It was first published by MetaStellar in Dec 2025.

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Daisy’s Duty

“Welcome home, Daisy!”

You look up at the big man standing over you, your eyes wide with hope and excitement. You trip over your brand-new body in the rush to sniff out every corner of your new home. Sweeping rooms with space to run and play, a spot in the kitchen for you to eat, plus toys and a padded crate in the living room—this place is heaven!

“Come here, girl,” the man calls; you obey. He sits on the ground in the living room, propping up an infant standing on unsteady feet. “This is Lucy,” the man continues. “It’s your job to protect her. Okay?”

You and Lucy study each other. Her rosy cheeks and blonde curls are adorable. She strokes your head clumsily.

“Day day day,” she says.

Your heart surges with love. You vow to protect her with your life.

###

Lucy is three; she is a terror. She runs around screaming every night at bath time. You run alongside her, yipping in accompaniment with her cries. You like the fun of bath time, but you like Lucy more.

When bedtime approaches, Lucy will quiet down and sneak away to hide. Her hiding spots are ineffective, particularly because you insist on hiding with her, but Lucy seems to find as much comfort in your presence as you do in hers.

“Love you, Day-Day,” says Lucy while hiding with you one night, throwing her arms around your neck. You nuzzle against her, filled with warmth at her touch.

###

At five, Lucy develops a stubborn streak. If her mother grabs her hand, she squirms away. One midsummer morning, Lucy’s mother doesn’t grip tightly enough while standing at a crosswalk. Lucy wrenches out of her mother’s hand and runs into the street. Lucy’s mother screams, dropping your leash; you dash after Lucy and drag her back onto the sidewalk. Lucy’s mother is right behind you, yanking her daughter out of harm’s way.

“Never do that again,” shrieks Lucy’s mother.

You cower even though she’s not yelling at you.

Lucy’s mother turns to you. “Good girl, Daisy.” She pats your head. “You did exactly what you’re supposed to do. That’s why you’re part of the family.”

You puff up your chest. Part of the family. Lucy’s protector.

###

At first, it doesn’t seem like more than a persistent cough. Maybe Lucy gets tired a shade quicker when playing than she used to.

After a few weeks, Lucy’s visits to the doctor grow more frequent. You dutifully escort the family and wait outside during her visits, leash tied to a post. You don’t hear what the doctors say, but you listen to her parents discussing it on the car rides home. They throw around words you don’t understand, like “asthma” and “bronchitis.”

The doctor becomes a regular part of Lucy’s life. Her parents start using even more complicated words after these visits. She no longer runs and plays. Some days, you itch for exercise, but you stay rooted to Lucy’s side on the couch while she reads.

You’re cuddling next to Lucy in bed the evening that she can’t stop wheezing. It starts as a light whistle in the back of her throat, but it grows into a rattling rasp. Lucy exchanges her book for her inhaler, but it doesn’t help. Her breaths become desperate.

She looks at you with imploring eyes. “Help me, Daze.” You jump off the bed and run for her parents. As soon as they see the alarm in your eyes, they bound upstairs. You chase after them, but Lucy’s father picks her up and carries her to the car, leaving you behind.

Hours later, Lucy and her father return home. His eyes look red and watery; hers droop with tiredness. He sends Lucy to bed, and you follow, lying down next to your charge and resting your head on her.

“I wish I knew what was wrong with me,” Lucy sniffles and snuggles closer to you. “Nobody will tell me anything.”

###

The next night, nestled in your crate after Lucy’s gone to bed, you overhear her parents say your name. Your ears perk up, and you pay attention.

“…time to put her down.” Lucy’s father has gained new lines on his face since Lucy’s medical troubles began.

“Absolutely not. Daisy is part of the family,” Lucy’s mother responds. “There are other ways.”

Lucy’s father bangs his fist on the couch arm. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is what Daisy’s for. I told you when we adopted her not to get too attached.”

“How could I not get attached? Look at her!”

They both look at you; you cock your head curiously. Lucy’s mother looks back at her husband. “You’re acting as though she’s just some animal. She’s like a sister to Lucy.”

He scoffs. “She’s a pet. Her whole purpose is to protect Lucy. The adoption paperwork specifies organ donation is included in that. You want to put our daughter on a list and have her wait indefinitely, getting sicker, when we have a match waiting at home?”

Lucy’s mother stays silent. She looks away.

“You really think she’s like a sister?” he continues. “Or a daughter? Honey, we’ll adopt another one when she’s gone, and Lucy will barely notice the difference.”

Lucy’s mother takes a deep breath. “You’re right,” she concedes. She looks at you, her eyes sad. “She’s been a good girl, though. I’ll miss her.”

“We’ll adopt another,” Lucy’s father repeats, not looking at you.

The next day, he takes you on a car ride without Lucy. When you pull into the hospital parking lot, you whimper and whine.

“It’s okay, Daisy,” says Lucy’s father. “You’re here to help Lucy. You’re protecting her.”

At those words, you calm down. You stand tall, leash around your neck, and stride into the clinic on your own two feet, ready to do whatever it takes to protect your charge.

You are, after all, part of the family.

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This week’s microfiction is a 100-word story about performative self-improvement.

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Ecdysis

I don’t know why it started. I only know that a small, crusty patch appeared on my wrist. I scratched it off.

It kept returning, and I kept scratching. Each time, it grew in size.

Even when the patch covered my hand like a glove, I clawed, digging under the thick scales and peeling again and again, reveling in the soft, pink flesh underneath.

A dermatologist deemed it noncancerous. Advised me to stop scratching.

I couldn’t.

The patch is no longer a glove, but a second skin.

Still, I scratch and claw and peel, to see that soft, pink flesh.

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Indulging in my youth has led me down a nostalgic path. I’ve hankered to look up certain novels that meant a lot, for one reason or another, to me as a child. Some of these books remain popular. Others are obscure and out-of-print, and I’ve had a helluva time trying to find them. I’ve used reader-led resources like the subreddit r/whatsthatbook and the Goodreads group, “What’s the Name of that Book?” And it was with the help of Claude that a friend was able to find a couple of the most obscure titles. Wild.

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Each book I mention will be accompanied by a short summary + the reason it holds a place in my heart.

What’s the Opposite of a Best Friend?

In a list of childhood books that meant a lot to me, What’s the Opposite of a Best Friend? must lead, not because it is the best-written, but because it was absolutely my favorite. I still have my original copy. Were it not packed away in a storage unit right now, I would prove it. Alas.

Summary

WOBF is about best friends Stacy and Jenelle, told from the latter’s POV. They are opposites in looks and personality—Stacy has brown eyes, curly brown hair, and a penchant for attracting boys. Jenelle is a blue-eyed, blonde tomboy1 who quarterbacks for the boys whenever there’s a pickup game at recess.

You would think that the main conflict of this story would be a rift in the friendship. But no. That’s barely touched on.

At one point, Jenelle brings to school some silly candid sleepover photos to share with the girls in her class. A mix-up leads to the photos ending up in the possession of a boy in her class. In a dick move, the boy makes copies to share with the other guys, without the girls’ consent or knowledge. When the girls find out, they exact their revenge with the help of the boys’ parents. The boys recognize the error of their ways and sincerely apologize.

Thoughts

Wow. I mean, wow. What a topic—one that is all the more relevant in this day and age, when you have stories about teens sharing AI-generated photos of their peers popping up in the news what feels like every other day.

WOBF also has themes of accepting yourself without accepting gender constraints. Nobody cares that Jenelle is a girl who plays football. Her mom pushes her to get some girly clothes and makeup “just in case,” and indeed, there does come a time when Jenelle expresses interest in those things, and that’s fine, too. She doesn’t care about football any less; in fact, she teaches most of the girls in her class how to play, to everyone’s delight.

I haven’t actually read this book in decades, so I cannot vouch for its writing, but in my opinion, the story holds up.

Ella Enchanted

You probably know this book. If you don’t know the book, you’ve almost certainly heard of the movie. (I haven’t seen it, because I’m one of those book readers.) But in case you somehow aren’t familiar, here’s a summary:

Summary

Upon Ella’s birth, a well-meaning but idiotic fairy gifts her with total obedience. Ella can never disobey an order. As you can see, this is no gift at all. Someone could tell Ella to kill herself, and she’d have to obey. Ella hides this “gift” from everyone except those who witnessed its bestowal: her mother and her fairy godmother.

Because this is a Cinderella story, her mother dies; her father remarries; her step-family is horrid. Ella meets Prince Char (you know, like Prince Charming) and they fall in love.

Thoughts

Does she break her curse of obedience? You already know, or can easily guess, but that’s not the point. That’s not why this book is on my list.

No, the romance is what impacted me most about this story. I have always felt that the relationship between Ella and Char is both beautiful and realistic. Instead of being besotted with Char, she admires him with open eyes and acknowledges his flaws.

It’s also lovely how the romance builds. It starts as a friendship. I know there are a lot of ways to build a romance, but I’ve always favored a foundation of friendship.

The Midwife’s Apprentice

Wildly, the orange cat on the cover is not the reason The Midwife’s Apprentice imprinted on me. But I will never pass up the chance to share a photo of my own orange boi:

Summary

An unnamed, homeless child is taken in by the village midwife in medieval England to learn the trade. The midwife is not a kind woman, but staying with her is better than sleeping on the dung heap to keep warm.

Eventually, the child, who names herself Alyce, helps birth twin calves. Soon after, she delivers a difficult baby without the midwife’s assistance, after the midwife dipped out of the house to assist a rich lady instead (yes, themes of classism). This leads to a future request for Alyce’s help without the midwife, but that goes poorly; consequently, Alyce runs away.

Alyce, working in an inn, one day spies the same midwife who trained her. Alyce overhears the midwife discussing her, and the following exchange is what I remember best in the novel:

Thoughts

Because she gave up. Oh, yes, this lesson was a particularly powerful one to learn. This passage has echoed in my mind, from childhood to adulthood…even now, as I rapidly approach middle age.

The Borrowers

The Borrowers is a series, and a damn fine one. It’s been adapted a lot.

The first book was my favorite. However, the best character in the series isn’t introduced until the second book. So, if you give it a shot, read at least the first two.

Summary

The Borrowers are a race (species?) of tiny, tiny people. Tiny enough to live under the floorboards and hang postage stamps on the wall as artwork.

Borrowers fear being discovered by the Big People (humans, or “human beans” as they are humorously misnomered). But spirited teenage Borrower Arrietty meets and befriends a human youth. Things go quite well for a time, until the Borrowers are spotted by other, less understanding humans. They are left with no choice but to flee their home and start a new life.

Thoughts

Would you just look at this description of a Borrowers’ sitting room?

Oh, the creativity. The worldbuilding! The idea of using stacked match boxes as a dresser, or elegantly-written letters as wallpaper, is utterly charming. It not only demonstrates the importance of thinking through the logistics of whatever world you’ve created, it also—to me—demonstrates the fun of writing.

I loved imagining how I, as a Borrower, would use my everyday surroundings to make a tiny, cozy home. Perhaps a cotton ball could be bedding, stuffed into a bed fashioned out of an Altoids tin. A contact lens case might function as a double basin sink. And Barbie had a ton of accessories ready to be poached!

As a writer, this kind of skill is invaluable. And I have always loved writing, even as a child.

There are many more books I could discuss. Amber Brown Is Not a Crayon. The Indian in the Cupboard. A Little Princess. Ramona and Her Father. The Christmas Revolution. The Atonement of Mindy Wise. Kid Who Ran for Principal.2 Year of Impossible Goodbyes. Caddie Woodlawn. Island of the Blue Dolphins. Rifles for Watie. The Witch of Blackbird Pond. Across the Wide and Lonesome Prairie. Iggie’s House. Little House on the Prairie. Pinocchio. The Egypt Game. My Teacher Fried My Brain. Be a Perfect Person in Just Three Days! Wayside School Gets A Little Stranger.

And so many more. Some of these books are classics, for good reason. Some are just silly little stories. All are awesome, in my opinion.

I would love to know what books impacted your childhood, and why. Please drop a comment!

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This week’s microfiction is a 70-word story about the perils of freedom.

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Floating

Mary Jo learned to float.

“It isn’t ladylike,” her mother reprimanded. Mary Jo kept twirling and hovering in the air.

“It isn’t right,” her father grumbled. Mary Jo kissed his grumpy face and floated off to see her friends.

Her friends saw her freedom and grew envious. They begged her to teach them, and she tried, but when she could not, they left Mary Jo to float through life alone.

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This week’s microfiction is a 100-word story about the joy of online dating.

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Your Final Match

The rooftop bar was noisy. A plate of crackers, two drab olives, and sad smears of cheese cost thirty bucks. Ordering a trendy cocktail set Lauren back another twenty.

Her phone buzzed with a text: “FINAL MATCH: the last dating app you’ll ever need.”

Lauren, the right amount of annoyed, bored, and naïve, clicked the link. A screen popped up, reading, “Congratulations! Everyone is your match.”

Snorting, she locked her phone.

It took her a few seconds to notice the silence.

She looked around and saw the bar patrons staring. As one, they rose and approached, smiling beatifically.

Lauren screamed.

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This week’s microfiction is a 90-word story about the perils of traveling in winter.

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Shortcuts

A mountain pass in winter. Backroads blocked by snow. A man, his wife, and their two daughters sit trapped in a car and await their rescue.

Days pass.

Nobody comes.

The man kisses his wife, hugs his girls. “I’ll be back with help.” He leaves and begins his trek, stopping only once to look back before he fades into the swirling snow.

Days pass.

Nobody comes.

The woman and her daughters wait. They wait for help, for hope, for warmth. They wait. And wait.

And wait.

Days pass.

Nobody comes.

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This week’s microfiction is a 70-word story about knowing what you want in life.

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Second Chances

Keisha jiggled her foot, eyes roaming the lobby. She had arrived ten minutes early for her interview, just like her dad taught her: “Early is on time; on time is late; late is unacceptable.”

But arriving early gave her time. Time to doubt. Time to notice the EXIT sign beckoning her. Time to wonder.

“Keisha?”

She blinked and noticed the suited man approaching.

“Sorry,” Keisha smiled. “I was just leaving.”

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It took me six months to write another microfiction that I liked, but after that, I was off to the races. Microfics are a fun and illuminating exercise. I’ve gotten pretty good at them, if my progress in this Microfiction Challenge is any indication.

I figured I’d share some of what I’ve learned and how it’s helped my writing in other areas.

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Fast Drafting

Fast drafting is about finishing your first draft as quickly as possible without worrying about whether it’s good. The process doesn’t come naturally to me; I have to fight the urge to edit as I write.

However, microfics are, y’know, short. I have found that it’s significantly easier not to worry about how good your first draft sounds when your first draft is, on average, fifty words or so.

Concision

Every word matters. Use as few as possible to make your point. Consider what may be the most famous microfiction:

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
- Author unknown1

Damn! So much said in so few words. No backstory given; none needed. The color of the shoes? Who cares! Who buys them? Doesn’t matter.

Try looking at one of your longer stories and see if the backstory you provide is really necessary. Maybe your story becomes more compelling with less detail.

Creative Sentence Structure

Because microfictions require concision, extra creativity is called for—break a grammatical rule or two, even.

Consider: “She heard a noise.” vs “A noise, heard.” You’ve only saved one word, but in microfic every word matters.2 This kind of creative sentence structuring can be applied to your longer stories, too. Mixing up your sentence rhythm is always good.

Emotional Efficiency

If you write short stories, you must check out this YouTube video of a guest lecture by Mary Robinette Kowal on flash fiction.

To summarize a key point, tiny stories aim to pack the largest emotional punch in as few words as possible. Once again, every word matters. You don’t have the luxury to wander off on emotional tangents: basically, you’re going to pick one and make it big.

This emotional honing comes in handy when you’re writing longer stories, for although you have the space to explore many emotions, you want to ensure you’re making each one as vivid as possible. Microfiction will help develop that skill.

Genre Experimentation

Perhaps you want to write something you’ve never tried before. Maybe a romance story when you’re used to writing horror, or vice versa. A story of several thousand words can feel like quite a task. However, writing a 100-word story is a great way to test the waters.

If you try microfiction, carry this habit back into your longer work: be cognizant of your story’s emotional center. Microfiction helps you find that quickly; longform gives you more room to explore it.

And when you revise, ask yourself: What do I really need to complete this scene? Are you including unnecessary words? Backstory that isn’t crucial? Things that could be left unsaid? Figure it out.

If you write anything, feel free to share in the comments!

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This week’s microfiction is an 80-word story about the end of the world.

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Final Moments

There’s an asteroid hurtling towards the planet. Hours left to say our goodbyes to loved ones and make peace with our enemies. Or take a bucketload of drugs and fuck in the streets. You have options when the world ends.

At least, most do. There’s only one thing I want: to see you again. Not to apologize, or hear you apologize, but to sit on your couch and laugh with you over stupid boys.

My final moments, spent in regret.

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And it has been! I’ve cleared the first two rounds and will find out the results of the final round at 11:59 PM EDT on August 12.

In short, participants are assigned a 3-part prompt and have 24 hours to write a microfiction no longer than 100 words. In the first round, I was given the following:

• GENRE: Action and/or Adventure

• ACTION: Standing one’s ground

• WORD: cheer

I cleared the first round with this story:

For the second round, I was assigned:

• GENRE: Romance

• ACTION: Rebelling

• WORD: individual

The way that I groaned when I read the genre. I hate romance. I hate reading it; I hate writing it (sometimes I like watching it).

But I found a way to write a romance that suited me, and I made it through the second round! Here’s what I wrote:

As I write this post, I am roughly 17 hours away from finding out my prompt for the final round. I hope it’s horror! Or sci-fi! Something more in my wheelhouse.

Truthfully, I’m not optimistic about winning, but the experience has been so worth it. One awesome bonus is that you get feedback from your three judges, both positive and negative notes. The feedback I’ve received has been genuinely constructive.

NYC Midnight holds a variety of writing challenges, so I recommend checking them out. You never know—you could win some cash! At the very least, you’re likely to receive useful feedback.

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This week’s microfiction is a 50-word story about hiding from danger.

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Exit Strategy

The sound of footsteps faded. Jarrett sagged in relief but continued holding his breath. Once certain it was safe, he slowly exhaled and crept from his hiding spot. The exit was right there. He crawled faster.

So caught up was he that Jarrett failed to hear the footsteps approaching behind.

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Even before that joyous development, I’ve been feeling burned out. I’ve talked before about how I write at least one story every month, a practice I’ve kept up since September 2023 (although I’ve missed three non-consecutive months).

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I’m still writing monthly stories and submitting them, but holy shit, y’all, publishers are not biting for me this year. It could partially be because I’m aiming higher, targeting almost entirely pro-rate magazines. I’ve received 14 rejections (or no responses) this year, and 1.5 acceptances (I say 1.5 because one story was shortlisted in a competition, but was published).

If you’re like, “Well, fourteen really isn’t very many,” yeah, I agree, but again, I’ve been really picky this year. I haven’t made many more than 14 submissions. (Oh, my god, am I being too picky? AM I?? SOMEONE, PLEASE TELL ME.)

Anyway, shit sucks. It’s been draining. Which is annoying, because obviously I know that, as a writer, I am not guaranteed consistency. Far from it. As a writer, the only thing I am guaranteed is rejection.

Still, I suspect that my downcast mood is affecting my reading habits. Behold, my Goodreads book count for the last six years:

We’re over halfway through 2026. How many books have I read? Sixteen. Some were short stories.

There’s obviously nothing wrong with not reading a multitude of books; I’m not someone who obsessively reads just to say they reached a certain number of books. But I’ve always been an avid reader. When I was a kid, people loooooved to inform me that when I grew up, I wouldn’t read as much. They were wrong.

So it’s kind of a personal bummer that I have zero drive to read anything new. Hopefully, I’ll regain that missing spark sometime soon.

It took me a couple of months to try reading something I’ve read before, but it worked (currently making my way through the Animorphs series).

And there’s nothing wrong with indulging in the comfort of a well-loved book or two or twenty. Or maybe you want to reset and read a palate cleanser, whatever that looks like for you (for me: Frieda McFadden thrillers).

Whatever works, y’know?

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This week’s microfiction is a 100-word story about remembrance.

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In the Garden Shade

When the weather allows, I enjoy sitting in the shade in my garden. I had long ago bought a swinging bench for underneath the crabapple tree. I sat there, swinging gently, when pregnant with Hannah, and murmured lullabies and lofty promises. On the day Ryan handed me divorce papers, I sat and swung, remembering how he used to make me laugh. The bench is old now, like me. It’s as covered in mildew as I am in liver spots and wrinkles. Metastasized. The word flashes across my mind’s eye. I swing and comprehend that this old bench will outlast me.

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It was first published by The Metaworker.

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Brownie Points

How much would you charge for a tray of brownies baked from scratch? Consider the simple ingredients that you probably have in your pantry. Altogether, it costs five dollars—give or take. Add another twenty for the hour of your time spent measuring, whisking, baking, cleaning.

So, twenty-five dollars for a tray of brownies, sounds good? Gooey, fresh-baked brownies, stuffed and swirled with salted caramel. You can smell the richness of the chocolate, and the caramel oozes—warm and slow and sensuous—down the sides. Brownies so rich, it would be criminal to grab anything other than a glass of milk to help you swallow the snack.

Hell, knock the price down to twenty. Friends and family discount.

I wish I knew why I didn’t bake Kat those brownies. I only made them once, for the college party where we met—she was my closest friend since, and she would ask me at least once a year to make them again.

They weren’t anything special, but, oh, she raved about them. At first, I found her passion off-putting (even a little scary), but she won me over. Imagine a lifetime of feeling unappreciated and unheard. Now imagine being slathered in warm, delicious praise for something as basic as baking brownies.

Kat never was shy about showing pleasure in the little things. She said “yes” ten times for every “no,” and encouraged everyone around her to live according to her bacchanalian philosophy.

Have a drink, Kat would urge. Let’s share a blunt and get a new tattoo and not worry about tomorrow. What were our twenties for, if not to indulge in life’s vices?

She was either generous or bad with money, depending on who you asked. If she was shopping and something caught her eye that reminded her of a friend, she would buy it for them with pleasure. A handful of times, Kat showed up at my door with surprise cookies or a sweet-smelling candle because she knew I had a bad day.

It was easy to love Kat in those times, so I stuck around when the laughter faded and the bleak moods crept in, learning to measure her moods as carefully as a cup of flour. I waited out the spurts of anger that would erupt from her like chocolate from a lava cake. I waited out, too, the frighteningly giddy, gooey Kat who would reach for cigarettes (though she claimed she couldn’t stand their taste or smell) and not put them down for months. Those were the times she would drive too fast and gesture with excessive energy as she chain-smoked and chain-cursed while making big plans for us. Plans that would never come to fruition, like when she realized we should open a coffee-shop-slash-bakery.

“You don’t even drink coffee,” I pointed out.

Kat and I sat on the patio of her favorite bar, where she could smoke freely. It was summertime, and, underneath the smoke, the patio smelled like honeysuckle and beer.

“I don’t need to drink coffee to learn how to roast and brew it.” Kat waved her hand and, with a slight smile, eyed the cute server walking by.

“And what would I do?”

“Duh! You would bake things. You’re so good at it—like those brownies you made that one time.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s impractical.”

“The best things always are.” She grinned and took a puff.

I grinned back. It was a silly idea, but fun to talk about. I was growing sick of my job at the printing shop.

“What would we call it?” I asked.

For weeks, we met at coffee shops around the city, doing our research. Kat took pages of notes and giggled every time she brainstormed a punny name, like Knead Coffee? or (the worst one) Brew-ti-ful Bakes.

“I still think Bake-a-Latte is prime,” she said one afternoon, tapping her pen on her notebook.

“It sounds like we bake our coffee.”

“Nobody’s going to think that. God, you always shoot down my ideas!”

I glanced up from my phone. Kat clenched her jaw and looked away. The weeks we just spent brainstorming together had been good, but when I saw that jaw clenching, I tensed. I could see the eggshells in the batter. It didn’t matter what I said, once she had gotten it in her head that I would disagree.

“Do I? Do I always shoot you down?”

She whipped her head back around to scowl at me. “You just did! Every name I’ve come up with, you’ve been like, ‘Ew, no.’”

“If you tried coming up with actual names instead of jokes, I might like one.”

“You don’t even think this will work. We’d have a name by now if you were really serious.”

I huffed a breath.“What? When did I say that? Can you even hear yourself right now?”

“Whatever. You know what I mean.”

If you mean that I have to talk you out of your underbaked ideas, then, yeah, I do.

I didn’t say anything else. We glared at each other.

After that, she stopped mentioning the shop. We never spoke of it again. Kat had new plans to whisk her away along the currents of fascination. She was going to go to law school. No, she was going to become a teacher. First, she was driving on a solo cross-country trip. After she signed up for singing lessons.

For weeks, she would tell me I was going places. She felt high on life, like a perfectly risen soufflé fresh out of the oven. But the soufflé would inevitably collapse, and those weeks would fold into other weeks of saying she didn’t know what she would do without me. Over and over she would insist that she couldn’t live without me.

She took so much, even as she gave. Maybe I didn’t bake her brownies, or drop gifts off at her door, but I was the first person she turned to when she needed someone to clean up one of her messes.

I guess I needed her sometimes, too. She was a constant presence, always in and out of my place. She was easy to call on when I needed a free pet sitter or a jumpstart for my car. There was the year when I locked myself out of my condo three times—Kat claimed it was at least five, but I’m sure it was only three.

“Get a smart lock,” she’d tell me after coming by with the spare key.

I always meant to, but it seemed a waste of money for something so trivial.

It’s not like she couldn’t bake those brownies for herself. Anyone can make brownies, even “fancy” ones. We’re talking basic kitchen ingredients.

They’re just brownies, for God’s sake.

Our entire friendship was on her timeline. We talked when she was in the mood to talk, but she could fall into strange funks and withdraw from me for weeks, leaving me to wonder if we had grown stale.

Did she ever consider how hard that was for me?

We fought when she wanted to fight, because nobody could avoid Kat’s fury once unleashed. She would rage and cry and apologize, and you better believe I had to accept those apologies on her schedule, too.

When we would go out drinking—when Kat, bouncing up and down, would proclaim she was jumping out of her skin—she would circle the bar and chat up strangers, looking for new entertainment, whether a drunken argument or an easy lay. Nights out with Kat meant a balancing act where I teetered between tipsy and attentive, in case she needed rescuing.

Kat often needed rescuing.

If I had rescued her less, would our friendship have been stronger? Or would it have crumbled into crumbs so much earlier? Could I have walked out of her life twelve years ago, and never looked back? Where would I be now? Where would she be?

When we parted ways, that was on her timeline, too. She had a breakdown—no big deal, she was always having breakdowns—but this time, she directed most of her rage toward me.

I should have seen it coming. She’d gone from months of hookups with anyone who swiped right to weeks of barely getting out of bed. She hardly ever texted me, and when she did, it was to disagree with whatever I said. I could have called the sky blue, and she would have gone on Google and found some way to argue that it wasn’t really blue, that was how we interpreted it.

Then, mid-morning one fall Sunday, I texted her some trivial celebrity gossip and she sent back a stream of consciousness and typos about how I thought I was better than her, better than everyone.

“You dont do anything for anyone else,” she wrote. In the next text, she contradicted herself, claiming instead that I could make time for everyone but her.

“I asked you to look over my resume and you couldn’t do that, but you went to Craig’s house party and you bought Sarah a fern. You’ve never even mad me those brownies, i pick up your dog from thevet for you, i bring you choclate when youre on your period, and you tell me that im a terrivle person but i constantly have tp unloc your door because you cant be bothered to remember a keya nd then you text me and ask why i dont get there fast enough!!11!”

I had thought we were friends; she had been keeping an abacus in her head, tallying up every good act against every bad.

I tried to call her; she didn’t answer. We didn’t speak for the rest of the day. I thought she would apologize after a week or two. But a day later, she blocked me, leaving me alone with my thoughts about brownies and house keys.

Twenty dollars for a tray of brownies. For an hour of my time. But I couldn’t find the time, so I never baked the brownies.

Until today.

I was up with the sun, baking. I was careful that no tears splashed into the batter, though I’m positive Kat would have thought them a morbidly appropriate addition. She would have made a weird joke about cannibalism. She would have pouted when I didn’t laugh, then denied she was pouting.

Maybe if I had laughed with her more, I wouldn’t have been left with the bittersweet aftertaste of our friendship.

Now, I grip the tray so hard, the metal digs into my palms as I walk up the front steps. Pause. Breathe. Balance the brownies in one hand. Knock with the other.

Kat’s mother opens the door and greets me with a brave smile that looks more like a skeletal grin.

The baked goods weigh me down. They feel as heavy as the ashes sitting in the urn that’s far too prominent in the living room.

Kat would have despised that urn. Too traditional.

I place the brownies in the kitchen. They are gooey and warm and chocolatey, with salted caramel liberally swirled on top. I cut myself a generous piece. Watch the caramel oozing down the sides.

They took an hour to bake. Yesterday, I looked up the date of that first party when we met. Roughly 109,950 hours ago. When I close my eyes tonight, I won’t sleep.

I’ll count the trays of brownies I could have baked, had I taken the time.

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This week’s microfiction is a 90-word story about post-breakup awkwardness.

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Hollow Talk

We still talk every day, but it’s hollow talk: “Can you believe this weather?” and “How’s your mom doing?” “Fun weekend plans?” Stilted, rigid questions that never would have crossed our lips before. Awkward excuses of having to go and eat dinner, when we both know that’s what I tell people when I no longer wish to talk.

But every day, we talk, and every time, I wonder—will this be our final conversation? Will we be free of the lie of “staying friends”?

Thank god we never had kids.

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Yes, it’s a series for kids, but it tackles complicated subjects—trauma, PTSD, wartime ethics, and disability rights, to name a few—pretty damn well.

One reason Animorphs resonates decades after its completion is that the series doesn’t talk down to its audience.

Here are six examples demonstrating how the series shows moral complexity instead of sermonizing (major spoilers ahead), plus some thoughts at the end on why this is important.

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Debating Whether to Weaponize Oatmeal

Book #17: The Underground

Okay, that headline sounds funny, and the book itself is actually pretty humorous, but the issue it’s tackling is not.

The Animorphs discover that instant maple-and-ginger oatmeal drives Yeerks into an instant addiction that leaves them permanently insane. Our heroes debate whether to use the food as a weapon.

Their debate is one of my favorite moments in the series. Tobias argues that if the oatmeal acts like a drug, then it is a drug, and weaponizing it is wrong. Rachel says oatmeal is oatmeal, and nothing more. Marco doesn’t care if it’s a drug or not—the Yeerks destroyed his family, they’re a threat to the world, and he will do anything to defeat them. Ax wonders, "How far into savagery do you go to defeat the savage?”

Ultimately, they don’t come to a consensus on whether it would be “right” or “wrong” to use the oatmeal. What they decide is that sometimes there can be no compromise.

“In the Civil War, they were ending slavery. Most of the Southern soldiers who were killed weren’t slave owners. They were just guys trying to be brave. Maybe they could have worked out a compromise. Maybe they could have ended the war earlier if the North had agreed to leave some people as slaves. But would that have been right? No. So the war had to go on till everyone was free.”
- The Underground, K.A. Applegate

Trapping David as a Rat

Book #22: The Solution

Halfway through the series, the Animorphs recruit another teen, David. It goes…poorly, with David eventually betraying and attempting to kill the other Animorphs.

The David Trilogy concludes with Rachel trapping David permanently in rat morph on a remote island to live out the rest of his miserable life. It is harrowing. It is necessary.

If I live a hundred years, I will still hear his cries, his threats, his pleading, each night before sleep takes me. And beyond sleep, in my dreams.
- The Solution, K.A. Applegate

It’s not framed as justice. No absolution is offered to the Animorphs. It might even be a fate worse than death. But they have to live with it, and it haunts them, as it will probably continue to haunt the reader forever.

Mertil-Iscar-Elmand, the Disabled Andalite

Book #40: The Other

Mertil is a vecol—a disabled Andalite. Andalite culture treats vecols as lesser, even shameful. Mertil has internalized that judgment; however, his friend and partner, Gafinilan, shows him nothing but love and acceptance, in stark contrast to their society’s ableism.

What’s interesting to me, though, is the Andalite Ax’s treatment of vecols. Ax is one of the main good guys in a children’s series, so you could reasonably expect him to be morally above reproach, but not in this series! Ax is wildly, openly bigoted.

<A vecol!> There was disbelief in Ax’s voice. Something else, too. More than his normal, well, arrogant tone. It sounded like disgust.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
<He is disabled. A cripple,> Ax answered coldly.
- The Other, K.A. Applegate

His attitude is not glorified—the other Animorphs rightly call him out on his shit—but his prejudices aren’t easily resolved, either. What I mean is, Ax’s bigotry doesn’t disappear at the flip of a switch, but is something that he clearly has to work on.

Cassie Letting the Yeerks Escape with the Morphing Cube

Book #50: The Ultimate

Near the end of the series, the Yeerks lay a trap and steal the Escafil device, a cube that grants the ability to morph.

Cassie and Jake have a chance to retrieve the cube, but doing so would almost certainly mean Jake killing his brother, Tom, who is being controlled by a Yeerk.

Jake, understanding that the Yeerks having the ability to morph would be a disaster, is prepared to kill Tom. But Cassie knows how killing Tom would affect Jake…so she attacks Jake, distracting him and letting Tom get away with the cube.

I couldn’t explain. Because I didn’t understand it myself. All I knew was that letting Tom take the morphing cube had seemed absolutely the right thing to do.
And something still told me I was right.
- The Ultimate, K.A. Applegate

It’s a divisive moment. I was furious with Cassie the first time I read the series. I felt like she was letting her feelings for Jake get in the way of what was best for the entire world. Several books later, it’s revealed that Cassie’s decision led to some positive outcomes as well.

Jake is initially furious, but keeps Cassie’s apparent betrayal a secret from the group. The books never determine who’s right and who’s wrong; it lets you weigh the decision in your mind.

Jake Sending Rachel to Her Death

Book #53: The Answer

In the penultimate book, Jake sends his cousin Rachel to infiltrate the Blade ship and kill Tom’s Yeerk, in what is probably the most devastating decision in the series. Not only is it almost certainly a suicide mission from the outset, but at the very least it means the death of Tom…the one person Jake has been trying to save since the beginning.

The repercussions are tragic: Rachel and Tom die; Tobias never forgives Jake; Jake never forgives himself. Again, Animorphs doesn’t preach about the cost of leadership—it shows it.

<You son of a . . .> Tobias began. <You arrogant, ruthless . . . What have you done? What have you done?!>
- The Answer, K.A. Applegate

Jake Flushing the Yeerk Pool

Book #54: The Beginning

In the series’ conclusion, Jake orders the mass killing of seventeen thousand defenseless Yeerks.

He doesn’t have to do it. The war is almost over, with or without their destruction. He does it because he hates the Yeerks for what they’ve done, and he wants them to suffer. Understandable? Yes. The right thing to do? Well…

The book neither justifies nor condemns the move. Jake ruminates on the decision, mentally torturing himself. Marco staunchly defends him…but Cassie?

Cassie seemed less certain. Far less. She seemed ready to join in with Marco, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She tried to hide it, but there was this look in her eyes, this sideways look at [Jake].
- The Beginning, K.A. Applegate

This is an issue that could have been neatly tied up, with everyone earnestly assuring Jake he did nothing wrong, and Jake having nothing but noble reasons for doing what he did. But that’s not how reality goes.

Uggghhh, I love this series so much. There’s much more I could write about. But I should wrap things up.

Why This Matters for Writers

I don’t read contemporary children’s fiction…because I am not a child and I do not have any children…but sometimes I wonder what the current state of children’s fiction is. Like, is moral ambiguity a thing anymore?

I ask because I hear about things like the 2022 live-action Pinocchio film, which sanitized the story to the point of erasing some core lessons.

Example: In the book, Pinocchio doesn’t make it to school because he foolishly and selfishly sells his schoolbook to buy a ticket to a marionette show. In the 1940 animated movie, Pinocchio is talked into joining the show. But in the live-action film, Pinocchio makes it to school and is kicked out by the schoolmaster, thereby absolving him of any blame.

Another example: In the animated movie, Pinocchio visits Pleasure Island, which encourages boys to act out their worst impulses. Pinocchio partakes in smoking (he gets sick) and drinking (maybe that also makes him sick? I don’t remember). So it’s not glorified, and the bad behavior has a thematic purpose. But in the 2022 movie, smoking and alcohol are removed from the film. Pinocchio’s great sin? Drinking root beer.

Do you see why this concerns me? And why I wonder if literature is following the same route? I have no answers here, of course. Just something to think about!

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This week’s microfiction is an 80-word story about a dangerous woman.

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Predator and Prey

Draped in a long black dress with loose sleeves, she looked every bit the witch she longed to be. Tonight would tell—could she steal the soul of a man?

She walked through the party until she spotted her mark. He was handsome but young and looked unsure of himself. Catching his eye, she smiled and beckoned.

He followed, of course.

But when they reached the empty bedroom, and she turned to him, her handsome mark sprouted fangs and pounced.

I think we can all admit this is a basic-ass story, but I wrote it because lately the twist in stories is

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Today, I am on Ch. 10—Crowding and Leaping. If you’ve made it this far, congratulations! We’ve reached the end.

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Take one of the longer narrative exercises you wrote—any one that went over 400 words—and cut it by half.

Original:

I was reaching for a dish, hands covered in warm, soapy water, when my nose caught the scent of lilacs from the dish soap. My legs wobbled; instantly, I was transported back to my girlhood and the first funeral I almost attended. I had been nearly ten when my mother sat me down on the lumpy couch in our living room early Saturday morning and told me she had laid out a black dress for me to wear. I had wrinkled my nose and started protesting—I’ve always hated wearing black, and besides, my favorite cartoons were on—Mother raised a hand, silencing me.

“This is important,” she’d said, and the tremor in her voice convinced me. I slipped on the black dress that was a little too tight, and we went for a drive. Mother handed me a vase of lilacs to carry on my lap. The flowers’ overbearing sweetness had overwhelmed the car’s interior.

I blinked away the scent and resumed the dishes, trying to shrug off the rest of the memory. But once the lilac scent unlocked my memories, it was difficult to lock them up again. I sat on my couch, so different from the worn-out one of my childhood, and closed my eyes, surrendering.

We drove for only ten or fifteen minutes before pulling into a church we had never attended.

“What are we doing?” I’d asked.

Mother was terse in her reply. “A friend died. This is his funeral.”

My heart squeezed; any mention of death back then had upset me, as I didn’t really understand what it meant.

But when we entered the church, with me carrying the vase of lilacs, a woman with a black veil covering part of her face marched over and hissed at my mother. I heard only a few words.

“Can’t believe…here. Bad enough…gossip…no respect, slut.”

Mother’s eyes had filled with tears. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, and said, “Let’s go, Janey.” She reached out to grab my hand, but the vase took up both my hands.

We left, and Mother didn’t say a word the whole ride home. Just wept silent tears.

My old eyes filled with tears. I wished Mother were still around. I wished I could have said I understood what I hadn’t—she wasn’t bad, just a woman whose love had been ripped away.

Revised:

I had been nearly ten when my mother sat me down early Saturday morning and told me she had laid out a black dress for me to wear.

“This is important,” she’d said; the tremor in her voice convinced me. I slipped on the black dress, and Mother handed me a vase of lilacs to hold on my lap. Their sweetness overwhelmed the car’s interior.

I blink away the scent. But now that the lilac has unlocked my memories, it’s difficult to lock them up again. I close my eyes, surrendering.

We drove for only ten or fifteen minutes before pulling into a church.

“What are we doing?”

Mother’s reply was terse. “A friend died. This is his funeral.”

My heart squeezed. But when we entered, me carrying the lilacs, a woman with a black veil marched over and hissed at my mother.

“Can’t believe…here. Bad enough…gossip…no respect, slut.”

Mother’s eyes filled with tears. “Let’s go, Janey.” She reached out to grab my hand, but the vase took up both my hands.

Mother didn’t say a word the whole ride. Just wept silent tears.

My old eyes filled with tears. I wished Mother were still around.

And there you have it! I really enjoyed everything I learned from Steering the Craft. I encourage you to go buy the book so you can get the complete experience.

If you complete the exercise, I encourage you to post and share your response.

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This week’s microfiction is a 90-word story about a valiant knight and his quest to save the princess.

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In the Tower

The knight galloped for seven days and nights, never resting until he reached the tower.

“Beautiful princess, I’ve come to rescue you! Let down your hair.”

At once, flowing golden locks fell from the window at the top. He climbed until he reached the top. But it was not the hair of a princess he had climbed, but the beard of a man.

“What’s this! Where is the princess?”

The man shrugged. “No princess here. I’m Geoff.”

“Oh,” said the knight. “Hi, Geoff. Do you want to hang out?”

“Sure.”

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Today, I am on Ch. 9—Indirect Narration.

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Part One: A & B The goal of this exercise is to tell a story and present two characters through dialogue alone.

Write a page or two...of pure dialogue.

Write it like a play, with A and B as the characters’ names. No stage directions. No description of the characters. Nothing but what A says and what B says.

Shepherd: This is the last of the rations, then. Eat up.

Poole: At least we’re surrounded by water, eh?

Shepherd: Sure, surrounded by water you wouldn’t want to drink. And we won’t last long without more food.

Poole: We could be surrounded by food, too.

Shepherd: Don’t be an ass, Poole.

Poole: Don’t call me an ass! I’m only saying—

Shepherd: I know what you’re saying, but it’s a stupid—

Poole: You might not think it’s so stupid in a week when we’re starving.

Shepherd: We’ll be rescued by then. That’s the end of it. All of these flowers could be poisonous. I don’t like the look of them, unnatural size and all. And I don’t like the feel of this place. The grass is too…silky.

Poole: I think it’s nice here. Like a mini paradise. We’d be dead if you hadn’t spotted the island.

Shepherd: If this were paradise, would Matthews have gone missing? Something happened to him. Best to be on our toes until we figure out what.

Poole: He probably went for a swim. Predators in the water. Man wasn’t thinking.

Shepherd: He didn’t strike me as that kind of fool.

Poole: Well, you never know, do you?

Part Two: Write a narrative of 200–600 words, a scene involving at least two people and some kind of action or event.

Use a single viewpoint character, in either first person or limited third person, who is involved in the event.

The viewpoint character (real or invented) is to be somebody you dislike, or disapprove of, or hate, or feel to be extremely different from yourself.

Sharon was enjoying her picturesque drive home from the office when she spotted a neighborhood abomination. She slammed on the brakes—stared—pursed her lips. This would not do.

Throwing her Honda CR-V into reverse, Sharon backed into the driveway of 321 Harvest Lane. She parked next to a Prius. Typical environmentalist-types. No concern for property values. If you weren’t careful, those environmentalists would have ugly solar panels on the roof and windmills in the backyard, making the neighborhood look like hippie trash. Sharon wouldn’t stand for it. She marched to 321’s front door and rapped smartly. She waited ten seconds, then knocked again. Someone was definitely home, and Sharon refused to be ignored.

After she knocked the second time, Sharon heard the pounding of footsteps as someone stomped toward her. The front door was thrown open, and Sharon stood face-to-face with a bearded man with salt-and-pepper hair.

“I’m not interested,” the man said, then started to close the door.

“Excuse me,” Sharon said. She endeavored to sound polite. “I’m Sharon Clark, head of the neighborhood HOA.” The man stopped closing the door and peered at her. “Are you the homeowner?” she pressed.

“Yes,” he answered. “David Haim. Nice to meet you. Is there a problem?”

“I’m afraid so.” Sharon kept a smile on her face to soften the blow. “It’s your front yard.”

“My front yard? What’s wrong with it?” Despite Sharon’s attempt at politeness, David sounded exasperated. Sharon tensed. As the messenger of neighborhood rules, she often felt a target on her back.

“It’s all dug up.”

“I’m putting in a vegetable garden.”

She had been afraid of that. “One of our policies is that we don’t allow vegetable gardens in the front yard. You’re perfectly welcome to grow anything you’d like in the backyard—anything legal, that is—but the front yard must appear nicely maintained.” Sharon had said all this before, to various neighbors. Some people argued. Some feigned ignorance. Some shrugged. But they all caved.

“Absolutely not,” said David. “I’ve already checked out the backyard, and the front’s terrain is much better suited for gardening.”

Sharon dropped the smile and her polite tone. “It’s neighborhood policy,” she said flatly.

“It’s a bad policy. A stupid policy. Yards are made for growing things.”

“I’d be happy to provide you with a list of plants we allow in the front yard.”

“Real things, not pretty little flowers all in a line. Yards should be messy. And overgrown. And full of life. This whole neighborhood is so sanitized, it’s more like a Twilight Zone episode than a living, breathing neighborhood.”

“That is totally uncalled for,” said Sharon. She couldn’t believe this guy’s rudeness! After all she did to make the neighborhood a welcoming, beautiful place for everyone to enjoy. Why’d he move here, anyway, if he felt that way? She continued, “But that’s beside the point. I’ll send you an official letter about the garden tomorrow. I expect this to be remedied soon.”

“You can expect a lawsuit.”

Sharon snorted. “A lawsuit, Mr. Haim? Really? You’re welcome to it.”

Part Three: Part Three of Exercise 9 is just like Part One, except it’s the opposite. In “A & B” you had nothing but voices to work with, no scenery at all. In this one you have nothing to work with but the scenery. Nobody’s there, and nothing—apparently—is happening.

Each part of this should involve 200–600 words of descriptive prose. In both, the voice is either involved author or detached author. No viewpoint character.

Character by indirection: Describe a character by describing any place inhabited or frequented by that character—a room, house, garden, office, studio, bed, whatever. (The character isn’t present at the time.)

Sunlight streamed into the room through its singular window. Students’ voices drifted in from outside as they called to each other. The dorm’s twin-sized bed was unmade, sheets twisted and smelling lightly of sweat and musk. Unframed posters of Che Guevara and popular rock bands were pinned to the walls. To the side of the bed, on the nightstand, was a pile of novels, all with bookmarks sticking out of the pages. The Catcher in the Rye, its spine creased, sat on top of the pile. No clothes in the laundry basket, nor in the open closet. A stack of small and medium boxes sat in the corner, taped up and labeled in permanent marker: Books, Textbooks, Figurines, Clothes, Misc. No dust had settled on the boxes yet. An empty box sits beside the bed, half-filled with more books.

A stack of envelopes sat atop the desk, in front of the laptop. The top envelope was simply addressed, “Mom,” in shaky handwriting. Underneath the desk, partially obscured from view, was a crumpled, empty box of caffeine pills.

Another set of really useful exercises; I actually took the second exercise—writing from the viewpoint of a character you dislike—and wrote a complete short story from Sharon’s POV.

If you complete the exercises, I encourage you to post and share your responses.

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