Flash Fiction: A 500-Word Short Story About An Apology

Fellow writers–I don’t know about you, but after I’ve written a novel and it takes everything out of me, I need a break for a while. In my time of decompression, I like to stay in touch with the craft by writing short fiction. You never know where it could lead, and it keeps you thinking and telling your stories. Today’s story is about saying your sorry…to the person you need to say it to when an apology is owed. Especially a big one.

Out of the Circle

He always knew he’d be back. But when you make as many mistakes as he did, he certainly wasn’t expecting to be greeted with open arms, or even an acknowledgment that he existed. He might as well be dead, he thought often, as once he made the decision to go, he was gone, and they all treated him as such.

Unreachable. He made sure of that. A disappearing act that was difficult to follow.

He parked the car around the corner, as it was the same car he’d driven away in seven years ago, a Ford Taurus, and he didn’t want anyone to even take note of it or realize he was back on the street. He hated the car with every fiber of his being and wished he had something sportier, but he never sold it. He figured it was a part of his penance for his inability to stay, his inability to commit. Plus, he could barely afford to eat and pay his bills.

He’d hit rock bottom, and he wasn’t really sure, even now, months later, what had been the turning point. Ten different jobs, six different residences in the last seven years, and a host of “change of address” cards made him a certifiable mess. After finally waking up and realizing that he was destroying his own life one sip at a time, he decided that it might be the right time to reach out for help.

Was it the girl he thought he could love with the raven hair who shouted at him half dressed amidst rumpled sheets and liquor bottles strewn across the room? Was it the old man he’d shared a meal with at the dump of a diner on Main Street? Was it the kid who looked at him inquisitively as he sat on the park bench eating a cheese sandwich who said, “Hey, mister, what’s wrong with you? Why do you look so sad?” He wasn’t sure what the tipping point was or how he managed to climb out of the Scotch and Rum and Vodka, but he somehow got himself into a chair surrounded by others who had the same demons plaguing them every day as well.

In that first moment, as they welcomed him into the circle and he said his name aloud and admitted his dependency and why he was there, for the first time since he could remember, he felt less alone.

Twelve months after the circle, he found himself walking up the street to his old address.  The one he shared with her, the brunette with big eyes and a sweet smile. The one with whom he ruined it all. He pulled his hat down a little in case anyone was outside who might recognize him. He’d done his homework and knew she still lived in the house, though he was not sure with whom she shared her life now.

But he was there for a reason, and he didn’t care who was there with her.

He just knew he wanted to see her. That he needed to see her.

And that he needed to say the words he’d mustered up the courage to say for the last twelve months.

His knees were shaking as he rang the doorbell, and yet he knew he had the courage to do it.

He knew he wouldn’t leave until he looked her in the eyes and was able to say he was sorry.

imageStephanie Verni is Professor of Business Communication at Stevenson University and is the author of Inn Significant, Baseball Girl, and Beneath the Mimosa Tree. Along with her colleagues Leeanne Bell McManus and Chip Rouse, she is a co-author of Event Planning: Communicating Theory and Practice, published by Kendall-Hunt.

Writing Prompt Challenge

So, last night I posed a writing challenge to see who wanted to try and write a short piece of flash fiction (300-400 words) around a prompt. I posted three. I got no takers. But I did it.

Image may contain: text

Image may contain: text

I chose the third. I love writing prompts because they force you to immerse yourself in a scene, setting, or situation right away. They force you to be creative, and to use your creative juices in the best possible way. The challenge was to write approximately 300-400 words.

Here’s my result of Prompt #3.

The Young King

The young King’s hair was a rumpled mess, his clothes strewn across the floor, his crown askew and hanging off of the chair. The lingering smell of liquor plagued the room as the gold goblet next to his bed sat empty. He had banished everyone from the castle after an evening of dancing and celebrating at two in the morning—rather earlier than his typical four o’clock dismissal. It was nearly eleven, and the sun had risen high in the sky, the morning dew long dissipated from the lawn.

His mother had married his father, the former King, when she was younger than he was now. She had not been pleased with his antics last night. She publicly reprimanded him in front of a few of the guests, and he in turn, had caused a scene. He was twenty-three, and he had become King two years prior upon his father’s passing. She blamed him for the current state of affairs in the Kingdom, for his lack of leadership and foresight, and for his relentless pursuit of young women. She had fought him privately, but last night she could no longer hold her tongue, and she had, in his estimation, embarrassed him beyond reproach.

She stood looking at him now, he squinting at her through the hazel eyes that so often had reminded her of her dear, departed husband. The blinding sunlight, which she had allowed to stream into the room after pulling open the heavy curtains, was causing him to sit up in bed and acknowledge her presence.

“There were vial words said between us last night, most of which, I would like not to remember or repeat,” she said in a tone he fully recognized as one in which you do not offer a response. She was his mother, after all, and while he was by all means a man, she would always be his most trusted advisor and confidante. He felt a sense of regret at what he must have said last evening, but he offered no reply at present. “It’s your choice,” she shrugged. “You can continue with your worthless life, or you can become someone who matters.”

With that, she turned on her heels and began the walk toward the gilded double doors that shielded and separated his room from the rest of the castle. He was not one to apologize freely as his pride and defensive demeanor almost always got in the way of salvaging his relations, but as she crossed the threshold, she heard him call, “Mother—“

Flash Fiction | Stephanie Verni | 410 words

15781589_865992106837911_1585157622209528074_nStephanie Verni is Professor of Business Communication at Stevenson University and is the author of the newly released Inn SignificantBaseball Girl, and Beneath the Mimosa Tree.  Along with her colleagues Leeanne Bell McManus and Chip Rouse, she is a co-author of Event Planning: Communicating Theory and Practice, published by Kendall-Hunt. 
To visit Stephanie’s Amazon Author page and see her books, click here.

Friday Fiction: A Haunting One and A Romance

Creative fiction writers out there tend to dabble in flash fiction, which, quite simply is short form writing. It’s just like writing a short story, but even shorter. I practice writing short, short stories often, as they help writers tell a narrative within a minimum word count. I have my students engage in writing prompts, too. They are a great place to get an idea going to see where it may lead you. Of all of the pieces of short fiction I’ve written, the two below are my favorites because I think there’s potential for a longer story to grow out of each of these, whether it’s a short story or a novel.  The first is a ghost story (I never write ghost stories, so that one surprised me), and the second is the beginning of an interesting story that involves love and a fortune teller. I hope you enjoy them. Have a great Friday, all, and let me know what you think about these two that I picked and whether you think they are worth tackling in longer form.

If you’re looking for an update about my upcoming novel, I’m almost done editing. Looking forward to getting in your hands shortly!


Photo credit: Daily Mail

A F T E R   I   W A S   D E A D

The enduring span of lifelessness is enough to drive me mad, as if I wasn’t driven half as mad when I lived in this ramshackle of a cottage. The cobwebs in the corners seem to have lingered for years, and yet, I haven’t been gone that long. The chandelier is full of heavy dust, the curtains look as if they may disintegrate into nothing, and the rug is almost unrecognizable, as it is covered in soot and dust and grime. It angers me that no one has cared properly for this place—this place I tended to daily. I’ve become bored with waiting, and so I decide to visit the larger home on which the cottage is set—the Hamlin Mansion.

After I was dead, I set out to let people know the truth about what happened that wintry Friday evening when the wind whipped and the trees were bent with snow. No one ever suspected that someone could have murdered me on the grounds of Hamlin Mansion, just five steps from the front door of the cottage. Why would someone want the governess dead? I could hear the roars from the folks in the town…she must have fallen and hit her head…the winds must have caught up with her and she did not see the tree limb…it was an accident of happenstance. I grew weary of hearing the townspeople make excuses for my death. It was covered up so well, I have to give him credit. There was little to no bloodshed, you see, so he was lucky in that regard. He struck me in just the right place, and where he became luckier still was that the snow piled so high that Mother Nature neatly disguised his tracks. All for the better for him, you see.

Light as feather, I can walk through walls now, something I only dreamed of doing when I was alive. I find my way to his room in the mansion, to the seemingly unlikely murderer, a boy of just sixteen, with demon eyes and glossy, albino hair. He is still unlike any other person I have—had—ever met in my lifetime. There was always something ruthless and unsettling about his looks as well as his manners. In this he is frighteningly unique. I dare say, he has no remorse about anything he does or says. He is an unlikely offspring to the lovely husband and wife who own Hamlin Mansion, Greta and Theodore Hamlin. This child of theirs is a sad outcome of what should have been proper breeding.

He sits in the corner of the room reading by lamplight, though the room is dingy and unkempt. He is permitted to treat his belongings and his part of the home with a complete disregard, and that is perhaps one of the final straws where I was concerned. As his governess, I did not accept his lazy ways, his cruel retributions, his off-putting mannerisms. It was my mistake that I stood up to him…questioned him…demanded that his studies be turned into me before the snowstorm hit…and reported his questionable behavior several times prior to my demise to the Mistress of the house.

I glide toward him. His water glass is next to the lamp on the table, and I focus with all of my might and lift it, then tilt it ever so gently, so that the full glass fills his lap with water. He screams. He stands up and begins to frantically wipe the water off of himself. He stares at the empty glass on the floor. I’m going to have fun with him, I think. Again, I concentrate and will the glass to float in the air and place it firmly in its place back on the table.

His face goes whiter than it ever has been, and his hair stands on end. He is a most unattractive creature.

“Who are you?” he shouts into the air, a frightful, frantic question piercing the silence.

I try to yell, but realize I make no sound.

But there is a quill pen on the table, and his book remains there as well.

I use all the power I have inside of me to open the book, grab the quill, and start to write. Much to my pleasant surprise, the ink is showing up on the page.

“You killed me,” I wrote.

He begins to hyperventilate, and I stand by and watch. The little brat. The little brat who got away with murder.

This could entertain me for days upon end, I think.


“That boy loves you,” the old woman next door calls to me as she sees Nick peel away in his black BMW. She is sitting on her stoop in the 98 degree weather, her dyed red hair in old-fashioned rollers, her socks gathered at her heels in her slip-ons. The look on her face indicates that she wants me to engage in further conversation. We have been friendly since we’ve lived next to each other in the row homes of Baltimore, but have never had a long, in-depth conversation.

“He may, but he’s leaving,” I say.

“Probably for the best,” she replies.

I’ve lived beside this odd-looking woman for almost a year, and she pretty much keeps to herself. She knows nothing of my personal life. Her name’s Mable, and I’ve heard others on the block refer to her as “the palm reader,” though she has no official business. I don’t believe in fortune tellers and have never engaged in any sort of it.

“Come here,” she says. “I’ll show you.”

For curiosity’s sake, I walk down the steps from where I am, and climb the four steps to meet her on her stoop. I’m tempted to see what she knows, trying not to let the tears fall in front of her. Her appearance alone warrants concern; there seems to be a twitch in her eye, and she’s wearing more mascara than a runway model. It looks uneven and gloppy. Her coral-colored lipstick goes beyond the outlines of her lips. It is difficult to take her seriously.

She stretches out her hand and asks for my palm. I extend my hand and turn my palm over for her to see.

PalmreadingShe examines it. “There is a lot of passion, here,” she’s pointing to the line that runs up across my palm in a curve where the line ends at the base of my fingertips. “There’s a great deal of love for that boy.”

I nod.

“However, you will not see him again after today,” she says.

I feel a lump build in my throat.

She continues to look at my hand. “You have a good career, but you’re not quite sure if you want to stay in it. You’re thinking of uprooting yourself and moving someplace far away.”

I get a little chill up my spine. I’ve had this particular thought on and off for the past month, and I’ve told no one. Not even Nick. Not my own parents, or my best friend, Ava.

She focuses on one particular line on my hand, tracing it with her fingertip for what feels like hours, studying it with concerned eyes. She looks puzzled.

“Interesting,” she says.

“What?” I ask, now confused.

“You will travel. You will go where you’ve considered going, and you will be happy.”

“Without Nick,” I say, more as a statement than a question.

“Yes,” she says. “There will be passion again, but only if you go.”

Nick and I have been together for a year. However, I can’t be with him long term, nor should we ever have been together. Nick is unhappily married. He lives apart from his wife, but they are not formally divorced. Nor are there any plans for them to be so. The passion with which Mable speaks is true; it currently exists, but it is a sick, twisted, unhealthy passion, and it has become the ruin of me.

Three weeks ago, I was offered an opportunity to work for my friend’s father’s business in Rome. I’ve always wanted to go abroad, and have seriously contemplated accepting it.

I scoff at the idea of leaving for a moment, and then I stop. She sees my face, and gives me a crooked, quirky smile.

Mable is offbeat, eccentric, ridiculously dressed, and the oddest person I’ve ever talked to, but something tells me to listen. Something makes me take her seriously.

xx |

Stephanie Verni is the author of Baseball Girl, Beneath the Mimosa Tree, and the upcoming novel Inn Significant. She is also a co-author of Event Planning: Communicating Theory and Practice, published by Kendall-Hunt.

Nobody Has Ever Loved Me As Much As I Loved Him—Friday Fiction

Photo credit: Mikethemadbiologist.com. Back Bay, Boston.
Photo credit: Mikethemadbiologist.com. Back Bay, Boston.


The light grows dim. I have been sitting in the dark for nearly four hours with only a flickering candle on the table. The storm has quelled a bit, but the winds rattled the house until midnight, the trees and bushes bending as the snow accumulated and the winds whistled. It’s four in the morning now, and I realize I’ve been sitting in this chair in the kitchen motionless practically all night long. There is an eerie stillness inside the house that mirrors the uncomfortable quiet of nature outside—serene and undisturbed .

Upstairs, he sleeps. He has the uncanny ability to sleep whenever and wherever he pleases—in airports, on trains, in cars, on the beach, or at a wedding. I’ve seen him nod off in the most peculiar of places, and when he crawls into bed at night, he experiences the most blissful of sleeps, sleeping all the way through until his body tells him it is time to wake up in the morning. There is no need for alarms or wake-up calls. He is restful, peaceful. My biological clock has never allowed me that privilege. I’ve always experienced fitful nights of sleep, replete with tossing and turning and moving about in a frantic, anxious way. Perhaps my utter restlessness has led me to this point, at this early hour of the morning, on this snowy day when Mother Nature has decided that we need just a little bit more of it so that we can experience the full taste of winter.

The power has flickered on and off for hours, and the streets of Back Bay appear picturesque under the lamplights. I see my bags sitting by the doorway. This isn’t the first time they’ve been packed; there have been countless other instances, but this time I’ve sworn that I will do it. I will not chicken out.

I wonder what my friends will say when I actually leave for good. I wonder if they will support me, think I’ve gone mad, or blame my decision on some sort of early mid-life crisis. After seven years together and only a verbal commitment without a marriage commitment, it is time for me to go. Perhaps I thought he’d change his mind, but really, from the beginning, he has always said marriage is not in the cards. I wanted to believe otherwise. I have wasted years of my life, and perhaps even given up the possibility to have a child holding on to this notion. He is not interested in formalizing our relationship. He says he is fine with the way it is. But what about me?

His ability to sleep while I agonize over it all heightens my anger. I only hope that when he wakes, I don’t get sucked back into his charming ways and believe for the five-hundredth time that he might come around.

The situation is impossible. It really is.

The truth is, nobody has ever loved me as much as I have loved him.


Readers of my blog know I love to write fiction. I try to write as many Friday Fiction pieces as I can. I use various prompts for these writing activities, and this week I used Brian Kiteley’s prompt called “Loveless” which asks writers to do the following:

Create a character around this sentence: Nobody has ever loved me as much as I have loved him. Resist the temptation this exercise offers for a completely self-indulgent character. Of course some self-indulgence will be fun. Think of this sentence as a kind of mathematical formula. Consider the possibility that whoever would say something like this is unreliable. – 500 words

My piece was almost on the money at 502 words.

It’s so much fun to let your imagination run wild. I hope you enjoyed it.


Friday Fiction – The Beginning of a Love Story

cratewhite* * *

This week’s prompt asked us to begin with one simple sentence, which was this:

The old house, with its wildly overgrown garden, was silent, secretive.

Clearly, the weather on the East Coast this week influenced this story. Featured among the paragraphs are falling leaves, browning hydrangeas, and a good breeze. While it’s a little warmer here today than it is in the story, I was inspired mostly by the scenery and then by a love story. I wanted to give the first line of the prompt, with its use of the word “secretive” some clout; I wanted this to feel a bit secretive, haunting, and sad.

So, here it goes. Here’s this week’s prompt, which sits at 621 words of flash fiction.


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The Milk Crate

The old house, with its wildly overgrown garden, was silent, secretive. I made my way along the side of the house, the hydrangeas overgrown and brown, as autumn had set in and leaves covered the lawn. The rickety fence along the property line in the backyard with its peeling white paint seemed to bend in places, and the main gate was hanging by its top hinge. The only sound I could hear were the rustling leaves, and they fell gently to the ground, as the constant breeze purred. The garden must have been wild in the summer; the flowers were wilted, dead and devoid of any resplendent colors. For a moment, I remembered planting the freesia and four o’clocks; however, that time seemed to belong to someone else, not me.

How long had it been since I’d set foot on this property?

I walked closer to the large, picture window that at one time had spectacular views looking out over the hills, until the trees grew so big you could no longer see the rolling knolls. I stood on my tip-toes and tried to peer inside. I’m not sure what I hoped to glimpse on that November day, and what had compelled me to visit the house that particular afternoon; it was beyond my comprehension. I had driven four hours straight, alone, nonstop, just to see it again and walk the grounds. I’d never done anything so impetuous ever. Here I was, a Peeping Tom, wrapped up in memories and pain and nostalgia.

My hair blew in the wind, and I lost my balance for a second. The house howled for a moment, as if it were crying, trying to send me a message, and I felt a chill go up my spine. If only I had made the right choice, said how I felt, told him I loved him and loved him and loved him. If only I had stayed and tended the gardens and walked the creek and accepted a simpler way of life in this town. If only I’d not been afraid.

I’d not eaten anything in hours, my stomach too nervously twisted and tied to even think about it, but I began to feel lightheaded. Perhaps I should not have taken this drive today—perhaps I still was not ready. I walked back to the car to pull the apple out of my small, packed lunch that was sitting in a basket on the passenger seat. I walked to the front steps of the abandoned house and sat on the painted grey wooden steps. The apple was savory, juicy, and just how apples should taste in the heart of the season. It was chilly, but not cold. As I looked to my left, looking like an antique, was an old galvanized milk box. It was still there, and I remembered when he brought it home that day and sat it on the steps as if it were the cherry on top of an ice cream sundae. “Now we can call this place home,” he had declared. I had laughed at him then.

I walked over to it to see if anything had been left inside the steel crate, curiosity and a need to be close to him running over my more conservative sensibilities. I opened the lid and stood in awe and shock and disbelief. I could not move.

While they were worn and aged and faded, there they were. The stamps looked antique, the ink pale, and I began to go through them, tears streaming down my face. One after another, after another, after another. All of them addressed to me. All of them to me with the same salutation…My Dearest Livi…My Dearest Livi…My Dearest Livi…

Fictography #11 — Callie’s Letter

Trinity Library, Ireland. Photo credit: Courtney Hastings
Trinity Library, Ireland. Photo credit: Courtney Hastings

/FICTOGRAPHY/ def. — The intersection of photography (submitted by readers) and fiction (written by me!).

This week’s selected photograph comes from another student of mine, Courtney Hastings. Courtney is a business communication major, she loves to write and has taken many courses with me. She is also a member of the public relations club, of which I serve as the advisor, and is a member of our honor society, Lambda Pi Eta. She is very involved in campus life, and performs with the marching band as well. She is multi-talented, and appears to be a pretty good photographer as well. When she posted this photo on Facebook, I asked her if it could be used for the Fictography segment, and she agreed. It was shot just days ago, as our students are currently in Ireland, studying abroad this week as part of a class. This was taken at The Trinity Library in Dublin, Ireland. I love the muted effects of the shot. It’s quite lovely.

This story is 603 words. Hope you enjoy it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Callie’s Letter

Callie arrived first, before any other staff member on that cool September day. Her library badge was pinned to her white cardigan, and she opened the door. She knew she had about a half an hour to try to find it.

She remembered where she was…at a table near the spiral staircase, and she suspected it was in one of the books she had opened on the table. The letter was folded into sixths: first in half, then in half again, and then in half one last time. She shoved it into it one of the books she’d removed from the shelf when helping a guest, knowing he was not going to check that one out. She’d had it in her hand—because she wouldn’t dare let go of it—and slipped it into the book so no one would see what it was when she was packing up. And then, she’d forgotten to keep that book with her because of the commotion that ensued; the guest needed more books, the hunt continued for the right one, and then, she’d forgotten.

Surprisingly, two of her other colleagues were in as early as she was. She excused herself.

“I have to go look for something I misplaced,” Callie said.

“What is it, love?” The older of the two asked.

“Something special. I left it in a book,” Callie said. She wasn’t going to lie about it, but she wasn’t going to embellish, either.

“Go and have a look, then,” the younger one said, sensing this was something important.

She made her way to the ladder and stood there and stared. Which one was it? She’d had about eight books on the table, as her guest was trying to figure out which ones would be best for his research. What a conundrum! She did not want anyone else to have that letter. She did not want anyone else to find that letter. She did not want anyone else to take that letter.

That letter was hers. All hers.LoveLetter

What if she stuck it in one of the books he’d checked out? Her heart was racing.

She reached for several of the books and started going through them. There was an echo in the place as she opened and closed each of the books she remembered having opened yesterday. She breezed through the pages, looking for it. She’d gone through three books so far.

She replaced those, then removed another four from the shelves; they were higher up on the shelves, so she needed the ladder to assist her.

The fourth book contained nothing. The fifth book, as well, had nothing inside it.

The sixth book.

There it was, wedged between pages forty-one and forty-two. There it was. How foolish she was to put it in there and then forget about it? How could she have forgotten about it? It was the only thing on her mind. The only thing she had thought of for the last two weeks.

She replaced all four of the books back into their rightful places, and shoved the letter into her skirt pocket.

A girl doesn’t get a love letter very often, especially not one you want to reread and keep forever.

Kyle had sent it to her two weeks ago, and ever since, they’d been inseparable. She’d never even had a date before—not until she met him in the coffee shop. Not until she helped him with his research materials. Not until they found they had so much in common.

It was Friday, and they would see each other tonight. Again.

As well, that letter would never be misplaced again.

A Comedy of “Goofy” Errors

One helluva Goofy trip.
One helluva Goofy trip.

We should have known better. We should never have taken the second trip. Our first vacation had been so amazing—everything ran like clockwork and all had been right with the world—why did we tempt fate?

Because we were glutton for punishment.

Like all seemingly well-meaning parents, we decided to take our kids BACK to Disney, because, well, once was not enough. And so we ventured back in the month of May because it suited our schedules. We had taken our first trip in October a year and a half before.

As soon as the plane landed, it was all downhill from there.

On Day #1, my daughter became ill. It was one of those 48-hour viruses, but it was enough to send us back to the hotel with a puke bucket next to her bed. She recovered pretty quickly from vomiting, but then was weak and couldn’t eat.

On Day #2, my son came down with it. We had just gotten off a ride at Disney’s Hollywood Studios, when he threw up in a bush. (Sorry about that, Disney cast members). In essence, we suffered two full days of the barfs, and at that point the weather was good.

Raindrops the size of small pancakes at Disney's Animal Kingdom.
Raindrops the size of small pancakes at Disney’s Animal Kingdom.

On Day #3, the storms blew into town. It wasn’t just your run-of-the-mill rainstorm. We were there, so the weather gods called for a Tropical Storm. And a Tropical Storm it was. Blustery winds and torrential rain blanketed Orlando, and we were the idiots out in the rain, attempting to make the most of our day at Animal Kingdom. I think we were four of about 50 people at the park that day. At one point, we lost my daughter for about 30 seconds when Pocahontas was saying hello to folks and signing autographs. I’d never want to repeat that feeling of not knowing where your child is, but she had turned to see her, and we lost sight of her. But only momentarily.  The picture you see here is us standing in Animal Kingdom, drenched, wearing chic, Disney designer brand ponchos that actually did do their job. So you see, there was a bright side.

On Day #4, we went back to Magic Kingdom to finish it up. The weather was still disgusting and we were wearing our stylish, in vogue ponchos. As we waited in line to get Mickey and Minnie’s autographs (because that is of vital importance), my daughter started screaming in pain that her ears hurt. Three hours later, The Swan sent a doctor to our room where he pronounced she had a double ear infection. He gave her medication immediately, and told us we may not be able to fly home the next day because her ears might hurt on the flight home.

On Day #5, we flew home. We totally went against the doctor’s recommendation. We knew if we stayed one day longer, something else was bound to be a disaster. We had to leave the bad karma behind. In essence, we said, “screw it,” and decided that particular trip to Disney was a comedy of errors.

When we look at our photos of the trip now, however, we seem to remember the good times and good fun that snuck up on us between all the “other stuff” that tried to bring us down.

We might go back, but not anytime soon.

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Today’s daily post prompt was as follows: Murphy’s Law says, “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.” Write about a time everything did — fiction encouraged here, too!

Shoulda Woulda Coulda — Daily Prompt

Today’s WordPress Daily Prompt entitled Shoulda Woulda Coulda asks us to tell about something you should do…but don’t.

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Ms. O’Brien…in and out of character.

So…here goes…complete honesty…

I was going to write this post today and call it something else, but then I saw the Daily Post prompt, and I knew it was perfect for me.

What I should do, but don’t do, is stop worrying about aging.

Seriously. I think about it every day. It can often consume me. I’m not a fan of getting older, and the thought of the number 50 is just daunting. It’s two and a half years away for me, but I’m not at all enamored with the number associated with how long I’ve been on this earth. Birthdays have long lost their sizzle, and quite frankly, I’m fried by the whole thought of it.

I should stop thinking about getting older, but the problem is, I can’t. It’s happening to me with nature as its guide.

As a fan of “Downton Abbey,” I’ve been watching it since it started. The maid to Cora, O’Brien, always seemed like an old woman to me…and then I Googled the woman who plays her, Siobhan Finneran, and I nearly had a heart attack when I saw that she’s the same age as I am. Don’t get me wrong, the woman looks fantastic, it’s just…well…I’m her age.

Me…the same age as O’Brien. 47.

The concept I have of myself is that I’m much younger. I see myself as younger. I tend to act younger, and perhaps it’s because I’m surrounded by college students every day.

Thank God for them, they keep me young.

So…shoulda woulda coulda? I’ll make an effort not to stew over this process over which I have little control.