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

Tuesday, November 2, 2010


hello readers & writers! glad you're here :)
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writers, what's your take on the photo? poem, short story or creative non-fiction ~ share it by clicking on comments below.  here's mine:
I wish she knew how lovely is is - amber eyes, porcelain skin, a quick laugh and a quicker wit, an aura of generosity and kindness glowing around her.  I wish she knew how lovely she is, because I look just like her.  If she can't stand to see herself, what does she think when she looks at me?  


  1. I thought she was someone I knew, but I couldn’t quite place her. She boarded the tour bus heading to NYC and the Christmas Show just in front of me, her long dark hair blowing into my face on the stiff November breeze. I mentally flipped through my high school yearbook and the faces of several women I’d worked with over the years. Was she a coworker’s wife I had met only once at a Christmas party? She didn’t answer my smile or good morning. She busied herself with a boy of about four, and twin girls of, oh, eight or nine years old. Triple A tours tend to be rowdy groups even before the sun and mercury rises, so I wasn’t the only one who’s attempt at social civility was left to settle like a dead leaf. I’d showered at four-thirty. There was no reason for her bent head and turned shoulder. No one was going to steal her kids. There were others on the bus too. And they were cuter. Ah, well, it takes all kinds. I settled myself against the window in front of her and took a sip of my barely warm convenient store latte. I wasn’t about to let a snub ruin my day, but as the bus lumbered out of the Robert D. Wilson parking lot, I couldn’t stop trying to identify her. I don’t remember where I dozed off, but when I woke up, I faced a billboard advertising the All Soaps channel. I saw the moonlit conservatory again, the long dark hair, the violet robe, the baby grand. Marla? It had been years since she was sent to the mental hospital, victim of a misguided, curly haired hero and a manipulative, blond vixen. I eased my camera out of my bag, slid myself up as if I was straightening my coat, spun around and !

  2. I always waited until the last minute to board. I could feel the germs suspended in the stale air, so I figured if I sat in that air even ten minutes less, I would breathe less of it. I made my way through the cramped coach quarters to my seat. 16E. There it was. And someone was sitting in it. I looked around for an empty seat. I looked at my boarding pass again. Looked at the number over the row. The flight attendant was very apologetic. But she needn’t have been. I’d never sat in First Class before. She led me forward, beyond the curtain. I glanced at the special people as I passed. The privileged. The beautiful. The wealthy. The . . . famous? The flight attendant indicated the only empty seat and right behind me sat Lindsay Lohan. Throughout the entire 3 hours and 22 minutes of the flight, I fought with myself. It’s not that I’m a big fan, but she is famous. After the plane landed, as we sat on the runway waiting for a gate, I turned around and snapped. And so did she. If only she hadn’t been so quick with her hands, it would have been worth her little hissy fit.

  3. I had been on the run for four years. Two months. Eights days. Facebook is my enemy. Everywhere I go, someone is clicking away, posting pictures and blogging their life. All that is fine, but I live in this world too and there is an overlap, ya know? I am standing somewhere. Click. My picture is taken standing behind someone. And just like that I am out on the web, sent by a phone faster than I can slap them in the face and delete it. And the waiting. More than any other time in history being on the run is really just a waiting game. I stay low and keep it simple. I don't make many friends. I don't draw attention to myself. I haven't shot anyone in years. And I have well groomed facial hair. Someday, I will be staring down the end of a short muzzle revolver thinking that Facebook killed me. That is my problem, really, but a little less help for the other guys would be grand.