I'm moving on.

If you've been around here for a while, you know that I'm part of two amazing communities of writers: The Lightning and The Lightning Bug and Write on Edge.

Since I love participating in them so much, I decided to create another blog just for my creative writing!

So, if you're interested and want to check it out, let me know what you think!


Pretty Good with Words (But Words Won't Save Your Life)

How the wind did cry and the snow began to fall

The doorbell rang, and she stood waiting on the porch.

She looked over her shoulder at her car, "I could probably still make it down the stairs to my car and start it up before they got to the front door. I shouldn't have even come" She fantasized about leaving, but her feet stayed firmly in place.

She wasn't quite sure why she was here. It had been years since she had left, but the calm suburban neighborhood was unchanged. Houses lined either side of the street, perfectly groomed landscaping surrounding them. Christmas lights were covering all the trees and bushes, with a few strands hanging from the roofs like icicles. The houses were almost indistinguishable from each other-and she knew that was just how the people who lived in them wanted it.

It was a far cry from the cramped studio apartment she currently occupied. The outside of her graffiti covered building looked downright dirty next to the pristine landscape of the suburbs. She had become so accustomed to the constant noise, that the quiet, eerie rustling of the leaves sent shivers down her spine.

She had always felt out of place, but as soon as she left, she yearned to come back. She had finally gotten over her pride and made the long, trip home from the city. Her anxiety had risen as she passed each exit, all the time thinking what a mistake she was making.

The door opened, yanking her out of her thoughts and into the present. Her mother stood over the threshold, mouth gaping. Withing moments, her mother grabbed her, wrapping her tightly in a hug.

"I can't believe it..." she sobbed into the crock of her daughters neck. "I'm so happy you're here..."

"Me, too, Mom," she answered feebly, fighting back her own tears.

Her mother grabbed her hand and she took her first, hesitant steps into the house as the snow began to fall.

'Cause we're young, fell in from the stars.

"Are you sure you're ready?" he friend asked, laughing.

"What do you mean by that! Of course, I'm ready! Besides he's a great guy-super nice, my parents like him, he makes me laugh. And he's cute! Get off my back!"

"I'm not trying to be mean, honestly. I'm just saying you can barely take care of a plant, "she motioned across the living room, where tiny brown leaves from the various plants on the mantle dotted the floor. "How do you think you can nurture another person, and a relationship with that person, while still taking care of your own mental health, when you can't even remember to water your plants?"

"Oh! Thanks for reminding me," she said as she leapt to grab a pitcher of water. "And I do remember. Just not everyday. They aren't dead...they just have some dead leaves. They're fine."

"Ok..," her friend mumbled. "I'm just trying to look out for you."

She knew her friend was right, and she knew the entire time she should have taken the advice. But she had wanted him so badly she wasn't going to let a little thing like common sense stand in her way. The relationship was train wreck from the very beginning-neither of them knew how to be in a relationship and it was intense and exciting and awful. It fell apart within a matter of months.

And even though she knew it was doomed, she mourned the end of the relationship-laying helplessly on my couch, watching movies and eating ice cream. She cried more than she thought she should, but she couldn't help it. She looked around the room, the dead leaves had continued to fall from the plants. They now laid on the floor, serving as a reminder, taunting her.

This post is in response to a prompt at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug-Flicker of Inspiration #27-flash fiction! Pick one thing that you can see at this moment, in the room with you, and write something down somewhere

For the record, this was inspired by a plant I keep on my desk at work. I was once told I wouldn't be ready to have a relationship until I could keep a plant alive for one year. The plants been there for almost three :-)

I think I got the key. I guess I'll just try another if that's the key

Everyone has a junk drawer.

Hers was in the kitchen, the top left drawer in the island. It was filled to the brim with loose playing cards and empty lighters, books of matches and half burned birthday candles. A collection that had taken years and had become so extensive she barely knew what it contained.

She rummaged through the contents, looking for some super glue, when she found the key. A solitary key on a plain key ring. It had been buried for so long she had forgotten it was even there. She was lost in thought, fingering the ring, before the sound of a branch hitting the window outside, brought her back to the present.

Still distracted, she threw the key on top of the pile of junk and closed the drawer.

A few days later, he entered the room, the keyring dangling off his ring finger.

"What's this?" he asked. She did not answer him, and he didn't need her to.

"I thought you got rid of this," he continued. "Did you use it?"

Slowly, she shook her head no.

"Are you sure? Because it was just laying on top of all the other junk in that drawer. I didn't even know it still existed! Let alone to be on top!"

He began to pace, and threw his hands up in frustration. "It's like you wanted me to find it."

Pausing, he turned and stared at her, the veins in his neck and forehead bulging, framing his ever reddening face. "If there's something you need to tell me, I suggest you do it now."

"No, there's nothing."

He snatched the key and walked out of the room. She turned her back to the door and let out a sigh, surprised to find she had been holding her breath the entire time.

Maybe she had wanted him to find it, she wasn't entirely sure. But she knew one thing for certain-the key was her way out, and now it was that much farther out of her reach.

This post is in response to a prompt at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug-write about a key, literal or figurative, memory or fiction

It's realizing just how close you've come to death.

"You're going to kill yourself."

She could feel the older woman's eyes boring a hole in the top of her head, as it remained bowed, her eyes transfixed on the table in front of her.

When she was finished, the girl stood up and, for the first time, looked in the woman's direction. The girl's blank stare looked far beyond the woman standing in front of her, but the woman just smiled and nodded.

She left quickly and got in her car, trying to leave behind the gravity of what she had just heard.

"She has no idea what she's talking about," she said to herself, with an accompanying eye roll.

Lighting up a cigarette, she navigated the backroads back to her apartment.

There, a thick cloud of smoke greeted her, the haze hanging heavy at the top of the stairs. She sat down on the couch and inhaled deeply as the purple-grey smoke swirled around her.

She was seeking relief, but it was slow to come. She tried again, breathing fiercely, holding her breath until she was coughing.

She sat back, frustrated, and closed her eyes. Without welcome, the woman's face appeared in her minds eye. She heard her words vividly. This time she couldn't ignore it-the words repeated over and over in her head, bringing her back to reality with a jolt.

"I...I'm gonna go smoke a cigarette."

Her roommates just nodded as she made her way outside. But she didn't stop on the porch, she didn't even light a smoke. Without thinking she opened her car door, started the engine and began to drive away.

He phone buzzed a few minutes later. He roommates noticed her absence.

"Dude whered u go?!?!?!?!?!"

The woman's face appeared again, and a hand that was anything but hers, shut the phone and continued the drive.

This post is in response to a prompt at Write on Edge-The soundtrack of our words.
(In my head, this song plays as she drives away.)

And we’re travelling on this road to somewhere, try to get this message home if your still there

She always assumed road trips happened like they did in the movies- a car load of friends, barreling down the highway as the wind blew their hair back. Loud music, lots of laughs, hanging our feet out of the passenger side window.

But that cliche was not her reality.

She was alone in the car, and had been for hours, with hours still to go. Her eyes were heavy with sleep and her legs were aching from sitting. With a deep breath, she willed herself to get though Chicago rush hour traffic, with the promise that on the other side, eventually, there would be rest.

She looked at her Ipod and noticed a tiny red mark on the battery-She had only moments left before it died. She searched the console for a cd, but nothing she found sounded like something she wanted to hear. The Ipod sputtered through the first half of a song, before the screen went black.

Silence it was.

Well, as silent as a major highway in one of the biggest cities in America during one of the busiest times of day can be.

The hum of thousands of cars lent its self well to daydreaming, which, as had been the case lately, led to more anxiety. More than once she cursed the traffic, not because it kept her from moving forward, but because it prevented her from turning around, abandoning the whole trip.

She was seeking closure, and she knew she must seek it alone. No one could force her to feel it, and she was the only one who knew where to find it. And so, when the traffic started to move, ever so slightly, she kept her hands on the wheel and continued forward, no matter how badly the urge to turn back called her.

This post is in response to a prompt at Write on Edge-we’d like you to take us on an actual journey, specifically a road trip

How dare you call this love.

"What are you doing here?" her eyes so narrow it was amazing she could see through the slits at all.

He writhed uncomfortable, mumbling. "Well, I was just...uh...driving by and..." He didn't even attempt to meet her gaze.

The icy glare said it all. Her arms crossed defensively across her chest and every time he made a move toward her, her body mirrored his action-he reached out with his left hand, her left shoulder recoiled, he took a step towards her, her whole body moved backwards.

"I just wanted to apologize. I was stupid and I realize that. But I miss you so much and I..." he rubbed his hands together, trying to generate warmth as the snow begin to lightly fall on the porch stoop. "Can I just come in? Just to talk?"

She raised one eyebrow, but didn't say anything. She didn't need to, he knew exactly what that look meant. She had said it often when they were together "You must be out-chya mind!" Usually, it was said amidst laughter. Not this time.

"Just give me five minutes to explain, please," he pleaded, but it did not make a difference. She stood firm, her face like stone and her eyes seeing through him.

After what seemed like hours of silence she spoke, "You could've picked anyone. Literally, anyone! Yet, you chose her. And not only did you choose her, but you chose a place where everyone would notice you! You knew exactly what you were doing."

She snarled the last line, like a snake hissing at its next victim.

When she finished, she resumed her gaze, giving him time to recover and respond. He stood opposite her, mouth gaping open, unsure of what to say next.

But she didn't feel like waiting. Instead, she just shook her head and with a quick turn, shut the door.

This post is in response to a prompt at Write on Edge-Write a conversation-Using surroundings, body language, visual cues and blocking, in addition to the spoken words, show us who they are and what their relationship is without coming out and telling us!

Now I don't claim to be an "A" student, but I'm trying to be.

The hum of her laptop fan on her lap was almost enough to put her to sleep. She had been sitting in her over sized, brown plush chair for what seemed like days-laptop perched on her knees, papers and textbooks spread on the table and floor surrounding her. Piles of notes, notebooks band more pens and three ring binders than anyone should own in a lifetime added to the clutter, making the already small room increasingly claustrophobic.

The beginning of November always brought the worst of the semester. She was far enough into it that it had lost the novelty and excitement of the beginning, but not close enough to being done to be able to see the end. The parties many use to ring in the start of a new semester have subsided, and the street in the tiny student neighborhood she lives on is quiet. Even the least studious among them is holed up in a similar position to what she currently finds herself in.

She rereads the assignment. A rebuttal. 2500 to 3000 words. Any topic. It should be easy-2500 words is barely anything. It was the openness of "any topic" that was tripping her up. Her brain was too tired from the other tests, papers and projects she was either working on or just finished to even see straight, let alone pick a topic from the seemingly infinite possibilities.

Opening up her browser, she pulled up Google, which she had formed quite an attachment to this semester.

How did people even do homework with it? She often wondered.

She typed in "rebuttal essay paper ideas" and within seconds was provided with close to 500,000 links. She breathed a sigh of relief and clicked the first one. The page began to load and in bright red, bold letting across the top, the headline read "ANY PAPER, ANY TOPIC! Just $9.99!" It blinked enticingly, the long list of papers for sale organized by topic and word count waiting patiently underneath.

For a second she considered browsing, just to see what they had. She may be broke, but $9.99 seemed a small price to pay to have this paper off her mind. And would her teacher really know? She's probably grading hundreds...thousands even...

But her conscious kicked in and she went back to the previous screen.

She opened a word document and stared at the blank, white, simulated piece of paper, willing a topic to reveal itself and for 2500 words to come pouring out of her fingertips.

Unfortunately, it doesn't happen and the paper remains blank, save for the tiny black cursor, blinking rhythmically, tauntingly.

She gets up and walks over to the hanging wall calender. Every box is filled with something- birthdays, assignment due dates, the occasional social gathering.

Today is November 4th, definitely not the first Friday night she's spent in front of the computer and, she's sure, not the last.

She counts the days by number of assignments until she gets some time off. Three papers, 4 tests, 4 quizzes, one project.

Then... it's Thanksgiving. A glorious week long break from the stress of school-they only thing she will have to concern herself with will be the amount of turkey she can eat before the tryptophan catches up with her.

But for now, she must get back to work.

She stares back at the laptop, taking her place in the middle of the large chair. She tries to take a step towards it, but her feet keep her rooted.

First, she thinks with a yawn, I'll just take a nap.

This post is in response to a prompt at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug-Flicker of Inspiration #23- Time of the Season

Cause tonight, you know it's not forever

The sun is barely peaking in the window, but it is just enough to catch my attention. In my fog, I sit up and survey the room.

My clothes lay in a pile at the end of the bed-a sequin top and mini skirt crumpled to the point of being unrecognizable, my stilettos lying pitifully next to them. The sequins pick up the few stray rays of light bouncing around and at once, turn the room into a glittering, headache inducing disco ball.

My hand reaches to cover my eyes and wipe the hair from in front of my face. My perfectly coiffed mane from the night before is now thrown on top of my head in a knot. A sweatshirt from a college I’ve never heard of has replaced the sultry outfit I had on not even twelve hours ago.

On the other side of the bed an alarm clock blinks “8:00”. The boy next to me starts to stir, bringing me back to reality. I jump out of bed and grab my clothes in one hand and heels in the other.

“Hey…” I hear him coming to, but by now my hand is on the front door. “Hey… Wait… You’ve got my sweatshirt!”

This post is in response to a prompt at Write on Edge-8 -am or pm, fiction or creative non-fiction- but 8:00. In 200 words or less.

Just like a ballerina, stepping lightly.

Inspiration photo

As I slid my tights over my feet, my hands grazed over the soles.

Rough, raw, calloused.

I sighed and pulled my tights up. Reaching into my bag, I pulled out the shoe box, slightly battered from being transported to and from countless clas ses, rehearsals, and performances. But as long as it was the box which took the beating, I was ok, for it lovingly held my point shoes, and those were much more precious cargo. They were no longer the soft baby pink that shone when I bought them, now they were slightly paler, rosin residue covering the bottom and point. But for what they lacked in appearance, the regained in familiarity. Sliding them on, they fit perfectly. Each toe nestled into the nooks and crannies, a mold of my foot that was made for me.

I wrapped the pink satin ribbons around my ankl es, crossing once in the back, then the front, before finally ending with a bow at the base of my calf. Loose enough to ensure I could move, tight enough to ensure the shoes would not.

In one smooth motion, I slid my bag back under the bench and took a few gliding steps into the studio. I perched on my toes, taking small stutter steps across the room. A few deep bends to warm up my muscles before launching myself in a series of jumps, dips and pirouettes until my hand brushed against the window on the opposite wall. The other dancers watched as I made my way gracefully back and forth across the room.

I could feel my shoe rubbing my foot, no doubt adding to the already disfigured surface. I knew it came with the territory-as long as I danced, my feet would suffer. The bruises and fissures would fade eventually, the callouses would shrink and the rough skin could be made soft again. But as long as my feet were stuffed into shoes that kept my tottering on my toes, my feet would continue to deteriorate.

It amazed me that an act know n for it's grace and beauty, produced such ugly scars.

This post is in response to a Red Writing Hood prompt at Write on Edge-Athleticism.

Source: weheartit.com via Jenny on Pinterest

If they only knew the girl with the tattoo, like I do.

The bar was quickly filling up. The boys took their stations at the bar, drinks in hand, tapping their feet and moving their head to pulsing rhythm of the house music. The girls migrated to the dance floor, packs of three or four, dancing with each other seductively, putting on a show, all while pretending to ignore the row of men staring at them.

As he sipped his beer, he noticed her. Twisting and turning to the music, laughing with her girl friends. Her black pants clung to her long legs, only accentuated by the five inch high heels. Her hair flowed down her back, long blond locks, waving as she danced. The gold top she was wearing reflected the dim lights, making it hard to ignore her. Every eye in the bar was drawn to her, including his.

She felt his eyes, and turned to meet his glance. After making eye contact, she flashed him a sly smile and flicked her head around, continuing her dancing.

Her dancing followed the beat of the music, her hips keeping time with the bass. The faster it got, the more her shirt would ride up her back, but she acted as though she didn't notice- soon, it had crept up over her waist. She continued to dance, and the lights highlighted her exposed flesh, especially the small piece of a tattoo on her left side.

She glanced over her shoulder, to see if he was still watching. He was, and now he was moving closer.

Just as she wanted.

This post is in response to a prompt at Write on Edge: tattoos.

The autumn leaves of red and gold. I see your lips, the summer kisses

The breeze chilled me to my core. It crept through the tee-shirt and sweater, jacket, gloves and scarf.

My whole body shivered involuntarily, and before I realized what I was doing, you came from behind me. Holding my quivering body close to yours, the warmth of your core penetrated the layers of cloth covering my body. The leaves crunched beneath our feet, turning into a beautiful confetti of red, yellow, orange and brown. The branches above swayed slowly, trying to recover from the faint gust of wind.

The wind blew again, but somehow, this time, it didn't feel so cold.

This post is in response to a prompt at Write On Edge: Conjure something. An object, a person, a feeling, a color, a season- whatever you like.

I'll fade from sight leavin' only dust.

My breath fogged up the windows of the old car. I reached up at used my sleeve to wipe off the rear view mirror and give myself a clear view of the house I was there to watch. I could see the reflection of the manicured lawn, the illuminated windows, the flag waving gently in the breeze. All taunting me.

I had been here for hours-parked down the street, behind the neighbors neatly trimmed hedges. I could see them, but no one could see me.

For better or for worse, I had to know what was going on. My gut ached with the weight of what I already knew, yet had no proof of. Tonight I was there to prove something. Why I had become so hellbent in proving myself right was still a mystery. It would ruin my life, yet I had to know.

It had become a sick obsession- I scrutinized every detail of him, every day. His smell, the dirt under his fingernails, the inflection in his voice. I had followed him here, doing my best impression of every stealth car chase I had even seen-stay a few cars back, never let them see its you. When he pulled in the driveway, I had driven pass the house, stopping finally when he had gone inside.

I positioned the mirror so I could see the front door of the regal Victorian house. Which room were they in? The kitchen, cooking and laughing together? The living room, snuggled up in front of the fire place? I knew the answer, of course. The bedroom.

The thought made the hairs on my neck stand on end. I continued staring at the mirror, but was not seeing anything but us, and our bedroom. I tried to catch my breath, suddenly everything hit me like a ton of bricks.

When I snapped back to reality, I saw a stream of light from the open door and they were standing on the stoop. He had his arms around her as she nestled her head into his neck. He used to hold me like that, I thought. But it was so long ago, I can't even remember what it feels like. I turned the car on and went to shift it into drive.

A car pulled up next to me and parked before I could even register what was happening.

"You think I didn't see you following me?" He asked, his voice a low growl.

I was shocked. Without saying a word, I put the accelerator to the floor and sped off. I wanted to believe I was leaving him in the dust, but I knew in my heart it was the other way around.

This post is in response to Flicker of Inspiration Prompt #18: Objects in the Mirror at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug

Maybe you should have thought about that, when you were cheating.

He got up early, as he always does. I laid in bed, and watched the light stream from the bathroom until he closed the door, so only a small line shone through between the bottom of the door and the carpet.

He dressed quietly and kissed me on the forehead before leaving for work.

"See you later," he whispered.

"Mmhmm," I mumbled in response. "Remember, I won't be here tonight. I'll have dinner waiting for you."

"You're the best. I love you, " he said before exiting the bedroom, bringing the door to a close behind him.

I heard him start the car, and listened intently until I could no longer hear his car on our street.I stumbled out of bed and saw a tiny, blinking light coming from my purse.

"Good morning, beautiful. Is he gone yet?" the text read.

"He is, I'll be leaving before he gets back. I miss you."

"I miss you, too. Can't wait to see you."

"Soon." I responded, and put my phone away.

I went through the day almost robot-like, finishing up the laundry, cleaning the bathroom and the kitchen. As my body performed the tasks, my mind wandered-the anticipation of leaving tonight was my guiding light.

I pulled out the chicken and vegetables from the refrigerator and grabbed the crock pot from the cabinet. I chopped the vegetables but couldn't feel the knife in my hands. It rocked back and forth on the cutting board, slicing though celery, then carrots. I stared blankly forward, eyes transfixed on some imaginary point miles and miles away, while the knife continued it's rhythmic motion, apparently propelled by my own hand.

I sliced the chicken breasts, adding them into the mixture of vegetables. It all looked so pretty together, the crisp green and vibrant orange, the spices dusting the top of the ingredients, and the chicken settling at the bottom, a cool, pale pink.

I pulled my eyes away from the meal I had just prepared and began to get ready. As I showered, the scents from the kitchen wafted into my bedroom. It smells to rich and warm, I thought as I inhaled deeply.

I fixed my hair and applied my make up. My black dress called to me from the depths of my closet. I hadn't worn it in so long, but I slipped into it and faced myself in the mirror.

I felt silly, and dangerous, and excited and anxious. I didn't recognize myself. A pair of black heels completed the look that was anything but my own.

Tonight, this is me, I reassured myself.

As I walked out the door, I could smell dinner. At the last minute, I turned around and stepped back into the kitchen. I scribbled a note:

"I hope you had a good day! Enjoy your dinner-love you xoxo"

It soothed my conscious just enough to slip out the door and not have to look back again.

This is in response to a prompt at The Lightening and The Lightening Bug: Hunger.