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.

Sweet like candy to my soul.

"Why are you so big on sending us to camp?" I asked my rabbi one afternoon. Not that I minded-I religiously counted down the months, days and hours until could return to camp each summer, reuniting with other Jewish kids from around the country.

"Well," he said, "honestly, the goal is for little Jewish boys and little Jewish girls to meet and grow up and have little Jewish babies."

"Oh," I responded, taken aback by his honesty. "That makes sense."

His view was shared by most of the adults at camp. Nothing too risque went on-some holding of hands and maybe a little kissing. The adults often turned a blind eye, their passive acceptance enough for us. But the counselors, many only a few years older than the campers themselves, encouraged us.

The end of camp was always the worst-no one wanted to leave and we fought back tears for days at the mere though of saying goodbye. On one of the last nights, our counselrs led us to another one of the girls cabins for some late night bonding-we sat cross legged on the beds, reliving of favorite moments of the summer and discussing plans for next.

We were all absorbed in our conversations, but when the door open our heads whipped around, turning to face the door.

The boys cabin, led by their counselors, began filing in, soon filling up an entire half of the cabin. Some of us saw our "summer boyfriends"-we waved and smiled, maybe even blew a few kisses.

Our counselors gave them a knowing smile, as the boys, in unison, got down on one knee.

We were still confused, but soon we understood.

"You've got your ball, you've got your chain..."

The boys began to sing, their off-key voices forming into the most awkwardly sweet melody many of us had ever heard.

"In a boys dream..."

The tears were now streaming down our faces.

"Crash, into me."

The song ended and we rushed the other side of the cabin, holding on to not only them, but the last night of summer.

We carried that memory with us for the next year, eagerly anticipating the coming summer, and following the plan exactly as my rabbi had hoped.

This post is in response to a prompt at Write on Edge-Flash memoir based on the word "crash"

Does the way I wear my hair make me a better person?

"Seriously?" she exclaimed, exasperated. She had been standing in front of the mirror for what seemed like hours, making no progress what so ever.

Another spritz from the hairspray bottle left a fine mist covering everything in the bathroom. Everything, it seemed, except the flyaways that insisted on doing their own thing, refusing to fall in line with the rest of her mane.

For years, she envied the girls she grew up with-their long blond locks, falling pin straight down their backs. She used to roll her eyes when they complained how hard it was to style.

"They have no idea," she would think.

She had tried to iron out her curls, spending money she didn't have on expensive products and tools, only to watch her curls creep back in before the day was done.

Now, she tried to embrace her curls, if only because she finally realized they weren't going anywhere.

Her mother always told her they made her unique-her curly hair was different, she stood out from the crowd. The dark, deep brown was mysterious. But what if she didn't want to stand out? Couldn't she once just blend in, fit right in line with the rest? Between her hair, her height and her hips, she knew she would never look like them-but it didn't stop her from wishing.

She flipped her hair over and scrunched her curls some more-adding more product and hoping they would keep everything where it was supposed to be.

She flipped her head back and examined herself in the mirror.

"Hmm..." she thought, "not too bad."

She flipped the light and walked out of the bathroom, laughing to herself. "Let's see how long it lasts."

This post is in response to a prompt at Write on Edge-Hair-So many of us have a love-hate relationship with it. For some of us, it’s our defining feature. Whatever it means to you – or to your characters – we want to know about it. But we don’t want you to simply describe it. We want you to use it as a vehicle to tell us something about your character, a situation, you or your life

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

When you go would you even turn to say "I don't love you like I did yesterday"?

It started with a text.

"Can you come over around 6? We need to talk."

I leapt from my seat on the couch, rapidly pressing the "send" button on my cell phone. Every call ending with his voice-mail.

"Hello?", he asked timidly, as if he were unsure about who was on the other end.

"So that's it? We're breaking up? I'm not waiting till 6. If we're doing this, it's on my terms," I spat. "Oh, and make sure my stuff is packed."

"Fine."

I hung up and jumped in my car. My heart was pounding; I had so much adrenaline pumping, my hands were shaking. I raced across town, coming to a stop in front of his house. I let myself in and made my way upstairs.

"At least you listened," I snarled, as I entered his bedroom. We had been here before- last time I had arrived to find my things still strewn around the room. Seeing everything in a neat little box, collected from various spots in the house, made it real.

My eyes boring a hole through him, as he stared at the ground.

"Well?" I asked, tapping my toe impatiently, waiting for him to speak.

He tried, but I interrupted, "So you go away for three days and all of a sudden you're over me? It only takes three days of not speaking for you to forget about me?"

"I tried, Amanda," he began, "I really did. I just can't anymore."

He finally looked at me. In turn, I raised my eyebrow, daring him to continue.

"This isn't working for me. I just..."

"Just...?"

"...just don't love you," he flinched, as if threatened, his body recoiling from me.

I didn't move.

"What? You think I'm going to hit you?" letting out a small, sarcastic laugh.

He was silent.

A final eye roll and I grabbed the box; I was ready to leave, ready to be done.

This post is in response to a prompt at Write on Edge-we’re writing about pivotal conversations. The goal was to focus on body language, word choices, and the pauses between the words to create meaningful, powerful dialogue

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!

If there's one thing I can't take, it's the sound that a woman makes about five seconds after her heart begins to break.

He had just gotten out of a long relationship, still reeling from the fiance who had left him a few years earlier; a serial monogamist at it's finest.

I was in the midst of being single for the longest period of my adult life. Still not quite sure what being an adult in an adult relationship was all about and holding on to the last of my insecurities with all my might.

It was doomed from the beginning.

Our first date culminated in our first kiss, which brought me to my knees and left me unable to be anywhere but his side for as long we were together.

There was no dating, no courting-we had a date, then we were official and, soon thereafter, deeply, terrifyingly in love.

We broke up for the first time and I begged for another chance. Not sure why, but it felt like the right thing to do at the time.

It worked. And as we both cried and hugged and made up, he kissed me.

"Surely, you can feel I love you when we kiss," he prompted.

I nodded, but it was a lie. Whatever passion I had previously felt had vanished-we had an expiration date, and we both knew it.

It was cyclical-we fought, we made up, we argued, we worked things out. I was usually the one who backed down, he won the fights and I nodded in agreement, holding back for the sake of the relationship, no matter how doomed it was. Yet still, every fight we had killed me-rendering me a useless mass on my couch.

But out last fight was different. I stuck up for myself-I knew it was the end and it going to be on my terms. I drove across town, my top heavy Jeep swerving precariously in and out of traffic, heart racing, palms sweaty.

We tried to make up one last time-dinner and movie were our band-aid for a relationship broken beyond repair. It didn't work and I stormed out of his house for the last time.

Even though I knew it was coming, even though I knew it was doomed from the beginning, my heart ached. I laid on my mothers couch for days, willing my heart to catch up to the feelings my mind had known for far too long.

This post is in response to a prompt at Write on Edge-Doomed Relationships.

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.

I never got over that sweet taste...

Growing up, my grandparents lived about two hours from us and we visited as often as possible. We would pack up after school on Friday afternoons and arrive just before dinner that evening. We would sit down as a family, a full spread laid out before us-pasta with homemade meat sauce, salad, rolls, vegetables, sometimes steaks right off the grill.

After dinner, we would take our places in the living room, the television tuned to whatever sporting event was on that night while my mom and grandmother chatted and my brother and I alternated telling our stories and showing off our toys to our grandparents.

As my dad and grandfather talked sports, my mom and grandmother would make their way back to the kitchen table, pulling the cribbage board and cards out from the desk drawer. My brother and I would follow, knowing what came with the nightly card game.

Even though we were full from dinner, the game meant that there would be more to eat-or drink, more accurately.

"Go get the ice cream from the freezer," my grandmother would say and within seconds, my brother and I would take off down the stairs, yanking open the deep freezer kept in the basement. The large five gallon tub of ice cream would often require teamwork to carry it back up, but she kept it on the bottom shelf so we could easily reach it.

By the time we would return to the kitchen, the blender would have been brought out from the back of the cabinet, plugged in and placed in the middle of the counter top.

My brother and I would push chairs to the edge of the counter and climb atop so we could reach. Taking her ice cream scoop, my grandmother would roll big scoops of vanilla ice cream and drop them into the blender. A few splashes of milk were next, followed by my brother or I squeezing the bottle of Hershey's on top of everything until either my mom or grandmother decided that was enough.

My brother and I would press all of the buttons on the blender, not knowing the difference between "pulse" and "blend". When it was thoroughly mixed, my grandmother would pull down the tall glasses from the top shelf and evenly disperse the contents of the blender. We would grab straws and sit down to enjoy our desert.

The slurping of the straws was intertwined with calls of "fifteen-two, fifteen-four" until the mix of carbs and the long car ride became too much for us, and we gave in to a sweet, sugar induced slumber.

This post is in response to a prompt at Write On Edge-Share a special recipe, but not just a list of ingredients.

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.

Do you like my stupid hair? Would you guess that I didn't know what to wear?

It was the middle of August and I was fighting a losing battle with my hair. I picked up the black bottle of hair spray and gentle pushed down the nozzle, coating not only my hair but also my shoulders and the counter top in my bathroom with a fine layer of spray. As I inhaled, the alcohol hit the back of my throat.

With a small cough and sigh of resignation, I put down the bottle and opened up the top drawer, revealing a rainbow of make-up- cherry red lipsticks, vibrant blue eye liners, sultry dark shadows. I pushed beyond all of that to find a well-used compact.

I opened the lid to the compact and took out my brushes. I began with lilac, one that had just a hint of shimmer, spreading a thin layer over my brow bone. Cleaning off the brush, I dipped it into the darker color of the palette-a deep, plum purple. With expert motion, I swept the brush across my crease once, then over again deepening the rich color. Finally, a stroke of golden brown at the lash line, to highlight and reflect.

The tube of mascara sat to my right-I picked it up and unscrewed the cap. I passed over each eye, making sure to cover the innermost and outermost lashes; two coats on each side before putting the wand back into the tube.

For the first time, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. My brown eyes had gone from ordinary, to sultry, sexy, enticing. I studied my handiwork proudly and softly smiled.

I placed my eye shadows back in the drawer and pulled out my powder, a small pot almost the same shade as my ivory skin. I swirled her brush in the cap, picking up more and more of the powder with each pass. I used the same motion to apply it to my skin, and slowly any imperfections, both imaginary and real, were slowly buffed away. A small hint of color at the apple of my cheeks brought my face to life.

Until my eye caught sight of a few small hairs that had broken free of their confinement, now waving in the breeze of the overhead fan. They were so small, but they were all I could see.

I backed away from the mirror-I couldn’t spend any more time on my hair, I decided.

Exiting the bathroom, I entered my bedroom and looked through my closet, trying to find the perfect outfit in the mess of clothes.

Another sigh of frustration escaped my lips.

Why was getting ready for a first date so nerve wracking?

This is in response to a prompt at Write on Edge: sensory detail.

Internet relationships are not real. Your heart people steal but identities conceal.

AOL. America Online.

Every few days it seemed, a new cd would come in the mail. I'd take it dutifully to my father and beg him to put it on the computer. He would load the latest version and when he was done, the familiar voice would call out:

"You've got mail!"

My brother and I would climb onto the desk to check our email. I was barely 10, but being online soon became my favorite activity.

I would navigate through websites and chat rooms with ease. I didn't understand why my mother and father had problems with something that came so naturally to me. The mouse felt like an extension of me, one I never even knew was missing until we reconnected.

The internet seemed to call to me, to pull me in. I wanted to do nothing else but sit in front of the glowing computer screen. My parents would call from the other room:

"It's bed time now! Get off the computer! Say goodbye to your friends!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming..." I'd mumble back, not really having heard what they said.

Finally, my dad would come into the room and stand over my shoulder.

"Nothing good happens after 10 o'clock, in real life or online."

Every night an argument would ensue, and I was always on the losing end.

And he was right-nothing good ever did happen. I broke all of the internet safety rules my teachers and parents tried to instill in me

Don't talk to strangers? But they seem so harmless!

Don't give anyone my phone number? But how else am I supposed to talk to my new friends when you kick me off the computer at 10?

Don't share personal information? But they're my friends...

Without a second thought, I had become an online predators fantasy-naive and trusting.

I, like every teen, thought I was immune-Those horror stories on the TV surely won't happen to little old me.

And I got lucky. They didn't.

Only recently have I realized the danger I could have put myself in. And also recently, I learned my Dad was so very right-

"Nothing good happens after 10 o'clock, in real life or online."

This post is in response to a remembeRED prompt at Write on Edge-recall your early memories of being online.

So now I'm standing here alone. I'm learning how to live life on my own.

Sweat dripping, I take a deep breath. I look around in amazement. I am wonderfully, blissfully alone. Smile from ear to ear, I finally relax

This post is in response to a prompt at Write on Edge.
"This week’s assignment was simple: write a story of your choice. The catch? Write it as a tweet. Use only 140 characters – including spaces."

(P.S. I typed this into Twitter to make sure I abided by the character limit, and this is 140 on the dot. But can I just say that the last sentence not having a period is killing me!?!?! haha)