howled

hoooooowllldy!  we're going to take things a little less seriously on saturdays. in fact, i think we'll call them spoof saturdays for awhile. let's have some fun.

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btw - thanks to De Langer & FilmGuy for yesterday's posts. it's been a great work week in the young life of this blog.

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come write with me about today's photo prompt. credit for this mysterious moon shot goes to my oldest son. below, with all due respect for some amazing & successful writers, is my take on the fantasy genre for spoof saturday:

Little Edwin Rice knew he was different from day one. Of first grade, that is. Which technically would make it day 2,523. Anyway. During circle time he couldn't take his eyes off Katie Dulce's neck. Well, that and the baby eye tooth he lost yesterday had been replaced by a full sized, razor sharp fang. He'd have liked to talk to his mother about his new lopsided smile. He'd have liked her to ruffle his widow's peak and kiss his little red lips, to tuck a note into his lunch alongside his blood orange slices and thermos of Hawaiian Punch. But she'd been gone since he was a baby, dragged off into the woods and eaten by a wild dog, or some such furry animal. The search had been fruitless in the lackluster light of a new moon. Edwin had tried looking in the mirror this morning to see if his new tooth was noticeable, but something must have been wrong with the mirror. No matter, he thought. Back to Katie. With a quick glance at Miss Granger, who was busy sticking the date (13) to its square on the calendar, he leaned forward and opened his mouth. Just as he was about to take his first taste of Katie's neck, she turned. "Are you trying to be funny?" she asked. Her choco brown eyes were stunning. He put a hand on his chest, sure his heart was beating wildly, but there was only stillness. He smiled anyway. A lopsided smile for this new puppy - no - batty love.

any vampire fans out there? hp? give me your best fantasy genre spoof, 250(ish) words or less, by clicking on comments below.

recycled

readers and writers, it's friday!  thanks to Pauline, FilmGuy and De Langer for yesterday's great writing.  one of my favorite days so far.

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today's photo prompt wasn't an easy "get," as king recycling doesn't stand still very long for commoners to take his photo.  here's what the photo calls up for me, a bit of memoir:

Of all my school years, third grade was sublime. My best friend lived just down the street. Together we were note-writing spys, galloping, carrot-eating horses, and (our favorite) good witch Barbies. Weekends were for sleepovers, gooey brownies from her Easy Bake Oven, and watery snow cones from her Snoopy Cone Machine. We'd stay up until three a.m., if need be, to catch Grease (again) on cable TV, watching with equal parts awe and confusion as Sandy wooed Danny with tight leather pants; we thought Sandy looked so much better before the big makeover. On summer nights we'd play until it was just a smidge lighter than too dark to see. We were even lucky enough to share the same sweet, diligent teacher.  Her name was Mrs. S. and she let us lay our heads on our desks while she read to us after recess; she cried through the sad parts of Where the Red Fern Grows and often turned the reading over to me while she dabbed at her eyes with a kleenex. But on Friday afternoons I didn't like Mrs. S. or my best friend so very much. I dreaded the Friday treasure sale, when kids could purchase chachkis (brought in from Mrs. S's own house) with good behavior tickets doled out to us through the week: a Precious Moments statue, a candle holder, a hand crocheted potholder. Lesser ticket items were available too - boring old pencils, erasers and, better than nothing, hard candy. My best friend always, always had more tickets. She just wasn't a talker and her desk was very tidy. She was a master at delay of gratification, saving up for weeks at a time to buy the biggest, most wonderful fifty ticket treasure. But my sadness faded with the ringing of the last bell. After all, the weekend was coming, and there was too much fun to be had to waste time on pouting.

I'd love to read your spin on the photo.  Publish it below by clicking on comments.  250(ish) words or less.  Happy Friday - and may the fifty ticket item be yours. 

dispatched

welcome, readers & writers!  thanks for yesterday's great posts, including new contributions to previous prompts (tasted, designed and rejected).

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here's my take on today's photo prompt, chalk on railroad tracks:

Jojo jumped from the train as it slowed for the small town crossing, first stumbling, then falling on the jagged rocks. Her new "friends" stuck their heads out of the empty rail car they'd shared, some of them since New York, others scrambling on as recently as Mississippi and Louisiana. It was a friggin miracle she'd made it this far without getting mugged, railroad style. Or worse. But then she'd brought nothing worth stealing except a backpack full of granola bars, and she'd shared those around so liberally that everyone was sick of them anyway. They told her it'd be hot in Texas this time of year, and krunk were they right. Losers. They'd actually believed they were giving the weather forecast to "Joe," that "he'd" jumped parole. She'd crafted her monologue for days: the lower voice range, the adolescent boy shrug, the defiant chin lift. Before sneaking out she'd chopped off her hair, leaving chunks of it wherever they fell around her desk then stabbing the scissors as hard as she could into the solid slab of cherry wood. "Let them wonder," she'd said, laughing out loud for the first time in months. Dressed in her brother's best raggy jeans and his I Fight Dragons concert t, she'd bolted, snatching his lucky baseball hat off the hook in the mud room and leaving the back door wide open behind her. Now she was in Texas. She wiped her hands on her jeans and straightened her backpack, scanning the horizon for a signpost home.        

what do you make of this mysterious message?  submit your creative writing below by clicking on comments.  250(ish) words or less.  thanks for writing with me!

yearned

welcome new writers, FilmGuy and Leah Peterson. and welcome back De Lange. thanks for your posts, ya'll!  as always, welcome readers; without you we could hardly call ourselves writers.

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i'm laughing at myself today because to look at my blog a person might think that i spend an inordinate amount of time at gas stations. i guess life is just interesting there, and it's a place where one must sit still and wait (with the engine off), and watch, for extended moments.  anyway - the setting of my photos will vary very soon.

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however, today's photo was taken last week at - oooph - a gas station just off the interstate, where we sought shelter from a nasty summer storm.  here's my story:

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"Mom," he says over the smatter of rain and pummeling wind, "what would you do if you won the lottery?"  "Don't know," I say, "I've never played."  "But just if you did," he says, "What then?" My yawn swallows the next few words and I say, "I guess we'd buy a bigger house, go to Disney, like that. I'd stop working and you would be set for college and well beyond. And," I say, remembering the God thing, "we'd give a lot away to charity."  Silence from the back seat. Man that was unimaginative, I think. My answer makes winning the lottery sound about as appealing as a serving of Brussels sprouts with a side of lima beans. I wonder if we're in the path of a tornado, if sitting in the car is a stupid idea. "So what would you do," I say, "if you won?" Even before he speaks I can hear the amusement in his voice, and I turn to see the smile I expect to find playing on his lips. "I'd invent a robot for Andy that would do his chores," he says. "He's always wanted one of those. I'd design four solar houses on the same block, one for everyone in our family. I'd build Ryan his own soccer stadium. I'd find a cure for every sickness. I'd become a judge who ordered kids to stay home and read all day when it rains and go out to play all day when it's sunny.  They would only go to school on hot, humid, muggy, hazy days."  "Like today," I say? "Yeah, maybe," he says. "But probably not."  "I love you," I say. "I hope you win."  I hope he wins.    

do you see a story in this photo?  i look forward to reading it.  submit below by clicking on comments.  250(ish) words or less.   

found

happy one week birthday to write away every day!  we've had over 300 visits in the first week, and the average visit length is six minutes plus, so folks are reading.  many thanks to readers and writers alike.

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special kudos to De Langer, Ab Fab and Anonymous for keeping the comments section alive the last couple of days.  great posts!!  Megahloo, where are you? would love to read more from you, as well as Stacy, Pauline, Alison, Sunny, Nolan, Christa, Ab Fab, and De Langer.  and, of course, the one or more persons posting as anonymous.  anyone new ready to share?

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here's my take on today's prompt, an earring i found at a gas station (right there on that red post):


Char fit the nozzle into her gas tank and squeezed the trigger to the low flow setting.  A gulp of Pepsi washed away the ashy taste of her last cigarette.  With only eight dollars, forty-five cents in her pocket, she watched the digital display closely.  But soon the baby began to wail inside the car.  She pulled him through the open window and perched him on her hip, lisping sweet words into his ear.  Resting his damp head on her shoulder, he twirled her hair around his tiny fingers.  His other hand found her earring and tugged.  "Ow, you little monkey," she said, trashing her Pepsi, then working her earring free and setting it on the post beside her.  Turning, she saw the digital display tearing through the ten dollar range.  She cursed; the baby started and his face crumpled.  Gas splashed her flip-flopped feet as she yanked on the nozzle.  It splattered on the concrete, soaking in for a moment before evaporating off in a wavy mist.  She stuffed the nozzle back into its cradle and the screaming baby back through his open window.  Struggling to buckle him as he struggled against her, pushing his belly out and kicking his legs, she debated. Try to explain and pay in part or just drive away?  Digging the bills and change from her pocket, she finally set it on the post, under the earring.  The rear view mirror showed no signs of pursuit as she pulled away.  And the baby settled, finding comfort in his mama's voice and the sing-song promise that they would come back soon, a day or two maybe, and pay the rest.


i'd love to read your spin on the photo - submit it by clicking on comments below.  250(ish) words or less.  thanks for a great first week!

unearthed

welcome, readers & writers.

today's writing prompt is not so much about the black and white photo above (one i took on a wind farm in west texas).  today's prompt comes from this headline about some photo negatives set out in a yard sale - photos which may (or may not) be the work of ansel adams, celebrated photographer and environmentalist.  adams (1902-1984) is renowned for his black and white photos of the american west.

here's my take on a treasure unearthed:

"That's it, my dear," says my wife, setting her bouquet of plastic shopping bags on the kitchen floor.  "Anything yet?"  When I don't answer she whirls around to look at me.  I'm just back from Gerty's house; we've been, well, let's just say, helping a friend empty out the home of the sweet old gal.  Last of the spinster sisters in her family, Gert was quite the pack rat.  "What?  What?" squeals Margie, tossing a block of cheese any old where on the counter.  Bouncing on the balls of her feet she looks nothing like the seventy year old woman she is and everything like the nineteen year old girl I married.  "Maybe just a little something," I say, reaching down with a grunt to nudge two big dish pack boxes toward her.  "One for you, and one for me," I say.  From a wrapped bundle in the nearest box she unearths a teacup.  "Handpainted, from England," I tell her. "Pattern is called Victoria, like the queen.  A set of twelve, with saucers and dinnerplates and salad plates and, get this, a gravy boat to boot."  She coos and cradles the teacup like a glasswing butterfly.  Margie knows as well as I do how much these dishes will bring on ebay.  Her bouncing slows and then stops before her eyes find mine. "What?" I say, reaching for the gravy boat and holding it out to her on one calloused hand.  "See?  Now don't go all soft on me."  "We're supposed to be helping," she whispers.  "That's right," I say, refusing to let myself think about it anymore.  "And how many hours have we spent in that pigsty.  Our time is worth a little something, right darlin'?"  She lifts the teacup as if to make a toast.  "Right," she says. "To Gert." I lift the gravy boat in reply. A magpie chatters outside the window and we both look away.

    

how about you?  spin us a tale about treasure lost, found or stolen. click on comments below. 250(ish) words or less. i so enjoy reading your work.

remembered

welcome readers & writers.  the family reunion i'm attending this weekend reminds me how much i miss my Grammie, who passed away on the first day of spring, 2009, at the age of eighty-nine.  a strong, warm and loving woman, her life's journey proved tremendously difficult at times.  the story of her life inspires me deeply.  that is her bequest to me.  the character of GRAM in my recently completed novel is patterned mostly after Grammie.  below is an excerpt from the book, titled Friday, Saturday, Someday:

When the attorney read the will, he handed Glory a letter from Gram – a final goodbye – alive with words of affirmation for all her granddaughter had accomplished.  The note, written in Gram’s careful (now wobbly) schoolmarm hand, urged her, “Never stop sprinting for the stars, sweet pea, as you’ve aimed to do since the moment you took your first step.”  Glory would never forget how gently the understanding dawned, of just what Gram’s bequest to her would mean.  Like the unhurried warming of sunrise after that infamous dark dawn, Gram’s letter signified that the hardest part might finally be over.  The hard part had been seeing her so frail, just a wisp of the vivacious, solid woman she used to be.  The hard part had been ferreting away every spare moment to spend at the hospital and, when she couldn’t be there, pining to be closer as the minutes drained away so wastefully, so abruptly.  The hard part had been the very end, when Gram had squeezed Glory’s hand for the last time.  When she'd accepted a kiss from Tommy and warbled, “I love you, darling boys,” to her sons.  Not long after that, she'd drifted off to sleep and, somewhere in that mysterious space between nodding off and waking up, she swam away into the dark warm waters of a ten day coma before finally succumbing.  Even now, her papery soft wrinkled hand was still palpable in Glory’s own hand, as was the scent of her – baby powder and gardenias.

what story of remembrance are you inspired to tell today?  i'd love to read it. post it in the comments section below - 200(ish) words or less.  blessings!