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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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".

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)

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