Short Stories – Hugh's Views & News

Unveiling ‘Story Chat Digest: Where Stories Meet’ – A Journey Through Fiction, Community, and Creativity!

Published on Mar 16, 2026Mar 17, 2026 by Hugh W. Roberts24 Comments

Now in its fourth year, Story Chat began as a conversation between Marsha Ingaro and me when Marsha invited me to write a short story on her blog, Always Write.

Little did we know that over the coming years, the Story Chat community would expand, with writers, bloggers, and authors from around the world contributing new stories. Not only that, but the growing community would discuss each story in the comments of each post, creating a space where contributors could receive valuable feedback.

But the highlight has to be the publication of three Story Chat books.

I’m delighted to introduce you to the third book in the Story Chat series – ‘Story Chat Digest: Where Stories Meet,’ edited and compiled by Marsha Ingrao.

In this volume, writers from around the world contributed short fiction and contemporary poetry inspired by the Story Chat community at AlwaysWrite.blog.

Each piece stands alone, yet together they create a tapestry of voices exploring memories, mysteries, resilience, humour, faith, family, and the quiet intricacies of everyday life — with a few science fiction stories woven in for imaginative contrast.

This anthology captures not only the stories themselves but also a selection of the connections that inspired them.

The book also offers tips for writing flash fiction, along with a fun ‘Green Bus’ challenge that writers can join in.

Without further ado, allow me to show you the book’s front cover.

An image showing the front cover of the book Story Chat Digest: Where Stories Meet. — Story Chat Digest: Where Stories Meet

My story in this new book is titled “Springtime in Paris.” You might think a television can only show you the world, but what if it could show you the past… the future… or somewhere you were never meant to go?”

The story starts with a very ordinary purchase: a television. But the man who installs it promises something unusual. He says it will take the owner to places he’s never imagined. Soon, the television develops a flickering screen, but then come the whispers in the night. And when the television starts calling the owner by name, it’s something that bends time, memory, and reality itself. Who could have thought a television could do that?

Although ‘Springtime in Paris‘ is classified as a science fiction story, it’s actually based on a true story that happened to me. After the installation of a new television that began switching itself on in the early hours of the morning, the story was born.

Interestingly, in the story’s comments section, some readers also mentioned weird happenings with other household objects. It seems it’s not only television sets that can cause a fear that makes you ask whether what’s happening is actually happening for real.

Story Chat is more than just a book club, writing, or reading challenge. It is a unique and proven online programme that fosters interaction between authors and readers. It’s part writers’ group, part beta readers, part fun fiction, and, most importantly, pure enjoyment.

Contributing Authors

This volume showcases work from an international group of established and emerging writers, each contributing a unique voice and perspective to the page.

HUGH W. ROBERTS – Co-Founder of Story Chat Digest, Wales
MARSHA INGRAO – Co-Founder of Story Chat Digest, U.S.
GARY A. WILSON, Editor, U.S.
DOUG JACQUIER, Editor, Australia
MARIANE ALLEN, U.S.
NIGEL BYNG, U.S.
CATHY CADE, UK
ROBERTA AND MICHAEL CHEADLE, S. Africa
ESTHER CHILTON UK
DIANA COOMBS, UK
PHILIP CUMBERLAND, UK
RICHARD DANIELS, U.S.
MIRIAM ELEN, New Zealand
GRANT FERGUSON, U.S.
AMANDA FORESTWOOD, Australia
DARLENE FOSTER, Spain
CINDY GEORGAKAS, U.S.
GEOFF LE PARD, UK
JULESPAIGE, U.S.
YVETTE PRIOR U.S.
SADJE, Pakistan
LAUREN SCOTT, U.S.
J.T. TWISSEL, U.S.
SMITHA VISHWANATH, Kenya
MAGGIE WATSON, UK

Story Chat Digest can be found on Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk.

Story Chat Volumes 1 & 2

If you’ve never read the first two books in the series, I strongly recommend you give them a go.

Story Chat Vol: 1 features stories from 14 international authors, all inspired by a well of inspiration, life experiences, and unique perspectives, making the stories not just entertainment but also a means of connection, reflection, and understanding of our world.

An image of the book cover for Story Chat Vol: 2 — Story Chat Vol: 1

I have two stories in this book – ‘The People Under The Stairs‘ and ‘Puddles,’ both of which take you on a journey to the edge of your imagination. Is there really anything under the stairs that can talk to you, and when was the last time you encountered a puddle of water that can make people disappear?

Story Chat Vol 1 is available at Amazon.com and Amazon.UK.

Story Chat Vol: 2 – The second book features a diverse collection of original short stories by 20 authors from around the world. While most stories are dramas suitable for all ages, from children to older adults, this collection includes science fiction and comedy. Additionally, two non-fiction articles (one of which I authored) discussing the writing process are included. All selections are family-friendly, although the topics are aimed at adult readers.

An image of the book cover for Story Chat Vol:1 — Story Chat Vol: 2

My story in volume 2 is called ‘The Watcher,’ another mind-bending tale that will make you question whether what you’ve read actually happened to you! I won’t say more, as I don’t want to spoil the ending.

You can purchase the Story Chat Vol 2 by following these links. Amazon.uk and Amazon.com

If you enjoy reading any of the Story Chat books, please consider:

• Leaving a short review on Amazon or Goodreads
• Sharing this post with fellow readers
• Recommending the book to a friend or book club

Small actions help independent books find new readers — and help the Story Chat community continue to grow.

Do I have any favourite stories in the books?

Yes, but every story has a reason for its inclusion in the books, and behind each tale is a talented author and writer who has poured their heart and soul into crafting every word.

It is not just about telling a tale; it’s about the complex web of ideas, emotions, and experiences that come together in a narrative that touches readers on different levels. Favourites vary from person to person, and that’s why every story can be a favourite.

I’d like to conclude by thanking everyone who has contributed stories, poems, and writing tips to all three of the Story Chat books. But most of all, I’d like to thank Marsha Ingrao for all her hard work and the time she dedicated to putting together and publishing three books that have made publishing dreams come true for many writers.

If you have any inquiries regarding the Story Chat books or community, or if you want to learn how to become a Story Chat contributor, feel free to leave me a comment.

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The featured image in this post is my own and was edited with photo-editing software. WordPress AI was used to check for spelling and grammar mistakes.

A man in a top hat and tails and a woman in a gown are dancing in a mirrored ballroom.

Reflections of Elegance: A Dance Beyond the Veil

Published on Mar 9, 2026Mar 9, 2026 by Hugh W. Roberts34 Comments

“Welcome to this week’s dance class, everyone. For those first-timers, I’m Michael, your instructor. Let’s begin with introductions from the first-timers.”

They moved around the circle, nervous laughter flitting between strangers. more so when Tom, dressed in a top hat and tails, introduced himself. When they finished, Michael counted again.

Eleven. An odd number.

“Well,” he smiled, clapping once, “who’d like to partner with me? Maggie?”

“I’m with Emily, my wife,” announced Maggie.

“Tom?” Michael gestured. “You don’t mind dancing with another man, do you? After all, you’re dressed for the part.”

Tom looked horrified. “Why would I dance with a man? I’m here with my wife.”

There was a polite pause while everyone waited for Tom’s wife to reveal herself. A few people looked towards all the empty space around Tom.

“Of course,” Michael said casually as he broke the silence. “Right, take your positions, everyone. I’ve some hits of the eighties to dance to later, but first we’re going to do an old-fashioned waltz.”

Tom frowned before music filled the room, and shoes softly whispered over polished wood. Partners turned, stepped, and breathed together.

Tom moved carefully, one hand curved around an invisible waist, the other clasping fingers no one else could see. Every now and then, Michael and the other dancers watched Tom smile as he spoke to himself.

“Tom,” Michael said gently, as he approached the edge of the mirror. “Are you sure you’re all right? You’re dancing alone.”

“But she’s right here with me. We’ve been coming here for years,” he said as he faced Michael and the large, mirrored wall. “Tell him, Darling.”

In the room, the figure of a much younger woman in a ball gown appeared in Tom’s arms.

Maggie gasped. Emily staggered backwards while Michael felt the air leave his lungs.

The woman kissed Tom on the cheek, leaving lipstick on his face, and then lifted a hand and pressed it flat against the mirror.

Inside the mirror, Michael and the other dancers started to scream. Tom watched as their reflections shattered into tiny pieces along with the mirror before he and his wife left the room.

Outside the old music hall, where many from the past once danced, the ghostly figures of a man in a top hat and tails and a woman in a ball gown departed the hall once more. Tom hadn’t liked the glimpse of the future he had seen in the mirror.

Written in response to Esther Chilton’s Writing Prompt: Theme: Dance.

The featured image in this post was created using the WordPress AI Image Generator block. AI was also used for checking spelling and grammar mistakes.

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An AI generated image of some small, blood-red snacks

The Secret of Homolastic Delights

Published on Jan 19, 2026Jan 19, 2026 by Hugh W. Roberts56 Comments

“Which do you prefer? Snack 8816CAO coloured what we now call light red, or snack 10345HBX coloured what we now call deep red? Which one tastes the best and why?

“The second one, definitely the second one. And I love the colour.”

“But why?”

“Makes it look much more mouthwatering. Tastes better. Reminds me of a place I was once told about. A far-off place whose name I can’t recall.”

“Congratulations, you’ve chosen the best. It’s our own brand and is less expensive than the market leader you also tried. Can I tempt you to receive a few packets as payment?”

“Yes, please, but I have to ask. What’s the flavour and what makes it that…what did you call it, deep red colour?”

“Homolastic.’ It was discovered on a planet in the Malleable system. The dominant species on that planet is homo sapiens. They refer to it as a substance called plastic, something they think they created themselves, but unknown to them, did not. We planted it there.”

“Planted?”

“Yes, we found it on the red planet that neighbours them. That planet is now uninhabitable, although they believe that one day they can inhabit it.”

“And the colour?”

“Their blood, which, unlike ours, is liquid-form. When mixed with homolastic and the other ingredients, the majority of our testers agree it’s the best flavour. There are just under 8 billion homosapiens, and most are infested with homolastic, so we’ll never run out during our lifetime. And when their planet becomes uninhabitable, we’ll have a new home.”

Written in response to Esther Chilton’s Writing Prompt: Theme: Red.

The featured image in this post was created using the WordPress AI Image Generator block. AI was also used for checking spelling and grammar mistakes.

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#fiction #christmas #shortstory #shortstories

Do You Believe In Father Christmas?

Published on Dec 12, 2025Dec 12, 2025 by Hugh W. Roberts93 Comments

When I was eight years old, I did the most despicable thing.

On Christmas Eve 1970, I told my five-year-old sister that there was no such thing as Father Christmas. She was horrified.

Telling her that Father Christmas did not exist was the worst thing I ever did.

My mother was so angry with me. She sent me to my room.

I missed supper. I missed the carol-singers outside our house.

I missed seeing the first snowflakes of what was to be my first white Christmas. And I missed the evening of Christmas Eve, my favourite time of the year.

However, worse was to come.

I cried myself to sleep, blaming Father Christmas for what had happened.

Sometime during the night, I was woken by hands around my throat.

“You evil boy!” boomed the voice. I was too frightened to open my eyes.

“Open your eyes, boy! Do it, or you will never see Christmas again.”

He forced me to open my eyes. I don’t know how he did it, but he somehow did.

I couldn’t believe what I saw.

I was shocked beyond belief. It was Father Christmas who had his hands around my throat.

“You never, never tell anyone ever again that I do not exist. Do you understand me, boy?” I tried nodding my head, despite being in complete shock.

“Good. Now, look deep into my eyes.”

Seconds later, I saw a flock of robins in his eyes and, before I knew it, they were propelled into my eyes.

The screeching sound they made hurt my ears. I could not scream for help to my mother or father because of the tightly gripped hands around my throat. I finally managed to close my eyes, and the screeching robins and hands around my throat disappeared.

Terrified by what had happened, I crawled under my bed. I curled up into a tiny ball and shivered the night away. Sleep did come, but only briefly.

It was the sound of laughter that woke me.

I could hear the muffled voices of my family. It was Christmas morning, and they were already downstairs.

How could they have forgotten to wake me up?

I crawled out from under my bed and made my way past the open door of my bedroom. On the floor, at the top of the stairs, were two empty Christmas stockings. How could they have emptied their stockings without me?

I ran down the stairs and into the lounge, which was lit up with Christmas lights.

“Mum, Dad, Julie…I’m sorry,” I cried, but none of them took any notice of me. “Please forgive me, don’t spoil Christmas.” But it was no good, they just ignored me.

That’s when I saw the strange boy.

“Oh, that’s lovely, Hugh. Grandma sure knows how to knit Christmas jumpers,” laughed Dad, as he hugged the strange boy.

For the rest of the day, I watched as the boy with my name took my place. Nobody bothered me. Nobody even noticed I was there. It was as if I were a ghost.

I finally went to bed and cried myself to sleep. The whole family had arrived at our house and a Christmas party was in full swing.

The next morning, my mother woke me up.

“Are you feeling better, Hugh?”

“Are you talking to me?” I asked her.

“Of course, I am. Who else goes by your name in this house? Come on, it’s Boxing Day, and we need to get over to Grandma’s house.”

I didn’t ever say anything to anybody about what had happened, and I didn’t see the strange-looking boy with my name again.

Well, I didn’t see him until the following Christmas Day when the whole thing happened again. And it’s happened every Christmas since then.

You see, my place is now taken by a ghost, but only on that one day of the year when I become a ghost.

I’m so happy and thankful that it’s not Christmas every day.

Do you believe in Father Christmas?

This short story was originally published on my blog in December 2019.

Image created by Hugh W. Roberts using Canva.

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When The Clocks Go Back

Published on Oct 25, 2025Oct 26, 2025 by Hugh W. Roberts42 Comments

Old Tom watched the clock, dread clawing at his insides. At two in the morning on the night the clocks went back, they always returned to torment him—haunting reminders of the mistake he had made when he’d forgotten, one year, to turn the clocks back.

However, one fateful night, an hour after the clocks had gone back, the spectres faded, but the shadows lingered too long, and Tom never opened his eyes again.

The day before the clocks went back, Monica moved into Tom’s old house, blissfully unaware of the terror that lurked within its walls. Exhausted from the move, she resolved to set her clocks back an hour at dawn.

At 2:00 AM, Monica was suddenly jolted awake by the unmistakable creak of her bedroom door slowly opening. A cold sweat trickled down her brow as she froze in place, eyes wide, witnessing the ghostly figure of an old man twisting and writhing, a cruel smile stretching across his face as he glided towards her.

“What are you doing in my house and in my bed?” the ghost thundered, his voice echoing through the almost empty room, making her heart race.

For what seemed like an hour, the ghost tormented her with the same words until the clock struck 2 AM for the second time, and Tom’s malevolent spirit dissipated into the air. Monica’s pulse quickened, doubt lingering in her mind. Was it all a nightmare, or a malevolent invitation?

She blinked, and the chill of reality sunk in. The bedroom door gaped wide open, the darkness beyond beckoning like an abyss. She was sure she had locked it tight, a protective measure against the night.

As a cold autumnal breeze caressed her bare skin, a frantic shiver coursed down her spine. Heart pounding, she inched to the door and tentatively closed it, sealing herself in with the echoes of her terror.

Climbing back into bed, she pulled the covers tightly around her, desperate for warmth—a futile shield against her fear. But soon, sleep reclaimed her, its sweet embrace luring her into a false sense of security.

When the clocks struck 2 AM for the third time, a bone-chilling rustle beneath her bed shattered her dream. Something slithered just out of sight, a dread revelation that all was not right, confirming that her nightmare was merely beginning.

Monica never woke up from the nightmare until the following year, on the night the clocks went back, when, with Tom, she visited the new owner of Tom’s house to check if they’d remembered to put the clocks back.

Linking to Sunday Stills hosted by Terri Webster Schrandt – Theme: Scary

The clocks go back in Europe and the UK on the last Sunday of October.

In 2025, the clocks go back on Sunday, November 2nd, in most of the USA and Canada that observe Daylight Saving Time (DST).

Feature image credit: Image by Alexa from Pixabay

Looking for more spooky tales like this? Check out my first collection of short stories and flash fiction.

Glimpses

28 short stories and pieces of flash fiction take the reader on a rollercoaster of twists and turns.

Available on Amazon

Paperback – £4.99

Kindle – £0.99

A photograph of a green tour bus from the 1930s with the words 'Agatha Christie Bus Tour To Greenway' on the side.

Bloggers/Authors: Are You Ready For A Writing Challenge?

Published on Sep 12, 2025Sep 12, 2025 by Hugh W. Roberts

I’m excited to share that I have published a new post on Marsha Ingrao’s blog, Always Write, dedicated to the captivating art of flash fiction!

If you’re a writer looking to sharpen your skills or a reader eager to explore new narrative forms, this piece offers valuable tips to help you craft compelling stories in a brief format.

But that’s not all! To test your newfound knowledge, I invite you to take part in a creative flash fiction challenge: Write a complete flash fiction story in just 101 words based on the image I have used as the featured image on this post. The image also features in the post.

Whether you’re an experienced author or just starting out, this is an excellent opportunity to unleash your imagination. Jump in, write away, and let’s see what wonderful stories we can create together!

Check out the post on Marsha’s blog for all the details.

Click the image or link below to be taken straight to the post.

An image introducing the guest post about writing flash fiction. — Are you up for a writing challenge?

Story Chat Digest: “Mastering the Art of Flash Fiction” by Hugh W. Roberts

If you have any comments or questions, please leave them on the post on Marsha’s blog, as I am closing comments here to ensure all comments and questions are in one place where everyone can see them.

Have fun with the challenge. Happy writing.

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An image with a blue background with the words 'Flash Fiction' in white text.

Flash Fiction – A Small Invasion

Published on Aug 11, 2025Aug 11, 2025 by Hugh W. Roberts30 Comments

Nobody took much notice of the small Halloween pod that appeared in the Griffiths’ small front window on the night before Halloween. They’d sold the place because it was too small, and the neighbours thought the new owners had placed the pod there. But they were wrong!

The mesmerising, faint green glow out of the eyes and mouth of the pod during daytime Halloween became brighter as the sun set and dusk arrived. It was a sight to behold, especially for the innocent local small children who couldn’t resist posing with it for photos. Their innocence, a stark contrast to the small danger lurking within, made them all the more vulnerable.

Photo of a halloween pumpkin — Halloween

Little did they know that the small creature inside was not just observing, but also making intricate plans. Its intelligence, a chilling reminder of the impending threat, was something to be feared and respected.

At the stroke of midnight, the pod cracked open, and the small, agile creature darted out. It was now a master of disguise, mimicking all the costumes it had seen. Its constant shifting and learning, and planning its next move, was a clear sign of the magnitude of the threat.

By dawn, the small population of the street had shrunk, mostly of children. Of course, nobody took any notice of me, the new owner of the Griffiths’ house, as I blended in seamlessly into your world, now a perfect mimic of your kind.

They asked me about the small pod and the missing children, but I denied any knowledge of them. Over the following twelve months, the city’s human population decreased.

On the run-up to Halloween, keep your eyes peeled for a small alien pod in your neighbourhood. But more importantly, keep a close eye on your neighbours. After all, every invasion starts small.

Written for Esther Chilton’s writing prompt: Small.

The featured image in this blog post was created using AI.

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Flash Fiction – Follow The Feathers

Published on Jul 23, 2025Jul 31, 2025 by Hugh W. Roberts25 Comments

Slowly opening the front door, Adrian listened for signs of life.

Fairly confident that nobody was home, he stepped inside.

Should he go to the kitchen for snacks or upstairs to turn on his new PlayStation and watch his new favourite show? What lay on the stairs held the answer. Brightly coloured feathers going up the stairs piqued his curiosity to follow them. How did they get there?

An image of a carpeted staircase with some brightly coloured feathers lying on some of the steps.

Hearing muffled voices, he suddenly stopped and walked towards where they were coming from. The door to his parents’ bedroom wasn’t fully closed, allowing him to look through the small gap.

The scent of his mother’s perfume hit his nostrils. She was sitting down with her back to the door wearing a dress he’d never seen her in before, one his father had probably bought her. A feathered boa lay around her neck. The mystery of the strange coloured feathers was solved. He watched briefly as she scrunched her hair and wondered if she knew the zip on the back of the dress was not zipped up all the way. Had she had her hair styled differently? It didn’t look right. Something nagged at him.

“Mum?”

“Adrian!” came a deep, shocked voice. His father turned around to face the door, spitting a feather out of his mouth; his expression readable. “I thought you were going to Danny’s after college?”

Adrian froze, his heart racing. The sight of his father, clad in a dress, feather boa and wig, left him speechless. The room behind the door filled with an awkward silence, until broken by the soft rustle of the feathers and then laughter.

“Uh, I—” his father stammered, a mix of surprise and embarrassment washing over his face. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

Adrian blinked, trying to process the scene. “Then what is it?” he asked, as he pushed open the door.

His mother laughed nervously and joined his father from the other side of the room, a playful spark in her eyes. “Maybe we should tell him. It’s about time he knows.”

With a sigh, Adrian’s father straightened and took a deep breath. “Alright, Adrian. This isn’t what you think. Your mother and I are part of a show for the charity gala this weekend. We thought it would be fun to do a dress-rehearsal at home.”

“Dress-rehearsal?” Adrian echoed, incredulity giving way to excitement. The mystery of the feathers and the strange scene before him transformed into something far more compelling.

“Yes!” his mother said, smiling brightly. “We could really use your help! How about you watch us rehearse and tell us what you think?”

Realising he was now part of this unexpected adventure, Adrian grinned. “No thanks. I’d rather go on my PlayStation. But have fun.”

As laughter filled the room, Adrian walked to his bedroom, his earlier curiosity now filled with enthusiasm for a new side of his parents and their secret world.

Switching on his PlayStation, Adrian didn’t play any games. He connected to the BBC iPlayer to watch a newly discovered show which had now become his favourite.

“Welcome to RuPaul’s Drag Race UK,” said another man wearing a dress. He looked far more glamorous than Adrian’s father did.

Written for Sunday Stills hosted by Terri Webster-Schrandt: – Theme: Feathers.

The featured image and main image in this blog post were created using AI.

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Flash Fiction – Crossroads Of Desire

Published on Jul 7, 2025Jul 7, 2025 by Hugh W. Roberts25 Comments

Bill found himself at a pivotal moment in his life, a crossroads where four paths presented a significant choice.

The first path urged him to continue as he was, the second promised a life of monotony, the third, a hidden path, offered a tempting solution. And the fourth, a choice he had contemplated but never acted upon, beckoned him.

The third choice, a path he had never before considered, now loomed before him. It was a problem he had never faced, one that had afflicted countless others but had never touched his life. It was a choice that carried a weight of uncertainty and fear.

With a sense of inevitability, Bill reached for the box that held the four blue pills. He’d made his decision and picked up his phone. He started his journey down path three.

An image of a middle-aged man texting on his phone. Sitting beside him is a woman of the same age, taking cash out of her purse. — Image created using WordPress AI.

‘I’ll be with you in an hour’ were the only words in his text message to Nina.

‘An hour?’ came the response. ‘I want you now!’

‘I need to run some errands for the Mrs first,’ he sent back.

Of course, the real reason was that he had to give the pill he’d just taken time to take effect, otherwise he couldn’t give Nina what he’d been giving her for the last five years of their affair.

A sad emoji with the words ‘See you in an hour, lover,’ came back.

Three miles away, Bill’s wife looked at the naked body of the younger man next to her. She remembered when Bill had a body of the man next to her, but Bill’s body had changed, and something didn’t work anymore.

“I’ve got to go,” said the young man.

Bill’s wife wondered if he had another client. “My payment?” he asked.

‘What a great choice I made,’ Bill’s wife told herself as she handed over the cash. She’d made the right choice and wondered if Bill had made any choices today.

Written for Esther Chilton’s writing prompt – This week’s prompt is ‘Choices.’

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Flash Fiction – Blue Sky

Published on Jun 16, 2025Jun 16, 2025 by Hugh W. Roberts23 Comments

When Mike went back to the piece of wall art, this time on his own, there was something different about it.

There was still the blue sky and some fluffy white clouds, with a young man looking up at the sky through the V-shaped gap that had appeared in a stone-cold grey wall. The ground around the young man was strewn with rocks and parts of the wall that had fallen away, revealing the blue sky.

It didn’t take him long to realise what was different. Somebody had added a pair of blue wings to the V-shape where the wall met. It was the message he’d been waiting for.

Three minutes later, after gazing at the blue sky, with butterflies fluttering in his stomach, Mike stood on the precipice of his life, his blue eyes fixed on the future. He refused to look down, for fear of being trapped in his past. All he craved was the promise of what lay ahead.

With both arms outstretched, Mike positioned them at shoulder height. As the sun emerged from behind a cloud, making his blue eyes shine, a silent affirmation of his chosen path, he took a step forward. He flapped his arms, now transformed into wings, a symbol of his journey to his true love, David.

It wasn’t just the butterflies that soared; his final journey to reunite with David carried him through the artwork towards the blue sky. On the other side, he was greeted by a serene landscape, a testament to the peace and acceptance he had found.

With open arms, his first love, David, and the endless blue skies welcomed him.

Written for Esther Chilton’s writing prompt – This week’s prompt is ‘Blue.’

The featured image and main image in this blog post were created using AI.

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