cycle

welcome, readers & writers! thank you for your contributions and comments last week. it gives me comfort to traverse the rough terrain of this life together.

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this week's photo prompt bids welcome to spring. short story, poem or creative non-fiction ~ writers, come write with me... click on comments below to share. readers, your comments are also most welcome. here's my spin (ha!) on the photo:

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Peter pedaled patiently up and down the length of his street, from second avenue all the way to fifty-first, where Highway 33 made it impossible for him to cross. He made the loop a dozen times a day now, despite the fact that Evie worried about him. Oh, she clucked on about how his new recumbent bicycle was too low, how it was barely taller than their grandson's tricycle, how he was going to get rolled over one day by a harried mother in a minivan or a businessman on his blue-tooth, blazing off to a meeting. Peter just smiled and kissed her forehead and promised her again that he was watching, that he wasn't a toddler on the loose, but a bonafide grown-up.  Eighty years old now. His eyesight was great. His scar was healing.  He'd tossed that blasted heart pillow out with the trash last week. He was determined not to waste a moment of the time that his insurance company and his doctor's Harvard degree had bestowed upon him. Excercise. Rest. Low sodium diet. Hell, if he didn't have dentures now he'd even be up for flossing. Twice a day. That's how serious he was about this. 

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Evie didn't know it yet, but he had a mind to ride in the Senior Sprint at the end of the summer. Sixty miles. It would suck up a lot of time to get ready for a race like that. Time away from his wife. Time not spent with his grandkids. But, and he didn't know how to explain this to them without sounding like a simpering school girl, riding his bike made him feel like a boy again. With the wind in his ears anyway, his hearing loss didn't matter, didn't even exist. When he rode past honeysuckle trees and lilac bushes, when the wind blew his hair back off his forehead, when he pumped his legs hard and threw them back for a quick stop, he was ten again. At the beginning of the long, winding tunnel and not heading for that confounded light. On his bike the world was new and he had thousands of days left to enjoy it.  

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heartbreak

welcome, readers & writers.

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today my heart is heavy with the heartbreak of the planet... for our world neighbors in Japan, for the unrest across the middle east, for the struggles that folks in our own country are facing each day. so let's write about it ~ poems, stories or reflections of solidarity and hope. click on comments below to join me. also, in case you're thinking of making a donation for relief efforts in Japan but don't know where, here's a link to an organization we really trust: erd (Episcopal Relief & Development).

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the world has shifted on its axis, so they say

how can it not, under the monstrous burden of sorrow it bears?

the earth falters and buckles 

oceans of salty tears storm the shore, innocent and clumsy  

how can water bend steel? break life? 

search. mourn. remove rubble. be. die inside. rest. be again. emerge. try.

the only hope i see today is the mystery of heaven

an island of peace in a golden sea of forever

where they wait, in the know

where they wait with love

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fall break

gone fishin'

back nov.1

<><

feel free to look around

and read

or write on earlier photos

marked

welcome readers & writers!  

* * *

today's photo prompt was taken by my son on a family trip this summer. it turned out remarkably well for a picture taken out the window of a moving car!
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here's my haiku spin on it. writers, i'd love to read whatever bubbles up inside of you - poem, story or creative non-fiction. click on comments below to share. readers, feel free to comment as well!

5. 7. 5.

fresh bitter broadcast 

sierra delta kilo

the meaning? don't know.

found

welcome readers & writers!  many thanks to krowles1981, Chuck Galle & FilmGuy for sharing your writing on yesterday's photo prompt.

* * *

i found this barrette in a parking lot the other day and thought it might have some interesting stories to go with it.  here's my spin on the photo, and I'd love to read yours!  submit your story, poem or creative non-fiction by clicking on comments below.

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Ruthie longs to feel young again. No matter that her wavy red hair is streaked with gray, or that her ankles look thick in bobby socks. She wants to revel in the swish and the sway of a poodle skirt and, even on warm days, to push the three-quarter sleeves of a cashmere sweater up past her elbows. So every night she sets her hair in pin curls and presses her white collar shirt. And every morning, before her shift at the library, she turns herself into a bonafide dolly. The clothes, the shoes - they're all fairly new because the originals don't fit her anymore. But her sweet little hair clip, which she places just above her temple after a good, cloudy spray with Aquanet, is an original. A friend of a friend saw her the other day, scouring the grocery store parking lot for her barrette. She seemed quite distraught to have lost it. You haven't seen it, have you?

writers, come write with me! readers, feel free to share your happy thoughts through the day on whatever fabulous writing comes in :)    

marbled

welcome readers & writers! many thanks to pauline for your photog friday picture contribution, and to FilmGuy for writing with me on friday!

* * *

as you may have noticed, i didn't post this weekend. i've been tracking the traffic patterns for write away every day, and weekends are very slow - which is actually good because it means you're out doing interesting things and seeing the world (either that or washing massive amounts of laundry and standing on the sidelines of your kiddos' soccer games like i am). in fact traffic is a quite a lot slower overall than it has been, and i'm trying to do some guesswork as to why. so i'm going to make a couple of changes to the blog. we'll see how it goes! we can always change back if need be.

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first, i'll only post monday through friday (spoof saturdays will become wacky wednesdays). second, i'm going to allow comments on what i and others post, but only positive comments. i still don't want uninvited negative feedback (for me or for you writers). but i'm thinking that our readers need to feel more invested and engaged in what's going on, and i think creativity is boosted for writers when we hear words of praise and encouragement when it comes in. so let's see how these things feel through the week. feel fee to email me your feedback or leave it as a comment.

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as always, thank you for being part of write away every day, whether you're stopping in to check out the photo, to read the written responses to the day's photo, or to share your written work. so glad you're here!

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Here's my spin on today's photo prompt:
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One of the things Bitsy hates most about doing laundry is emptying pockets. Oh, she's tried getting her boys to do it themselves. She's left them notes and made threats and let piles of things go on through the wash - damn the consequences. But something, one thing, keeps her hanging on... woos her back time and again, daring to plunge her hand into those pockets stuffed with rocks, sticks, acorns, matchbox cars, school papers and food wrappers. It's the occasional marble. She adores marbles and has, over the years, built up quite a collection. 

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This is why she never argues with the boys when they want to buy a new oversized marble at a fancy shop, or a whole pack of traditional marbles at the dollar store. There's just something, she thinks, about holding that glassy sphere in one's hand, lifting it to the light and marveling at the swirls of color and perfectly round tiny bubbles made in glass too quickly cooled. 
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She keeps her marbles in a drawstring bag made of pink corduroy. When the kids are out sometimes, she lays belly down on the living room floor and empties the bag on the plush carpet. Pinching her favorite marble between thumb and forefinger, she spends minutes on end gazing at it. Color, light, texture, mystery - how do they make those swirlies? Each one is different, each is beautiful or striking in its own way. Kinda like her boys. 
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So, okay. Maybe doing laundry and checking pockets is worth it. Or maybe she should start charging a marble for every load.  She smiles to herself... that's the ticket.        

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readers, feel free to heap mounds of praise on any of today's creative responses!  writers - come write with me: 250(ish) words - story, poem or creative non-fiction. click on comments below to share. have a great day!

cooked

welcome readers & writers... and many thanks to Jessica Lemmon, FilmGuy, Chuck Galle, and Brian Potopowtiz for your awesome posts on yesterday's photo! what a great day for the blog.

* * *

it's photog friday! today's photo contribution was taken by a frequent visitor and writer to the blog, brian potopowitz. brian is a friend of mine and an all-around creative soul - carpenter, writer, jeweler and photographer. he's originally from alaska and now lives in northeastern pennsylvania. i saw this photo on brian's facebook page and asked him if we could use it for a photog friday - it's intriguing to me! thank you, brian, for the use of your great photo.

here's my fiction spin on brian's photo:

I sink down into my claw foot tub, which is already filled to the brim with hot, silky suds, and I relax by degrees. An involuntary shudder runs through me as the heat penetrates through every layer of my skin and deep into my bones. My scalp tingles with the pleasure of being warm for the first time all day, for the first time since I turned off my electric blanket this morning and put my feet on the frosty floor. In fact, the whole day's been frosty, and I'm not just talking about the weather. My boss was in a miserable, self-centered mood. With a few muttered words and the flutter of her hand she shot down the proposal I've been working on for weeks. My ideas don't even warrant a complete sentence anymore, I guess. My co-workers could hardly look me in the eye. It's not that they don't like me. And no, they weren't being mean. Deep down they fear that failure is contagious; they want to succeed so badly that not one of them would chance contracting my luck. Ah well, tomorrow is another day, and I'm on to a new proposal.
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I soak for more than an hour, adding water whenever the temperature strays too far from sizzling. I sip wine and read my novel. I close my eyes and drift off for a time, and when I open them again I see such a lovely -- almost leopard-like -- pattern of condensation on the metallic tiles above me. I've heard it said that 70% of the human body is composed of water. Not me. 95% or bust, baby.  

writers, i hope you'll join me in writing about brian's photo!  short story, poem or creative non-fiction... just click on comments below to share.

masked

welcome readers & writers!  thank you to krowles1981 and cjohnson for yesterday's posts. cjohnson, you win the prize for the shortest story ever told on write away every day ;)

* * *

i hereby present today's photo prompt, along with my creative non-fiction spin (excuse the pun!) on it:

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My second baby was a great sleeper, the best of all three of our kids. But the circumstances had to be perfect. None of this drifting off in the car seat, the shopping cart or the restaurant's high chair like some angelic children. But give that baby a darkened room and some white noise and his little eyes would be drooping before the first sweet strains of his favorite lullaby escaped our lips. To this day he sleeps best with a fan going in his room. I guess it drowns out the sound of life going on around him - the TV, his older brother's piano playing, his dad and I chatting, the garbage disposal and dishwasher. In this case, white noise is good.  

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It works for adults as well. Our New York city friends have a white noise machine in their apartment to mask the noise of the city - sirens, horns, blaring car stereos, heavy-footed upstairs neighbors.  
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But what about another type of white noise -- those intentionally sought out distractions that mask reality, blocking out what's real? Those things that become an excuse for missing our own lives? When I was growing up, TV was a pretty constant white noise machine in our house. Sometimes that's still true for me. But these days my white noise is often the soft glow of this computer and the snazzy little apple clicks that run a hundred laps a day around the same loop: email, facebook, twitter, this blog, news pages, other blogs.  What, I wonder, is the noise masking? What reality am I missing? Good things? Difficult things? Maybe it's time to scale back a bit and really listen to my life, to what's real inside and all around me.        

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come write with me! i love to read your work. click on comments below to send it in.

whittled

welcome readers & writers!  thank you, Chuck Galle, for writing with me yesterday. 

* * *

here's today's photo prompt and my spin on it.  writers, i'd love to read your take on the photo: short story, poem or creative non-fiction.  just click on comments below to share!

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Paul likes to whittle. Each day, after his coffee (cream, no sugar), and his toast (honey, no butter) he takes a seat in his workshop. With the radio buzzing away he picks up a block of wood and whittles it, chisels it, fashions it, sands it into something beautiful. His favorite project is toys, baby rattles especially. For years he watched his kids, and then his grandkids, play with plastic monstrosities: loud, gaudy, annoying things. Back then Paul wasn't woodworking yet. He was working, though. Eighteen hours a day in his restaurant. And all for what, he asks himself sometimes. No, often. All for what? He worked until he was too old to work anymore. None of his kids wanted to take over the business, and he wasn't about to make them. He wanted them to be happy. So he sold. And, after twenty-five years of constant motion, he went crazy for awhile - trying to learn golf, follow soap operas, and work the Sudoku puzzles on the daily calendar his grandkids gave him for Christmas. Gardening helped, but winter months were long. One day he decided to clean out his already spotless cellar, and he came across some two-by-fours left over from a fence project. Something about the swirly, fingerprint-like grain of the wood called to him. He dug up his old swiss army knife that day and whittled a whistle. No matter that it didn't actually whistle in the end. He went to bed happier that night than he had for years. That's how it started. That's how Paul came back to life again.

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come write with me!        

arrayed

welcome readers & writers!

***

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

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The waiter set their menus and a handful of crayons on the table and leaned in to take their drink orders. Katie, who loved to color, made a face. Her dad ordered coffee and a chocolate milk. When the waiter stepped away, her dad said,  "What's with the face, KatieDid?"  
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"Poopy colors," Katie sighed. "Katie-Daddy day is ruined." He smiled at her pronunciation: 'wooned.'  
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"Whoa there," he said. "Not so fast. Let's take another look, because Katie-Daddy day is un-ruinable. It simply just can't be done."  
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Katie looked dubiously at the crayons. "Yuck," she said.  
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Her dad arranged the crayons in a neat row on the table. She watched him intently as he opened up the kids' menu and flattened it out, blank side up. "Nah," he said softly. He picked up the black crayon and began to sketch. "Look here. You can use this dark brown to color in my tree trunk. And this soft green will make some oh so lovely leaves for these branches."  Katie giggled. Her dad continued, "And this light brown color, well, that's the fur of a chipmunk with a jaggedy black stripe down his back.  What's his name?"  
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"Chip-Stripe," Katie said solemnly.  
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"Gotcha. Chip-Stripe lives here in this tree. And today, well, it's kind of a cloudy, foggy day. See how the sky is kind of gray blue?" He handed her the sky color and she started filling in the sky at the top of the page. "But look, over here on the horizon," her dad said, "the sun is nudging up a bit. It's going to melt away the fog." 
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"Uh-Huh," said Katie. "And then it will be sunny outside." 
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"That's right," her dad said.  "And then Chip-Stripe can carve his Halloween pumpkin."
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"Yeah," Katie laughed. "His Halloween pumpkin."  
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Her dad finished sketching the scene and Katie worked on coloring it in, finishing up just as her pancakes arrived. "Wahoo," she said. "Just in time. You can't color while you eat. It woons the food."  
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Her dad smiled. "I love you, KatieDid."  
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"I love you too, Daddy."
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what does your imagination make of this photo? i'd love to read it. click on comments below to send it in - short story, poem or creative non-fiction.      

illumined

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

***

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.

~>

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!

imbued

welcome readers & writers!

***

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.

***

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!

penned

writers & readers, welcome! 

***

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

-->

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.

***

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!  

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.