welcome readers & writers! in this cyber space please find: + a photo writing prompt + a place to post your creative writing response (poem, memoir, short story or the like) to the prompt + a community of readers and fellow writers excited to read your writing + morsels of genuine fiction, poetry & creative non-fiction as the blog is updated. share a response as often as you'd like. everyday discoveries from my life, captured on film, will serve as prompts. this is not a place where we will critique one another's work; however, words of encouragement or praise for writers who share their work are most welcome. writers, share your story, poem or creative non-fiction response to the photo by clicking on comments; word count is flexible. cheers! demery

Thursday, September 16, 2010


welcome readers & writers!  
writers, i'm your biggest fan! come write with me :)
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. 
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.

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 =)


  1. Dear Mom,

    Since moving to the city I thought I'd see more fire trucks, more police cars, more of those who "serve and protect" us.

    So far, not so much. I guess I won't be meeting the man of my dreams in uniform anytime soon.

    I bet your happy with that. After all --- you never understood why anyone would want to do that--- after Dad ... well after Daddy ... you know since he was singed.

    I know that you can't bear to look at him sometimes, but he's still a handsome man, Ma. Please remember that its not all about his looks. I know you were upset when the kids in school called him two face. But I always thought it was great. I admired him and I told everyone how he got that scar- saving you.

    Why did you marry him if you didn't love the uniform?

  2. Strange, how they look like soft wool, perhaps cashmere, socks folded quickly and laid one on another, sorted by color, these imperative, utilitarian lengths of canvas fabric. The yellows, particularly, so warm and inviting, something to pull up over my chilly feet as the cold thrill of autumn creeps across my sunroom floor of a September evening. The soft fuzz of the orange ones, that seem too have been bleached inadvertently, speak to comfort and overuse, like sweat socks for an old high school football team. When these gentle comforts fill suddenly to the bursting point with water and deliver gallons of the stuff a second and panic scintillates the smoky air and voices cry commandingly - no gossip, chat or Twitter - and booted, slickered heroes search for flames to run into, these quiet comforting containers donate another comfort to us - escape. Escape from homelessness, injury, death. Not the escape of other comforts, chatty celebs dishing on other celebs, good cops getting the bad guys, clever con men outconning cunning con men, animated adventures that help us escape the humdrum, the impossible, the waste, the unknown, the inconvenient, the irritations life imposes upon us. So unexciting they look. folded quickly, set there in order. What is it they say? Still water runs deep? Explosively fast water does too.

  3. My Stolen Bike (a true story)

    I was in big trouble every time my bike got stolen. There was usually some sort of grounding for me and the bike. I think my parents were frustrated with the fact that they bought me a lock and cable but I would forget or just refuse to use it. I had the only bike of its kind in my neighborhood. It was bright orange and had shock absorbers on the front and springs on the back and with the three bars going from the seat to the handle bars bent in the shape of a fuel tank, it looked just like a motorcycle. All the kids were jealous of that bike and it got stolen more than twice but, somehow, we always got it back. This time we found it and brought it home late and I was sent to bed while my parents looked the bike over in the garage and talked about what to do with me. Suddenly there was a scratchy hissing sound from the far corner of the garage as the contents of one of the shelves burst into flames. My Dad ran over and, with a quick sweeping motion of both of his hands, toppled the burning contents onto the concrete floor and stomped them out. Upon examination he and my Mom discovered that a box of matches spontaneously combusted and quickly ignited the objects near by. Normally, at that late hour, everyone would have been in the house watching television or sleeping but on that night because my bike had been stolen my parents were in the garage at the exact moment the fire started. The fire department may have been out that night but they did not come to my house and, that time, I don’t remember getting in trouble for my stolen bike.

  4. Sam was walking home from school with Adam laughing at each others jokes and faces. It had been a good week for school so far if there ever was one. Sam had passed three tests, and just enjoyed himself.
    The friends walked down and saw smoke coming from a block down. The smell was familiar to Sam, but he had no idea why.
    'let's check it out.' they said in unison. and walked down to see what was burning.
    As they walked down the road they saw a large crowed standing on the block staring at three houses hidden in a mass of flame and smoke. People were crying, screaming, and celling out names. The familiarity of the smell was stronger now, and as he looked at the closest fire truck a memory flashed into his head and was gone. Hidden again where it had been sleeping for the passed ten years.
    'common, let's go home.'

  5. Run run
    Leap honk and scream
    In desperate times
    Big rushing red machine

    Lives live
    Crawl call pray
    In times of need
    Fighters come by day

    Lick lick
    Flame smoke steam
    With hoses in hand
    Future is more than dream