By Barb Edler 20 March 2026

I’m getting older and my mind is fracturing. Talking to myself and cursing aloud is a constant. Indecision, regret, anxiety, a sense of impending doom rides my mind’s fluctuating airwaves. Worse, I am trying to write a guided autobiographical piece that isn’t going well. If I could only decide what to do: revise what I have or begin a new topic. Then I could probably move on and write upbeat reflections and clever posts. I accept my failure as I continue to brood.

Rather than writing what I need to complete, I will work on a flash fiction prompt Kathy Fish shared yesterday on her Substack Art of Flash.

Flash Fiction Prompt:

Write an animal in our writing to “give its blessing” to our stories.

Optional things you can do / include:

Begin with: “Believe me, most of this is true.” or Begin with: “Every spring, it was the same thing.” or Begin with: “His name was Rory and he was a […..]

Include some or all of these words:

fur, lightning, bellbottoms, radio

      His name was Rory and he was a pig. Mother loved his snout, the way he churned up dirt, and rested in its cool embrace. I detested Rory and despised his constant snorts, ugly orange tinge, and the way he bullied the pigs in the barnyard.
     When I went to feed the chickens, I tried to stare him down and laughed when he looked at me. Anything to keep him from knowing my fear. I loved the rabbits, especially Jack. He had the softest gray fur, and I couldn't wait to show him off at the county fair.
     After dinner father turned on the radio. The weatherman predicted thunderstorms after midnight. "I hope we miss it," he sighed, "the corn is just starting to look good. Hail would take out this year's promising crops."
     Shortly after, I went to bed and dreamt of buying a pair of crushed velour purple bellbottoms with white piping around the knees. At one a.m. I woke, jumped out of bed and rushed to close my bedroom window. Thunder booms shook the house as lightning strikes pierced the ominous skies. I shivered, worried about my father's crops
     Sunbeams warmed my face, gently waking me the next morning. The storm was over. I went downstairs to find mother crying at the stove.      "What's wrong?" I asked. She sobbed, "Rory died last night. Probably hit by lightning."
     I hugged my mother. "I'm so sorry," I said, "poor Rory." Then slipped outside, skipped towards the chicken coop, silently singing, "Poor Rory. Poor Rory. Poor Rory is dead." 

life is too
full of disappointments
and pigs