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Welcome To Danni’s Flash Fiction Blog

May 28, 2010

Flash fiction is an amazing way to study the craft of writing.  Not only does it give me a quick creative break from working on my novel, but it allows me to explore different emotions, settings, and points of view.  It only takes a moment to enjoy a quick tale of love, fear, loss, joy, regret, humor, or revenge.

Give me a moment and I’ll give you a story.

(stories are posted when inspiration strikes)

Please visit me at


The Ties That Bind

February 27, 2014

knots in my stomach when the car door shuts
I drop my dishes in the sink and scurry to my room
before his mood makes an appearance

knots jerked free
with endless strokes through hair
tousled from another sleepless night

knot after knot slipped slowly down threads
of green and black and burgundy and grey
friendships tied together on a wrist

a knot of guilt in my chest
sulking in the back pew
praying to God his eyes don’t land on me

double knots pulled tight in worn Keds
before running after the boys
always after; never with

a satin knot in the bow at my back
cinching my Sunday dress
like a noose

knots of anger in my every fiber
so much destroyed for so little return
so many decisions that dismantled our home
before it was ever complete


May 16, 2013

He willed her to look his way.

And for the span of a breath she did.

The air in the room stopped moving, the static charge building until her blink popped like a rocket in his head, and the moment was gone.

Her eyes slid past his and landed on another. On Him. The Him whose shadow swung far and wide, rendering everyone nearby invisible.

She looked right through him, just like she had for the past three years, and his heart shriveled just a little more.

His hope tightened to a grain of sand.

The faith of a mustard seed could move mountains, but the faith of the universe couldn’t make her see.

Remembering My Mother

May 9, 2013

I sit on the counter and watch my mother scurry from fridge to cupboard to pantry, gathering the ingredients of life in her bony hands and depositing them on the faded yellow Formica beside me. She measures each item carefully, smiling and singing, pouring and stirring. A cloud billows as she adds the flour. The particles hang in the air, floating in the golden spotlight streaming through the window at my back. I breathe the stale dust deep into my lungs; harboring a piece of my mother’s work inside me forever.

The sound of sifting sugar and a scraping spoon brings me back to her hands. Slender fingers swiftly working the spatula around the curved edge of the bowl. Next she gathers the eggs from their soft home, cradling them in a towel before spilling their life with a quick hand. Vanilla is splashed beside them—a stain spreading through the snowy slush. The scent lingers on the back of my tongue. Its sweet warmth closes my eyes and lifts my spirit.

The heat of the oven surrounds us. My ears are full of her songs, my heart full of her love. I watch in wonder as she creates something from nothing. The same way she made me.

With a smile in her eyes and a song on her lips, breaking the bread of life for her family, that is how I remember my mother.

* * * * *

To this day, baking takes me back to those days on the counter watching my mother work. Happy Mother’s Day, Momma. I love you!

My Monster and My Mom


March 7, 2013

Ripples float across the glassy lake. Moonlight shivers in their wake. She watches the circles grow farther and wider; the flickering fireflies the only witnesses to the growing target beneath her.

She hadn’t been out here in almost a decade. It was so much more peaceful all alone. No stench of whiskey, no groping hands, no muffled protests. She leans her head back, smiles at the stars and breathes for the first time in years. Her eyelids flutter closed as the mossy air fills her lungs; the only sound, the hum of cicadas in the trees.

She sways  along with the boat to the rhythm of the waning ripples. In another minute the lake will stretch out in glassy silence, the target absorbed by the shores, and no one will know she’s buried him here beneath the boat where he’d first buried himself in her.

There’ll be no final words, no returning to ashes or to dust. His whiskey filled pores will bloat and his swollen flesh will become a feast for the bottom dwellers. He’s among friends now. And she is free. Free to live. Free to breathe. Free of him.


January 31, 2013

I attended a writing workshop last weekend and we were given the following quote as a prompt.

“Every day something has tried to kill me and has failed.” – Lucille Clifton


The red hot poker

of your rage

stabbing through my joy

stabbing through my heart

searing every memory

with your fire

your self-hate

your need to destroy

singeing my soul

flaking away my hope

scattering it to the winds

of your rage

but still

I stand

singed and scarred

burning and scared

you have failed

and still I stand


You can read Lucille Clifton’s poem in its entirety here: Won’t You Celebrate With Me