If you could go back and witness any historical event, which one would you pick?
OK, since the question asks if I could witness any historical event – not any historical day. I feel it is safe to assume I can choose an epic event over a period of time.
That event would be the book of Genesis, especially through the “days“ of creation. I. e.
The process of creating/restoring the Earth.
Who God was talking to when he said, “Let US make man in OUR image.”
What the serpent appeared as when he wholly seduced Eve and possibly Adam 🤔
How Noah built the ark and what everyone else was doing while he built.
 etc., etc. etc. 
Of course, I would want to share that experience with the world today, but there would be doubters. People would call me crazy. I would have a few, if any friends. I’d be banned from social media for spreading misinformation. I’d possibly— if not, probably be assassinated. 
Although it would be frustrating, it would also be satisfying because I would know.
There’s so many other historical events I would like to witness.
The plotting and killing of Christ, the Kennedys, Martin Luther King Jr.,..
But the prompt was posed as a question — to witness, not a directive — to intervene.
I was not designed to interfere with destiny nor instructed to prophecy. 
Relationships are complicated; even a relationship with one’s self.
There’s a battle taking place within me—between flesh and spirit, between what I feel and what I know. And when that struggle becomes too loud, I retreat.
I find myself caught in the quagmire between the Hermit and the Martyr—one urging me to withdraw, the other compelling me to endure. I disappear inward while carrying burdens I was never meant to carry — not alone.
Yet beneath them both, I can still feel the other parts of me waiting: the Mother who nurtures, the Hunter who rises, the Sage who understands, and the Mystic who trusts what cannot always be seen.
Perhaps the battle is not about defeating one part of myself in favor of another. Perhaps it is about calling them all home—out of isolation, out of sacrifice, and back toward the heart.
Because somewhere beneath the struggle, love is still the center.
We never knew exactly when Bubba came into this world.
He came to us already grown, carrying with him years we knew nothing about and stories he could never tell.
We didn’t know the day he was born or all the roads his paws had traveled before they finally led him home to us.
But maybe none of that matters.
Because we knew the part of his life that mattered most to us.
His name was James Garner Hill, though to everyone who knew and loved him, he was simply Bubba.
And Bubba was a gentle giant.
He was strong enough to make a stranger think twice, yet tender enough to understand a child. He seemed to know instinctively when to play, when to be still, when someone needed watching over, and when someone simply needed the quiet comfort of a big dog nearby.
He loved people.
He especially loved children, and children seemed to understand immediately what kind of soul lived behind that broad bulldog face. There was something safe about Bubba. Something steady.
And then there was the ball.
Throw it, and life suddenly had a purpose.
Throw it into the water, and even better.
He would chase it with the kind of joy only a dog truly understands—the pure, uncomplicated happiness of water splashing, people laughing, and someone he loved waiting for him to bring the ball back so they could do it all over again.
Those are the moments I want to remember.
Not the sickness that came later.
For a while, we knew something wasn’t right. We searched for answers. The veterinarian searched too, but sometimes love asks questions that medicine cannot answer.
And so, on June 14, 2026, we had to say goodbye to probably the best dog I have ever had.
No.
The best dog I ever had.
I like to believe that somewhere beyond what we can see, there is a place where old bodies become young again, where pain simply falls away, and where no beloved creature is ever truly lost.
Maybe there really is a Rainbow Bridge.
But when I think of Bubba, I imagine something bigger.
I see him standing at the edge of a great, shimmering water, watching something bright dance across the horizon. Then someone throws a ball.
Of course, he goes after it.
Into the water he runs—strong again, whole again—splitting the waves as he chases it farther and farther toward that brilliant band of color.
And somewhere between here and forever, he crosses beyond the rainbow tide.
No sickness follows him there.
No age.
No pain.
Only warm water, children laughing somewhere in the distance, an endless shore to run upon—
and a ball that can always be thrown one more time.
We never knew the date Bubba was born.
But we know that he lived.
We know that he loved.
And, oh, how deeply he was loved.
Run on Bubba, there’s a ball waiting for you beyond the rainbow tide.
I don’t cry every day anymore, so that must be progress.
There was a time when your name could undo me before the sun had fully risen.
A time when every phone notification made my heart stumble, when every unfamiliar vehicle turning into the driveway made me look twice.
That doesn’t happen as often now.
Not because I miss you less.
But because a heart can only break in the exact same place so many times before it learns how to carry the crack.
It has been so long since I’ve heard your voice.
So long since I’ve felt your hug, seen your smile, or smelled the sunshine in your hair and the scent of an honest day’s work lingering in your clothes. Time has not erased those things.
If anything, it has sharpened them.
Your children are all another year older now.
So am I. So is everyone and everything.
Birthdays have come and gone. Holidays have arrived and passed. Seasons have changed without asking anyone’s permission.
Time kept moving.
I hated that at first.
It felt disloyal to laugh. Disloyal to enjoy a meal. Disloyal to have a good day when there was still so many empty places at the table.
But life is stubborn.
It insists on continuing.
I see your wife from time to time on social media. Her smile is still the one I remember from porch conversations and crowded kitchens. I see traces of the life that once intertwined so naturally with ours, and I wonder if she ever thinks about those days too.
The children are growing.
The family is changing.
The world keeps turning.
And I am learning that standing still will not bring you back into my life —our life.
I spent a long time living inside that stormy summer evening, replaying words, replaying mistakes, replaying every crossroads where things might have gone differently.
I searched for answers in places where answers no longer lived.
Grief is a hungry thing.
If you feed it, it begins to consume everything in its path and everyone around it.
I can’t let that happen.
Not anymore.
There are people here who still need me. Still need my strength. Still need my presence.
Still need me to be ok.
I need them to be okay. I need you to be okay.
So I will not lock myself away in regret and what if and so much sorrow.
I will not ask the rest of the family to live in the shadow of my heartbreak.
I will love. I will celebrate birthdays. I will make memories. I will laugh when something is funny. I will heal. I will forgive.
And so will you.
I will cry when I must.
And when thoughts of you come—and they always do—I will let them sit beside me for a while.
Not as an open wound.
Not as a punishment.
But as happiness … as love. And I’ll smile.
Because despite everything, that is what this has always been.
Love with nowhere to go.
Love that cannot call. Love that cannot visit. Love that cannot hold its grandchildren.
Love that waits.
And though I no longer stand at the window or watching the road every day, some part of my heart still leaves the porch light on.
This piece for National Short Story Month was written with beginning writers in mind, but readers are welcomed. We’re all one great big happy family here. After all writers are readers too.
A lot of people don’t know that May is National Short Story Month.
Yep, you can thank Dan Wickett for that.
Don’t you just love bite-size fiction?
I did a live presentation some years back titled The Art of the Short Story. In preparing the notes for said exhibition I borrowed a large portion of material from a fellow author. She is a veracious source of information and her published works are impressive. For the presentation I also offered my own work as examples.
Word Count Matters.
Many of the contest that you may submit to are going to have a maximum amount of words allowable. Occasionally, you’re given even more of a challenge with a minimum as well as a maximum. Those were always fun for me because it stimulated more than just creativity.
Learn how to use ‘word count’ in whatever program you are using to write and check it frequently.
No Nonsense
Another benefit of writing short stories verses novels is you don’t have to fluff up the word count with what feels like senseless babbling to make sure you hit the mark.
Of course, sometime the story takes on a life of its own and it’s no longer a short story. Your creation may grow into a novella or a novel. Heck, it might even become epic! Imagine your story spawning generations of creative little sub stories …
At any rate, I think it’s best to let the story tell itself and you just breathe life into it. And always have fun with it.
But always keep word count in mind, especially when riding short stories. Be careful not to lose track by getting too attached or involved as I mentioned in an earlier post.
Writing Short Works Helps You Hone Your Writing Skills.
When every word counts, writers tighten their prose. They eliminate filler words, passive voice, weak writing, or tangential thoughts—pretty much anything that requires extra words. No um’s or uh’s or well’s. No “was walking” when “walked” suffices. No “walked slowly” when “strolled” captures the mood better. No drifting into a daydream that doesn’t advance the plot.
These things slip in when we write novels. And just think how strong your novels will be when you develop these stylistic choices and apply them to your longer works.
The Short Story Can Be Used to Introduce One of Your Longer Works.
Regardless of the theme of the anthology, you can write a companion piece to an existing novel or series. This can be an excellent marketing tool.
For example, say you have a paranormal romance series you’d like to promote, and you have an opportunity to contribute to a horror anthology. You could tailor your horror story so that it’s a prequel or sequel to the first book in your paranormal romance series. You might even choose to weave in a little romance so readers have a better understanding of what to expect in the series. As long as the story meets the requirements for the anthology, you’ll have a great introduction to your longer work placed in front of an already interested audience.
Sample the Buffet
The short story format allows you the opportunity to explore different genres without committing time to compose a longer work.
If you are new to writing and aren’t sure what genre you’re interested in, try them all. 
If you are seasoned, take the opportunity to try something completely different from what you normally write.
For example, a romance writer might choose to craft a futuristic sci-fi story.
What do you gain from that, you may ask. 
Well, not only do you get to flex your creative muscles, the change of scenery might recharge your batteries and give you a fresh perspective on the novel you’re working on.
Furthermore, you may just find another genre that you enjoy writing in and a new fan base should you decide to become a multi-genre author.
What? How? Where?
Okay, so you want to write a short story — try your hand at. You believe you have a fabulous idea, but you don’t know what to do.
If you are in school — high school, college or university, get active. Submit to as many competitions as possible.
Short stories are ideal for genre driven magazines, anthologies, digests, newsletters, co-ops, etc. 
Potential acceptance equals potential income and/or exposure.
There are literally thousands of genre magazines that accept submissions. If you have an agent great. If you don’t that’s okay, you can submit it yourself; that is if they accept direct submissions. Its easy enough to find those answers with a little research.
All Aboard!!
Short stories work well in creating a series. Think of each new release as an episode.
A series can be done on a weekly or monthly basis. This can be fun without being time consuming.
There are so many ways to get started but you’ve got to write it first – at least a draft and then (when you know the rules) make it fit. Now place a stamp on it or hit the send button and you’re on your way.
At this point, I don’t know if I’ve said too much or not enough [giggle] so I’ll do a quick little summary and get back in the garden.
How to Publish Short Stories
Pick a genre. Decide where you will submit, read the rules and regulations and write within those guidelines. ✅
Submit your piece once it is complete and polished.
Enter as many Short Story Contests as you can. Keep in mind you cannot send the same story to multiple publishers. In most cases you must wait for a letter of acceptance or rejection before you can send that same piece to another publisher.
Rub elbows with other authors, figuratively, of course. Collaborate on anthologies when possible.
Create and publish your own collection of short stories.
Do not pay to enter a short story contest.
Before you submit a piece, know whether you are being paid by the word or by the story/submission. 
Here’s wishing you all success!
Right on? Write on!
Posthumous Accolades (A Toast to Dan) 🥂
Dan succumbed to a heart condition in September. I hear he was a gentle, soft spoken man. Rest in eternal peace Dan Wickett, and thank you for giving us National Short Story Month. Daniel Earl Wickett, 1966-2025
I suggest further reading about Dan and what he’s done for the writing community in this article found at  Ann Arbor Chronicle
The thought of losing a child cripples me [emotionally]. Although I have thankfully not lost a child to war my mama heart hurts so deeply for those who have that is how this poem was born so many years ago.
That is why I share it here today.
But let me not forget – let none of us forget.
Memorial Day is more than a long weekend, a parade, or a flag waving in the warm breeze. For many families, it is a chair left empty. A voice that no longer answers. A folded flag resting where a son, daughter, husband, wife, father, or mother once stood.
Today, we remember those who took an oath beneath a flag of pride and came home draped beneath it.
This poem was written years ago, but like grief itself, its meaning never ages. It is for the mothers who still whisper lullabies into silence, for the families who carry pride and heartbreak in the same breath — the same trembling hands. And for every fallen service member who gave all they had —whose absence still echoes through the lives they left behind.
Little Man By Janna Hill
IT’S TIME TO GO TO bed little man Cover up your head little man I’ll see you when the sun breaks in the morn Say your prayers and close your eyes I’ve locked the monsters all outside She’d sang those words to him since he was born
He grew to be a brave young lad And followed after his ole dad Beneath a flag of pride his oath was sworn They brought him home in silk lined wood And all around him soldiers stood While Butterfield’s Lullaby played upon the horn
It’s time to go ahead little man I know that you weren’t scared little man My heart breaks I can’t see you and I mourn I’ve said my prayers for your closed eyes I’ve tucked my feelings deep inside She sang into a folded flag of thorns.
