In March of this year, I wrote my first flash fiction story.
It was about an 82-year-old woman named Gracie, rocking in her chair on her porch, reflecting upon her life.
Today is another flash fiction story about Gracie, who is eight years old. Long before those 82 years of life experience kicked in.
This flash fiction is about the early signs of who Gracie would become, and the first quiet stirrings of the peace she would one day find within herself—peace that would stay with her all the way to that rocking chair at 82.
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Gracie Always Knew - A Doll's Lesson
Gracie held her favorite doll, its painted smile forever unchanged.
She studied it closely, realizing that while she had learned to run faster, dream bigger, and feel deeper, the doll had stayed exactly the same. Time moved through her like the changing seasons—shaping her in quiet, steady ways—while the doll stayed exactly the same.
That's when she understood: time only changes the living.
She gave the doll a pretend life, imagining it full of thoughts and adventures. But sometimes, late at night, another thought crept in—what if someone imagined me into being, giving me my lines, feelings, and story?
Church was as much a part of her life as brushing her teeth or saying goodnight. And with church came God, expected, unquestioned, and ever-present.
But the older she got, the more she wondered: Where is God? Why is God? Her questions had grown more detailed now, shaped by the things she was starting to notice about the world and about herself. Those questions were still too big to hold, but she carried them anyway.
She thought often about who she was becoming.
There was one thing she wanted to be more than anything—kind. Really kind. The type of kind that came from the inside, not just because someone was watching. At eight years old, she failed at that many times. But it remained ever-present in her spirit.
Most of the time, she was kind. But not always. Sometimes, she snapped at her little brother and was mean to her little brother!
Sometimes, envy crept in like a thief. She felt that and knew jealousy was not something to cling to. Still, deep down, she understood those moments didn't define her. They were passing clouds, not her sky.
Something inside her—some glowing ember she couldn't name—kept telling her that kindness mattered more than almost anything else. It was what made people beautiful. Not their clothes, or their hair, or even their words.
She felt kindness was like sunlight through a window—gentle, warm, and easy to miss if you weren't paying attention, but everything felt better there.
However, the world didn't always agree.
Gracie had started to notice contradictions.
Adults talked about love, forgiveness, and doing what was right. They sang about it in church, prayed about it at dinner, and nodded solemnly as Church leaders spoke.
But then the same people would gossip, lose their tempers, or ignore someone who needed help. It confused her. How could they forget so quickly?
She wanted to believe people meant well—that they were just trying, like she was. But part of her couldn't shake the feeling that some were only pretending—that they wore kindness like a costume and took it off when it no longer served them.
And then, with a quiet sigh, she admitted it—Sometimes, I do that too.
The realization didn't crush her, but settled into her chest with weight. Maybe being good wasn't about getting it right every time. Perhaps it was about not giving up when you got it wrong.
Gracie didn't like the idea of perfection—something about it always felt impossible, like a game no one could win. And yet, she couldn't help but chase it.
Even at eight, she felt the pressure to be the one who got it right, who made things better, who didn't let anyone down. Somewhere along the way, without meaning to, she'd written herself a silent set of rules: Be better. Fix it. Don't disappoint.
She didn't know it then, but that quiet urge to rescue and make things right would shape much of her life—until years later, when she finally began to see its weight and learn a different way of being.
You see, Gracie was, by nature, a rescuer. But she didn't know that yet.
For now, at eight years old, she knew only this: being a doll would be so much easier. Dolls didn't have to ask questions, feel pain, or wrestle with what was right. Dolls didn't worry about being enough.
It was the first time she realized how heavy it could be to be real—and maybe the first clue that she was beginning to understand more than most eight-year-olds.
That's when Gracie wrote her first poem, at 8 years old. She called it "Thanksgiving."
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Am I Gracie?
You can safely presume that I'm Gracie, and yes, that first poem called Thanksgiving is included in my published poetry book below. I penned it when I was in grade 3; it is childlike and reflects the idealistic mind of an 8-year-old.
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I hope you've enjoyed the story of Gracie's life lesson at eight years old. 🕮
If you're into a longer story, I've penned this short story, The Gift of Knowing (can you sense a theme here?).
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*50 Years of Poetry - We Will Have Morning Smiles, Available on Amazon (A lifetime of my personal poetry). *Commissionsearned
