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"

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

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.

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.

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.