20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers



Photo copyright Scott L. Vannatter

I kept hearing that sound-a mix of a far away scream and the howling of wind through some strange rock formation. “What was it?” I wondered as I sat huddled by the campfire with my brother and his friend.

We were both frightened and intrigued. Should we take off into the forest with only the moonlight and a small lantern to guide us, or ignore it, crawl into our warm sleeping bags in the tent and forget it?

And then we saw her, silhouetted against the rock at the top of the mountain. Her mystery and beauty held us all captive.

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There for Her, by guest contributor Pamela Wells

There for Her

By the rain drenched window

wrapped snuggly in imagination

she finds herself once again

immersed in day dreams of him

taking her

far beyond the familiar scenes

of predictability and for once

to just be there

waiting for her

between the realism and nonsense

battling over the white noise

housed in her beautiful mind

shielding her

of a life revealing

he was always there

waiting for her

just outside her imagination

standing in the pouring rain.


by Pamela J. Wells

Her blog is http://maiasong.wordpress.com


Thank you, Pam, for sharing your wonderful work – and imagination – with us.  — Melissa

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What Magic Lurks Inside

Not to pull you away from the Magic looming beyond the arch, but that arch suggests so much doesn’t it? Time, weather, magic, and design. Such things are beyond my ability to fathom. So, when I came upon a site explaining design, math and construction I thought I would share it with those of you that can not only write well but comprehend mathematics. Now go back to the Magic and writer’s imagination.


Dr. Seuss Challenge

The turtle came out of the Zanzibar Lake

and looked all around. “Now, who should I take

on adventures with me?” The girls and the boys

all jumped, waved their hands, and left their beach toys.

“Well, first we will stop at the Mudgy-Fudge Store.

Choose whatever you want, and then choose some more.

Then maybe a trip to the shoe store. We’ll buy some new shoes,

and that will be headlines in Zanzibar News.

Let’s go to the fair and buy great big balloons,

then off we’ll go skiing down slippery dunes.

Who’s coming? I ask you again. Who’s coming with me

on all of my travels? Come, Susie and Lee

and Fredric and Jane. Join up with me now,

you’ll be glad that you did. Look, see that pink cow?

She gives strawberry milk that tastes yummy-yum.

You won’t want to miss a small crumble or crumb

of the Universe Bakery’s cookies and cakes

made of raspberry frosting and chocolate fudge lakes.

And then, as I ponder, I think we should fly

on the backs of some eagles high up in the sky.

Look down and see trains just as tiny as specks

but be careful, my friends, and don’t hurt your necks.

We’ll land in a field of soft fluffified grass

and hear the bells ringing, those bells made of brass,

announcing that school is about to begin.

Wait, stop, do not cry. Please put back your grin.

My friends, worry not, I will take you with me,

my pals Jane and Fredric and Susie and Lee.

No assignments or chalk dust or homework for you….

just me, Mr. Turtle, who makes dreams come true.”


How the flamingo flaps the wings,

How the butterfly flutters them up,

How much wonder there is to see,

How much imagination there is to imagine,

How it would be for me to flap, flutter my wings,

My wings of vanity.


Thank You

Not ten, not thirty, but just 20 Lines,
this is a place to write or photograph.
I sometimes get to 20, often half
of that is all I write. We search the mines

for diamonds in the rough, a word or scene
that captures our imaginations, turns
the dark to light with chandelier that burns
through midnight. Images and poems mean

a different thing to you or me. To read or see
the other artists’ work gives me a lift
and makes me know I have encountered Gift.
Thank all of you for so enriching me.

The Red Carpet of My Mind


Reblogged from Everyone Has a Story…

Originally posted on Everyone Has A Story...:

It occurs to me that making friends on the internet is kind of an odd exercise when it comes to me. I spend a lot of time watching people…how they speak, what they say, body language, tone inflection, etc. Last night, I spent a good amount of time talking with Sara, and we talked for hours about subjects I’ve almost never discussed with anyone in my entire life, except maybe with Audra.

When I first set up my blog, it never occurred to me to not put my picture on my gravatar or in the About Me section…But some of my new friends on the internet chose to keep their physical appearance a secret. In fact, most of my Blogosphere friends who opted for anonymity have been assigned a “look” in my head based on some pretty goofy criteria.

For instance, Sara looks like Katherine Heigl to me in my…

View original 340 more words

A General Photograph, But the Description I Imagined…

The stream of Love!

 The moment I clicked this picture, I just couldn’t envisage anything out of it. But when I look at it today- I feel the shower of the lightened fog in the form of the cloud descending down- spreading the love it has kept beneath its cloak for so long. It does want to create that effect- the effect I Love to Behold- I love to love!

Sometimes some photographs doesn’t speak much, but expresses something which is not understandable in material form. It can just be felt- and I told you what I felt!

This exercise might seem crazy at once but it is wonderful; it may push your boundaries of imagination and spirituality. I am not a ‘guru’, neither am I a ‘photographer’, but I can feel- and that is what I consider important to stretch what you see in something beyond the logical sense.

Where Poems Live






Imagination is a fickle thing.
It serves me well or seems to disappear.
I wish it ruled my castle like a king.

Fine china, diamonds, porcelain, and Ming
charm with their elegance and bring me near
imagination. Such a fickle thing,

coquettish as a woman wondering,
it peeks and hides, pretends it doesn’t hear.
I wish imagination were my king.

I pick up pen, depend on meter’s swing,
and hope to light up poem’s atmosphere.
Imagination, such a fickle thing,

might offer word or line or phrase to wing
toward me so I could be a balladeer.
Why can’t imagination be my king?

When all the stars and planets line and sing
their songs I see a sparkling chandelier:
Imagination, though a fickle thing,
still rules my writing castle like a king.


Twilight of countless days,

Drifting by , in a silent procession.

Twilight of thoughts,

the wistful story telling time.

The hour is not for fairy tales.

The hour of the dreamer,

you know, the one who is unrealistic and impractical,

is the eclectic presence of reality and the fantastic.

spreading slowly along the skyline of imagination,

like the glowing, fading, shifting colors of twilight,

grand at once, mundane and coarse sometimes,

and however short lived,

leave traces in memory to last too long.




There are certain carpets that you remember not for the texture or colors, but for the way they conceal his steps when he approaches you.

From behind

The threads blur and engrave inside your mind with each step he makes. You try to keep your eyes open but you don’t see the carpet. You see the picture of yourself pressing against the rough fabric of it. You see clearly the color of his shoes and cuff of his trousers.

Your knees hurt.

If you lift your head up, you see the walls, or the furniture, or the trace of light under that door at the end of the hallway. Then this blurs , too. The wall becomes a canvas of your imagination. Your fingers dig into the design on the floor.

His steps are closer now. He isn’t moving. Neither are you. You both wait. He waits for you to start breathing again. You wait for whatever is to come.

Approvingly silent.

Only years later, when you sit and chat with your friend and the conversation turns to the choice of carpet in your home, your eyes suddenly blur and your lips curve up in smile, you exhale.

You remember.

You never forget.


First Impressions

Is this just a shack or is there more to this than that? Could it be one of life’s traffic signposts? If so, it would be easy to believe it reads “Dead End”. On the other hand it might read “Traffic Revision” or “U-Turn” and signify a change in direction or new beginnings. Some buildings, like some people, are not always what they first appear to be.

Old Shack


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