Prompt Feb 26, 2013 _____ Changed Everything

Bob changed everything!  I am a pack rat.  No, really, I am a pack rat, beady eyes, long slender tail, the works.  I have lived in the upstairs attic of a very classy vacant home in Oro Valley and have been happily undisturbed for the past three years, just living a pack rats life. Then Bob, actually Bob and Carol, come along and want to buy my home.  Ugh!
They were so excited.  Below me I could hear their irritating comments:  “Oh, look at that view Bob,” or ” I can not believe this house has been on the market three years,” or “What a steal, only 340K.”
“I’ll fix em!”
The day of the home inspection was quite a lot of fun.  My friends and I spent the evening before the big event pooping, laying waste to the insulation, bringing our crap in from the desert and even invited some termites over for a party.
You know what?  We have not seen hide nor hair of Bob or Carol.  I am at peace, once again in my vacant home in Oro Valley by the desert.
Pat Stone

A computer changed everything. I was a young and lonely soldier stationed at the Presidio Of San Francisco. My social life with the opposite sex was nil. Generations of service men passing through the city had led local parents to tell their daughters “Little Red Riding Hood” stories in which the wolf always wore olive green.

While taking a night class at a local college I came across a computer dating application. For only $3.00 and by answering just thirty questions it promised to provide the names of at least five compatible women.

A few weeks later I received a reply. It had fifteen names but as I tried to call I found phones busy, no answer or “got a boyfriend already”.

Finally I was able to connect with Mary and 45 years later we are still connected. I suspect that we may have been one of the first computer marriages and all for only $3.00


writing prompt 1-29-13

The prompt was A Stack of Boxes

A Stack of Boxes

Big ones, tall ones
fat ones, slim ones
Some hold secrets,
some hold messes,
what is in them
takes several guesses.

Gramma’s attic
we cleaned last night,
and Papa’s tool shed-
what a sight!

What do we throw?
and what to keep?
Memories abound
there are tears to weep.

The dumpster’s full
our heart even more
as we carry a load
to the second-hand store…

We each have a remnant
a personal treasure,
priceless to us,
its’ worth we can’t measure.

A stack of boxes
ordinary to many
but to us who value them
they’d cost a pretty penny


Judie Miller

Writing Prompt, January 8, 2013

Don’t Laugh

“Don’t laugh,” I shouted.  “Its not funny.”
My green fatigue pants had finally given up their purpose.  Forty days and forty nights of sweat, dirt and grimy living off the jungle floor had finally taken their toll.  And since no one wore underwear, more was exposed than I cared to show.  All the ‘wait a minute vines’, razor wire, and thorny bushes were causing cuts and scratches in all the wrong places.  These filthy pants had split, in one fell swipe,  from the end of the front zipper through the rear belt loop.  There was no fixin them, no needle, no thread, and no replacement pants until resupply which might be days away.

Pat Stone

December 18, 2012 – Prompt—In the Shed

It wasn’t really in the shed. Although there were enough outbuildings on my home’s property that one could have qualified as a shed.

There was our house, it wasn’t a shed. But there was a barn which had at one time held a cow but now only a few cats hung out there. There was a chicken coop it once served as a shelter for chickens, which I despised. They always got out and left there nasty crap and I went barefoot from May 1st until school started. There’s nothing more repulsive then chicken shit oozing between your toes. The hen house not stood empty and only the horseradish growing next to it offered anything of use.

Then there was my father’s garage. He built it and the rest of the buildings mentioned. He had used the boards from the boxcar that served as our dwelling for nearly two years. On cold mornings I saw my breath while lying huddled next to my little brother in that Great Northern railcar.

However, it was in the garage no in a shed or in the shed, that I looked one day early in December. What made me peer in through its window I can’t explain. I usually avoided contact with the garage not wanting to disturb something and invite my father’s wrath.

Maybe because I was only ten and Christmas was coming that caused me to peek in the window. When I did I saw it a beautiful, bright blue bike. I knew it was for me. Two other items waited as well a red peddle tractor and a blue and white car. The tractor had to be for my brother, Frank and the car for Gloria. What would my baby brother Mike get? I didn’t see the highchair hiding in the shadows.

Now even though I saw our presents I never mentioned them to anybody especially my little brother Frank and my little sister Gloria.

Christine Joy Howard


Writing prompt 12-11-12

Our prompt this week was Shreds of Doubt

It was Christmas Eve and the twins did not want to go to sleep. I tried the “Santa won’t come if you don’t go to bed” routine that had worked in prior years, but this year, the twins just looked at me and laughed. I think they had shreds of doubt that Santa existed. After all, they had started elementary school this year and who knows what the older kids had told them. I didn’t want the magic to end, so I just told them I was going to bed and if there were no presents under the tree in the morning, it was their fault. I turned off all the lights, put out the Santa cookies and went to my room. I put on my pajamas and climbed into bed. I could here the twins giggling downstairs. Next thing I know, the sun was streaming through the window. Uh, oh, I had fallen asleep. What would the twins say when there were no Santa gifts under the tree? The magic would be ruined. I hurried downstairs to find tons of presents under the tree and all the Santa cookies gone. The twins were sound asleep under the tree as well. What had happened? Who ate the cookies? Who put the presents under the tree? I didn’t know, but I had shreds of doubt that Santa maybe was real after all.

By Bev Ribaudo