The exercise:
Let's write about: the president.
Of whatever.
More yard work, more pruning, some brief moments of sunshine. Not a bad Sunday.
Mine:
"I'd like to call this meeting to order," the man announced, banging his spoon on the dinner table.
"You can't do this," the woman sitting across the table told him, crossing her arms across her chest.
"You will be silent or you will be sent to the holding cells!"
"You mean the cardboard boxes in the basement that the washer and dryer came in?"
"Do not address your president in such a manner! It will not end well for you, I promise!"
"Dad," the boy to his right said with a shake of his head, "just because you declare yourself the President of This House doesn't make it true."
"Yes, it does!"
