Miss Madelyn Haze: Flash Fiction #Monday’sMuse #AmWriting #Suspense

She scribbled down the memory so quickly that her fingers began to cramp. It didn’t matter that the thought stretched across days of her day planner. It was the closest thing she could find.

Her recollection of years passed had become congealed and foggy the day of her accident. Flashes of herself, her true self, would come and go like strokes of lightning–there one minute and gone the next.

But this memory, these moments were clear, concise, solid. She could even remember the words of the conversation, no, argument, she was having with … a man? The timber of his voice modulated in and out of focus, the pitch twisting as if someone was messing with the sound system of her mind.

Still, she wrote down the memory and the conversation, word for word, until the cramps in her fingers spread into her forearm.

June, July, August, all of the days nearly eaten away by this specific moment. Besides the date and year on the calendar she was remembering, April, 2014, most of what she jotted down was useless. She might as well have been writing down a recipe for chicken soup it was so mundane.

She would have cried for the time she’d spent in that moment of recollection, chocked it up as a simple exercise, another stone of hope to throw at the glass tower of amnesia, had it not been for the last thing the person she argued with said.

They had called her Madelyn, Miss. Madelyn Haze.

She let out a shout of triumph and even did the cliche fist pump in the air. Her fingers squeezing so tightly against her pen she nearly snapped it in two.

This was a victory, but it only caused a greater level of fear, one that overshadowed the doubts and worry of not knowing who she was.

The person in the memory had not only called her by a name that was different than the one she’d been convinced was her own, but they had also called her ‘Miss,’ which meant she was not married, which left no explanation for the man in the other room who’d sworn that he’d been her husband for the last seven years.


*Oh, I love when a writing prompt goes down a road like this. For me, this is like a delightful bread crumb, a trail that could lead to a great full-length novel. Only time and the completion of other projects will tell. These are my results for Monday’s Muse Writing Prompt June 12th, 2017.

~Dream. Imagine. Believe. Do. CONQUER!


To Make a Moment: A Short Story Writing Prompt Results for Monday’s Muse September 14th

Thank you for stopping by to read my results for Monday's Muse Writing Prompt September 14th. To see the original prompt, click HERE. To see other Monday's Muse Prompts and give them a try yourself, please click HERE.


To Make A Moment

The pictures were old, foreign and yet somehow familiar even though he couldn’t quite place them. Somewhere hidden within his spirit he knew he had taken them.

Watching her turn away, the glassiness of disappointed tears flood her eyes, he forced the words from his lips. “I’m sorry.” He said, guarding his tone. They were both worn thin as thread bare linen flapping in a dry summer wind. He didn’t know who was worse off, himself for not being able to remember or her for being powerless to make him.

“I said that I am sorry.” He said, this time smoothing the crease from his gathered brow. “I am trying.” He wanted her to understand that even though her laboring with him had born no fruit. He hadn’t much cared before.

She took a sniffling breath and bobbed her head, a smile pressed against her lips, playing a losing game of tug-of-war with her sad frown. Tears flicked off of her lashes with each up and down dip of her head. He watched them flick, catching the sunlight before they flew off into their places to lay alone in solitude, evaporating into the same nothing that his memories had.

His fingers slowly traced the slightly puffy flesh against his temple. The mocking evidence of what happened. What had happened? That was the torment of his scar. The wound had healed, for what that was worth. He had awaken and yet he still didn’t know what was the source of its being.

He hadn’t even remembered his own name, had forgotten how to speak English, his tongue shrinking back into the safety of his childhood dialect before he and his family had come to the States some 30 years ago, he was told. She said he was 36. He did remember that much. He was now an American, but he didn’t remember much of anything else. He certainly didn’t remember her.

His heart gave a pained throb as the realization stabbed through him. She wasn’t frustrated because he couldn’t remember a taking old photos or that he couldn’t remember his birthday, or that he had to learn to speak to her again. She was hurt. Hurting and afraid because he couldn’t remember her.

As if he had hit the nail squarely upon its flat head, her watery eyes, framed in dark spiked lashes glanced at the scar that rested beneath his fingertips.

“Its alright.” She said, pulling her gaze away, her chin puckering and head still nodding as if in resignation. She slowly picked up each image from the table, looked at it, touched it with ginger fingers as if it were a sacred treasure, before carefully putting them away in a box. “Its alright.” She said again with a deep exhale.

She was resigning and for the first time within the year and half that he had struggled at her side, distrusted her every motive, her faithfulness to him, and love that he had hardened himself to receive from her, did he own his dreadful error.

Day in and day out he had managed in broken English to tell her, “If I don’t remember, if I don’t believe you, then there isn’t a reason for me to stay. I don’t want to stay.” Now that he saw in the reflection of her countenance that she was finished with trying to convince him otherwise, did his own heart break and somehow swell at the same time.

He didn’t remember much of anything. Didn’t remember this young woman who claimed to be his, but he did remember how a kiss could make a moment far more memorable than any photo taken.

So with  tender strength he took hold of her, wrapped her in his arms, tipping her chin, he met his lips with hers as if for the first time, and as far as he was concerned it was indeed the first time. “I will keep trying,” He said before kissing her again, his lean muscles melting against her smoothness. “I promise.”


I wrote for 22 minutes, and I am so glad that I did. I feel like there could be more to this, more to their struggle and reaching to remember their love. But with all things, and all stories begging to be told in full, this one shall have to wait its turn.