chisled

welcome readers & writers. it's photog friday again! i love photog fridays because i (and you, if you'd like!) get to be creative with the work of a professional photographer. the photos you see on my blog every other day of the week are taken by me. on fridays my rookie camera gets a break and we all get to contemplate a professional photo. to read stories and see photos from previous photog fridays, click here, here, and here.

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this week's photo is the work of photographer Laurie Millar. to see more of Laurie's work, click here. Laurie, thank you so much for this gorgeous picture! writers, i'd love to read the story, poem or creative non-fiction response that bubbles up in you when you look at this photo prompt; just click on comments below to share it. 250(ish) words or less. here's my spin on Laurie's photo:
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Everyone in town calls it the True Love Tree. Such a gorgeous birch in the center of town square, next to the gazebo. Its twining branches spill over into the gazebo, tear drop leaves whispering a new mossy groove in the spring, singing a deep throaty green in the summer, humming jazzy shades of yellow, orange and red in the autumn... silent and sleepy and knowing in winter. Under that tree countless moms have laid chubby babies on fuzzy blankets for kick n' play time while toddler siblings circle, gallop, and chase a few feet away, dripping ice cream and wiping their hands clean on the grass. On the bench nearby generations of old men thumb through countless pages of daily newspapers. Gaggles of teenagers gather there too, though later, after the last bell and before dinnertime curfews. ("Meet me at the TLT!") And let me tell you, more than one couple has shared a first kiss, held sweaty hands, even gotten engaged under that canopy. Who is T and where is L? No one knows, but the legacy of their love - chisled, rooted, generous and lively - still flourishes.
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come write with me!
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p.s.  thanks to Jessica Lemmon, Brian Potopowitz, FilmGuy, Bess Weatherby, and Anonymous for your awesome "fluffed" stories yesterday. 'twas great day for writing altogether (and all together, too)!

clouded

welcome readers & writers. many thanks to yesterday's contributors for your great stories - De Langer, M, Dudley, FilmGuy, and Kat's Hot Iron! so good to write with you all. 

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it's photog friday! that means that today's photo was taken by a professional photographer and not me. in this case, one Brenda Hamblin, sports photographer. Brenda also happens to be my cousin. thanks for your gorgeous photo, Brenda!

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so much potential here for a story, poem or creative non-fiction response. i'd love to read yours. submit it by clicking on comments below, 250(ish) words or less. here's my spin on the photo:
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Jayne stuffed her cocktail napkin into the plastic cup, along with the pretzel bag wrapper. The flight attendant would be around soon to collect the trash. She looked out the window, trying to imagine what it would be like to land in his city. Without him. She wondered, would she be able to sleep in his childhood room, tucked under his old, soft flannel sheets and comforter? She'd tried to gracefully decline the invitation to come to St. Louis for his birthday weekend, but his mom sounded so rough, so tearful on the phone. She lay her head back and closed her eyes, finally drifting off; there hadn't been much sleep last night. "May I?" said the flight attendant, her voice high and bright. Jayne's eyes snapped open, and, wondering if this woman was rude or just completely oblivious, she decided to make the moment difficult. "May you what," she asked, raising her eyebrows. "Well, take your trash," said the attendant, shaking her outstretched hand over the top of the cup. "Oh, no," said Jayne. "I wanted to hold on to that."  "Really." The attendant pursed her lips. "Really," said Jayne, using the same tone. "So don't even try to take it away from me." The flight attendant clucked her tongue and turned away, muttering something that sounded like "whatever." Jayne picked up the trash and put it in her purse, zippering it up in the center pocket. She hugged it as tightly as she could to her for the rest of the trip. She thought she might never let it go. 
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come write with me!

harvested

welcome readers & writers... it's photog friday! every other day of the week the photos you see on this blog are mine, though periodically i'll use one taken by my husband or my eleven year old. but each friday we'll celebrate a photo contribution by a photographer* better than me (and that's not hard!). see last week's photog friday celebration here. this week our guest photographer is kelli west. kelli is a fellow blogger (you can see more of her wonderful photography there). many thanks, kelli, for your gorgeous photo!

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what written response (story, poem or creative non-fiction) does kelli's photo inspire in you? 250(ish) words or less. i'd love to read it - just click on comments below. here's my take on the photo: 

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I stand at the kitchen window, elbow deep in sudsy water. I suppose I could stack the dishes in the dishwasher, but this way I get to watch him longer. Out there on his tractor he's a happy man, and how I love to see him happy. It took me years, you know, to understand that it was right for him to be happiest at his work. That work has quite literally put food on our table for fifty odd years. But when I married him (at seventeen years old, mind you) I thought that he should find his happiness in me. That first year especially. Land, I don't know how we got through. I dreamed he'd be so taken with me that he wouldn't want to leave the house. I'd imagined that he might linger in bed those first early mornings before starting his daily round of chores. But not Gardner. Gard set his alarm clock on our first night back from Niagara Falls, where we took two nights for our honeymoon, and the next morning he was out of bed like a shot feeding the chickens. I cried all through breakfast and, bless him, he couldn't muster two words to comfort me. Just devoured his scrambled eggs and toast, dropped an awkward kiss on the top of my head and went back out. But somewhere in our journey together, somewhere along about fifteen years, I'd say, I finally got it through my thick skull that Gardner loves by doing. He woos by providing. He adores me by being a man of character and a strong work ethic, the man I fell in love with. That's what makes him happy.

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come write with me!

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*readers & writers, if you know any photographers who might like to contribute photog friday, just have them email me: writeawayeveryday [at] gmail [dot] com.

sheltered

welcome readers & writers. first, a big thank you to all of this week's posters! writing with you has been a joy. welcome new posters: d_c_ bader, m, damon, ash and brian. thanks also to you regulars - filmguy, pauline, brian (with 4 posts this week you get to be a newbie and a regular!) and de langer (has anyone noticed how de langer's stories are building on each other? awesome! it may be the start of a best selling novel right here on this blog). missing some of our early posters: sunny, megahloo, stacy, abFab & alison.  hope to see ya'll soon.

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i'm excited to introduce a new feature - photog fridays. i'm quite the amateur photographer, so when my friend beth sent me the above photo and asked if i would try to tell its story, i realized what fun it would be to have a guest photographer on the blog each friday. he or she will email me a photo. i'll title it and write a story about it - as will you other writers. i'm excited to have a number of gifted photographers lined up for the next few weeks! if you would like to submit your own photo - or if you know a photographer willing to contribute a photo - just send me a direct message via twitter, google friend connect, or email: writeawayeveryday [at] gmail [dot] com. without further ado - thank you beth forma for this gorgeous photo. here's my take on it:

Nonny and the girl make their way down to the field. Nonny's gnarled hands clutch their picnic basket, filled with the fruits of a morning's labor - German potato salad, fried green tomatoes, hardboiled eggs and peach cobbler. Fresh milk for drinking. The young one hugs a neatly folded threadbare quilt. They stop to rest a few times; though the path from the farmhouse is worn smooth from countless years of weekly treks, Nonny isn't nearly as strong as she used to be, at least not physically. In her spirit she's wizened and warm, grateful for a multitude of blessings - as only one who's lived through a depression, recessions, world wars, assassinations, and - by chance and design, more unexpected firsts than she could begin to name - can be. The roots of Nonny's character reach deep into the soil of this land on which she was born, where her own grandparents struggled to make their way, where her parents stood to marry in this same misty field. Nonny's own children bring their young ones to the farm every week, and she visits the field with each one. On this day with this, her youngest grandchild, she settles onto the quilt. As Nonny unpacks the basket, she revels in her granddaughter's bubbly stories, clinging to the fresh green hope in them. And when tears blur her vision such that she can no longer see to lay out their feast, Nonny pauses. Hearing the fragile yelps of baby eagles their nest above, she pulls up a corner of her old apron, smiles and wipes her eyes.

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what about you?  let's give beth a treat and show her what reflections (stories, poems or creative non-fiction) can spring from her beautiful photo. submit your writing below by clicking on comments.  250(ish) words or less; come write with me!