I Don’t Really Write Much Short Fiction, But…
I always tell folks that I rarely write short fiction. For whatever reason, my ideas seem to come in novel length, like MISSING MOM, which I’m excited to share won the 2025 Readers’ Favorite Bronze Award in the YA mystery category. 
But last month, I was invited to submit a few pieces as “possibilities” for inclusion in a literary magazine. It occurred to me that I could look at the prompts I’ve written with my creative writing student. In the three years that I’ve mentored my wonderful teenage writing student, I’ve become a huge proponent of the value of writing prompts. I’ve watched her work grow from our weekly writing challenges, and it’s helped me keep my creative juices flowing as well.
I’ve often advised my student not to ever throw anything out that she’s written. And I’m so glad that I took my own advice, because I actually found several that I could work on for submission.
Here, for example, is a piece I wrote (which I didn’t submit) in response to a prompt about a friend who suddenly goes missing:
I was in bed when the call from Taylor’s mom came in. I glanced at the clock. Six AM.
Mrs. Lambert sounded frantic. “My daughter never came home last night.”
My mouth went dry, as my eyes shot open. “She didn’t?” I croaked.
“No. She texted me that she didn’t need a ride home—that you were taking her.”
Oh God. Taylor had left the party with my brother Bill around eleven. But how could I tell her that? Not when he’d come home stinking of beer with that crazed look in his eyes, mud caked on his boots, and a reddish-brown stain on his face.
“What happened to you?” I’d asked him when he came in. “Is that blood on your face?”
“Mind your own business, Lexi.” He’d turned away and stomped up the stairs.
“Is everything okay with Taylor?” I’d called after him.
“What part of ‘mind your own business’ don’t you understand?’ he said, just before slamming the door of his bedroom.
But clearly this was my business, and now Mrs. Lambert wanted an answer. “Oh gosh,” I told her. “There were so many people there we kind of lost track of one another. I’m so sorry.”
Okay, so that sounded lame, but how was I supposed to tell her that Taylor had gone off with my brother, the one with the anger management problem who’d arrived home with blood on his face?
Mrs. Lambert began to cry. “I don’t believe this. You girls are best friends. You’re supposed to look out for each other.”
I tried to push back my own tears, but it was no use. “I know. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m calling the police.” Click.
I jumped out of bed and raced across the hall into Bill’s room. I shook him. Hard. “Wake up!” I screamed.
He groaned.
“That was Mrs. Lambert on the phone. Taylor’s missing. What did you do?”
“Nothing. We had a fight. She ran off. I have no idea where she went. Just leave me alone, okay?”
He rolled away from me and pulled the blanket over his head.
He was lying. With every fiber of my being, I knew he was lying. I didn’t know what to do. He was my brother, and I had this awful feeling he’d done something terrible to my best friend. Taylor wasn’t the type to run off in the middle of the night after an argument.
Unable to sleep, I went downstairs to the kitchen, turned on the TV for company, and got the coffee maker started.
The early morning anchor announced, “Breaking News. The body of a young woman has been found in the woods by Oak Pond. Foul play is suspected. The police are investigating and won’t release the victim’s name until her family has been contacted.”
Oh no. Please God, no. Was it Taylor? I clenched my hands, not even realizing at first that I’d drawn blood from my nails digging into my palms.
The piercing sound of a police siren started me. It got louder and louder. I rushed to our
living room window. Blinking blue lights blinded me.
Three officers exited their squad car and moved to our front door. They knocked insistently. “Police, open up.”
My whole body shook. Nothing to do but open the door.
“Is Bill Cunningham here?” the gray-haired officer asked.
“He’s sleeping,” I said.
“Go get him, Ma’am, and send him down here.”
Ma’am? I was fifteen.
Reluctantly, I climbed the stairs and knocked on my brother’s door. “Police are here. They want to talk to you.”
No answer.
“Come on, Bill. You have to come down. Now.”
Silence.
I finally pushed his door open.
My brother was gone.
I’d love to know about your experiences with writing prompts. Have you found them as helpful as I have in priming the pump for your creative work?