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)

'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

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

Only little cozy things secure inside their dreamland…

It's Christmas time and the mall is filled with people. I'm staring up at the blinking lights of the sparkling Christmas tree. It is probably close to 25 ft tall, but because of my much smaller stature, it seems mountainous, I can barely see the top. At it's base, it is surrounded at its base by piles of fake snow and presents, each in color coordinating wrapping paper and bows. The rich golds and metallic reds and forest greens reflect the twinkling lights from above-it is looks like a dream, a picturesque Christmas fantasy.

I am pulled from my reverie by my mother gently tugging at my hand, urging me to follow her into the department store. I am in elementary school and my brother is just barely a toddler, following behind us a few steps, causing us to wait every few seconds before he catches up. He continues to get lost in the crowd, my mother pulling him arm to speed up his pace as we begin to browse through the racks of dresses and shoes. My brother and I entertain each other-playing in the racks, darting in between the harried customers picking up last minute gifts.

Eventually, my mother realizes we must go to the second floor of the store. We navigate through the throngs of people, cutting in between them as they wait to check out with their purchases, until we come to the elevator.

It is packed with people, between the bags and the people themselves, the three of us are barely able to fit. But we manage to squeeze in and take the quick ride up one floor. As the doors open, the force of the people getting off behind us pushes us into the hallway. My mom begins walking towards the home wares, with me falling into line behind her.

I turn around to make sure my brother has done the same, and as I do, I notice the doors to the elevator closing. He is in the far corner of the elevator, distracted by the lights on the ceiling and the Christmas music being pumped through the speakers. I go to grab him, but the door shuts-dividing us.

Frantically, I push the button on the side of the elevator, over and over again, willing it to come back. The few minutes it takes to make a round trip feel like hours, every second spent agonizing, hoping he is in the same place when the doors open again.

Finally, I hear the "ding" of the elevator making it's stop and as the doors open, I scan the crowd.

He's not.

Suddenly, I'm awake. My breathing is hurried and shallow. No longer in the idyllic Christmas store, but safely in my own bed. I can hear my parents watching television on the other side of the house, as my brother snores softly in his room next to mine.

When we leave later that day to do some shopping, my brothers hand remains firmly held in mine. I'm not taking any chances.

This post is in response to a prompt at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug-Flicker of Inspiration Prompt #22: The Living Nightmare

Because the night belongs to lovers, because the night belongs to us.

I slowly open my eyes, hoping against hope I'll see the sun creeping up beyond the trees, greeting the world and marking a new day.

No such luck.

The moon hangs low, full and glowing and ominous. There are few stars, but those that do shine must battle with the glow of the city, muting their brilliance.

I toss and turn, hoping to find the one position in this big, empty bed that will bring upon instantaneous sleep. Add a pillow, subtract a blanket, move this arm here or that leg there.

My eyes are heavy but will not stay closed, fighting me at every movement.

My thoughts will not stop. All the "what if's" and "why's" race at top speed, so quickly I can't answer before the next one hits me. Breathing deeply does little to calm my nerves, barely giving me 30 seconds of internal silence before it all begins again.

Laying down seems to be futile, so I move to a seat next to the window. I can see every house on the street. They are all silent, not even the blue glow of a television is visible in a window. The street lights hum as the last of the summer's bugs flock to them, swirling around them for the last time.

There is no movement. The dogs and cats and squirrels are holed up for the night. There is no one taking a midnight stroll. Even the wind has ceased for the night, the leaves laying delicately, unmoving upon their branches.

The cars are parked neatly along the street, waiting for their drivers. I glance at the clock.

5am.

Soon, people will begin to stir awake. The sleep will fall from their eyes as they stretch to greet the new day, well rested and full of energy and life. They will shower and get dressed,make their coffee, kiss their wives and husbands and children goodbye. They will go to work, unaware that I have been watching them from my perch next to my window, envious of their rest, yet joyful someone was able to wake up feeling refreshed.

Perhaps tomorrow it will be my turn.

I watch a while longer as lights begin to turn on. Again, I attempt to fall asleep, willing the groan of starting engines to be my stand in lullaby.

This post is in response to a prompt at The Lightning and The Lightning Bug: Flicker of Inspiration #19-In The Dark of Night

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.

I still love you New York.

I was in 8th grade, sitting in math class. Half way through class, our teacher turned on the TV. We were excited-TV during class? That only happened on special occasions. What was going on?

Every station was showing the same thing-smoke billowing out of the first tower. No one spoke-I don't think anyone could comprehend what was going on. The bell rang, but the classes stayed put, all eyes fixated on the TV screens.

The second plane came from the right of the screen, crashing into the second tower. I thought it was a replay of the first plane, it took a few minutes to realize it had happened again.

As the news came in about the other two planes, my thoughts turned to family, some of whom lived in New York, and an uncle who worked in the Pentagon. It seemed like everyone was one step removed from someone involved, and everyone was scared.

The rest of the day was a blur. It was eerily silent, like even nature was in shock.

I left school and came home to find my parents finishing up the lawn work. As I walked inside, my neighbor asked my father if they should be listening to music, maybe it would help.

"No," My dad answered, "it doesn't feel right."

We watched footage all day, a constant loop of the smoke and fire and screaming and collapsing.

"There were people jumping out of windows..." my dad muttered. That image, along with so many others haunts me.

The next day, we all gathered in our classes, as the teachers tried to explain what happened.

A girl to my left raised her hand.

"I know this is bad and everything, but...what does this mean to me? How does this affect me?"

Her statement drew shock from our teacher, he tried to calmly explain that we didn't know what was going to happen next, the specifics were still very uncertain, but life as we knew it would never be the same.

Today, and many days since then, the people who lost loved ones have been in my heart and in my prayers. And I am so thankful for everyone who gave their time and their lives so I am able to say how proud I am to be an American.

When I'm six feet underground, I'll need a drink or two. And I'll sure miss you.

I was drowning in booze and parties, trying to hold it together enough to be presentable, yet drink enough to forget everything on a daily basis.

It was a delicate balance that, no matter how hard or often I tried, I was far from mastering.

He was sick. I knew it, I knew it was a matter of time, but I couldn't bring myself to acknowledge it. I was ashamed of what I was doing, but I couldn't stop. So I drank to gloss over the guilt.

"I got some pills. If you take me to pick them up, I'll share with you. We just gotta stop by my mom's and get some money first, then we'll go." His offer was tempting, but I was hesitant.

"I'll take you to get them. I...I'm not sure I want to try them, though. We'll see." Even though I was hesitant, my curiosity lingered.

We stopped to get the money. He went inside, coming out ten minutes later.

"I told my mom your grandpa was sick, so I wanted to treat you to dinner. She gave me an extra ten bucks!" He grinned ear to ear, so proud of his manipulation.

My stomach churned. I laughed and we were on our way.

Again, I waited in the car. He got in the car and we were three blocks away before he pulled out the baggie, twisted into a small tube, concealing two brightly colored pills.

"This one's an downer, I think," he mused, examining the lime green pill. "And this one...this one's perfect for you!" He pulled out the pink pill and placed it in my hand. There were a pair of Chanel C's stamped on one side. I laughed and gave it back to him.

"We'll see." I was still unsure.

We began the drive home, and by now it was dark. I had class in the morning, but I was past the point of caring about going. I had a bottle waiting for me at home.

The music was loud, the car was full of people and as we drove home, we laughed and sang. I was speeding down the highway, anxious to get home.

Then my phone rang. It was my dad. It was also 10:45pm.

Nothing good can come from a phone call at 10:45pm.

"Where are you?"

"At the store," I lied, hushing the people in the car and turning down the music.

"I need to tell you something."

I knew before he said anything, what was coming next.

"Papa died."

The tears came quickly and fiercely. I couldn't stop them.

"Are you ok? Where are you? I'll come pick you up." I could hear him getting his keys.

"No, no. It's ok. I'll be ok. I'm just going to go home."

"Ok...call me tomorrow. Be safe."

"I will." I hung up the phone.

Someone reached and put their hand on my shoulder.

"He died."

Everyone mumbled their I'm sorry's not quite sure of what to say.

I wiped the tears from my eyes.

"You got those pills?"

He nodded in the passenger seat next to me.

"Let's go get high."

This post is in response to The Dare to Share prompt at the Lightning and the Lightning-Bug. The theme was "Loss".

This ole house was home and comfort.

We spontaneously decided to take a trip. Well, not so much we, as I, he just happened to be in the car at the time.

I took the backway and drove for hours. He didn't ask where we were going. He just let me ramble about nothing and tried to pay attention to signs, so he could guide us home in case we got lost. I knew exactly where I was headed, but I didn't want him to know. He wouldn't have told me not to, but I was having hard time admitting it to myself.

My circuitous path turned the two hour drive into four, but eventually, we pulled onto Main Street. My eyes welled with tears and soon, I was breathing in deep, gut wrenching sobs. Muscle memory kicked in and I navigated the streets of the small town, driving by the park, turning left at the cemetery and past the large red brick house at the end of the block.

I took my foot off the gas and slowly rolled toward the house. It's white paneling shone in the dead of night. Did the people inside know that underneath the bright white, was old, dark wood? I wondered. Or that the shudders, now deep red, were once the same shade of brown, blending into the wood, disappearing from view.

I pulled to the front of the house and imagine the layout as it had been the last time I was inside. The china cabinet to the left, right next to the front door that rarely got used, the ancient air conditioner to the right. My favorite Monet print resided above the Victorian couch, next to the beautiful arch of the door way. I could see the door way, but the print and couch were long gone.

I imagined the way the itchy, orange carpet felt when I walked barefoot through the TV room, and the way the textured walls stung my skin with I backed into them on accident. I looked at the street-trying to find the spot stained with my blood where I fell trying to catch the neighborhood boys on my bike. I scanned the lawn, searching for the indentation that was surely left behind when my cousin and I spent all day making snow angels, collapsing in the snow and onto the frozen ground underneath. I stopped myself from charging into the backyard and examine every square inch of grass, until I found the holes left behind from the stakes used to support our camping tent.

"Where are we?" He finally asked.

"My grandparents house," I answered through tears, my throat growing tighter by the second.

"Aren't they..."

"Yes," I interjected before he could finish, "I miss them so much."

This post is in response to The Lightning and The Lightening Bug: Flicker of Inspiration #9- House

Every night it's fireworks, all I see is fireworks, taking off like fireworks.

They had met the summer before last, but both were seeing other people and what began as simple flirtation stayed that way for two years. From time to time, she considered calling him, just to say hi, a few times she even picked up the phone. She felt like such a cliche putting it back down, but always did anyway. He and the girl he was dating were pretty serious, not to mention that fact that she was gorgeous, and funny, and so sweet it was impossible to dislike her.

Now summer was in full swing again, and she couldn't help but think about him. As her friends and her traveled north to Lake Michigan, she promised herself she wouldn't think about him the entire weekend. She was there with her friends, and they were going to get her undecided attention-no getting distracted by what's obviously not meant to be. Still she allowed her self to day dream, as she rested her forehead against the cool window and let the soft hum of the motor lull fer to sleep.

She awoke with a start as a friend opened the car door so quickly she nearly fell out. But soon enough, a beer was in her hand and she was enjoying catching up with people she saw far too infrequently. The day passed quickly and the bikinis and beach volleyball gave way to burgers on the grill and eating at the picnic tables. The sun stayed for the party as long as possible, as it seems to do during those summer nights, but eventually it hid beyond the horizon and everyone gathered on the shore to watch the fireworks.

She stumbled along the shore line, looking for where her friends had set up camp, as the sun dipped lower and lower. She heard the first blast of fireworks and finally set sights on her friends. But before she could make it to their chairs, someone grabbed her from behind and pulled her into their lap. She figured it was just one of her friends, pulling her down so she didn't block anyone's view of the show. She turned to face her friend but pulled back when she noticed him.

She hadn't seen him all day, maybe she had blocked him out, but here he was. And here she was on his lap. At that point all the liquid courage from the day kicked in, and she leaned to kiss him. He met her halfway and when their lips touched, it took her breath away. She froze, yet melted at the same time. Quickly, she tried to get up and leave but he put his arms around her and they watched the rest of the show together.

They walked back to the cabin hand in hand, and he instinctively followed her inside, laying down next to her just like she had always imagined. He put his arm around her and laced his fingers in hers, and she fell asleep quickly, anticipating waking up next to him.

The sun peaked through the windows and she gingerly opened her eyes, rolling over, expecting him to be there. But her arms met nothing but the sheets. As she woke up a little more, she heard his voice coming from outside the room.

"Hey, baby. I miss you, too. I can't wait for you to get here. I'll be waiting. I love you."

His footsteps led to the door, which creaked open and close again all too quickly. She pulled the sheets over her head and willed herself to go back to sleep, or at the very least, willed the tears to stop rolling down her cheeks.

In response to the prompt at The Lightening and The Lightening Bug-

Flicker of Inspiration #7: Baby, You're a Firework

Those are your shoes. These are my shoes. We've got issues.

Growing up, all I ever wanted to be was a punk rock kid. I thought they were so glamorous with their tattoos, and their piercings, and their dreadlocks. And in my 12 year old mind, being a punk rock kid was synonymous with skateboarding. I gravitated to the boys with the boards, who stood outside my middle school and jumped down flights of stairs.

I immersed myself in everything skateboarding. I read Thrasher cover to cover and dog eared pages in CCS, picking out trucks, decks and barrings. My closet was soon filled with tee-shirts baring logos from element, DC and Independent. As the summer drew to a close and the back to school shopping began, I had my eyes set on one thing-shoes.

But not just any shoes. I wanted my first pair of Vans, in all their color-changing glory.

That's right-my shoes changed colors. Inside they were stark white, but step into the sun and they turned bright yellow. I never felt cooler than walking into the first day of school that fall, as my shoes faded back to white during first period and watching every one stare in amazement at my shoes.

I wore those shoes everyday. No matter how dirty, or worn out they looked, they still retained their color changing magic. I covered the soles with lyrics I deemed fitting to my teenage angst, and continued to wear them as a symbol of rebellion.

Almost two years later, I was on the brink of high school and decided to trade in my well worn, and even more well loved, pair of shoes for a new pair. By this time, Vans was no longer just a skating brand and every one of my friends had at least one pair. I bought a pair of standard pink and black shoes, but every time I put them on, I missed my worn in, eye catching, dream encapsulating shoes.

Today they sit at the bottom of a closest at my parents house, thier fat tongues and think laces, collecting dust. I just can't bear to throw them away and finally give up my dream of living the life of a punk rock kid.

Today's prompt is Flicker of Inspiration #6: These Shoes Were Made For Talking at The Lightening and The Lightening Bug

What you call the disease, I call the remedy. What you're callin' the cause, I call the cure.

It may not seem like seven years is a lot of time, but going from you to me has taken a life time. We're the same person, sure-same long curly hair, same 5 foot frame, even the same gap toothed smile. But so much has happened since 16 it's hard to even believe that they happened to you, happened to me.

The change is good though-it doesn't have to be a bad thing. There have been lots of friends moving in and out of your life, while you moved from one apartment, school, relationship to the next. And that's ok! It's taken a lot to get to where you are, and even more to get to where I am.

You are just beginning what will be the longest three years you can possibly conceive. It's going to start off fun, no doubt you'll enjoy the parties and the people and the excitement of it all, but it doesn't stay that way long. I wish I could tell you to avoid it, but you won't listen, just as I certainly never did. You'll pull out of the tailspin eventually, with only minor cosmetic casualties-you'll be sick-skinny and pale, both of which are temporary, luckily with all your teeth in tact and no visible scars. And not to sound corny, but it's the inside that will take a beating. Luckily for you, with a lot of work, you'll come out on the other side.

No longer the rambunctious party girl, you'll settle into a nice, quiet life. No closing down bars, no blackouts, no random guys and girls crowding your life. At the ripe old age of 23, it'll be holding a full time job, going to school and being up at 5:30 every morning to make it to the gym on time. It may sound monotonous, or even boring, but trust me, after what you put your body through, you'll be happy, grateful in fact, to be in safe in bed, at 10pm. I promise.

Just be careful. It's in the chemical make-up of teenagers to be naive, what with missing your frontal lobe and all, but try and listen. It could have been so much worse. I shouldn't be here right now, there should be no 23 year old me talking to 16 year old you. We lucked out on more occasions than I like to admit and those are the reasons I'm me, so vastly different from you.

Quiet and calm with barely any hint of the dramatics that characterized your life and seem to be the only reaction you have. Enjoy it while you can, but remember that everything changes. Going through those changes will be hell on earth, but coming out the other side will make it more worth it than you could possibly know.

Written in response to Flicker of Inspiration #5 Write a Letter to 16 year old you on the Lightening and the Lightening Bug.

As we take our stand, down in Jungleland

Most of my earliest memories involve music. I was raised on everything from The Sex Pistols to Marvin Gaye, Wynton Marsalis to Steve Earle. My musical taste has changed over the years, first veering as far off course from the music of my parents as humanly possible and then coming back to to my musical roots. But there has been one constant throughout the life.

The Boss.

From the time I was young, I can remember listening to "Born to Run" and "The Darkness on The Edge of Town" as my peers listened to Backstreet boys and N*Sync. I saw my first Springsteen concert in middle school and my second a few years later. I was in awe watching Bruce, belt the lyrics till the veins popped out of his neck, while his band surrounded him, producing some of the most powerful music I had encountered up to the that point. Max on drums, Lil' Steven and Patti on guitar, and The Big Man, Clarence Clemons on sax. Sitting in the audience, I would get chills as he played the solo to "Jungleland", the notes careening out of this saxophone. At times, he was the perfect accompaniment to everyone else on the stage, and during those powerful solos, he was dangerously close to stealing the show. If I closed my eyes, I could block out everything except what was going on in that moment.

When they performed live, Bruce would introduce his band and when he got to Clarence, he would inevitably ask "Do I even have to say his name!?!?!" and the crowd would scream "No!", because everyone knew exactly who he was, but Bruce did it anyway.

The love between them radiated into the crowd-their passion both for the music they were creating and for each other was palpable.

A few weeks ago, I told my father that if Bruce toured again, I was going to go, no matter the cost. He laughed and said he doubted it would happen, but "more power to ya."

With the death of Clarence, I am sad to say that I may never get a chance to see Bruce live again. But I am eternally grateful that I was able to experience two of the most moving concerts I've ever been to and have been able to enjoy the music that shaped me as a child and will continue to hold a special place in my heart for the rest of my life.

R.I.P. Big Man.

In response to The Lightening and The Bightening Bug: Flicker of Inspiration #4-
Song Worth a Thousand Words