illumined

welcome readers & writers. jessica lemmon and filmguy, thank you for your stories about Roo's place. i love to read your work!

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here's my spin on today's photo prompt:

5. 7. 5.

transitory light

this tempest breaks, blossoms heat

bleak midnight scatters

come write with me!  story, poem or creative non-fiction. 250(ish) words or less.  don't stress - just type! click on comments below to share your work.

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thursday's string around the finger: click the stumble upon icon on the right hand side of the page when you like what you read here. thanks!

spiffed

welcome readers & writers! a good wednesday to you, mateys. thanks to krowles1981 and chuck galle for your early morning posts on yesterday's photo - i was happy to see them in my inbox. 

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i took this photo on a trip through western texas in july. in case you can't read the small writing under "ROO'S" it says NAILS & TOES. here's my story about Roo's place. i'd love to read yours!
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Roo dabbed some powder on her nose. Still in the parking lot, she was waiting for Lonestar's Already There to end. With a click she shut the compact and tucked it into her purse, humming along. The energy she felt for work now was amazing. She'd been renting a chair in a big salon a few blocks from town square, but the place was the pits. Gossip. Catfights. No one hired to sweep up or wash towels. Most nights Roo was the last to leave. Even the owner would take off early, calling to Roo, "Thanks, hun!" Roo left exhausted, only to do it all again the next day. Until February. 
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On Valentine's Day, her husband Burt took her out to dinner and then, on the way home, pulled into this very lot. She'd made a joke about parking. He'd laughed and leaned in to kiss her, but only once before pulling her out of the car into chilly night air. When they were front and center to the building he'd hollered "Okay!"  His buddy Frank, who'd been waiting to turn on the porch light, flipped the switch. "Happy Valentine's Day, Ruby Marie," he'd whispered in her ear. She'd been in heaven ever since. Long hours and sore feet as an investment in your own place is a real pleasure. 
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She chuckled, wishing again that he hadn't painted it brown. New paint was already stashed in the back room, but she was gonna wait another month or two so as not to hurt his feelings.  No matter. It might be beige on the outside, but inside, from nine to six-thirty Tuesday through Saturday, the place was abuzz with color: Palest Pink, Fire Engine Red, St. Patty's Green, Jack-O-Lantern. Bright smiles, good music, and laughter. The song ended and Roo hopped out of the car. Time to start the day!
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Click on comments below to share your story, poem or creative non-fiction response to the photo.    

imbued

welcome readers & writers!

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here's my response to today's prompt, a photo i took yesterday at walnut creek here in austin: 

Yes, Demery, there really is autumn in Austin. Last September, our first in this great big state of Texas, I kept waiting for the leaves to turn.  I'm pretty sure it happened sometime near the middle of December.  This did not go over well with me. It didn't help, of course, that I was grieving the loss of so many beautiful Pennsylvania people, traditions, and, of course, Pennsylvania autumns. Rolling hills and crisp air that carries on it the smell of fireplaces crackling at night and that little nip in the air for Saturday morning soccer games.  Pumpkin picking.  Fresh apple cider.  Weeks on end when even the gentlest breeze could whisper through the trees and send leaves fluttering to the ground like big fluffy, unwieldy snowflakes.   
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It didn't help that Austin was in a record breaking drought when our moving van rolled into town, that we spent our first few months here watching our grass die, our trees wilt and every green plant in the the neighborhood turn brown.  It didn't help that Halloween day dawned too warm for me to wear my long sleeved black jack-o-lantern t-shirt. We did have - oh - a full five minutes of snow. Once. Not long before Christmas. When the leaves were bright yellow, orange and red and only just getting around to contemplating their dramatic little swan dives. Just before Christmas. Right around Hannukah. Pulling out the rake. Did I mention?
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To see a smattering... just a few... gorgeous fallen leaves yesterday was a happy surprise. Maybe this year's weather and lack of drought is the difference. Or maybe my heart is opening to my wonderful not-so-new city and I simply had the eyes to see the first fallen beauties this year. Regardless, it's September for another day or two and Austin's autumn is right on time.
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come write with me?  story, poem, creative non-fiction or simply just your description of how fall is unfolding where you are. click on comments below to share.  i love to read your work!

tasted

welcome readers & writers. thank you so much for stopping in. it's monday on write away every day, and most other places in the western hemisphere too. a new day! a new week!  lettuce, er let us open ourselves to the unexpected blessings this week has in store.

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writers, what's your story, poem or creative non-fiction take on today's photo prompt?  i can't wait to read it. send it in by clicking on comments below. 250(ish) words or less - though we're flexible with word count around here.

here's my spin:

Arthur returned the menu to the trembling hands of his waiter, who said, "May I say, sir, that your choice of wine is a perfect complement to the meal." "Yes, yes." Arthur waved the menu, the compliment and the waiter away with an age-spotted hand. As the meanest critic in New York, he was used to this kind of simpering. He scratched a few notes in his moleskin notebook regarding this restaurant's lack of originality. Though the chef had taken special care creating a stellar new menu, though the owner had invested a full month's profits into all new linens, which were gorgeous, by the way, Arthur could only see letters on a page and fabric covered tables. He'd been in the critique business so long now he was almost incapable of enjoying a meal. And he certainly never started anymore by writing about what he liked. In fact, it had come to pass that Arthur would only order the most expensive, most unique dish on the menu. Even then there was little hope for a positive review. So chefs expecting a visit from Arthur had begun "thinking outside the box" on the off-off chance that Arthur might toss a kind word their direction. Tonight was no exception. 

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It was plated beautifully and sent out at lightning speed (a fact he'd failed to notice, of course). It was set down a bit wonkily by his waiter's wobbly hands (this he did notice, of course). Arthur took a sip of water to cleanse his palate from the sub-par salad course he'd choked down and took a bite of the steaming dish. The whole staff watched from a distance. The waiter, leaning in from a neighboring table, heard Arthur say, "Mmmmm-mmmmm." The customer watching along with the waiter said, "I'll have what he's having." "Are you certain?" asked the waiter. "If it's that good, then yes." "Very well, then," said the waiter, "One grilled shark's tongue smothered in radish puree. Coming right up." "Um," said the customer. "Make that meatloaf. I'll have the meatloaf."           

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come write with me!

rested

happy sunday, readers & writers!  today is sabbath sunday - time to breathe and catch up. i'll be looking ahead to plan the week's posts and photos. you are very welcome to look back at photos you might have missed reading or writing about. it's never too late to write about a photo, or to go back to a story you wrote and continue the story.  just send it in by clicking on comments below that particular photo. enjoy... and see you tomorrow, yes?
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* * *

p.s. i'm sorry to have missed my post for spoof saturday yesterday. the stomach flu has been making its way through our house and yesterday was my turn :( feeling a little better today. spoof saturday will return next weekend.

secluded

readers & writers, it's photog friday! but first let me pause to thank c johnson, brian potopowitz, and ash for your great responses to yesterday's photo.

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i'm so excited to share today's photog friday writing prompt with you because it is the work of my childhood friend jeff gray, who is now a gifted photographer and artist. jeff and his equally talented wife jewels own Gray Photography in denver, colorado. thank you, jeff, for your gorgeous photo!

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ya'll, see more of jeff and jewels' amazing work by clicking here. here's my spin on the photo:
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Kate lets go of Sam's hand and runs down the path to the beach. He watches as she stretches out her arms to the sky in a yoga pose - some kind of sun worship dealie - he can't remember what it's called. She spots something in the distance and calls out to him, throwing a huge grin over he shoulder and admonishing him to hurry up already. He used to love her exuberance, her childlike ability to play and to enjoy every moment of the day. Six years later, though, he hates admitting to himself that it's wearing kind of thin. Lately it feels like they're stuck together on some kind of relationship teeter totter. The happier Kate gets, the lower Sam sinks into despair. Like today, he can't see what's so lovely about the beach. It's gray and cloudy and the sky is going to flipping rain all over their plans for the afternoon.  But there she is acting like a preschooler itching for her teacher's approval. Otherwise why would she be doing sun poses and pointing at what is probably a run of the mill seagull or a dime a dozen parasailer? "Okay, already," he grumbles as his feet crunch to the place where rocky path meets sand.  Yes, I see you.  Aren't you the adorably cute one, he wants to yell at her. Maybe loud enough to blow that bright smile off her face.  Then, in the next breath he remembers that he loves her. He loves her.  So, coming up beside her, he forces his voice to a brittle, "I'm here, already. What's the big deal?"  She squeals and claps her hands, pointing at the sky again. He follows her gaze, gasping when he sees it. He takes her hand and squeezes it. "Never, in a million years..." he whispers.       

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writers, i can't wait to read your stories, poems or creative non-fiction responses to jeff's photo. share them by clicking on comments below. come write with me!

penned

writers & readers, welcome! 

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writing friends, i'd love to know what bubbles up inside of you in response to today's photo prompt. creative non-fiction, story or poem: 250(ish) words or less... click on comments below to share. come write with me?

5.7.5.

my lovely cage binds

summer's heat refines, spurns light

freedom conjures sky

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thursday's string around the finger:

remember to share write away every day with a friend  :-)

bandied

welcome readers & writers! many thanks to krowles1981, AbFab and FilmGuy for your awesome responses to yesterday's photo prompt.

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i'm not going to say anything at all about today's photo prompt... want your imaginations to fill in all the blanks. come write with me!  250(ish) words or less - story, poem or non-fiction - click on comments below. 

We can never agree about anything, Reese thought. This is how it goes. Every single solitary time we try to choose something together we end up standing like this - at the paint store, the furniture store, the blasted grocery store for the love of Pete. Each of us too polite to get rude about it and insist on our own way, but much too stubborn to give in. At least at first. We'll go on like this for an hour sometimes until someone -- usually me -- decides it's not worth another minute staring at the thing we disagree about and finally gives in. Not gracefully or generously, but bitterly and with a punishing, "whatever" or "fine." In the end, no matter. Who cares about kitchen tile? And who knows how long it will last anyway.  

can't wait to read your work!
   

celebrated

welcome readers & writers! 

***

here's my spin on today's photo prompt:

today i celebrate you

your presence on this planet

your place in my life

how we are rooted together so profoundly, so completely now 

that we are finally "one" as we vowed we would be 

on that lovely december night

and still i love how we're growing to appreciate each other 

as different people, very different actually 

but unique and wonderful

flawed in our own ways, yet worthy of love and respect

i celebrate your sense of humor and the laugh that goes with it

i celebrate your steadiness, your loyalty, your patience

i celebrate your intelligence

and the way you share the gift of your thoughts and ideas with the world

i celebrate the kind, patient, invested father you are to our kids

what a joy it is to celebrate you, to give thanks for

your presence on this planet

your place in my life

come write with me! story, poem or creative non-fiction - 250(ish) words or less, just click on comments below to share it with your biggest fan, that's me!

imagined

welcome readers & writers!  

***

i took the photo for today's prompt at an old fashioned toy shop here in austin, where most of the toys are made on site. i'd love to read your take on the photo - short story, poem or creative non-fiction. click on comments below to share it, 250(ish) words or less. here's my spin:

Sometimes I lament not having the eyes to see magic anymore, like I did when I was small. My little eyes -- and my mind and heart too, I suppose -- could look at a simple doll house like this and, in a flash, see a whole life to go with it; this sweet little girl in a pink striped skirt would have a name and a laugh and a voice, problems, friends, solutions. The Fisher Price farmer and his farm could take up a whole afternoon of play for me. I'd flip him out of bed, so eager to start his day, and help him water his garden, feed his cow, brush his horse, go to town in the buggy. 

I keep my Little House on the Prairie books in my bedside table because as a child they were my favorites. How many hours did I spend reading about Ma helping Laura and Mary make candy out of molasses and snow, or Mary getting her very own calling cards when the family moved to town? But when I open the books now the words seem so big, the pages so few. The sentences seem almost wooden, sparse and plain.   

Where did they go, my eyes to see? And where is that heart of mine that loved to play? My littlest child asks me almost daily if I will play with him. I try sometimes, though often I nudge him toward an activity he can do on his own. But sometimes I surrender and get lost with him in another world: school or veterinarian or I'm the baby and he's the parent. It's usually not very long before I'm sneaking a look at my watch and saying "five more minutes..." The moment those words leave my mouth I think the blinders must fall again, limiting my sight, hindering what my eyes can see.

come write with me!  

decreed

welcome readers & writers - happy sunday!
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thanks to sitemeter i'm able (for free) to track the numbers of visitors who stop by the blog each day. i've noticed that traffic is very low on saturdays, and even lower on sundays. so this is what i'm thinking: from this day forward sundays will be a day of rest and catching up (which is pretty much how i spend sundays anyway).  
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if you've stopped by to read or write, i invite you to take a look back at the posts you might have missed. writers, i'd love to read your stories, poems or creative non-fiction work on past photos that catch your eye; you should also feel free to add to stories you've posted before. 
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i'll spend the time looking ahead for the week, planning what i hope will be wonderful photo prompts & responses to go with them.  
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many thanks for supporting my blog :) see you tomorrow!
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corrected

welcome, readers & writers - it's spoof saturday!  here on write away every day we try to have a little extra fun and laugh a bit on saturdays.

today's spoof saturday topic:  politically correct kids stories. there are published volumes of stories like this - lots of fun. let's give it a try ourselves! pick your favorite kids story or fairytale and politically correct and/or modernize the language. you might find this website (politically correct terms) helpful. have fun...  

here's mine:

Snow Caucasian was a lovely young chronologically challenged sovereign who lived in a very large house along with her ugly aesthetically challenged stepsisters blended family members.  Snow Caucasian's father was dead metabollically challenged, having left her only the cold comfort of her evil socially maligned stepmother blended family female parent.

In her youth, the socially maligned queen female sovereign had been lovely.  Now she required weekly injections of Botox and multiple plastic surgeries to stave off the wrinkles.  She abhorred wrinkles. The female sovereign tended to function in a stable manner as long as her magic mirror reflective, shatterproof, acrylic panel said she was the fairest female person in the land county.  But when the reflective shatterproof acrylic panel named another, the female sovereign flew into a rage an imbalanced state of negative emotion and sent her guards to usher the lovely maiden unmarried young woman to the next county.  Either that or lob off her head perform euthanasia on her.  

Over the years Snow Caucasian evolved from being a pretty little girl to a smokin' hot aesthetically pleasing female person.  One day the magic reflective shatterproof glass named Snow Caucasian as the fairest in the county.  The female sovereign sent her guard to do away with Snow Caucasian, but Snow Caucasian was so smokin' hot aesthetically pleasing that the guard couldn't hurt her.  He took her to the county line where she found a room for rent in a cottage California ranch style home with seven dwarves vertically challenged male people.  She cooked and cleaned for them. She accepted a position as their domestic engineer.  

When the female sovereign found out that Snow Caucasian was still alive she flew into a rage lost control of her emotions (again), and, disguised as a toothless dentally impaired old woman senior citizen, fed a poison apple toxic Acai berries to Snow Caucasian.  The berries put Snow Caucasian into a deep sleep profound state of unconsciousness until a male sovereign from the neighboring county found her, kissed her, helped her kick her stepmother's hiney overcome her blended family issues.  Now Snow Caucasian is the female sovereign of her county and the shatterproof reflective acrylic panel has been destroyed donated to charity.  Snow Caucasian plans to age embrace the passing years gracefully and to love the skin she's in.

come write with me!  can't wait to see what you come up with - just click on comments below to share it.

hallowed

welcome readers & writers! thank you to krowles1981, chuck galle, brian potopowitz and c johnson for your great stories on yesterday's post. i love writing with ya'll.

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it's photog friday! the photo prompt you see here was taken by Beth Forma, a friend of mine and a gifted photographer here in austin. thank you, Beth, for your interesting and lovely photo. this is Beth's second photo to be posted on write away; to see the other (and the stories that accompanied it) click here. peruse more photog friday fun here, here, here, and here.

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what Beth's photo prompted in me:
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Dear G,
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I don't know what to believe about where you are now. I know what I want to believe. I know what I'm afraid of. I know that buzzing in every cell of my body is a kind of wonder at this life, the beauty and complexity of it all. That can't be an accident, can it? That can't just have ended when you took your last jagged breath. I see these little signs sometimes and I don't know how to read them. I don't trust myself to say them out loud, let alone to celebrate them as they really ought to be celebrated if they're real. 
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First, on the day of your funeral, in the shadow of a snowy, rocky mountain, we said goodbye while the damp chill of a spring snowstorm (death's minion?) bit its way through every layer of warmth we'd piled on ourselves. But then, in the last minute or two, as if God pushed aside the clouds enough so you could see us, one giant circle of blue sky and light emerged above our heads, and it was snowing through sunshine. For a breath or two we were enveloped in warmth, your love? And now this. If it's random, there must be some kind of goodness at least, bouncing about this world like a pinball lighting up its machine. 
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If it's you, or the artist who made you, saying hello - then, well, hello. I love you.
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D
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come write with me! story, poem or creative non-fiction ~ 250(ish) words or less. click on comments below to share. by the way, we're up to 89 followers now (!) do i hear 90?  =)
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singed

welcome readers & writers!  

***

writers, i'm your biggest fan! come write with me :)
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Aemon stretched out on his bunk at the end of the night. Since he was the new guy, he still had to do all the cooking. How long that would last we wasn't sure. The guys dug his homemade sloppy joes - good thing he'd called his ma for the recipe. And, even though he had to cook, they all did the dishes, which was cool. That's how it went. Today was a good day. Not quiet, exactly, because they'd had a kindergarten class through to visit. Even after a week he knew enough to be glad for a day without any calls. It could get boring, but that also meant no homes were burning to the ground. No assistance was needed at the scene of a godawful wreck. Kindergarteners were awesome. He and a couple of other guys had taken them on a tour through one of the engines, showed them all of the tools and the house. Their teacher, man was she pretty, put on the gear to show the kids not to be scared if there was ever, God forbid, a fire at any of their houses. The kids had a ton of questions. They wanted to know where the firehouse dog was, and if girls could be firefighters too. But the thing they wanted the most was to see someone slide down the pole. Aemon smiled, remembering.  The sarge nodded his head ever so slightly at Aemon, choosing him.  When Aemon had gotten to the bottom of the pole, all the kids cheered. "Again!" they'd yelled. He'd tried to be cool about it, his buddies were watching after all. But a huge grin had spread across his face anyway. "Okay," he told the kids. "One more time." They'd cheered again. 
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Aeman's eyelids grew heavy and he drifted off to sleep, still hearing the kids' cheers, seeing their teacher's smiling face. Sometime later, a minute, ten minutes or twenty? His eyes flew open and he felt his heart racing to the frantic pace of the piercing alarm. In no time flat he was dressed and down that pole again. He found his spot on the truck, holding on for dear life as it pulled out of the station.
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click on comments below to share your story, poem or creative non-fiction musings - 250(ish) words or less. don't let your adoring public (that's me!) down =)

indulged, continued

welcome readers & writers. today is going to be a "best of" day! i've got a lot going on this week, so we're going to re-visit a photo from write away's earlier days. if you wrote about the photo before, feel free to continue your story (as i've done) - or you can write a new and totally different response. if you didn't write on the photo the first time, feel free to start fresh today and give us a short story, poem or creative non-fiction treat. 250(ish) words or less. click on comments below to send it in. my original story comes first. the second paragraph is today's installment of my story. 

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Bella hated to eat in front of other people. But she also hated dining alone. A problem, to be sure. What follows was her solution to the problem: she would make a reservation for four at a nice little restaurant. At the appointed time she would arrive, be seated, shake out her napkin and smooth it across her lap. Then she would order an appetizer (for four) and a drink (a mudslide). She'd nibble away at the appetizer, making small talk with the waiter as the clock ran its feckless laps. When the waiter finally noted how late her friends were, she'd say she was sure they must be on their way, but she'd call and check. Another appetizer please. When he returned with the bruschetta or artichoke dip or stuffed mushrooms, she'd just be closing her cell phone. "I can't believe it," she'd say. "I've got it all wrong. Everyone else is at thus and so. But they went on without me and are almost finished."  Pause and a sad sigh. "I guess I'll just eat here." The waiter would tsk tsk. If he was an older man he might fret over the decline of good manners, that friends would order dinner before the arrival of their fourth. If he was younger, he might feel sorry for her and bring a special dessert at the end of her meal. But all waiters, she found, would make it a point to stop and chat with her as she waited patiently for her entree (another mudslide, please), and then worked her way through it, savoring each bite. It was a very good thing that Bella lived in a city with plenty of restaurants, because she was sure she could only pull it off once at any given place.

On this particular day, however, something unexpected and wonderful happened.  She'd made her reservation (for four) at this new restaurant, Indian. She'd arrived and ordered her appetizers and drink as usual. She'd dropped those careful, flustered comments about her party being late. About ten minutes into the charade, when she'd finished two of the crispy, perfectly spiced samosas, as the waiter was re-filling her glass of wine, a gentleman came to the table. When she'd bustled in out of the fall chill she'd noticed him in the waiting area."Hello," he said, a little breathlessly."I'm so sorry to be late." "Er," said Bella. "Hi?" The fellow looked at the waiter and said, "Bad news, I'm afraid. The others won't be able to join us." Then, to Bella, "They're still prepping for court tomorrow. Can't risk flubbing up this one." "Very well, sir," said the waiter, removing two place settings. "May I bring you a drink?" The gentleman sat and opened his menu. Bella's heart drubbed wildly, "I. Er."  "A glass of Torrontes, if I may," the gentleman said to the waiter. The waiter bowed slightly and stepped away, fading into the quiet chatter of other guests, softly lilting Indian music, silverware pinging against plates. The gentleman forked the corner off a samosa. "So," he said, just before putting it in his mouth, "how was your day?"
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come write with me!

counted

welcome readers & writers! thank you, readers, for tuning in. writers, thanks for writing with me. if any folks out there are considering writing, but feel you don't have time or aren't sure if you want to risk it - remember two things. 1) writing prompt exercises are meant to be relaxed and laid back. they are a means of waking and warming up your creativity. so no pressure to spend an inordinate amount of time on them (unless you can and would like to polish them up) and 2) this is a no-feedback zone, meaning that critiques of any kind are not posted here. as i wrote in the blog header above, uninvited critique doesn't jive with the nature of writing prompt exercises - it squelches creativity. so this is your chance to just relax and enjoy writing what comes. 

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here's my spin on today's photo prompt:

An Open Letter to the Characters in My Novel

Dear, sweet friends (even you, Mitzi)

I've been counting the cost, and here's the deal. I want to let you know that though we've suffered a lot of hits (ahem, rejections) lately, I still love you. All that stuff about throwing in the towel and giving up was just exhaustion and lack of sleep talking. You have been my companions, my escape, my joy for many years now. 

Each of you found me to let me know you belonged in my story, and I've rejoiced at sketching you to life with words. Even after all this time I learn something new about you whenever I return to the pages that make up your common life; I hear your voices, see your actions, laugh at your jokes, and shake my head in dismay at your shortcomings. 

Please know that I don't, for one second believe (as doubts and fears would have me do) that you are trite, overdone, nonsensical or boring. You are you - in every wonderful way possible. And I... am committed to working and kneading, smoothing and polishing your story until it gleams (or should I say "gleams more," because it's already darn gleamy).  

Also, even though the 70,000+ words of your story are filled with nuance, depth, humor, heartache, layers, motion and funny surprises, I will * will * find an appealing way to tell the story in one page or less to those ever-elusive, sometimes cranky literary agents. Not giving up. Not even close. Promise.

me

writers, come write with me! just click on comments below, 250(ish) words or less: story, poem, or creative non-fiction.

trapped

welcome readers & writers! monday is upon us again. a new week, a fresh start. let's enjoy the week reading and writing together, eh? many thanks to brian potopowitz for a great story on yesterday's post. 

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i had to stop the car last week when i came across this sign post. what's your take on it?  250(ish) words or less (but we're flexible here, so more is okay) - story, poem or creative non-fiction. here's my fiction spin:

When Leah and Len first moved into the cul-de-sac on Surrender Ave (no outlet) they thought their street name was funny and kind of cute. They always got a laugh when they gave their friends directions to the house.  Even their pizza delivery guy made a joke about it every time he came to the door, two pepperoni, double sausage delights in hand. "I'm in the twilight zone, right? Surrender Ave., no outlet - Ha! Ha!"  But that was then. Twenty-six years is a long time to live in the same house, with the same person. 
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For years something fun was always happening. Their twins were taking first steps, riding tricycles in the driveway, posing for photos with their new backpacks on the front porch, losing wobbly front teeth. In a blink Kari was taking piano lessons while Keeton pounded drums in the garage; they were dressing up for their first class social, earning their drivers licenses, looking at colleges. It had been easy to surrender then. 
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Now the house was quiet. All of the vibrance and color and buzz dimmed. Leah and Len couldn't think of anything to talk about, so they didn't. They ate their dinner on TV trays and, after, they read separate books until bedtime.  
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On this particular evening, Leah finished the dishes, wondering if she'd last another minute in this house.  Maybe they should just move on in to Shady Oaks retirement village, she thinks. They'd be fifteen years early, but so what. Then the phone rang.  
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Len got to it first. Leah thought she heard Kari's voice on the other end, and watched as Len's face light up. "Nah," he said, "really? Well that's just fabulous, Kare-Bear! Hold on, you've gotta tell Mom."  He held the phone out to Leah, his hand covering the mouthpiece.  "Kari and Mark are getting married," he said in a stage whisper. He sent her a grin and she lobbed it back, jumping up and down as she took the phone. "Hello, sweet Kari..."

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click on comments below to send in your response. i love to read your work!

shopped

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happy sunday, readers & writers! thanks to yesterdays writers (C Johnson, Josh Frank, Theresa Milstein, Amy, krowles1981 and FilmGuy - whose post disappeared into cyberspace forever) for your get well wishes and stories. 

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by the way, my friend josh frank recently lost his job (darn economy!) and is making a go of social media consulting and web design full time. so if you're in the market for a new website or graphic design for print or web, head on over to his site, Black Frame Media, for a visit. josh is also a great photographer. you'll soon see one of his photos here on a photog friday!

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today's photo prompt is going to prompt us to practice shopping for words. 

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in a keynote address, author barbara brown taylor (whom i was thrilled to hear in person) spoke about choosing words as carefully as if she were shopping for something important. like shopping for the perfect gift to share with a friend, just the right color of paint for your house, or the best ingredients to make up a holiday meal -- taking your time to shop around for just the right word is a worthy investment.  i love the idea of word choice as discernment...  searching for that word might nudge a sentence, paragraph, or poem into place. 

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i snapped this photo at a tile store recently while a friend struggled with the decision of what colors to use in her upcoming bathroom redesign. think about how much time we spend deciding what color to paint our walls or what shoes we're going to buy - and let's give it a whirl with writing: 

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1) visit the following website (www.thesaurus.com). 

2) look up a word and read all of the synonyms listed for it. 

3) then write the same sentence or paragraph three or four different times, each time using a different synonym for the word you chose. 

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you can write something fresh for today, or take the opportunity to go back to a work in progress. if you want to you can put a star by the one you think works the best.  here's what i mean:

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From a short story I'm working on:

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word: few (pronoun)

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A few stars toiled through the pollution of the capitol city

and a breeze cooled her face, bringing with it the scent of cherry blossoms.

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A scattering of stars toiled through the pollution of the capitol city

and a breeze cooled her face, carrying on it the scent of cherry blossoms.

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A smattering of stars toiled through the pollution of the capitol city

and a breeze cooled her face, carrying on it the scent of cherry blossoms.* 

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A sprinkling of stars toiled through the pollution of the capitol city

and a breeze cooled her face, delivering the scent of cherry blossoms. 

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it's been fun shopping with you! click on comments to share what word gems you discover on your shopping expedition.  come write with me!
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