Realist fiction novels are set in a time and place that could actually happen in the real world. They depict real people, places, and stories in order to be as truthful as possible. Realist works of fiction remain true to everyday life and abide by the laws of nature as we currently understand them.
In the small town of Hawkins, where the East Texas hills rolled like green waves under a big sky, lived a woman named Dot, short for Dorothy.
She was a foster parent, her home a revolving door of laughter and tears, where children came like shooting stars — bright, fleeting, sometimes hot, and leaving trails of light in her heart.
Dot had no children of her own, but she had empathy, a quiet force that bloomed in the darkness of night, much like the new moon she watched every month from her front porch.
Tonight was such a night. The new moon hung invisible in the sky, a blank slate promising rebirth. No silvery glow pierced the velvet black; instead, the stars seemed sharper, as if the moon’s absence made room for their stories.
Dot sat on the creaky swing, a mug of chamomile tea warming her hands, listening to the nearby hoot of an owl.
Inside the house, two foster siblings slept: Amy, eight years old with a mop of curly hair and a guarded smile, and her little brother Mikey, five, who clung to a stuffed bear like it was his anchor.
They had arrived three weeks ago, old suitcases battered and eyes wide with the uncertainty of yet another move. Their mother was in recovery, their father a ghost in old photographs.
Dot knew the drill — love them fiercely, teach them gently, and let them go when the time came. But each departure carved a deeper groove in her soul. “Why do they have to leave?” she’d whisper to the night sky on new moon evenings, when the world felt emptiest.
This time, though, something felt different. Amy had a fire in her, a curiosity that sparked during their evening walks. “What’s a new moon, Miss Dot?” she’d asked one day, pointing at the calendar on the kitchen wall where Dot marked the lunar phases.
“It’s when the moon hides,” Dot explained, kneeling at Amy’s level. “But it’s not gone. It’s just resting, gathering strength to grow full again. Like us, sometimes we need darkness to find our light.”
Amy’s brow furrowed. “Does it feel alone up there?”
Dot’s heart ached. “Maybe. But it knows the stars are watching. And it always comes back stronger.”
That conversation lingered as Dot gazed at the sky now. A soft creak from the door pulled her from her thoughts. Amy stood there in her pajamas, rubbing her eyes. “Can’t sleep,” she mumbled.
“Come sit,” Dot said, patting the swing. Amy hesitated, then climbed up, leaning into Dot’s side. The night air was cool, carrying the heavy scent of pine from the nearby woods.
“Why’s the moon hiding tonight?” Amy asked, her voice small.
Dot smiled. “It’s a new moon. A time for new beginnings. What do you think it’s dreaming about?”
Amy thought for a moment, her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt. “Maybe… a family that stays.”
The words hung heavy, like rain about ready to fall. Dot wrapped an arm around her. “Families come in all shapes, sizes, and colors, Amy. Sometimes they’re forever, sometimes they’re for just a season. But the love? That stays forever, like the moon’s promise.”
Mikey appeared then, bear in tow, his thumb in his mouth. He toddled over and squeezed between them. The three sat in silence, the swing gently rocking.
Dot pointed upward. “See those stars? They’re like all the people who care about you, even the ones you don’t know yet. Even when you can’t see the moon, they’re there.”
As the night deepened, Dot shared stories — tales of the moon’s cycles, how ancient people saw it as a guardian of secrets and fresh starts.
She spoke of empathy, that invisible thread connecting hearts. “It’s feeling what someone else feels,” she said. “Like when Mikey scrapes his knee, and you hug him because you know it hurts.”
Amy nodded slowly. “Is that why you take care of us? Even if we leave?”
“Yes,” Dot whispered. “Because I know what it’s like to feel lost. And I want you to carry that feeling with you — to look for it in others, to give it away. It’s the strongest magic there is.”
A shooting star streaked across the sky, and Mikey gasped. “Wish!” he exclaimed.
They closed their eyes. Dot wished for the children’s happiness, wherever life took them. When she opened hers, Amy was staring at the empty space where the moon should be. “I wished for the moon to come back,” Amy said. “And for us to find a home like this.”
Dot’s eyes misted. “You already have a piece of it, right here.” She tapped Amy’s chest.
The next morning, the social worker called. Their mother was stable; reunification was imminent.
Dot’s stomach twisted, but she pushed through, packing their things with care — extra clothes, drawings they’d made, a little photo book of some of the things they did together, and a small notebook where she’d written moon stories for them.
On their last night, under another starlit sky, Dot gathered them on the porch again. She gave each a polished stone, smooth and dark like the hidden moon.
“Keep this,” she said. “When you feel alone, hold it and remember: the new moon is just beginning. Seek empathy, give love, and you’ll always find your way.”
Amy hugged her tightly. “Will you miss us?”
“Every day,” Dot admitted. “But that’s okay. Missing means we mattered.”
Mikey buried his face in her shoulder. “Love you, Miss Dot.”
“And I love you both. Always.”
The car pulled away the next day, taillights fading like dying stars. Dot stood alone, the house echoing with emptiness. That evening, she returned to the porch, the new moon still cloaked in darkness. But as she sat, a warmth spread through her — a whisper from the sky, reminding her that endings were just veiled beginnings.
Weeks later, a letter arrived. Amy’s handwriting, wobbly but determined: “Dear Miss Dot, We saw the moon growing last night. It’s like you said — new starts. Mom’s trying, and I hugged Mikey when he cried. That’s empathy, right? We miss you. Love, Amy and Mikey.”
Dot smiled through tears, clutching the letter. The new moon had worked its magic, planting seeds of love that would bloom in the darkness, guiding them home.
Foster care is difficult for everyone, but sadly, it’s necessary. Most of the kids we saw had only a plastic bag with a couple of items. As VP of the FPAssociatoon, I always advised foster parents to send kids out with some personal items they could call their own, like a photo album. Many kids never saw their own baby pictures! That’s how I started writing – journals for the kids to take with them. There are many good foster parents out there; you just hear about the bad ones.
Write a story PROSE only (poetry DQ’d) in which a minor character is tired of playing second banana and steals the spotlight from the main character. Do not kill off the MC to accomplish this.
Karen had always been the quiet anchor in Robert’s stormy sea. For twenty-three years, their marriage had been a sturdy ship, weathered by the gales of two careers, a mortgage that bit like frost, and the relentless tick of raising teenagers who had since fled the nest like birds testing their wings. Robert, with his broad shoulders and booming laugh that could fill a room, was the captain—charismatic at barbecues, the guy who fixed the neighbor’s fence without being asked. Karen? She was the first mate, the one who plotted the course with grocery lists and PTA fundraisers, her own dreams tucked away like spare sails in the hold.
It started innocently enough, that itch under her skin. At forty-six, with the house echoing emptier than a church on Monday, Karen found herself scrolling through community center flyers during her lunch break at the library. “Creative Writing Circle: Unleash Your Inner Storyteller.” The words glowed on the screen like a siren’s call. She’d always harbored a secret: novels. Not the tidy romances with happily-ever-afters, but the messy ones—women clawing their way out of cages they didn’t even know they’d built. In her twenties, she’d scribbled fragments in spiral notebooks, but life had a way of piling on: Robert’s promotion that demanded overtime, the twins’ soccer practices, the endless cycle of laundry and lesson plans. The notebooks gathered dust in the attic, yellowing like forgotten promises.
One rainy Tuesday in March, she signed up. “Why not?” she told herself in the rearview mirror, heart fluttering like a trapped moth. Robert raised an eyebrow over his newspaper that evening. “Writing group? What’s next, interpretive dance?” His chuckle was light, but there was an edge to it, like gravel under tires. Karen laughed it off, but as she drove to her first meeting, she felt a spark—small, but alive.
The circle met in a cozy back room of the library, ringed by mismatched armchairs and a table scarred from years of spilled coffee and inked dreams. There were eight of them: a retired teacher with a penchant for haiku, a tattooed barista penning sci-fi epics, and Sarah, a sharp-witted divorcee in her fifties who led the group with the gentle authority of someone who’d survived her own shipwrecks. Karen arrived clutching a dog-eared copy of Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, her palms sweaty as if she were confessing a sin.
“Share if you want,” Sarah said, her eyes kind behind wire-rimmed glasses. “Or just listen. No judgments here.”
Karen listened at first, mesmerized by the alchemy of words. The barista read a scene of interstellar betrayal that left them gasping; the teacher recited a poem about cherry blossoms that made her weep for her own long-gone youth. On the fourth week, emboldened by the circle’s warmth, Karen pulled out her notebook. “It’s just a start,” she mumbled, unfolding a page yellowed with age. She read about a woman named Eliza, trapped in a marriage to a man whose love had curdled into control—subtle at first, like a shadow lengthening at dusk.
The group leaned in. “That’s raw,” Sarah said when she finished. “What’s next for Eliza?”
Karen blinked, the question hanging like mist. “I… don’t know yet.”
But she did know, deep down. That night, as Robert snored beside her, she slipped into the kitchen and wrote until her hand cramped. Eliza’s husband, Victor, emerged on the page like a thundercloud: sarcastic barbs disguised as jokes, praise doled out like crumbs, chores dumped on her like so much ballast. Victor never said “I love you” without a qualifier; he fixed the sink but grumbled about her “nagging.” It poured out of Karen—pages and pages—until the first light of dawn crept through the blinds.
By summer, the novel had legs. Karen titled it Echoes in the Attic, a tale of Eliza discovering her voice through clandestine letters to a long-lost friend. The writing group became her lifeline: Sarah’s feedback sharpened her dialogue, the barista suggested twists involving hidden diaries, and even the haiku teacher contributed metaphors that made the prose sing. Karen bloomed under their attention—laughing freely, her posture straightening like a flower turning to the sun. She bought a new planner, color-coded with chapter deadlines, and even splurged on a sleek laptop that hummed approvingly under her fingertips.
Robert noticed, of course. At first, it was subtle: a sidelong glance when she lingered at the dinner table, scribbling notes instead of clearing plates. “Earth to Karen,” he’d say, his fork hovering mid-air. Then came the jabs. “Those book club witches turning you into Virginia Woolf? Next you’ll be drowning in the river.” Laughter, always laughter, but it landed like lead in her stomach. The twins, home for a weekend, picked up on it too. “Dad, chill,” their daughter Mia whispered during a tense barbecue, but Robert waved it off. “Just teasing your mom. She knows I love her dramatic side.”
But did she? The house felt smaller, the air thicker. Karen’s evenings stretched into nights at the library, her returns greeted by Robert’s silhouette in the den, TV flickering blue across his face. “Good time?” he’d ask, not looking up. “Great,” she’d reply, pecking his cheek before retreating to the guest room—ostensibly for “quiet writing space,” but really to avoid the weight of his unspoken resentment.
It wasn’t always like this. Karen remembered their early days: Robert, the boy from the auto shop with grease-stained hands and eyes like summer storms, who’d courted her with mixtapes and midnight drives to the quarry. They’d married young, full of fire, building a life brick by brick. But time has a way of eroding foundations—his job at the plant soured with layoffs and overtime, her library shifts grew monotonous, and somewhere along the line, the compliments dried up. “You’re my rock,” he’d say once, but now it was “Pass the salt” and sighs over her “hobbies.”
By September, Echoes in the Attic was halfway done, and Karen’s confidence was a quiet roar. The group celebrated with cheap wine and carrot cake, toasting to “Eliza’s escape.” Sarah pulled her aside. “This isn’t just fiction, is it? Parts of you are in here.”
Karen hesitated, then nodded. “The best parts, maybe. And the worst ones I want to leave behind.”
That night, as she pulled into the driveway, Robert was waiting on the porch, arms crossed like a sentinel. The porch light cast harsh shadows, turning his face into a mask of accusation. “You’re late again.”
“Meeting ran over,” she said, juggling her bag and laptop. “We were brainstorming the climax.”
He followed her inside, the screen door slapping shut like a punctuation mark. “Climax, huh? You’d better not be writing about me in that little novel of yours.” His voice was low, laced with that familiar sarcasm—the kind that twisted compliments into knots.
Karen set her things down, forcing a smile. “What? No, Robert. It’s fiction.”
He leaned against the counter, eyes narrowing. “Come on. Spill it. Is Victor supposed to be me? The big bad husband?”
She shook her head, the lie bitter on her tongue. Not a lie, exactly—Victor was an exaggeration, a caricature born of too many unspoken hurts. But close enough to sting. “Oh no,” she said, meeting his gaze with feigned lightness. “No, the main character in my novel is horrible. He’s a bully, always sarcastic, never gives her any praise or helps around the house. Eliza deserves better.”
The words hung between them, sharp as shattered glass. Robert’s frown deepened, a furrow etching his brow like a fresh scar. For a moment, she thought he’d erupt—the old Robert, quick to temper, quicker to deflect. But he just straightened, jaw tight. “Oh,” he said, the syllable flat as a dropped coin. Then, without another word, he turned and headed for the den.
Karen stood there, pulse thundering in her ears. Had she gone too far? The group always said to write the truth, but this felt like tossing a match into dry tinder. She glanced at the clock—8:47 PM. Her stomach growled, reminding her she’d skipped dinner again. Sighing, she trudged upstairs, the novel’s latest chapter mocking her from the screen: Victor sneered, “Who do you think you are, some wannabe author?” Eliza’s hands trembled, but she straightened. “I’m the one holding the pen now.”
Sleep came fitfully, dreams tangled with ink and accusations. She woke to birdsong and the smell of… what? Bacon? No, something richer—herbs and slow-simmered meat. Frowning, she padded downstairs in her robe, the house unnaturally quiet. Robert’s truck was in the drive; he must have called in sick. Or…
The kitchen stopped her cold. Spotless. Not the half-hearted swipe she’d grown used to, but gleaming. Counters wiped to a shine, no crumbs lurking in the corners, the sink empty and sparkling under the window’s morning light. The floors—vacuumed, even the fringes of the rugs fluffed back into place. And on the stove, a Dutch oven bubbled gently, the lid propped to release a cloud of savory steam: beef bourguignon, her mother’s recipe, the one Robert always claimed “took too damn long.”
He emerged from the pantry then, sleeves rolled up, a dish towel slung over his shoulder like a badge of surrender. His hair was damp from a recent shower, and for the first time in months, he looked… vulnerable. Not the captain, but a man adrift.
“Morning,” he said, voice rough but soft. He stirred the pot, avoiding her eyes.
Karen blinked, the scene surreal. “Robert? What…?”
She obeyed, sinking into the seat as if her legs had forgotten how to hold her. He poured a mug—two sugars, splash of cream, just how she liked—and set it before her with a plate of toast, butter blooming golden. Only then did he meet her gaze, his own shadowed with something raw, unnameable.
“Sit,” he said, pulling out a chair with a scrape that echoed too loud. “Coffee’s hot.”
“I read it,” he said finally, leaning against the counter. “Your laptop was open last night. Echoes in the Attic.”
Her heart plummeted. “You… what? Robert, that’s private—”
“I know.” He held up a hand, palm out. “I wasn’t snooping. You left it charging in the den after our… talk. I saw the title, and… hell, Karen, I couldn’t stop.”
She wrapped her hands around the mug, the warmth a lifeline. “And?”
He exhaled, long and shaky, rubbing the back of his neck—a telltale sign from their early days, when he’d fumble apologies after bar fights or forgotten anniversaries. “Victor’s a real jerk. And he’s… me. The sarcasm, the way I brush off your wins like they’re nothing. The house falling apart around us because I’m too tired or too proud to pitch in.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he turned to the stove, fussing with the pot to hide his face.
Karen’s throat tightened. Part of her wanted to rage—at the invasion, at the confirmation of her fears. But another part, the one that remembered mixtapes and quarry kisses, ached with possibility. “It’s not all you,” she whispered. “Victor… he’s the worst parts. The parts I amplified because it hurt to say them out loud.”
He nodded, still not turning. “I get that. But reading it? Seeing myself through your eyes? It’s like staring into a mirror I didn’t want to clean.” A pause, the spoon clinking against the pot. “You joined that group, and at first, I thought it was just a phase. Another distraction. But then you lit up, Karen—like you used to, before life ground us down. And I… I felt left behind. Like if you got too good at this, you’d see how small I am without you propping me up.”
The confession hung there, fragile as spun glass. Karen rose, crossing the kitchen in three steps, her hand tentative on his arm. He stiffened, then relaxed, turning to face her. Up close, she saw the lines etched deeper around his eyes, the gray threading his temples like silver veins. Forty-eight going on weary.
“I’m not leaving you behind,” she said, fierce and soft all at once. “I joined the group to find me again. Not to escape us. But if we’re honest… we’ve both been lost. You, burying yourself in the shop and the game highlights. Me, in the silence.”
He searched her face, then pulled her close—awkward at first, like two dancers out of step. But then his arms tightened, and she melted into him, the scent of his soap and simmering stew wrapping around her like forgiveness. “I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair. “For the barbs, the blindness. For making you feel like your dreams were a hobby, not a fire.”
She pulled back, cupping his face. “And I’m sorry for hiding. For letting Victor carry the weight instead of talking to Robert.”
They ate then, the casserole rich and tender, each bite a bridge. Conversation flowed haltingly at first—about the twins’ latest antics, the leak in the attic they’d ignored for months—then deeper, into the marrow. Robert admitted the plant’s latest round of cuts had him terrified of obsolescence; Karen confessed how the novel’s climax mirrored her own crossroads, Eliza choosing not divorce, but reinvention. “She makes Victor see her,” Karen said, fork poised. “Not as the wife, but as the woman who writes worlds.”
Robert set down his napkin. “Then let me help. Not fix you—I can’t—but stand beside. Teach me to vacuum those damn fringes.”
She laughed, the sound bubbling up like champagne. “Deal. But first, read the whole thing. Give me notes. Be my beta reader.”
His eyes widened. “Me? I’m no literary critic.”
“You’re my first reader,” she said simply. “Always have been.”
That afternoon marked a turning. Robert canceled his golf game, instead tackling the attic with her—dusty boxes hauled down, old notebooks unearthed like time capsules. He read Echoes in fits and starts, his red pen hesitant but honest: This line hits hard—too real? and Love Eliza’s fire here. Reminds me of you at 25. Karen revised with his input, Victor softening not into a saint, but a man capable of change—sarcasm tempered by vulnerability, chores shared like secrets.
The writing group noticed the shift. “You’re glowing,” Sarah said one Tuesday, passing the wine. Karen smiled, a secret tucked in her pocket: Robert’s latest text, Dinner’s on me tonight. Write fierce, love.
By November, Echoes in the Attic was complete, submitted to a small press with trembling hands. Rejection came first—a form letter that stung like salt in a cut—but acceptance followed in spring, a quiet miracle. The launch party was intimate: the group, the twins, and Robert, who stood beside her at the podium, his hand warm on her back. “To Karen,” he toasted, glass raised. “The storyteller who taught me to listen.”
As applause rippled, Karen caught his eye, seeing not the bully of her pages, but the partner she’d almost lost to silence. Words, she realized, weren’t weapons or escapes—they were invitations. To see, to mend, to begin again.
And in the quiet nights that followed, as she plotted her next novel, Robert would sometimes join her at the kitchen table, his own notebook open to blank pages. “Think I could write about a guy who fixes trucks?” he’d ask, pencil tapping.
She’d grin, leaning over. “Only if he learns to cook.”
Sometimes, lines between fact and fiction create the best and worst of times. Words aren’t weapons or escapes, they are invitations. To see, to mend, to begin again. Do not allow them to fester.
The Contest: Write a declaration or fictional story about planning for an insurrection of any type that will begin exactly one year from today (July 4th, 2026). 500 words minimum.
In the musty attic of a Philadelphia library, where Revolutionary pamphlets whispered from dusty shelves, the Echo Society huddled under a flickering bulb.
It was October 20, 2025, and their hearts raced with a bold dream: a peaceful “insurrection” of ideas, set to launch on July 4, 2026—one year away.
They weren’t plotting chaos or violence, but a revival of the Founders’ spirit, uniting a nation torn by red and blue.
Elias, a history professor with Jefferson’s fire in his eyes; Maria, a progressive activist exhausted by partisan venom; and Tom, a veteran whose Trump support stemmed from policies that saved his town’s factory, vowed to draft a Renewal Declaration—a call to heal America’s soul.
Elias unrolled a replica of the 1776 Declaration, his voice thick with urgency.
He said, “The Founders faced a tyrant king, yet they united diverse colonies with words, not swords.”
Looking directly at each member of the group, Elias continued, “Today, we’re fractured—families split, neighbors estranged. Our insurrection starts now: a year to rebuild ‘We the People’ with empathy, not anger.”
Maria, once quick to dismiss Trump as a divider, hesitated. She’d marched for equity, fearing his policies hurt the vulnerable.
But recent news stirred her: Trump’s Gaza ceasefire, earning Israel’s Presidential Medal of Honor and Egypt’s Order of the Nile on October 13, 2025, freed hostages and silenced bombs, reuniting sobbing families.
“I’ve mocked his style,” she admitted, “but that peace deal… it’s the kind of bold compassion I fight for. Maybe I’ve missed something.”
Tom, his faded Trump hat tucked away, nodded. “His trade deals brought back 7 million jobs, including mine, and record-low Black unemployment—5.4% in 2019—lifted folks like my neighbors.”
He paused, eyes glistening. “But I see your side, Maria—division hurts us all. Let’s build forums where stories trump shouting, like Braver Angels does.”
Their plan unfolded like a scroll. By January 2026, they’d launch “Echo Dialogues”—podcasts blending tales of Trump’s overlooked wins, like the First Step Act freeing 3,000 nonviolent prisoners, with progressive stories of social justice.
February: Virtual town halls, role-playing Founders debating modern woes—Hamilton’s economic vision mirroring Trump’s tariffs, Madison’s federalism easing partisan gridlock.
March: Library reading circles, pairing Paine’s Common Sense with Trump’s Operation Warp Speed, which vaccinated millions in record time.
Maria scribbled a timeline. “April: Youth camps teaching kids to disagree kindly, like Braver Angels’ games.”
She continued, “May: Essay contests—‘What Would Jefferson Do?’—highlighting Trump’s $35 insulin cap for seniors, a win for fairness.”
Tom added, “June: Picnics, not protests, sharing meals and hopes.”
Tom went on, “Then, July 4, 2026: We unveil our Declaration in Independence Hall’s shadow—term limits, civics education, bipartisan councils.”
As dawn broke, they clasped hands. Maria’s voice cracked: “I still cringe at Trump’s tweets, but his results—jobs, peace, justice—make me rethink my lens. This is about us, not him.”
Tom’s eyes softened. “Exactly. His grit showed what’s possible; now we make it ours.”
By July 4, 2026, thousands gathered—red hats beside rainbow flags. The Renewal Declaration rang out: “When division threatens our Union, we reclaim empathy…”
It listed shared grievances—corrupt lobbies, silenced voices—and solutions rooted in unity.
A liberal teacher whispered, “I scoffed at Trump, but those peace medals? They’re real.”
A conservative mechanic nodded: “Maria’s heart showed me there’s more to fight for.”
The crowd roared, not in victory, but in hope.
Elias smiled. “This is our insurrection: hearts united, echoing the Founders.”
Evergreen Springs, once split, bloomed anew—proof that stories, not swords, heal nations.
The assignment was to write a story of “What Happened” with the words, “Just Pick Up the Pieces” somewhere in the story. I chose to write about a Family drama after a Funeral
Funeral Flowers
“Just pick up the pieces.” Her voice trembled, a raw, jagged edge to it, like she’d clawed the words out of her chest and flung them at me. Clara stood in the dim kitchen, her silhouette framed by the gray dawn bleeding through the window, her eyes swollen but burning with a defiance I couldn’t match.
The air was heavy with the acrid tang of burnt coffee and the ghost of our grandmother’s lilac perfume, and on the floor, the shattered remains of her cherished teacup lay like a confession of everything we’d lost.
Each piece was a splinter of memory: her frail hands pouring tea, her voice weaving stories of love and war, her quiet faith that we’d always find a way through. Now she was gone, and the world felt like it had caved in, leaving me buried in the rubble.
I crumpled to my knees, the linoleum cold and unforgiving, my fingers hovering over the shards but too weak to touch them. My chest ached, a hollow, gnawing pain that had started when he walked out—his suitcase thudding against the doorframe, his “I’m sorry” as empty as the apartment he left behind.
But it wasn’t just him. It was Mom’s slow surrender to the bottle, Dad’s vanishing act years ago, the hospital bed where Gran took her last breath, whispering my name like a prayer I didn’t deserve. I was the dreamer, the fool who thought love could hold anything together, but all I had now was this broken teacup and a heart too heavy to carry.
“I can’t do it,” I choked out, my voice barely a thread, unraveling. “I don’t know how to keep going.”
Clara dropped beside me, her knees hitting the floor with a thud that echoed in the silence. Her hand gripped my shoulder, trembling but fierce, like she could anchor me to the earth by sheer will.
“You don’t have to know how, Lila,” she said, her words breaking as a tear slipped down her cheek, carving a path through the exhaustion etched into her face. “You just pick them up. One piece at a time. Not to make it whole again—because it won’t be. But to make something new. Something that can still hold you.”
Her voice cracked, and I saw it then—the weight she’d carried for years. Clara, who’d bandaged my skinned knees and Mom’s broken promises, who’d worked double shifts to pay for Gran’s medicine, who’d held my hand when the world fell apart. She was as broken as I was, but she was still here, still fighting, still picking up pieces when all I could do was stare at them.
My fingers closed around a shard, its edge biting into my palm, sharp enough to draw a thin line of blood. I held it up, the rose pattern catching the faint light, fractured but still beautiful, like a promise that even broken things could mean something. I thought of Gran’s hands, steady despite their tremors, and Clara’s, calloused but unyielding. Maybe I wasn’t them, but I was theirs—made of their strength, their stubborn love.
“Okay,” I whispered, my voice shaking but alive. “One piece at a time.”
Clara’s hand found mine, her grip warm and fierce, and together we reached for the shards—not to erase the cracks, but to build something new from them, something that could carry our grief and still shine.
Hey, everyone! I wanted to let y’all know that I won again — this time, it’s a $25 award. The story is based on the experiences of a woman in the foster care system. My story is dedicated to my dear friend, Dorothy Phillips, affectionately known as Dot in the story.
Dorothy is my bestie from California. We worked together in Sacramento County in Northern California. She was an excellent foster parent who cared for many children and babies in the Sacramento area.
Although Dorothy advocated mightily for the children in her care, she preferred to perform her service with the quiet fortitude of the character in Bette Midler’s song and story, “Wind Beneath My Wings”. In no way does this mean that I was the character that Midler played. And Dorothy did not die, as in the movie. However, the movie and song both reflect the love and admiration I have for this stalwart angel of God. She did the work of angels.
We haven’t spoken much these past few years. But there’s no doubt in my mind and heart, that our mutual love and respect continue — and will continue through the ages.
I testify that Dorothy Phillips is truly one of our Heavenly Father’s choicest daughters, having learned her inherent skills at the knee of her Heavenly Mother.
I ask for blessings upon her, her husband Francis, and her children, both natural-born and those countless spirits she nurtured and mothered. I say countless, because of her influence as a result to generations, like a ripple effect of a pebble dropped in a spring.
Dorothy’s nurturing qualities resonate with several figures from the Bible, but she most closely resembles Hannah.
**Mothering and Care: Hannah, the mother of Samuel, is known for her deep love and commitment to her son. After fervently praying for a child, she dedicated Samuel to the Lord’s service, showcasing her selflessness and devotion.
**Security and Comfort: Just as Dorothy provided a safe haven for foster children, Hannah offered emotional and spiritual support. Her story emphasizes the importance of a mother’s love and the lengths she would go to ensure her child’s well-being.
**Advocacy: Hannah advocated for her son’s future, much like how a foster parent advocates for the needs and rights of the children in their care. She sought God’s guidance and blessings for Samuel’s life, demonstrating her commitment to his spiritual and personal development.
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