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

Monday, December 13, 2010


readers & writers, welcome! thank you for stopping by. hope you had a chance to rest & play this weekend. we enjoyed a couple of beautiful days out in the country with some friends.
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writers, how about some writing play around today's photo prompt? click on comments to share your poem, short story or creative non-fiction response to the photo. writers, comments are open to you as well. here's my spin on the photo:
Happy unanniversary, my sweet. Happy old ordinary day. Happy scrambling around to make sure all the kids have clean socks to wear today. Happy bowl of soggy cereal because you poured it before remembering another lunch had to be made. Happy sitting up listening to me cough half the night, and thank you for snuggling close anyway. Happy day packed with meetings and I won't see you until late, after the homework is done and dinner is made and stories are read. Happy sopping up the puddle of water on the kitchen floor hoping the refrigerator might hobble through on its last chilly legs until January. Happy I'll do the dishes, you set the breakfast table, and then we'll do it all again tomorrow. We're in it. I love you. Happy unnanniversary. Happy old ordinary day, my sweet.


  1. Happy unanniversary, my love. Happy crazy morning, running late and barely getting the kids to school. Happy tenderness of cuddling in the night when who cares anymore that we’re sick, getting over sick, or getting ready to be sick. Happy plain ol’ day with too much to do. Happy alwayscatchingup day with laundry and dishes that seem to divide and multiply like cells in a petri dish. Happy day of remembering that we have a house and a family and jobs we don’t hate. Happy getting to the doctor and then getting well. Happy looking forward to catching up, cleaning up, spiffing up, and slowing down . . . to welcome days of celebration - an adoption, a wedding, and a baby under the tree. Happy that we’re in it together.

  2. They had even driven him in a limousine to the President's tailor to be specially fitted for a tuxedo. There had been no one else in the small room, just the tailor and himself. Though small in width it had high ceilings, and huge windows, curtained in multiple layers of gauzy material through which he could see the street a floor below and the activities of the various people busily pursuing their business. Scattered around the room, which somehow seemed larger as he was in it longer, were many tables with rolls of fabric on them, luxurious fabrics beyond anything in his experience. Softer than a mother's nipple and woven with such subtle panels of color he understood something of the incredible luxuries many other people lived in that he would not have imagined. The man took the appropriate measurements with no comments, always a smile on his face, a kindly smile, and with expert hands moved the boy into the positions he needed properly to ensconce him in the formal wear.
    The whole experience was extraordinary. The peace agreement had been presumed at hand after decades of wrestling negotiations, and as a gesture from both sides the school-children's' involvement, suggesting simple symbolic protocols to enhance the signing ceremonies, had actually been undertaken. This young man had made a suggestion so profoundly simple Protocol Offices throughout the world shook their heads that they had never come up with it before. The cord of red symbolizing the eastern-most nation, the cord of yellow the western-most. It was such a powerful image that the boy was asked to come pull the knot open, despite the very vocal misgivings of the few whose sensibilities could not be wrapped around the unusual awkwardness that could not be missed as the world witnessed this action preceding the signing of the documents the cords enwrapped.
    Now he stood before the large, ornate desk, surrounded by dignitaries, President's, Party Leaders, Generals, and large numbers of men and women in dark glasses and little earplugs who noticeably were always apparently looking elsewhere than right here. He looked out at the multitude of faces sprawling to the horizon and felt each President gently nudge a shoulder. He understood that he should begin. He took the few awkward steps forward and bent almost gracefully at the waist toward the large document. The tuxedo had been built without sleeves at his request, so that his absence of arms would not make sleeves ludicrous, arms lost when he shoved a bomb off the street as he and dozens of other kids came across it running home from school. He caught the end of the yellow detonating cord in his teeth and pulled it gently, and as the knot loosened, finished opening the bundle of Peace Pact documents by pulling on the red detonating cord. A roar of applause whispered past his deaf ears as looked up and smiled at the crowd.

  3. Happy days to good friends who know the saga of soggy, tired, long, worn, coughing, sleepless, meetings and tirades and work work work and all and all... and each other, and family and joy and life and hope. And Z-paks.

  4. it had been a bad day. Jon was late for work, Amy was sick and on my throat had been getting soar. worst of all after dropping the kids of late and getting them in trouble my eldest son Matt got into a fight with me witch ended up in tears. I was doing the laundry when i saw it. It was sitting on the table by the laundry machine. It was a bow made out of two shoe strings. Matt's shoe stings. The bow was resting on a pile of brown papers that seemed blank. i began to flip through them all until a white one caught my eye. this one was not blank. it was a letter written in very tidy handwriting and i could tell it had been written with great care.
    Dear Mom.
    I don't know why i am writing this 'cause you probably wont find it, but i think it will help me to write things down even if you never find it. You know I have always been quiet and never talk about my feelings like the others so you should understand.
    today seemed hard for you, and i understand that it was not a good time for me to shout, but i never get in trouble at school and i have never gotten detention before. I hope you understand.i want you to know i'm sorry even if i can't come out and say it to your face i want you to know that. I hated seeing you cry. you are the best mommy ever and i love you.
    P.S. don't tell the others about this. i don't want people at school to know.

  5. Scott Bader-Saye, Chuck Galle, Film Guy and Johnsons: thanks one and all, near and far, for writing with me today!! Ya'll rock.