. I can not see the bottom of the sink. Is the sink too large or is the dish rack too small? How can I leave the dishes undone?

“Your daydreaming will be you undoing!” Mother said in a near-panic. She had come out of a Parent-Teacher’s meeting, found me in the corridor and pleaded with me to stop. I silently nodded wondering what the teacher had said that made my Mother so frightened of what seemed to be a normal enough preteen habit. When we got home, she didn’t tell Father, but he sang to her anyway. I watched him dance away her sadnesses. 

Clink clack clink clack woosh scrub clink clink.

No one sings to me here. I don’t dance away from the dishes. I just daydream. Was Mother right? Will it be my undoing? 

Clink clink squee ka-kersh!

A juice glass slips from my wet, soapy hands and crashes to the floor. 

Down on my knees, with dust broom in hand, I’m not exactly daydreaming anymore. I am remembering…

The song Father sang never saved Mother. Mother never smiled when she saw Father, or when she danced. Her dancing was not graceful and fluid, but tight and regimented. The dance did not sweep her away from her darkness. It was her darkness.

Mother knew better than I, a prey animal can not daydream. It would be their undoing.

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Are you a daydreamer? Do you think of daydreaming as a strength or a weakness? What do you think the protagonist’s mother is dancing away from in this story?

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The inspiration

Check out the prompt that inspired this story over on the Fictionistas Substack page. That a great community to join if you are also a fiction writer here on Substack.

Fictionistas

November's Let's Write Together

We had our November Writing Prompt Party earlier this evening and it was a blast. It’s now time to reveal the prompt to the rest of the Fictionistas community…

Read more

2 years ago · 25 likes · 5 comments · Nicole Rivera and Jackie Dana

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This story is a 2 minute read.

Audio of the story, read by the author:

UnLucky 13?

My mother always said Friday the 13th was good luck. She defied the masses who screamed otherwise. “Your father and I were married on Friday the 13th. How could I think it was anything but lucky?” she’d exclaim.

I had a reason to give her. I never did. 

Dad died, Ma. It was on your 13th wedding anniversary, too. Denial is a strong, strong potion my mom drank up. Who was I to burst her bubble? So we continued in this way, denying the truth of the creepy 13th when we were together, while I lived in deep fear of it alone. 

That is, of course, until the day I died. It was October 13, 2023, which was, as you can imagine, a Friday. 

I’ve decided to haunt my mother this year. She doesn’t deserve it at all, I know this, but I died in a freak accident involving a flat tire on the way to my engagement party that she planned on Friday the 13th, so Lenny and I decided it’s something we deserve. Just for laughs.

Anyway, who knows? Maybe Mom will think she’s lucky to get a visit from her dead daughter and her dead almost-son-in-law. Then she can continue deluding herself into thinking Friday the 13th is the luckiest day of the year.

We don't know what her plans are for tomorrow, but as ghosts it doesn’t really matter. All we have to do is think of where we want to be or who we want to be with and there we are. We figured that out pretty early when we ended up together, Lenny and I. We never got the chance to get married before we died, but we figured out how to be together forever without all the trappings of the living world. 

Come to think of it, we really lucked out.

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Do you have feelings about Friday the 13th or any other superstitions? Is there one that you defy as the mother does in this story? Let us know in the comments!

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The inspiration

Check out the prompt that inspired this story over on the Fictionistas Substack page. That a great community to join if you are also a fiction writer here on Substack!

Fictionistas

September's Let's Write Together

We are back and ready to inspire your fiction! We had our September Writing Prompt Party earlier this evening, so now it’s time to reveal the prompt to the rest of the Fictionistas community…

Read more

2 years ago · 18 likes · 13 comments · Nicole Rivera and Jackie Dana

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If you’ve been enjoying this newsletter, and are interested in buying me a coffee to help fuel my fiction, you can do so at my Stop Writing Alone | Story Hoarder Ko-Fi page. Thank you for reading!

I am one step closer to getting Girl, Unplugged out into the published world. Over the last couple of weeks I immersed myself in the world of book formatting and dove deep back into the world, and words, of my YA novel that first met readers, in completion, here on Story Hoarder. Then, two days after I put the final touches on the manuscript and cover, I swore I was hallucinating when I heard local news talking about CMEs, solar storms, sunspots and aurora borealis — the exact things that I became so obsessed with over a decade ago that inspired this story!

How does one not feel like the Universe is giving its blessing with such an overt act of environmental synchronicity?

What’s Your Girl, Unplugged Reading Status?

Have you read Girl, Unplugged yet? Were you waiting for a PDF version so you could read the book straight through, rather than click through the serialization online (eBook, print, and maybe even audio are on the horizon!)? Are you looking for a story that captures that excitement we were feeling last week when the Northern Lights leaked into skies unaccustumed to such briliance?

If you are ready to relive the thrill, keep on reading!

Cover Concept

First, a peek at the new (possible) cover design (I am learning so many things in this process):

Thoughts about the new cover?

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Girl, Unplugged in PDF

And now, for a limited time only, the pdf version of Girl, Unplugged by me.

Girl, Unplugged by Nicole Rivera [2024]

2.47MB ∙ PDF file

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Sixteen-year-old Natalie Turner never knows what to say. Talia Turner is a popular blogger who’s witty, insightful, and trending. You’d never know they were the same person. When Natalie is partnered up with her secret crush for a class trip to The New York City New School Museum, she’s pretty sure that embracing her new motto What would Talia do? will solve all of her problems. She wasn’t counting on a solar storm causing a catastrophic collapse of power in the world around her. She didn’t know it was possible for all of the buses, trains, communication, and basically all technology to be wiped out so suddenly because of a storm on the sun. She didn’t think her crush would ditch her the second her world ended. Now Natalie and her class - including one chronically ill student who is in dire need of medical attention - have to find their way back to Staten Island through a powerless and panicked Manhattan. Looting, violence, police barricades, curfews, and the New York Bay all stand in their way. As Natalie struggles to navigate through the physical barriers, she’s learning how to communicate IRL which forces her to confront a terrifying question: Who is she, really? Natalie, or Talia?

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Let me know what you think of the book. Let me know if there’s a format of the book you’d prefer, decisions are being made!

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If there’s someone you know who you think would enjoy this read, feel free to send this along. I will keep the PDF active until the book is officially published in eBook and print format just as a thank you to all the supporters of Story Hoarder, Stop Writing Alone and me.

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And, while we wait for publication…

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This Epilogue is a 3 minute read.

Epilogue

Written in Natalie’s Notebook 

Dusk 12/7

Everyone’s headed to bed. It’s just me and my paper tonight. I’m about to write to my peeps, but I thought I’d take a moment here, in front of the fireplace, to write just for me. 

I like this slow motion version of my life. I’m getting used to waking up at sunrise and unwinding when it sets. The days are getting shorter, so I don’t know if I will maintain my enthusiasm for all of this when there is less active time each day, but, for now, it works. 

The whole world is a little less expectant of the unplugged peeps, and that works for me. 

Mom and dad asked me and Rog if we want a new computer for Christmas. They’re not cheap, that I know, and I’m not even sure if they will be able to get one by then, but I guess they wanted to know if they should make the effort on our behalf. Not unless I could make it worth it somehow. 

Instant Messenger 

Dec 13 7:43AM

Talia: What time you guys leaving?

Aims: Mom says about an hour.

Talia: I’m so excited.

Aims: MEEEE TOO!!!

Talia: Need to hear ur voice!

Aims: See ur face!!

Talia: SEE YOU SOON!

Aims: <3

Talia: Going to post.

Aims: l8r

Posted to TALIA’S TALES  

Dec 13 @ 7:48AM

Reconnection.

Amy’s coming back, my peeps. We don’t know for how long, but for the time being I don’t care. I get to see her face, hear her voice, and have her here — IRL. Her mom’s pregnant and her dad wants to be as close to medical care as possible while the rebuild is still going on. New York has been a little more efficient with moving forward than the town they had been living in.  

Posted to TALIA’S TURNUPS  

Dec 25 @10:52am

Good Morning my peeps and welcome to my new site and new movement! We all got a chance to unplug this Fall — did you learn anything?

I did. 

You are important to me. 

You.

Let’s meet. 

Let’s unplug and make a difference IRL. 

It’s time to turn up and help out. 

Talia’s first TurnUp:

On the Staten Island Ferry

January 5^th, noon. Volunteer opportunities will be discussed on the ride.

See you then.

I can’t wait.

#unplugged #sendhelp #turnup #reconnect

Leave a comment - Question of the Week

What are your feelings about Epilogues? Honest to goodness I absolutely forgot that this book had one. I was going over the manuscript to see how to get it into a pdf form when I stumbled upon this and felt a giant OOPS!

Hope it adds just enough of a what happens next for Natalie and the Girl, Unplugged world for you that its late inclusion is worth it!

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My Stop Writing Alone | Story Hoarder Ko-Fi page was created to help fuel my creativity. Any and all donations are greatly appreciated!

This story is a 5 minute read.

Night Flight

One hour into my flight from Newark to LA I’m kicking myself for the coffee I had in the airport.

I am awake.

The sun has set. The lights are all out in the cabin. My only saving grace is that I have the window seat where I can watch the stars, hoping I’ll catch a glimpse of one falling so I can make a wish. I’d wish for the gorgeous guy next to me to wake up and be stuck with me for four more hours.

Wouldn’t that be magic? What an awesome meet-cute: on the plane to the wedding of my last single college friend, I finally meet Mr. Right. It feels kismet. I’m sure I saw at least one Hallmark movie just like this. 

I mean, he even smells gorgeous.

It’s hopeless, I know, so I settle in for my window-gazing when the clouds roll in, blocking the stars and the few lights below. I’m about to close the shade and see if I can figure out how to buy headphones for the movie viewing when I see a flash of lightning followed by a roll of thunder bringing with it our first real rumbles of turbulence.

Gorgeous guy wakes up and grabs my hand instinctively. My heart pounds in response to either his touch or the turbulence, but I’m not sure which because, before I can think about it, a second strike of lightning hits the wing and starts a fire in that cylindrical thing that I’m pretty sure is essential to our survival.

I am screaming, “Where are the parachutes?”

Gorgeous guy has his arms wrapped around me, telling me to breathe, to be calm. He’s acting like nothing’s happening because, maybe nothing is happening.

After a deep breath in, I open my eyes and realize I’m the one who’s been asleep.

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Do you feel cheated with the whole “it was all a dream” ending? I often steer clear of this tactic, but there was one aspect of the prompt (you can see it below) that really had me thinking a dream had to be at least part of the story. Apologies if it didn’t satisfy your inner story seeker!

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The inspiration

While you can read the whole post describing the prompt here, I wanted to share the images of the cubes that inspired the story with you!

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Help fuel this fiction!

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This story is a 5 minute read.

Dandelions or Buttercups

When Sara woke up her hospital room was dark and smelled bad. She recognized the beeps and hisses, the scratchy hospital gown, the tether to an IV, but she didn’t know how she got there. 

She remembered hiking. The sun was high, air brisk, sky blue. She had begun her typical trail, but, with the weather so accommodating, she began to explore a bit off-trail. It was exactly the thing Harry hated. 

“You’ll be kidnapped!” he’d say. As if there was a new wave of human traffickers interested in the menopausal crowd. 

“Har-ry! No one on Earth’s interested in taking this wrinkly old bag of bones!” she laughed, knowing self-deprecation would distract him into proving his own eternal interest in his wife.

No matter the debate or distraction’s resolution, Sara always explored alone. It was a grasp at youthful defiance to do so, not that Harry had reigns on her, but with her parents long deceased, and retirement life stealing the boss to roll her eyes at, Harry was the only one who still afforded her opportunities to give it to “the Man.” With every step off the main trail Sara reinvigorated herself with the personal empowerment of small defiances. Little joys were magnified when aging fooled her into believing there was nothing new to see, know, or experience. The changing seasons delighted her in their secret surprises underfoot and overhead, the changing leaves, the cover of snow, or an expanse of yellow where there was nothing but brown decay just a week before.

That was what Sara remembered, new blooms had caught her eye. She was trying to determine if they were dandelions or buttercups. Either was possible, but only one would be a happy find, so she crossed the path to get a closer look. 

The memory faded then, like Sara’s brain wouldn’t allow her to memory-walk to the other side of the path to see the flowers. She had walked that area enough times that she could build a memory of herself on the other side, but when it came time to remember which flowers she saw, she couldn’t say for sure. She could imagine it either way – buttercups or dandelions. There was no way to know which was true. Each flower would have resulted in a different turn of tale, one being completely native, natural, expected and celebrated, the other an invader and a sign that her precious local wild lands were being overrun by something that didn’t belong.

“Dammit,” she whispered.

A groan came from somewhere deeper in the hospital room. A clue. She wasn’t in the ICU, she wasn’t quarantined, there was no intubation tube and, from the slight wiggles of her limbs she could ascertain that nothing was broken.

Except her memory. And that was bad, almost as bad as the smell, which was a clue yet to be deciphered.

The room’s odor was overpowering, but familiar. Sara tried to find a sensory memory to cling it to. She thought again of the forest, but neither dandelion or buttercup released such a foul scent. 

What else? 

She inhaled a deep, long sniff, cut short by a cough in reaction to the stench of it. A smell her body instinctively bucked up against. 

Sulfur! Whether it was the decay or the skunk cabbage of the wetlands, any time of year there was a good chance the sulfur smell sporadically lingered in the air. It was another part of Sara’s outdoor adventures that Harry complained about. He had married into this environment she grew up in. What was a natural background nuisance to Sara was a massive intrusion on Harry’s olfactory system. 

In the dark of the hospital room the scent was both out of place and overpowering, Sara coughed again. 

“Quiet,” a voice hissed from the same direction of the groan.

Sara’s cough settled deep and shook her chest. There was no stopping it even if she wanted to. 

“Please,” the man’s voice pleaded. “They’ve forgotten about us. Don’t let them come back.”

“But–”  Sara started. The sulfur smell grew stronger and Sara’s cough rose with it, shaking her whole body as it did so. She wanted to say, “Doctors aren’t dangerous.” It came out sounding more like, “Doctors or dangers!”

“Oh god!” The man shouted. He gagged. “Dangers! They’re coming! They’re Dangers!” He began praying an old prayer familiar to Sara. His desperation palpable in his speed and repetition. 

Sara gripped the bed rails, hoping to still herself, shutting her mouth to try to contain the cough. In that tension her memory returned.

She was back in the forest, squatting down over a patch of buttercups, not dandelions, covering the ground. To the untrained eye, nothing would be amiss in this natural setting, a springtime bloom of wildflowers brightening your path, but, beautiful as they were, buttercups were an invasive species preventing the land to live and breathe. They were a threat to everything that was supposed to grow there. Sara reached down to grab two handfuls to pull up, certain her intervention was for the greater good of this land she loved. As she dug in, tendrils of green grew out of the soil coiling around her arms. The vines pulled her and spun her, pinning her to the ground into the same tight, tense pose she found herself in the hospital. As she laid staring with her face to the sky the sulfur smell grew and overpowered her as she heard footsteps approaching. 

In the hospital Sara heard the doorknob turn and the door squeak open before the lights switched on and blinded her, just as the sun had when she was pinned to the soil. In both places, as she laid there, she saw silhouettes of figures standing over her looking down upon her curiously. 

Doctors aren’t dangerous, a voice whispered within. Then her eyes adjusted and focused to see what had made the birds go silent in the forest, what had made the man in hospital pray. He had called them “Dangers.”

To the untrained eye, blinded by the lights around them, it’s possible one might think nothing was amiss, but as Sara blinked into clarity, she saw the four figures were smooth, bald, gray slender beings with giant heads and large black eyes. As one of their long, four fingered hands settled cold and clammy over Sara’s nose and mouth, stopping her cough, but also her breathing, her mind wandered back to the forest wondering how far the buttercups had grown.

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Do you have feelings about alines/alien abductions? To know me is to know this is a long standing fear. Since the moment my parents took me to see E.T. when I was far too young to appreciate it, I kind of had this fear going. What about you?

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This story is a 3 minute read.

Hand Delivered

The forecasted rain had just begun to fall when, as I looked down toward the mechanisms of my umbrella, I saw a postcard lying on the sidewalk. I opened the umbrella over my head and over the postcard with a fwoomp. I crouched to lift up the slightly pockmarked card, gently wiping it on the side of my bag. I wished to free it of the tiny bits of sidewalk debris without pressing the first drizzles of rainfall into its soluble flesh.

The postcard had a photograph of a sunny, brick laid street with a cast iron cafe table and chair in the forefront and colorful awnings hanging over other cafes and storefronts as the street curved downward out of sight. There was no mention of the place this photograph was taken, but the grassy hills in the background helped paint a landscape I was completely unfamiliar with. I flipped the postcard over like a voyeur, unable to stop myself from reading the message not intended for me. The letters were so carefully crafted I felt as if this postcard must’ve sat on an easel while the artist brushed each one on with the same care Michangelo reserved for his masterpieces. It read,

My Darling,

Let nothing stand in your way, come find me where we sit so long we let the tea cool and the sun set all in the name of time spent together.

I am waiting for you.

Forever Yours,

H

I felt, at once, I must not rest until this message was delivered appropriately, by hand. It held the promise of everything I had ever longed for – another soul to spend my time with – and if I still could not grasp it for myself, I would not stand in the way of someone else receiving this key to their joy. The address, just as carefully etched as the message, had no addressee, but was on a street I was familiar with, and was close by.

The rain began to fall a bit more fiercely, raindrops bouncing off the ground as they fell, splashing on the tops of my shoes and the cuffs of my pantsuit, but I moved forward. Work was done for the day, my empty apartment no more longed for me as I did for it, and, if I ever wished to lay claim to the fact that I was a romantic, it was imperative I see this mission through. I walked by the door to my apartment building, continuing on two more blocks before turning. That was when the clouds increased in their ferocity, blocking out the sun’s final attempts to hang onto the day. It was dark when I arrived at the building the postcard was addressed to. I walked up to the door to make sure I was reading its number correctly. 

There was no mailbox or mail slot. I stood, staring at the large gray building with a black wooden door, befuddled. I couldn’t remember ever noticing the building before, but wondered if it looked different in the sunlight. Under the cloud filled sky, drenched with the torrents of rain, it appeared Medieval, as if influenced by castles from far away lands, as if this large black door would open downward and forward to help visitors cross from present day into its interior other-realm. But all of that was only how it seemed, and perceptions are often askew under the guise of weird weather, so I steadied myself before the odd place, thinking of the next step in my mission to deliver a happily ever after to some stranger within.

The rain beat a rhythm on my umbrella like a metronome unhinged. I wanted to be done with the deed and back home to my routine, but I could not leave this card out in the rain to be disintegrated in the elements. I knocked, feeling as though the sound echoed behind the door into an unseen, cavernous foyer. I knocked again, but harder. The door opened under my force. 

“Hello?” I said, taking a step through the opening, cascading my umbrella behind me as I did so. I turned slightly to close it, careful to keep the postcard under my arm where still falling raindrops and splashes from the umbrella’s close would not reach it. “Excuse me? Is anyone here? Hello?”

I stepped fully in, hoping to find a small table or counter to set the postcard down upon before I slipped back out the door, but the darkness of the storm outside had swallowed the interior whole. There was a light up ahead, coming from beneath another door, so I walked forward, tentatively, repeating, “Hello?” I knocked on the wall. “Your door was open, I have a postcard for you…”

I knocked on the door with the light seeping beneath. It felt warm. I wondered if I had reached the home’s kitchen. “I’m so sorry,” I said loudly. “I don’t mean to intrude.” I pushed the door open. “Hel–”

I dropped the umbrella to the floor.

I no longer needed it.

In front of me the sun was high in the sky, the brick laid street and the rolling grassy hills beyond were all bone dry. I stepped in, walking toward a cast iron cafe table with a steaming pot of tea on top and two chairs beside it. One chair was occupied, the other one left empty for me.

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As a writer who has come to truly enjoy the revision process, this particular story feels so very raw in my sharing today. This is one I feel can be rewritten and transformed hundreds of times and has the potential to be come something nearly unrecognizable from this draft. With that in mind there are so many questions I could ask of you, dear reader, in an effort to polish this tale, but for now, I will ask you this: at what point in the reading did you know that the postcard was actually intended for our protagonist? Was it obvious from the beginning, or were you along for the ride?

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If this is your first time here…

Don’t forget to subscribe so you get all of my story hoard delivered right to your inbox every time a new piece is released!

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Help fuel this fiction!

If you’ve been enjoying this newsletter, and are interested in buying me a coffee to help fuel my fiction, you can do so at my Stop Writing Alone | Story Hoarder Ko-Fi page. Thank you for reading!

The inspiration

If you are interested in the challenge that inspired this micro fiction, you can read the post I shared with the Stop Writing Alone community about it:

Stop Writing Alone

Welcome to February

It’s February 1st and I woke up ready to find a new writing challenge to think about while I finalized our Calendar of Events. I went to a spot I go every February 1st and discovered it looked like the challenge was not active this year. As a result, this happened…

Read more

3 years ago · 3 likes · 1 comment · Nicole Rivera

You can also see it and follow the word prompt releases each day on the @stopwritingalone instagram, if you are into that kind of thing:

This story is a 1-2 minute read.

The Cake Had Layers

I bought the cake from the most expensive bakery in town. I knew it was your favorite and I couldn’t wait to see your face when we opened the box, cut the slices and you took your first bite. 

But that didn’t happen.

When the cake was distributed, you politely declined, told your aunt you were working out and couldn’t afford dessert in the middle of it all.

I should have known right then. I should have peeled back the veil of vanity and seen straight through to the truth staring me right in the face. You were looking for something else to taste, to feel, to live, rather than the party we thought was for you.

I bought the cake from the most expensive bakery in town when you couldn’t afford dessert. Our life ledger was severely out of balance and neither of us knew who was writing the checks or who was cashing them. The overdraft fees of doubt, mistrust and hurt were piling up and we didn’t know if the next envelope in the mail held our paychecks or pink slips. 

It doesn’t matter how often I watch The Great British Bake Off I still can’t taste like Paul Hollywood. Mr. Hollywood would have smelled the uncertainty, insecurity, and debt hidden within the layers while I floated away on the sweetness of the fruit filling, I was enchanted by the delicate decor on the surface. I missed every nuance of the bake.

I don’t buy any more cakes from the most expensive bakery in town, but I still walk by there sometimes. I saw you there this morning. You were with someone new, but eating that same layered cake. You were smiling. 

I guess you can afford it now. 

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I wrote this quickly (as I know another prompt is coming tomorrow), but spent almost as much time going through titles as I did drafting the story itself! How important is the title when it comes to your reading pleasure of a short story?

Leave a comment

If this is your first time here…

Don’t forget to subscribe so you get all of my story hoard delivered right to your inbox every time a new piece is released!

Subscribe now

Help fuel this fiction!

If you’ve been enjoying this newsletter, and are interested in buying me a coffee to help fuel my fiction, you can do so at my Stop Writing Alone | Story Hoarder Ko-Fi page. Thank you for reading!

The inspiration

If you are interested in the challenge that inspired this micro fiction, you can read the post I shared with the Stop Writing Alone community about it:

Stop Writing Alone

Welcome to February

It’s February 1st and I woke up ready to find a new writing challenge to think about while I finalized our Calendar of Events. I went to a spot I go every February 1st and discovered it looked like the challenge was not active this year. As a result, this happened…

Read more

3 years ago · 3 likes · 1 comment · Nicole Rivera

You can also see it and follow the word prompt releases each day on the @stopwritingalone instagram, if you are into that kind of thing: