Previous Writing Prompts

Prompt (due 6/23/09)

*You've arrived at the one place in the world you'd most like to visit, only to find it's not what you expected.

OR
*
Use some or all of these words in a piece of fiction or poem: carries, incurious, bending, Soviet, terribly, silent.

Featuerd Response (due 6/23/09)

The Mantra

The light shines through the blindfold,
“I know nothing,”
the mantra in my head.
The pain of battered bone and bruised tissue,
the numbness killing the burn of ropes
against my sweaty flesh.
The information I hold
taken from the silent Soviet,
a fate I now dread;
sensitive material globally pursued.
Bloody weak I cope
and ID the voice met in Bangladesh.
Bending to meet my shoulder-hold
a breath tattling of his dental carries,
“I know nothing,” barely said
as I feel his fists through
my side forcing my slope
into the thresh.
Inaccurately incurious on missions of old
discounting terribly a mole
my ignorance will find me dead.
But the hot issue,
my only hope,
“I know nothing” is all they’ll enmesh.

Lisa Marie Cuff

Prompt (due 6/16/09)

*You have returned home to find something unexpected and terrible on your answering machine.

OR
* Use some or all of these words in a piece of fiction or poem: stagnation, glamor , disproportion repudiate, object.

Featuerd Response (due 6/16/09)

Wrong Number

I remember that day I wanted to murder the annoying neighbor,
I wanted to call the cops on a woman screaming at her kid
in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Before I heard the message,
I remember mining my friends' friends for more friends
and gristling the skinny mutt pups who begged at the back porch.
I did load after load of pink laundry, then sat down to tea
with my daughter and a party of invisible people. And when
the long-haired monster puppets finished their last song,
I ran the bathwater and began our evening routine. In the end,
I left the message on my answering machine just as I found it:
Sue, it's Barb, call me when you get this...the boys…the boys fell through the ice
on Five-Mile Pond…they're working on Steven... they're still looking
for Josh…call me…call me when you get this… we're at the Baystate E.R.
I think of Barb often, and then again not so much, which is less than
as little as possible, but at least a little more than never at all.

Jeanne Skvarla
age 43, Rochester

Prompt (due 6/9/09)

*Two people meet in a cafe downtown. As they begin to talk and drink
coffee together, one begins to realize that he/she is falling in love
with the other. He/she does not know how the other feels. Write this
scene in the point of view of the person who is falling in love, but do
not describe his/her emotions, and the person must not declare the
emotion. Rather, SHOW that person's emotions via actions, dialogue
about other things, and silences.

Featuerd Response 6/9/09

THE CREAM IN YOUR COFFEE
By Lisa Marie Cuff

“Here is your decalf mocha choca latte.”

“And you, are you having your usual?”

“Yes, strong black espresso.”

“Not sure how you drink the stuff however the calories a.. r.. e considerably less.”

“Less is more.”

“Yes, I know you are sweet enough!”

“You take in sugar and in a short while you crash down again. Sugar is dangerous.”

“Perhaps but one needs to live a little, sweet is necessary when we deal with all the drone and complicated matters of everyday. It’s our jumpstart, our cease de résistance.”

“That is if you give into it. Once you do you’re hooked and there is rarely going back. It gets to be habit or a craving, something you can’t live without.
Is it easy for you to change from your latte addiction?”

“If I come in here but otherwise I drink coffee like everyone else.”

“With cream and sugar?”

“Right!”

“There you go. My point exactly… you’re varying little really. You don’t even realize that all along you love the sweetness coffee adds to you life. You take it one cup at a time and before you know it you’re consumed. Not that you planned it, not that you even wanted it…. it’s there for the asking. Reliable, rich, sweet, satisfying, ready to please, easy going down, energizing, smells and looks delicious. Who could resist? But if you never took the time to sweeten the pot in the first place think of what you would neglect.”

“I guess you have a point, I certainly wouldn’t like it black, I never have, but perhaps if I lessen the amount very slowly I would wean myself without ever truly missing it. Cream though, that is another story. There is no thinking about cream, no cream… no coffee. Black is all alone as far as I’m concerned, and I’m not willing to compromise on that. None of that fake powder, that counter stuff…the kind that shakes not pours. Milk, milk is ok but who would go to black when all they ever want is cream. Cream is available and when it’s not, well then I’ve no interest.”

“So if I were the cream in your coffee?”

“With or without sugar?”

Prompt (due 5/12/09)

*Using phrases relating to one subject or idea, write about another, pushing metaphor and simile as far as you can. For example, use science terms to write about childhood or philosophic language to describe a shirt.

OR
* Use of too little description in writing sometimes results in 'white room syndrome'. Write something that really takes place in an utterly blank white room.

Featuerd Response 5/12/09

Poem in a White Room

Caroline walked into the white room and said automatic doors won't open for me.

Paul walked in and said at least I didn't wholly reveal myself.

Kate came in wet and soapy, shouting, swearing, laughing

            with a story about her dog and a trip through the car wash.

Robin walked in and said qaStaH nuq jay?

Addie walked in and said it won't be like this forever,

            but it will be like this for now.

Mark came in all glassey-eyed and said I used to look a lot like Luke Skywalker.

Renee's voice came in over the radio, saying I'm on the big clock at Station 2 waiting for             the town to burst into flame.

M.J. said some towns in Pennslyvania have been burning underground for years, initially             ignited by lightening, or lanterns or campfires.

The surgeon came in and said electrocaudery smells like sizzling meat;

            sometimes it makes my my mouth water.

Carlye said I'm cooking for Bill Cosby next week but I'm not sure what.

Manjo said a moderate degree of food restriction can increase the life-span by about

            fifty percent.

Stephen said incorruptability is a reassuring quality.

Finally, Brian said man, those are really big, those are the biggest ones I've ever seen,            implying that this was a good thing, a very good thing indeed….

Jeanne Skvarla

age 43, Rochester

Prompt (due 5/5/09)

*April showers bring may flowers. write a poem, story, or scene about something else April showers bring.
OR
* Write a piece using, or inspired by the following. "May 17, his birthday, Odd changed his name to Todd. It did make a difference. " (Prompt idea by May 17, Katherine DaCosta)

Featuerd Response 5/5/09

WATERLOGGED
by Lisa Marie Cuff

“Rain is not the problem.”
Not exactly, the rain is teaming so our company baseball team’s playoffs have been washed out. I won’t be able to flex my pitching muscles and try my luck at some positive recognition. Somehow this doesn’t seem to bother me. Not in the wake of being falsely accused of harassment at work. Of having two spiteful colleagues file reports about me to Ray who is already an adversary. In the office I try to maintain a pleasant atmosphere while I’m aware that I’m drowning in liquid allegation.
Internally I feel rained on. Like the worm going about its usual business, having its self dug niche flooded with an unthinkable disaster. Nothing to do but escape the waterlogged burrow until the earth absorbs the worst of it. Time… the worm is at the mercy of time.
I’m hoping during this controversial time while I’m squirming about on the hard concrete, I’m not squished by some uncaring, hasty, demeaning official or a flattened end product of a driveway. For now I’m forced to just handle the rain as it comes.
Enveloped by large drops bouncing as they miss their target and form office pools I’m optimistic that very soon some light may be shed on the field, and with it the earth is indeed thirsty.

Prompt (due 4/14/09)

*Write a poem, short story or scene in which a balloon or a kite is an element.

*Take a slow walk around your block, then write a haiku or another piece of writing on something observed. (I know, this was a prompt last week, but you really need to take that walk!)

*Write something with an island as a setting.

Featuerd Response

Magic Island 4/14/09

Flowers welcome you to my magic island
Water only steps to the right
To the left… F I R E!
On the isle a fruit basket is kept
For all weary passers should they desire
Here beasts are prepared for the spit
Luaus are whipped up for natives and guests
Crowds gather to celebrate special holidays
Fountains fill glasses with tropical delights
The climate hospitable throughout your stay
The horizon disappears into aromatic evenings
Surrounded by the four culinary corners in my mainland hut!

Lisa Marie Cuff

Prompt (due 4/7/09)

*Write about a person (fictional or real) whose name is either odd, or very appropriate...or write about your own names and what they have meant to you.
or
*Write a poem, short story or scene that starts with the sentence or bit of
dialogue: “Rain is not the problem.”
or
*Take a slow walk around your block, then write a haiku of something observed.

Featuerd Response 4/7/09

Poem
 
Sunrise on Red Creek;
a woman rows a red skull,
singing with the loons.
 
Jeanne Skvarla
Age 43, Rochester

Prompt (due 3/31/09)

Write a poem, scene or short-short story involving a teacher.
OR
Write a scene or short story that takes place in a grocery store or a restaurant.
OR
Write using the name of an exotic fruit: Kumquat. Lychee. Guanabana. Ugli fruit. Martian sniggerberry. You name it!

featured response (3/31/09)

Ode to Theresa Thompson

Sat behind me for hours on end,
In our row of desks Formica and tin,
Eighth grade English year ’69,
Our related assignment, a poem.

My first attempt was flawed back then,
The lousy text clueless and thin,
Forgot my concoction of petty rhyme,
Wasted lines of boring drone.

The chosen one, my backward friend,
Well read, smart, and saccharine.
Unpretentious though witty mind
Created work we couldn’t condone.

The splendid words that you had penned,
The teacher praised your treasured win,
An academic moment to outshine
Before the class your stanzas she’d comb.

The recited syllables flowed to lend,
A fine sample of free verse well written,
Pretty expression in perfect time,
Taught me techniques I could hone.

The content a melodious blend,
Placidly had drawn me in,
I don’t remember a single line
But an ornate flair that set the tone.

I’ve since aspired to transcend,
The precarious start to my poetic sin,
Using the example from the girl behind
Me in the classroom at St. Salome.

Lisa Marie Cuff

Prompt 3/24/09

Write a story, scene or poem using rain
as a plot or, symbolic element
OR
Write something using Ireland as a setting.

Featured Response 3/24/09

Poem
by Jeanne Skvarla, age 43 from Rochester

First he used a dead neighbor's cane.
It was supposed to be temporary.
He couldn't believe it was happening.
He grew into a question mark around it.
Students and colleagues from around the globe
sent him others, too, nicer ones, exotically
carved and casted (he was well-loved).
They helped him stay balanced and upright
most of the time. Flies, nymphs and streamers,
floated quietly through his head all winter;
he worried about it all. When summer came,
he went with his wife to their Colorado cabin.
It was temporary. It was too much.
It was not enough. He decided to go out.
The aspens and kinnikinnick improved his mood.
He pulled on his waders, picked up his creel
and headed up the narrow footpath.
And then it began to rain,
the kind of rain, cold and dark,
that brings brook trout to the surface
of high mountain streams.

Prompt 3/17/09

Write a story, scene or poem centered around an egg as a plot element, symbolic element, or cause of conflict.
OR
Write something titled “Seven Paper Airplanes’
OR
Write a piece with the line “If this were Armageddon, I’d have gotten a memo.”

Featured Response 3/17/09

SEVEN PAPER AIRPLANES by Quent Rhodes

Here I sit; a thirty-year old man who is scared to death of the grumpy old man standing in front of him holding a shotgun. Sweat is pouring down my face, my hands are trembling behind my back and my tongue is covered with paper cuts. I have one more paper airplane to make before this lunatic kills me.

How in GOD's name did I get myself into this?

The details of how it all started are kind of hazy now. My first memory is of my wife Christine taunting me by triple-dog-daring me to steal an egg out of Mr. Kenmore's chicken coop. I had no choice but to accept the dare. Christine has one of those government jobs that I am not allowed to talk about. I am pretty sure that she is some sort of hot-shot agent. I can not confirm or deny this, but I can say for sure that she is extremely skilled in martial arts and weaponry. She also makes a lot of "business trips" to places that she is not authorized to tell me about.

I figured that stealing an egg would be a fun way to impress her.

My plan was simple enough. All that I had to do was sneak onto Kenmore's ranch after dark, unlatch the door to the chicken coop, grab an egg and run home. Unfortunately for me, Mr. Kenmore had other plans. After I grabbed the egg and started making my way out of the coop, I felt the cold steel of a double-barreled shotgun poking in my back. I slowly turned my head to look over my right shoulder at my captor.

"Mr. Kenmore, I'm sorry. I was just---"

"SHUT UP!"

The last sound that I heard was a loud clunk as Mr. Kenmore hit me in the back of the head with his shotgun.

I had never really thought much of Mr. Kenmore. I honestly do not remember him ever saying a single word to me since I bought the farmhouse next door to him two years ago. I knocked on his door once to introduce myself after I saw him mowing his lawn one afternoon. He chose not to answer. I wrote him off as being one of those crotchety old men that just didn't want to be bothered.

When I awoke, I was sitting in chair with my feet tied to each of the front legs and my hands tied behind the back. Mr. Kenmore had positioned me at his kitchen table and he was standing across from me. I was covered in mud from being dragged into the house from the chicken coop. He looked extremely pissed off. I was beyond scared at this point. I opened my mouth to beg for his forgiveness, but before I could say anything, he lifted his gun, pointed it right at me and asked, "How did you know about my bomb shelter?"

"WHAT???"

"WHO TOLD YOU ABOUT MY BOMB SHELTER? The only person that knows about it is my son."

"I'm sorry Mr. Kenmore. I didn't know that you had a bomb shelter. I was just trying to steal an egg. Really, I'm sorry. Please let me--"

"SHUT UP! Do you expect me to believe that nonsense? "

Honestly, I didn't expect him to believe it. A quick glance around his house revealed all sorts of war and religious paraphernalia. There were also a LOT of weapons. This man had been preparing for something for a long time and as my luck would have it, I was it.

"Mr. Kenmore, I promise to never tell anyone about your bomb shelter."

"You sure won't. You won't have a chance."

I don't even know if this man really has a bomb shelter. Is it under his chicken coop? Why would he build it there? Aren't they usually in the basement?

"Mr. Kenmore, please listen to me."

"No. You listen to me. Who sent you? Was it the commies?

The commies? Seriously? That's when I knew that there really was no hope for me.

Mr. Kenmore walked over to a shelf a grabbed a few sheets of paper. He laid out seven of them in front of me.

"If you can make a paper airplane out of all seven of these sheets of paper, I'll let you go."

Paper airplanes? Oh my GOD! How crazy is this guy?

"Okay Mr. Kenmore. I'll do it."

I figured that after he untied my hands to make the paper airplanes, I could easily figure out a way to free my legs so that I could make my escape. However, instead of walking toward me to aid me in my ingenious escape plan, Mr. Kenmore just stared at me.

"Well, start making the airplanes!"

"But I need you to untie my hands."

"Do you think that I'm stupid? Use your mouth."

"WHAT???"

He didn't say another word. My bewildered appearance didn't pry a bit of sympathy out of the old man.

Reluctantly, I contorted myself enough to pick up the first sheet of paper in my mouth. I held it such that the bottom half of the paper laid flat on the table while the upper half was perpendicular to the table. I folded it over by using my chin to make the crease. I then grabbed the upper right corner with my tongue and pulled it back so that when I turned my face and laid my right cheek on the table it would form a diagonal crease. I couldn't believe that it was working. I finished my first airplane after another ten minutes or so of writhing and squirming. I actually felt reasonably proud of my work.

"Pretty good. Six to go. You have thirty minutes."

Mr. Kenmore set the timer on his stove and then let out the most diabolical giggle that I have ever heard. There was no way that I could make six more airplanes in a half-hour. Speaking of time, has Christine even noticed that I have been kidnapped? What's the point of being married to a superspy if you can be kidnapped by your next-door neighbor?

I worked feverishly. Blood dripped from my mouth from all of the cuts on my tongue. My neck ached from all of the contorting and twisting. The fourth, fifth and sixth airplanes were saturated from absorbing the sweat that was dripping from my face. My chair actually tipped over as I tried to balance it on one leg while reaching for the last sheet of paper. Mr. Kenmore just laughed and told me to pick myself up.

There were only three minutes left and I was not going to make it. I needed to make one more plea.

"MR. KENMORE PLEASE!!!!!"

Mr. Kenmore looked me in the eye and then said in a very soothing voice, "Honey, wake up."

"WHAT???"

"Honey, wake up."

And that is exactly what I did.

Jolted back into reality I quickly touched my face to confirm that I was indeed alive and free. I then turned and looked at Christine who, needless to say, looked at me as if I was loony.

I explained my crazy dream to her and then promised her to never watch scary movies before bed again. To my surprise, she informed me that Mr. Kenmore does in fact have a bomb shelter underneath his chicken coop.

As I prepared to lay back down in an attempt to salvage an hour of sleep before getting up for work, the sound of a small explosion came from the direction of Mr. Kenmore's place. Christine leapt out of bed and grabbed her gun from the nightstand. As she made her way to the door, another blast went off. This one was at least three times louder than the first. Before I could say anything, Christine looked back at me, and in a very calm and relaxed voice said:

"Don't worry, Hon. If this were Armageddon, I'd have gotten a memo."

Prompt 3/11/09

Write a poem, scene or short-short story using next door neighbors.
OR
Write a piece that personifies and/or anthropomorphisizes an inanimate object or an idea.

Featured response 3/11/08

The Side Porch

By Amie Klepper

Marie has watched the world from her covered side porch for more than 50 years. When my house was built next door, in the long, hot summer of 1961 when I was just an infant and knew nothing of Marie whom I would not meet for another 37 years, she would watch the builders from the side porch while her husband delivered mail. What was it like for a mailman before there were mail trucks? He would have had to carry his mail bag from house to house to house, day after day, week after week, month after…well, you get the picture.

The side porch is not much to look at. It’s not even a proper porch, just a little spot of asphalt under a covered area that some people might use to park their car – a carport, really. But Marie doesn’t drive, doesn’t own a car. “Louis always drove,” she tells me. Now the senior bus comes once a week to take her to the Senior Center. Her daughter-in-law comes once a week to take her to the grocery store. Sometime before I moved in to the house next door she put down a little square of indoor/outdoor carpeting in the area where a car would have been. There’s a bench and two outdoor chairs, a table, some potted plants. There’s also a statue of an angel – a baby angel. Is that a representation of some private pain that I know nothing about? Or does she just like baby angels? I haven’t the heart to ask.

When I moved into the house next door with my husband and my toddler her husband, the one that had delivered so much mail, had just passed away. We moved in September 1st; her husband had died in July. She told me about it in tones that expressed a major event. But because I never met him he was just a concept to me, someone I didn’t know who had died. Hearing about him was like reading a random obituary. I felt a slight feeling that was something like sadness. I could say it was a momentary polite sympathy. Marie, however, was changed forever, and I will never know what she was changed from. I only know the old widow who watches the world from her side porch.

She tells me she is 78. I am startled because she seems so much older than that. I would have thought she was in her late eighties. She is white-haired, wrinkled, and frail. She walks slowly down the driveway to get her mail every day, leaning on her cane. At Christmas she decorates her mailbox. She tells me that when her husband delivered the mail the decorated boxes cheered his day, especially in the cold and snowy Decembers, year after year. So she does it too, in honor of him. I compare her to my own father, who is the same age as Marie, yet they are worlds apart – my father still travels, plays tennis and golf, goes to the theatre and the symphony. He does not lean on a cane; his hair is not white.

I have watched Marie grow older on her chair on the side porch. Each year she walks more slowly to the mailbox. I wave to her. She waves back. I know she wants me to walk over and talk to her but I don’t have time. I feel guilty; I can tell she is lonely. When I used to have time to chat she would tell me about all the families that had lived in my house since it was built. Forty years of families have come and gone before me.

Marie has watched me, too, from the side porch. In the 10 years I have lived there she has watched me argue with my husband; she has watched him move out. She has watched my daughter grow from a toddler to a teenager. When my daughter was little she would run to Marie on the side porch and Marie would get up and go inside to get her a cookie. Marie has bought Girl Scout cookies and exclaimed over Halloween costumes, always saving a special Halloween treat just for her, the little girl who lives next door. She was so touched when I brought over a plate of Christmas sweets.

I had to go back to work after my husband moved out and no longer have time to chat. I don’t make Christmas sweets for the neighbors anymore.

I wave as I walk down the driveway to my mailbox.

Marie waves to me from the side porch.

Prompt 3/4/09

Write a poem, scene or short-short story about signs of spring, using all five senses.
OR

Write  comparing two unlike objects, such as illness to a mirror, or a squirrel to a coffee pot.
OR
Write in tribute to a teacher.

Featured Response for 3/4/09

A Million Springs

Love is but a million springs
Casting warming breezes that touch the unbundled heart.
Awakened the pert bird’s unfastened calls impart
Perched on attraction’s gate engaged in swing.
The sweetness of renaissance lips part tasting,
For winter’s passion has begun to dart
Chased by a windsong of Cupid’s masterful art.
Nature’s kiss is muse for magic unbridling
In a spiraling fragrant pass of zephyrs’ ballet
Around hearts crafted with gentle whirl
Lifting petals stolen from the garden’s bouquet,
Enticing the senses into emotional play.
A romantic palette charmed gazes unfurl,
Blooming within Sping’s spell is the heart’s pearl.

Lisa Marie Cuff

prompt 2/18/09:

Together, they fight__________!

OR

Write a scene dialogue or poem using a river, a doll, and/or a garden pond.

Featured Response for 2/18/09

“Writer’s Blank” by Quent Rhodes

 John, absolutely puzzled, looked up at his co-author, Rob.   With a slight twinge of frustration in his voice, he declared:  "I don't get it."

 "What do you  mean?"

 "I mean... I don't get it!"  Why do we have a blank space in the title of our book?

 Rob, not the slightest bit surprised by his partner's question, responded:  "Doesn't it make perfect sense?"

 John yelled back, "What in the world does 'Together, they fight blank spaces' mean?"

 "Calm down, John.  It's not blank spaces, it's nothing.  Together, they fight nothing!  The blank space is a symbol."

 "Ohhhh.  I get it."  John let out a slight chuckle.  "Together, they fight NOTHING!  It does make perfect sense."\

A giant smile burst onto Rob's face.  He sat down next to John; gave his friend a friendly elbow in the side, and asked: "Isn't that a great title for a book about a group of conscientious objectors to the war?"

After thinking it over for a minute, John grinned as he turned to Rob and replied: "No.  We're serious writers.  We don't do Mad Libs."

Prompt 2/11/09

Write a scene, dialogue or poem on the theme of thaw, whether literal thawing or some metaphorical thaw.

OR

Write a scene dialogue or poem using BEES! HORRIBLE BEES!!!!

Featured Response: 02/11/09

COLD SHOULDER by Quent Rhodes
 
Sweat is collecting in my pores
I need to just relax and keep my cool.
Apparently she did not like my comment about her eyes.
“But really, they ARE the most beautiful that I have ever seen!”
She isn’t buying it.
The back of her head is staring at me with a knowing grin.
It intends to be the only part of her that will give me any attention this evening.
I tell her a joke.
Yes!  I’m sure that I heard a slight chuckle.
Apparently, she likes political humor.
I quickly tell another one.
She tilts her head in my direction.
I ask her for her opinion on everyone’s favorite candidate.
She stares me down and asks, “Do you really care?”
Yes!  She asked ME a question.
Now that we are having a conversation,
I legitimize my interest in her by furrowing my brow, leaning in and saying,
“Of course I care.  I want to know what YOU think.”
Her thoughts rushed out of her mouth.
I felt as if I had shot off the starting gun and all of the words were racing toward the finish line.
Yes!  She is opening up to me.
It’s time to see if she is really thawed out:
“That sounds really interesting.   Can I buy you a drink?  I would love to find a table and discuss this further with you.”
Yes!  She said “Yes!”
 

Featured response: 01/21/09

Write a poem or scene involving toast.
OR Write a poem or scene with three different types of light in it.

Featured response: 01/21/09

Toast, toasting, toasted

by Leigh O'Brien

Back in the day we used to say you were toasted when you drank too much. Sometimes, but certainly not always, there had been too much toasting going on. Then the toaster and the toastee both might get toasted. These days, you've overindulged or perhaps had one too many; so polite we are now.
 
But I don't know. Aligning yourself with a piece of overcooked, dried-out bread pretty much said it all. You were cooked; you had clearly stayed in one place too long; you were brittle around the edges.
 
And if you lost at something – badly? You were toast. You were cooked, done, done in. You lost so clearly and so definitely that you were burnt to a crisp. Clearly being toast is not the best thing since sliced bread…
 
But it's a new day; a new era. We are no longer toasted or even toast. So break out a new loaf and carve yourself a nice large slice of fresh, soft bread. It's time for a change!
 
And perhaps time for a new metaphor, as well.


Leigh O'Brien
Geneseo, NY

Featured Response: 01/14/09 Write a poem or descriptive paragraph that mentions at least three of the varieties of Rochester snow.
OR
Use at least seven of the following words in a poem, short story, or scene of no more than 2,000 words.
art, sweeten, marking, king, stark, heart, linger, smart, sleuth, sling, lake, claim, lark, harken, clue, clamor, cling, mingle, singer, market, slake, lute

By Dan Rybinski

Dark night, full moon, bright floodlight looking out over my driveway.
Light a cigarette, hand cupped over the Bic to shield it from the wind
Damn it’s cold.

I live alone, I smoke outside. Can’t stand the smell of smoke in the house
How ironic

The fine, sleet like snow dances in the wind and the floodlight, filling in the driveway that had been blown out this morning.

Looking back, looking out my window ten hours earlier, like being in a giant snow globe,
Large, fluffy flakes falling freely from the sky. Eight inches, maybe more. Must have snowed all night long.

This will be easy to clear, but not the wet, slushy slop at the end of the driveway.
Recycled salt filled slush courtesy of the snow plow that runs twice daily up and down my road.

Cigarette’s done, time to go back inside.
Damn it's cold.

Submitted by
Dan Rybinski
Age 57
Town of Chili

Featured Response: 01/07/09 Write a story that ends with the following event: And so, it turned out that the dentist got to attend the inauguration after all! Or: Last minute, you are assigned to write the inaugural poem.

By Kelly Walhberg

            The king of dentistry, the mastermind whom cleans the presidents' teeth, was stuck in traffic one day on his way to the inauguration. As his car stood, grinding and sputtering black smoke, he looked around. He squinted his eyes to look out onto the lake, which seem to stand still just like he. Giving a sigh, he looked back in front of him; the bumper from the car in front of him stared back, as if taunting him. The dentist had more heart then to hit the bumper in front of him. The dentist realized that in order to make it to the inauguration, he was going to have to be smart and think how to get out of this jam.

            "Waiting is painful," he thought, shifting through his glove compartment, only to find old gum wrappers and fast food napkins, "this sure isn't working quite the way I planned. I should've left earlier. If I'm not there to clean the presidents teeth, to whiten his smile, who will be?" As the dentist came across an old brochure of his, he started reminiscing about how much of an art it is to clean teeth. Pushing the brochure aside, he mingled in his glove compartment, to only realize that the car in front of him had actually moved, and was moving rather swiftly. Slamming his glove compartment shut, and hitting the gas, he merged into the right lane. Noticing the limos straight ahead, he knew he was going to make it. To sweeten the deal, by showing his pass he knew he could get right through. Parking his car, he ran inside to meet the president.

            "Mr. President," he said, showing the president to his seat, "please have a seat."

            And so, it turned out that the dentist got to attend the inauguration after all!

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