Greg Pickens was a thirty-one-year-old second baseman for the Rail Riders. In his spare time and in the offseason, Greg worked for the Geek Squad at the local Best Buy to make ends meet. He had been bounced around his entire professional baseball career, and it seemed like he would soon meet his end on the New York Yankees’ Triple-A affiliate out of Scranton/Wilkes-Barre. Some dreams never came to fruition, and that’s simply the way things went.

At least he could say he gave it everything he had.

Greg was a solid defenseman, quick around the bases, and a career .260 hitter at Triple-A, yet he only had twenty homers over the past six seasons combined. He wasn’t as desirable as he might have been thirty years ago. His style of play was old school: he didn’t say much, he slapped the ball the other way, and when an easy opportunity to get onto first presented itself, he took it. He had no qualms with laying down a bunt down the third base line.

The timing, the situation, or the sheer luck of making it to a big-league roster never worked out for “Old Man Pickens”—as some of the young bucks now called him. His bench coach, Dallas Riley, who had been with the Rail Riders for over a decade, called him Geek for the past three or four years. He often asked him tech-related questions in the locker room or during some of the downtime during their pregame rituals.

After a particularly good night at the plate in which Greg went three for four with a couple of runs scored, Dallas ambled over to him at his locker.

“Geek, the skipper has a question for ya,” he said as he smoothed out his mustache.

“Oh yeah?” Greg replied. “About what?”

“I think it was about Spectrum Mobile or something like that, to be honest. Something about technology, I dunno.” Dallas was smiling. He rubbed his hand over his mouth again to get rid of it. “But you better not keep him waiting. We’ve got a plane to catch in a few hours.”

Greg drew in a deep breath before Dallas wandered off. He took off his cleats and pants, then slipped on some gym shorts and sandals. He’d hit the showers after his chat with his manager.

When Greg opened the door to the office, Don Brunson was sitting back in his chair, a serious expression on his face. “Hey, Greg,” he said, almost solemnly.

“What is it?” Greg asked. Something was up. He’d seen that look before, twice, in fact, and in both instances, it meant he was getting traded to a different team halfway across the country.

“You’re going to want to sit down for this,” Don said.

“So…you don’t want to talk about Spectrum?” Greg asked.

Don took off his hat, set it aside, and grinned. “No. Not this time. You know I’ve appreciated everything you’ve done for us, right? And everything you’ve done for me personally? You’ve truly made it a blessing to be here.” He paused. “I’m afraid you’re not getting on that plane with us tonight.”

Greg’s stomach turned upside down. “Where am I heading?”

Don’s eyes glistened. “To the New York Yankees.”

Greg sat motionless. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. From what I hear, they’re probably going to need you at second tomorrow. Your plane to LaGuardia leaves in…just about two hours.”

Greg rose to his feet, trying to hold back tears as he gripped his coach’s hand and shook it.

“Congratulations, son. You better hustle.”

When Greg stepped back out into the hallway, he had a moment, just a moment, where he thought about all the times he’d played catch with his old man as a kid. It didn’t matter if his father was exhausted or knee-deep in a project, covered in sawdust—he always said yes, of course he would.

“I made it, Dad,” Greg whispered, getting choked up. He could hear his father’s laugh, smell the leather, feel the pop as the baseball snapped into his old Rawlings mitt.

It didn’t take long for his teammates to see him, whisk him into the locker room, and give him an impromptu beer bath, cheering all the while.

Then it was a blur: a quick shower, packing some bags, and hitting the road, speeding toward the airport.

He could hardly see through the tears that blurred his vision. He could hardly hear over the sound of the radio blasting or over his own singing. His own laughter.

On and on he drove into the night.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. This story’s for you! And a very happy Father’s Day to all of the other dads out there.

I originally published “Big Leaguer” back in August of 2022. I decided to polish it up a bit and share it again with you all today.

If you enjoyed the story, please click the heart icon or consider sharing it with a fellow fiction reader.

Take care. Thank you for being here at Along the Hudson.

- Justin

Fifties by the Fire — a fifty-word, prompt-based writing exercise. Feel free to share your response below or read and comment to join the fun.

Prompt: Write a fifty-word story (fiction, CNF, or poetry) about an uncanny tree.

Here are the other guidelines:

• Make sure your story is exactly fifty words. Feel free to use Word Counter or your preferred word processor.

• Write a title with the genre in the first line.

• The title does not factor into the word count.

Good luck and have fun. Happy writing!

I apologize for the lack of story prompts over the past couple of months. Back to business, as usual—except on a new day.

Below is my contribution.

Purgatory, fiction

Purgatory was different for everyone. When John entered, he was thrust back into his old world, forced to live out his new life firmly rooted in the ground.

See. . . John became a tree.

As he aged, he understood tranquility. He became home to animals and insects alike.

He still stands.

I originally wrote this story years ago. When I stumbled upon this tree, it reminded me of this particular character and his circumstances.

Three nights ago, around dusk, my son and I were driving home from a county park. We had spent the evening hiking on some trails through the woods and playing on the playground. On our car ride home, a great big black bear thundered out of the forest and crossed the road in front of us. I slammed on the brakes and shouted for my son to look. But he’d already been paying attention. He let out a simultaneous, “Whoa!”

When the bear reached the other side, it crawled under the guardrail—I’m surprised it fit—and then it scurried down the embankment and into the forest beyond.

Seeing a bear in the wild is always a sight to behold. The initial moment is one of shock—their sheer size always catches me off guard—but after the moment passes, I feel a sort of reverence. A deep respect for the beautiful creature and its immense power. And then, when the bear moves along, I feel an overwhelming wave of gratitude that it simply showed its face to me and that I had a chance to experience the moment. (The past two sightings were shared with my children, so they were even more special.)

All of this got me wondering: why the hell does this exact scenario keep happening to me?

I live in black bear country, sure. These forces of the forest frequent the Hudson Valley, and they always have. But I’m beginning to wonder about the timing of these events. Over the past few years, black bears have crossed the road directly in front of my car a handful of times. I vividly remember the encounters and where they happened.

I tend to read into things, and the writer in me can’t help but create stories in my head. Maybe this recurring theme is a sign from the universe, a sign from Mother Nature herself, to stay the course. Go on the hike, go fishing, bring the children into the forest, and show them the quiet beauty of the world. “Hey, kids, this is what serenity looks like.”

From a writing standpoint, the bear crossing the road carries parallels. Perhaps the bear is exploring in search of food, or maybe it is pushing the boundary of its territory, setting its sights on a new region. Either way, crossing the road is a courageous act.

The takeaway, for me, is to continue trying to reach new ground—and, in turn, to be bold. To not shy away from writing, but to lean in harder. To take chances by venturing into new, unfamiliar lands.

That’s what I intend to do with my novel, Up in the Old Red Barn. I’m very proud of the draft, and I hope I can continue to sculpt it into a quality work of fiction. I would like to publish it someday in some capacity, and the idea of holding the bound book in my hands is very exciting. The story is one I hold near and dear to my heart.

The draft sits at just under 40,000 words. It’s a fast read—a short novel intended for middle grade/young adult readers. The story follows twelve-year-old Smitty and his father, Vincent, in the wake of a tragedy. It is set in the 1990s in a rural, upstate New York town. I don’t know quite what to compare Up in the Old Red Barn to, but I suppose it could land somewhere near The Body by Stephen King.

If you would like to be a beta reader, please let me know. I’m hoping to round up a handful of individuals who might be interested in providing some “reader reactions” and potential feedback to improve the draft. As a token of my thanks, I will gladly ship you a copy of my first book, 50 Fifties: A Justin Deming Literary Project. Feel free to message me or leave a reply here if interested!

I would like to extend a heartfelt thank you to , my friend, Andrea, and several other friends and family members for reading the first draft. I appreciate it more than you know.

And thank you, dear reader, for being here. I look forward to seeing you around. Please keep an eye out for a new Fifties by the Fire prompt soon. After spending so much time drafting Up in the Old Red Barn, I’m excited to get back into some shorter fiction.

Take care,

Justin

Sandra’s alone now—has been for almost a year. The kids are gone.

It’s early spring. She opens the Bilco door to the basement, letting dank air seep out and sunlight spill in. Sandra is pulled as if by a magnet toward a dusty black tote in the far corner. She takes off the lid and removes items: a hand-knit scarf from her mother, old newspaper clippings, stacks of finger paintings, and origami animals. To Mom is etched in big, loopy letters on many of the art projects.

Near the bottom of the tote, Sandra finds a crinkled, rolled-up piece of paper held in place by a green string. She unties it and unrolls the paper.

It’s a map of a local tributary. She recognizes her own writing. Lost Trail and Buried Treasure are still discernible, though the blue ink has faded. Her children had colored in the trees, streams, and wildflowers that dotted the paths through the forest. Sandra runs her fingers along the lost trails and traces the X somewhere near the mouth of the river.

Her eyes sting. She closes them, sees the muddy trails. Smells them. Sandra chases after her little ones in their oversized rainboots and mismatched thrift shop outfits. A sudden downpour catches the trio off guard, forcing them to find shelter under a gathering of pine trees, laughing all the while. She traces their escape plan with a stick in pine needles. The rain is relentless.

“But Mom,” her daughter says. “What about the buried treasure?”

“Don’t worry, honey, we’ll come back someday.”

But the map was set aside. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months.

Sandra pockets the map. She goes upstairs, grabs her car keys, and leaves voicemails on her kids’ cell phones. She’ll talk to them later at some point, or tomorrow, but she wonders if they’ll remember the map or getting caught in the rain—how soaked they all were by the time they found their way out of the woods on that crazy little adventure.

She hopes they remember; she thinks they will.

There’s no buried treasure. There never was. But Sandra is hopeful she can locate the pine trees under which they hid, or maybe find the spot where they all got stuck in the mud.

Sandra sets the map on the passenger’s seat and puts the car in drive.

Thank you so much for reading my story. I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, please click the heart and consider sharing it with a fellow fiction reader.

I originally published “Muddy Boots and Lost Trails” in March 2023 here at Along the Hudson.

My novel work in progress, which I’m calling Up in the Old Red Barn, is now sitting at 24,000 words. I’m tackling this project a single step at a time (or, as Anne Lamott would say, bird by bird), and it appears to be the best approach for me—slow and steady!

Take care, thank you for being here, and I hope to see you by the fire soon!

Fifties by the Fire — a fifty-word, prompt-based writing exercise. Feel free to share your response below, or read and comment to join the fun.

Prompt: Write a fifty-word story (fiction, CNF, or poetry) about the changing times, or how times change.

Here are the other guidelines:

• Make sure your story is exactly fifty words. Feel free to use Word Counter or your preferred word processor.

• Write a title with the genre in the first line.

• The title does not factor into the word count.

Good luck and have fun. Happy writing!

Below is my contribution.

Times Change but the Song Remains the Same, fiction

Melissa remembers when her father tucked her in at night. He read books, told stories, and even sang. “Blackbird” by the Beatles comes to mind. His voice was deep, smoky.

Now it’s her turn. She tucks him in, kisses his bald, wrinkled head, and hums the same tune.

He smiles.

I originally wrote this story back in 2023. It’s one of my personal favorite fifty-word stories.

Billy was a good dog. Ask anyone who knew him. If you were to ask me, I’d tell you he was the best dog to have walked this Earth.

I bought Billy from a local farmer who was selling the mutts for cheap. All he wanted was fifty bucks, a couple of cold beers, and a chance to “hear my story.” I must have sold it to him that hot summer night because I left his place with the pup tucked in the crook of my arm. (I left with a bit of a gut ache, too. Those two beers turned into seven or eight quick.)

I never had any family. No wife, no kids, no anything, really—till Billy came along. I’d heard about the “Pups for Sale” in an ad in the paper and figured my life could use a bit of light. It’s funny how a single moment, a single decision, can change your course.

My days brightened. They took on meaning again. I stopped drinking within a week— in fact, I dumped every bottle down the drain. Watched the booze swirl away into nothing at all. Scrubbed the sink clean and recycled the bottles, too.

After work, Billy and I would hit the trails behind the house that led to the river. We’d play fetch, or he’d sit next to me as I fished till dark, then we’d amble home. On my days off, we climbed the highest peaks in our region or canoed across lazy lakes.

It saddened me when his hair started to turn gray. He had aged right alongside me. Before I knew it, his hair had gone white in places.

One morning, Billy yelped when he tried sitting up. He shook in my arms. It was the first time I’d ever seen fear in his eyes. Pain.

The vet told me the prognosis hours later. I couldn’t believe it. Still can’t.

We spent the rest of Billy’s days by the river, taking it all in. Just the two of us—Billy and me.

He didn’t wake up one morning. I bawled like a baby. Cried right into his thick coat. I brought him down and laid him to rest near his favorite tree—the large oak right near the bend in the river.

I went back to drinking. Heavier, maybe, this time around. It felt like my heart had been ripped from my body and trampled on.

Months passed. On a crisp fall morning, I went out to get the Sunday paper. When I picked it up from the mailbox, the classifieds section fell out and landed on some scattered leaves. “Pups for Sale” looked up at me.

A lifetime of memories flooded through my body, my being. I smiled despite the tears.

And I knew exactly what I ought to do.

Hi, everyone. I hope all is well!

I originally wrote “Pups for Sale” here at Along the Hudson on March 21, 2022—almost four years ago on the dot. Regardless of whether you read it way back then or if you’re reading it now for the first time, thank you. It means the world to me.

If you enjoyed my story, please click the heart and consider sharing it with a fellow fiction reader.

I plan to share several older stories from the archives in the weeks to come to help me regain my Substack footing. I’ve been quietly whittling away at my novel behind the scenes, and I’m happy to report that I’ve hit 21,000 words. I would love to finish the draft by the start of summer.

Next week, Fifties by the Fire will return, and we’ll get back on track with our bi-weekly schedule. I apologize for the inconsistency thus far in 2026.

Thank you for being here! I look forward to seeing you by the fire soon.

- Justin

Fifties by the Fire — a fifty-word, prompt-based writing exercise. Feel free to share your response below, or read and comment to join the fun.

Prompt: Use the photo as inspiration to write a fifty-word story (fiction, CNF, or poetry).

Here are the other guidelines:

• Make sure your story is exactly fifty words. Feel free to use Word Counter or your preferred word processor.

• Write a title with the genre in the first line.

• The title does not factor into the word count.

Good luck and have fun. Happy writing!

Below is my contribution.

(Also, check out this little tune by Radiohead. “Treefingers” might pair nicely with the photo!)

We, the Trees (poetry)

We see

How we long for the heavens and reach for the stars

Yet here we are, anchored to Earth

Stationary vessels

We hear secrets on the wind,

Taste blood and smoke in the air—

Share love stories with the land.

Our roots grow long and deep.

We, the trees.

When 5:00 rolls around, Trenton figures his mom probably isn’t going to make it home in time for dinner. Correction: she probably isn’t going to make it home at all. No text, no call—no nothing.

It doesn’t matter. It’s just another regular night. A Tuesday.

Trenton sifts through the meager contents in the kitchen cabinet, finds the last box of Mac and Cheese, and a sorry-looking can of French-cut green beans. Battered. Dented.

Kinda like my life, Trenton thinks. Hell, kinda like me.

He brings the water to a boil on the stovetop and wonders what it’d feel like to stick his hand in. He doesn’t—wouldn’t—obviously, but sometimes the thoughts arrive out of nowhere when he least expects them, and he’s got to remind himself that this is all they are. Thoughts.

Roll with them. Shrug them off.

But when they crash into his shoreline like rogue tidal waves, he can’t help but pause. He must stand firmly with both feet planted on the ground because they’re almost enough to knock him over.

Why did Dad leave and where is he right now and how can I make some money to help get us out of this mess?

The question that hits him the hardest, the most frequent: how in the world can I help these kids?

When dinner’s ready, Trenton calls his younger brothers and sister in.

“Wash your hands,” he says to them. “No messing around at the table. You hear me?”

His three siblings—often wild, often sad that Mama isn’t home—listen to him. They’re good kids at heart, like all kids are. They eat. Drink their cold water or milk. Share a story or two. And then they bring their dishes to the sink like he asks.

He doesn’t know if their tummies are full, but he figures it’s better than him not being here at all.

After little Maya’s dishes clatter into the sink, she comes over to him in that waddling way of hers, grabs him around the waist, and hugs him tight.

“What’s up, girl?” he says to her.

She looks up at him with those big brown eyes. “Nothing,” she replies, then meanders off.

Trenton cracks a smile and watches her go.

The boys are in the other room already causing a ruckus.

No matter…let them.

Because it’s homework time at 6:00 and bed at 7:30. They know he doesn’t mess around.

Trenton walks to the sink and does the dishes by hand. He wonders what he’ll eat—what tomorrow will look like. He wonders about a lot of things as he scrubs.

When he’s done, he watches the water drain and hopes it gets to wherever it’s supposed to go.

Thanks so much for reading “Some Thoughts on a Tuesday” today. I hope you enjoyed it! This is my first short story in quite some time, and it felt wonderful to get back into the flash fiction realm.

Take care. Hope to see you by the fire on Friday.

- Justin

Fifties by the Fire — a fifty-word, prompt-based writing exercise. Feel free to share your response below, or read and comment to join the fun.

Prompt: Write a fifty-word story (fiction, CNF, or poetry) about an old friend.

Here are the other guidelines:

• Make sure your story is exactly fifty words. Feel free to use Word Counter or your preferred word processor.

• Write a title with the genre in the first line.

• The title does not factor into the word count.

Good luck and have fun. Happy writing!

Below is my contribution.

Please note: I had a different prompt/story queued up for today. In light of the circumstances—and in remembrance of my best buddy—I decided to make a change.

Rylo, creative nonfiction

Little Luna wanders the house in the pre-dawn hours. She whines, searching for you. But you’re not here anymore. You’re somewhere else.

I hope you’re exploring uncharted land filled with endless fields—golden sunsets.

And I hope someday when I call your name, you remember me—my old friend, Rylo.

Since late November, I have been steadily plugging away at my novel, titled Up in the Old Red Barn. It lands somewhere in the children’s literature genre. To date, I’ve been reaching my weekly writing goal of finishing one chapter per week. I’m onto chapter ten this week.

I’m throwing you right into the fifth chapter because it can somewhat stand on its own.

Really, I just wanted to share with you what I’ve been working on.

I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for checking it out, and I will be back on Friday with our Fifties by the Fire series.

- Justin

When Smitty got home, his father had already passed out on the recliner in the living room—mouth open, several silver cans on the end table beside him. Work clothes still on. Smitty picked up the remote and turned off the game. The Yankees were getting smoked nine to two in the bottom of the eighth inning.

Smitty went into his bedroom, closed the door, and let out his rage: he pummeled his pillow until he gasped for breath. When he closed his eyes, he saw nothing but braces and peach fuzz. He hit the pillow again and again, imagining it was Jimmy Chambers’ face—Harry Reid’s, too.

At some point in the night, Smitty woke with a start. It felt like he was being watched. He stood, yawning, and crept toward the door. Slivers of moonlight shone in through the blinds.

When he opened the door and peeked out into the hallway, he heard his father’s snores coming from the living room. Otherwise, the house felt still and silent. Even the crickets and frogs had quieted in these sacred hours before dawn.

Smitty walked to the living room, woke his father, and helped him to bed.

“Night, buddy,” his father said to him, somewhere in that space between awake and asleep—somewhere in the in-between.

It took Smitty a while to fall back to sleep. Once he did, he dreamed that he was standing in a field of red and white tulips. When he bent down and pressed his ear against their petals, they told him secrets.

In a blink, Smitty found himself in the building that echoed, the one with sleek marble squares on the walls—names and dates etched into the stone. “Hello?” Smitty called out, but no one responded. No one ever responded. Slowly, he walked down the corridor in this empty place.

“Is there anyone in here?” Smitty asked, feeling more frightened with every step he took. He quickened his pace to a jog. “Hello?” he half-shouted before breaking into a sprint—footsteps echoing off walls, the very foundation of the place shaking.

Gaunt, shriveled hands reached out to grab him from holes in the wall. Smitty screamed, avoiding them, and pressed forward.

He ran on and on, the long, cold corridor extending endlessly into eternity.

Smitty bolted upright in a panic, wetting himself.

“Dad!” Smitty shouted. A cold sweat covered his body despite the thick, muggy air. He screamed louder, cried harder.

Moments later, his father thundered down the hall and turned the corner into his room.

“You’re okay,” Vincent said as he pulled his son into his chest in a tight embrace.

Smitty breathed in the familiar scent of cigarette smoke and stale beer, but he didn’t care. His father rocked him back and forth rhythmically—the same way he used to when he was little.

“Shhh,” Vincent whispered.

“Why won’t the dreams stop?” Smitty asked, exasperated.

“I don’t know. If I could make them stop, I would. I wish there was a way, buddy. But I think we’ve just got to try to be brave.”

“I’m sick of them.”

“I know,” Vincent said softly. “I know.” He held Smitty a while longer, stroking his hair in silence.

“Alright. Why don’t you hop in the shower, and I’ll take care of this?” Vincent said. They stood, and Vincent began stripping the bed. Smitty got naked and set his wet pajamas in the pile of soiled linens on the floor. Vincent balled it all up and carried it out of the room.

Smitty tiptoed down to the bathroom—suddenly cold—and stepped into the shower. He turned on the hot water and hoped he could cleanse his mind and body of the night terrors that had plagued him all summer. He wasn’t hopeful.

Once the laundry was going and Smitty was all clean, he walked back to his room—a fresh pair of gym shorts on.

Vincent had already put new sheets on the bed. Smitty crawled back in and pulled the covers up to his chin.

“Want your piano music?” Vincent asked. Smitty nodded.

Vincent went to the small desk in the corner of the room and turned on the boombox, turning it to CD mode. Once the disc started spinning, he pressed the play button and turned the volume knob clockwise ever so slightly.

Classical piano filled the quiet, twinkling like starlight.

Vincent planted a kiss atop Smitty’s head. “Get some sleep. I love you, son.”

Smitty’s eyes grew heavy. “Love you too.”

And then the gentle music carried him away.

Fifties by the Fire — a fifty-word, prompt-based writing exercise. Feel free to share your response below, or read and comment to join the fun.

Prompt: Write a fifty or one-hundred-word story (fiction, CNF, or poetry) about a Christmas tree.

Here are the other guidelines:

• Make sure your story is exactly fifty—or in this case, one hundred—words. Feel free to use Word Counter or your preferred word processor.

• Write a title with the genre in the first line.

• The title does not factor into the word count.

Good luck and have fun. Happy writing!

Special thanks to John Lightle for providing “The Season for All” for our writing prompt. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

Below is my contribution.

Coming Home, fiction (100 words)

It was Christmas Eve.

Phillip decorated the tree he’d hauled up from the basement. Those stairs got more difficult with each passing year.

“Take me away, Barbara,” he said, huffing and puffing.

Bing Crosby’s voice filled the silent home, but the ornaments brought Phillip back to magical mornings, surrounded by his wife and children. White Christmases. Dreams come true.

He delicately hung popsicle stick reindeer and construction paper wreaths—dates and names scrawled in big, bubbly letters on the back.

Exhausted, he sat down and fell asleep in his recliner.

When he woke, Barbara and his parents welcomed him home.

Fifties by the Fire — a fifty-word, prompt-based writing exercise. Feel free to share your response below, or read and comment to join the fun.

Prompt: Write a fifty or one-hundred-word story (fiction, CNF, or poetry) that somehow relates to or uses the following line: in need of a ride north.

If you’re looking for a little extra inspiration to put you in a festive spirit, this prompt (and photo!) pairs well with the classic Christmas song, “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.”

Here are the other guidelines:

• Make sure your story is exactly fifty—or, in this case, one hundred—words. Feel free to use Word Counter or your preferred word processor.

• Write a title with the genre in the first line.

• The title does not factor into the word count.

Good luck and have fun. Happy writing!

Special thanks to John Lightle for providing “In Need of a Ride North” for our writing prompt.

Below is my contribution.

In Need of a Ride North, fiction (100 words)

Savannah had become mistrustful, even jumpy, around strangers. But she was simply out of options.

“How far north you looking to go?” the truck driver asked her. The man had ruddy cheeks and a white beard. And—call her crazy—Savannah could’ve sworn he had a slight twinkle in his eye.

“As far as you can take me,” she replied.

“How does Portland sound?”

Savannah thought of Maine in the wintertime: snowy, frigid, and far away.

“That’s perfect.”

She climbed into the truck. Then she placed her hands on her belly—felt the baby kick—and breathed long and deep.

I recently read Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson for the first time. Though a part of me wishes I had read it over twenty years ago—when I really could have used a book that showed me how to grieve and cope—I know in my heart I read Terabithia exactly when I needed to.

It instantly became one of my favorite children’s books of all time for a variety of reasons. I cried more than once while reading it, and the author did a tremendous job leaving room for the reader to explore the children’s imagined land. I love what Paterson left unsaid; it worked perfectly for the story, and it brought me back to my own childhood.

In a similar vein, I connected with this book because in many ways I’m still dealing with losses experienced in my own childhood. I lost many classmates and friends to multiple horrific car accidents. And, sadly, I lost just as many to suicide. I don’t know if we ever truly get over tragedy—not fully, at least. These memories linger and rise to the surface when we least expect them to. We learn to move on and live with the memories of our loved ones.

Drugs, depression, and poverty ran rampant in my upstate New York town. As a kid, this wasn’t something I contemplated or considered. But as the years went by and I saw it everywhere, all around me, I picked up on things. As a teen, pieces began to coalesce, and by the time I graduated high school, it hit me: I was lucky. My parents held good, stable jobs, and they were (and are) incredibly loving and supportive. But this wasn’t the case for everyone. A lot of people had it tough.

If you drove through town or the surrounding countryside in the 1990s or 2000s, you’d see the poverty, but you probably wouldn’t realize the rest. The rolling green hills, endless fields, and forests in the summertime were stunning. They will always hold a magical quality for me. But meth labs and drug dens dotted the landscape, too, and a handful were within a five-mile radius of my childhood home.

These are places I know. These are places I want to write about.

Bridge to Terabithia opened the floodgates for me. It felt like I was given permission to explore dark and upsetting themes in children’s literature.

At what age is it too early to be exposed to death? The reality is that children must face it when it happens, and death waits for no one. But there is a more glaring question for me:

How can we give children tools to cope with tragedies that they will inevitably experience in their lives?

There is no one-size-fits-all answer. However, as a writer and as a reader, there is one simple response for me: through literature.

This is my driving force and what I have my sights set on for 2026: writing a novel for children that explores the aftermath of a tragedy.

I brushed off an old, stagnant project that had solid bones but lacked vision. Its working title was Small Towns, but I never knew where to take it—or how to get it where it needed to go.

Bridge to Terabithia breathed life back into some of my old characters, and the entire story came together before my very eyes. Up in the Old Red Barn is the new working title, and I’m excited to get my hands dirty. I’m even more excited to transport readers to the 1990s. I want to bring you to the upstate New York countryside.

I’m going to share a chapter or two to show you what I’m working on, but then I’m going to focus on writing the rest.

Just be careful when you come in. See that soft spot in the floor? Don’t step there…you might fall through.

Oh, and don’t mind the dog. He doesn’t bite.

Thank you so much for spending a few minutes reading my Embers post today. I appreciate you.

I’ll be sharing two Fifties by the Fire prompts this month, most likely coming your way on December 12th and December 19th. I hope you’ll jump in to read, write, and share some stories.

Take care, and thanks again for reading.

- Justin

Hi, everyone.

(Before I begin, a quick heads up: this post may be too long for your email. Please be sure to click “View full message” to read the message in its entirety.)

Okay…where was I?

I hope you have the chance to spend some time with loved ones over this Thanksgiving holiday.

Instead of sharing a new prompt today, I wanted to take a moment to thank all of the readers and writers for joining this little community. It may not seem like much to others, but Fifties by the Fire is important to me. Not only does it give me a reason to sit down and write, but it also allows me to connect with other writers. I don’t have an in-person writers group, so this corner of Substack is something I look forward to immensely. I have made plenty of writer friends while here, and I am beyond grateful to get the chance to know many of you and read your words.

These exercises wouldn’t be possible without the help of my photographer friend, . John is the one doing the heavy lifting. I often reach out to him with a prompt idea, and he digs through his photo files and archives, trying to find the perfect match. The man nails it every single time.

Thanks, John, for making Fifties by the Fire possible, and for providing so many of us the sparks that ignite our stories and poems.

Below, you will find every photograph from this past year’s worth of prompts. You will also see contributions from many of the writers who participated. I know I inadvertently missed some writers, and I apologize for that. I selected one or two stories per prompt to share. If you would like to read all of the contributions, please feel free to click on the title above each photo.

I hope you enjoy this anthology of prompts, photographs, stories, and poetry.

From the bottom of my heart: thank you!

Now…kick back and grab your beverage of choice. I’ll see you by the fire.

- Justin

Idle Time/Time Away from Toil — December 2024

Magical Place, a prose poem by

A magical place

For dreaming

And love

Starlight

Moonlight

Winters breath

Decaying flora

Mingles

With winter’s warmth

The pine needle carpet

Tingles my senses

Reddens my cheeks

Caresses my hair

The tears come as they always do

Glistening in the glow of love

Our magical place

Is now mine

Alone

Freedom, a poem by

Each heartbeat

echoes in the space we claim,

a sanctuary forged from our own will.

In idle moments,

futures start to gleam,

and dreams, once lost,

reclaim their rightful place.

We learn

that in the stillness, we are free,

embracing this time, not as a shackle,

but as wind-borne wings.

Horses — January 2025

A Horse of Her Own, creative nonfiction by

His name was Chief. A Morgan. Chestnut. He stood 15 hands. Spirited, they said, like his new owner, Barbara. When she finished her writing for the day, they rode the farm’s wooded trails.

They grew old together. She sold the farm. She sold the horse. That old freedom forever gone.

MUSTANG, fiction by

Under the cover of night, I fling open the gate and set them all free. A rumble of thunder rattles the rocky ground, hooves ignite sparks of lightning.

Their freedom’s found within the folded and fractured hills. These wild creatures weren’t meant to be corralled or tamed.

Neither was I.

Beginnings and Endings — January 2025

My Life Now, creative nonfiction by

My life now

Spending precious time

Making sandcastles in the bottom of my hourglass

Had I known

I would still be here

I believe I would have started creating sooner

But I love my sandcastles

My here and my now

I took the long road home, it’s my life now

Stay in Your Lane, free verse by

What power is it that I answer to?

I look, see nothing,

Yet I am guided, coerced even,

By some force of compliance.

I am being watched, not by some

Specific entity but by some

Shape-shifting entity that

Demands compliance to conformity.

Color within the lines.

Do not stand out.

A Sharp Exchange of Words — February 2025

Showtime, fiction by

A family spat can be many things. Simmering. Explosive. Painful. Cathartic. Inevitable. Necessary. Hard words like wild zoo animals escaped, rarely re-penned without damage done.

When it spills from private grievance to the public square, moving from pitiable to performative, it can take on a poisonous new dimension: spectator sport.

Let’s Get Past This First — April 2025

Treasure Hunter Woes, fiction by

“Two steps forward, four left, three backward, six forward. Duck!”

Bill and Jane ducked as several spears flew over their head, sticking into the cave wall beside them.

“How many more booby traps are there?”

“Six more. Why?”

“I really have to pee.”

“Well, let’s get past this one first.”

Serenity — April 2025

Out on the Canoe, fiction by

He was kneeling, one leg forward and bent in the water, the other pushing off a rock; his arms straight, pushing too; and finally his whole dry foot shot forward over the stern, behind the last seat, leaning his body forward he lifted his wet foot.

“Alright Grandpa, let’s fish.”

In the Woods, fiction by

The trickle of water running down a rill, burbling with pleasure. The sight of a cottontail sipping from the stream. The wind whispered through the leaves, clattering gently as they waved in the breeze.

Carly leaned back against the tree feeling the serenity that should be in every daily moment.

In Bloom — May 2025

Cutting Class, fiction by

The coarse sophomore embodied the season of rising sap. Unwisely approached the farmer’s daughter saucily, snickered, “We’re up to the chapter on plant reproduction in biology class. You look to be in full bloom.”

Rachel shouldered the shears conspicuously. “Pay close attention when you get to the chapter on pruning.”

Cherry Tomato, fiction by

The yellow cherry tomato flower bud danced tippy-toes on stem end alone and twisted, withdrawn; attempts to follow the sun hidden behind clouds. Too little water, pirouettes, youth to bloom, expected to flourish; demi-plies’. Nipped in the bud. Yellow stigma-pistils remain silent, slighted, never pollinated by bees.

In Bloom(field, N.J.), fiction by

Once, just once, I rode in a Pullman car to my great-grandmother’s home.

Overnight! By myself. At ten years old.

Excited? Absolutely.

Frightened? Hmmmm.

But it was the ants that nibbled and tormented after I’d eaten saltines that were my undoing as I wriggled and itched in Bloomfield, New Jersey.

Rest and Toil — May 2025

Bone Bed, fiction by

Standing on a ridge overlooking an ancient riverbed, sweat dripping in his eyes, Captain Paleo called out to his teenage summer dig crew: “104 degrees. Time to hit the shade tent!”

“But we just found a raptor tooth!” Connor protested.

“It’ll be here afterwards. So will you. No fresh carcasses!”

Out of the Nest — May 2025

Armistice, fiction by

The news finally reached him, alone in that foxhole, everybody around him, dead. Dragging himself out, he stood erect, breathing in the acrid smoke slowly dissipating. Shouldering his emptied rifle, he started walking without direction across the muddy battlefield. The cannons were silent. He didn’t even hear that last bullet.

And Back Again, fiction by

Eighteen months since graduation. Barely earning enough for the room in her cousin’s condo. Extreme fun, no responsibilities except bartending shifts at two Chelsea bars. As good as a party, plus you went home with handfuls of cash.

Never saw the end coming, but it was like a head-on collision...

Nighttime Excursion — June 2025

GRUDGES, fiction by

I wax circadian, a moon’s weight nightly, approaching full, knowing that its dark side—forgiveness, anemia, and lethargy—await. I’ll peak soon, then wane. I endure it nightly, when my memory’s gravity accrues, then ebbs. Some people I will forget; others I will remember forever, until I get my chance.

Vitruvian Light Show — July 2025

The Blank Space by

If all her memories were technicolor lines,

etched upon an old vinyl record that played the story of her life,

in colors muted or vibrant like the sights, smells, and sounds each memory evoked,

then there would always be that one spot where the record refused to play—

—couldn’t play.

Disco Night by

Back in the day, they say things were brighter and better.

Dancing late into the night. Bodies mingling, flying.

Disco balls, reflecting colors on faces lost.

Psychedelic music blasting

young eardrums.

Not a care in the world,

Just looking for the next high.

Until later in life

You’re reading lips.

Open Mouth — July 2025

The Dental Clinic, fiction by

The interpol agent felt safe in the posh dental chair and opened his mouth while letting down his guard.

The anesthesia numbed his pain.

Too late, he recognized the tattoo of the terrorist group he was hunting on the dental assistant.

She smiled wickedly while she plunged in the cyanide.

A Quiet Observation — August 2025

A QUIET OBSERVATION, free verse by

Days are confounded now, nights troubled by doubt. But I do know this --

Until the nature of god is revealed to me, and the purpose of existence is known,

Until my contribution is proved, and my dust flies finally into the Universe,

Your arms around me, my sweetheart, will suffice.

You Are Still the Most Important Person in My Life — September 2025

Why the breaks will never come, fiction by

I’ve waited for you—the most important person in my life. You’re so close. With you, I’ll be happy; I’ll be rich; I’ll be successful, popular, and actualized. I know I’ll know you when I see you. Because you’re the me I know will come with all my breaks…someday.

Before the Combine Comes — October 2025

Hurried Harvesting, fiction by

The amber waves swayed in the wind of downdrafts from nearby storms. Keith knew he had to hurry, so he hopped on the combine and attempted to finish the last three rows of hay before Grandad got home. His reward was waiting for him in the kitchen, keeping dinner warm.

RETURNING HOME, fiction by

She’s come back to North Dakota again, after so many years. Standing in the corn field, she listens as childhood memories come to her across the heated wind, the echoes of long days of tending cows, digging turnips, washing overalls, cooking. Breathing in the sweet fragrance of grass, she remembers.

The Tangled Webs We Weave — October 2025

WICKED, fiction by

A bold claim left in reckless hands became whisper fuel for the fire that would end us.

Our story twisted and gnarled into a maze of mistrust and suspicion.

Loyalties tested. Falsehoods embraced. Friendships fractured.

Our love lines crossed, knotted, blurred, stretched, and severed

over one.

Wicked.

Little.

White.

Lie.

A poem by

What a tangled web we weave

It’s as though we thought we’ll never leave

We gather possessions like we think

We will always want to eat and drink

But material things will pass away

And Death will come on its fated day

You can’t escape him

Can autumn keep Leaves?

Fading Light — November 2025

Visiting Hours, fiction by

Alice bristles as the stranger approaches.

He sits beside her. He speaks like a father to a child.

“Leave,” Alice hisses. “I don’t know you.”

The stranger sighs. He holds Alice’s gaze long enough to see the light in them is fading.

“Okay, mom,” he says softly. “See you tomorrow.”

Life-Glow, creative nonfiction by

I am a candle burning low

Only a flickering light remains

And though it fades over time, the light still shines

Reminding you, that from the tiniest sliver of resources

My fire will still burn

And it glows beyond the horizon

Long after my place in the chapel is gone

Hi, everyone!

I hope all is well. I just wanted to take a moment to thank you for supporting my writing. It truly means the world to me, and I don’t think I say it enough.

Though my own writing has slowed down a bit since the school year started, I’ve been having a lot of fun working on my next book—a flash fiction compilation. At the moment…

Read more

Fifties by the Fire — a fifty-word, prompt-based writing exercise. Feel free to share your response below, or read and comment to join the fun.

Prompt: Write a fifty-word story (fiction, CNF, or poetry) about fading light.

Here are the other guidelines:

• Make sure your piece is exactly fifty words. Feel free to use Word Counter or your preferred word processor.

• Write a title with the genre in the first line.

• The title does not factor into the word count.

Good luck and have fun. Happy writing!

Special thanks to John Lightle for providing “Fading Light” for our writing prompt.

Below is my contribution.

Scribbling Stories in the Fading Light, fiction

Most people despised turning the clocks back.

Not Sammy.

The sunsets seemed more colorful, somehow.

Her mind ran wild in the fading light: a jaguar unleashed. She created twisted plotlines, sultry scenarios—added flesh to bone.

Bring on the night! Sammy scrawled in her notebook, grinning.

She vanished for hours.

Fifties by the Fire — a fifty-word, prompt-based writing exercise. Feel free to share your response below, or read and comment to join the fun.

Prompt: Write a fifty-word story (fiction, CNF, or poetry) based on the prompt: the tangled webs we weave.

Here are the other guidelines:

• Make sure your piece is exactly fifty words. Feel free to use Word Counter or your preferred word processor.

• Write a title with the genre in the first line.

• The title does not factor into the word count.

Good luck and have fun. Happy writing! (And Happy Halloween!)

Special thanks to John Lightle for providing “The Tangled Webs We Weave” for our writing prompt.

Below is my contribution.

All Eyes, fiction

My sisters weave their webs as the black circle spins. The old man stands, speaks—voice smoky. He ambles to the machine, which crackles to life.

The hideous sounds—like jagged, grinding teeth—scare my siblings away.

Not me.

I stick to the shadows, approach him, and take a bite.

I knew I shouldn’t have come here.

Two women pummel each other over the last box of whole-grain spaghetti, and a handful of men wrestle over scraps of meat. There’s a puddle of blood by the Redbox near the storefront.

Now, what did my wife need for her apocalypse dish? It was something Mexican, something sizzling. Tomorrow is Day of the Dead, so in a weird way, it’s rather fitting.

Did she need Sriracha? Jalapenos? Avocado? I can’t remember—wish I’d listened to her.

As I stroll towards the International Foods aisle, I think that’s what I would have done differently.

The shelves are nearly depleted. I settle for a can of black beans, a mangled bag of flour tortillas, and a jar of salsa. Hopefully, we’ll have the rest at home to concoct something.

Most of the customers dash around the store, arms flailing, shopping carts crashing into everything. The workers have either all gone home or abandoned their posts. It’s just wolves now—and only a few tame ones.

“Good luck to you, son,” an elderly man says to me as he zips past on his scooter. According to the basket strapped to its front, his last supper will consist of Diet Coke and some homemade mac and cheese from the deli. Can’t blame him. Those guys do it right.

I pay for my food at a self-checkout kiosk and place the items in my reusable bag.

And then I step outside to the blare of sirens, fires in the street, the ever-darkening skies.

Luckily, someone’s home waiting for me.

“The World is Ending and I Forgot My Grocery List” was originally published in August 2020 over at Free Flash Fiction.

Thank you for reading my strange little tale today. I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, please consider sharing it with a fellow fiction reader.

Take care. Have a great rest of the week.

- Justin

The kid—who was typically enthusiastic, engaged, full of life—sat at his desk, ripping apart a sheet of looseleaf into confetti-sized bits.

“You okay, Sal?” the teacher, Mr. Morrisey, asked. The kids all called him Mr. Mo.

“No,” Sal replied.

“Not going to try the writing prompt today?”

Sal stopped ripping the paper. “I don’t have a pen.”

“Oh,” Mr. Mo replied, voice inflected just right so Sal would inevitably glance up at him. “Well, why didn’t you say so? You want to write with a super cool pen I’ve got?”

Sal sat up a hair straighter. “Sure. I guess.”

Mr. Mo walked to his desk. When he returned, he was clutching a sleek, handcrafted, wooden pen. Both the tip and the click mechanism were metallic.

Tommy, one of Sal’s tablemates, said, “Whoa…is that a golden pen?”

Sabrina turned her head. “No, it’s mahogany.”

Mr. Mo handed Sal the pen, clapped him on the shoulder, and whispered something to the other two. They got back to their writing.

Sal held the writing instrument in wonder before doodling a quick picture of a cyclops. The pen glided over the paper like a fingernail on glass. Perfect. Smooth. By this point, Sal’s tongue was sticking out of the side of his mouth as it often did when he was deep in thought. He made a quick sketch of Medusa next to the cyclops. As long as he didn’t look at her, they’d probably be fast friends.

Mr. Mo gave him a quick look from across the room. A hey, man! I just hooked you up—you better get writing, kind of look, and it made Sal smile.

Sal turned to the screen at the front of the room and read the prompt: Imagine you are walking through the woods and stumble upon a portal. Where does it take you?

Sal brought himself there, saw a whirring, purplish doorway glowing in the near-dark. He stepped toward it.

And then he had an idea.

He put the pen to paper and found himself in a different time and place.

Hey, all. Thanks so much for reading “Pen and Portal” today. I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please consider sharing it with a fellow fiction reader.

This is my first-ever narrated work of fiction. I was oddly nervous while reading/recording it, but I imagine it will get easier in time. I want to try to do this for some of my future stories, as well. I appreciate other fiction writers like and who do this on occasion.

Take care. I hope to see you by the fire soon!

- Justin

Fifties by the Fire — a fifty-word, prompt-based writing exercise. Feel free to share your response below, or read and comment to join the fun.

Prompt: Write a fifty-word story (fiction, CNF, or poetry) based on the above photo.

Here are the other guidelines:

• Make sure your piece is exactly fifty words. Feel free to use Word Counter or your preferred word processor.

• Write a title with the genre in the first line.

• The title does not factor into the word count.

Good luck and have fun. Happy writing!

Special thanks to John Lightle for providing “Before the Combine Comes” for our writing prompt.

Below is my contribution.

Arrival, fiction

Bellamy came to lying flat on his back in a cornfield.

The young man sat up, dried stalks snapping like tibias. Clouds darker than his memory rolled in.

A sudden flash of white tore the sky open. A stabbing pain penetrated Bellamy’s skull, and he instantly remembered.

They had arrived.