'The only kind of writing is rewriting.' -Ernest Hemmingway. Edit or rewrite one prompt.

Describe the most beautiful sound you have ever heard.
The nurses shout for me to push, and I am, so hard that a scream builds up in the back of my throat. I urge it back down, but one nurse told me to give up all my dignity. On the next push, I scream so loud I'm sure the whole hospital can hear me.
"Don't scream! Use that energy to push!" One of the six nurses now standing around me scolds.
I try. I try to push. I am pushing. But nothing is happening.
Twenty three hours of labor. No food for the last twelve hours. Pushing for two hours. Vomit. Blood. Blacking out. I feel helpless. Incompetent. Like I'm a failure.
How can I fail at something that almost every woman who has ever lived, has accomplished? I am no failure. I am no quitter. I dig deep within my soul, finding the hardest thing I've ever done before this moment. There. Something that I wanted badly enough to work at for hours every day.
The memory takes shape behind my closed eyes.
The dappled buckskin mare is the most beautiful horse I've laid eyes on. Green broke after being wild for three years, she's as jumpy as a tumble week in forty mile per hour wind. I've watched my mom ride her, and she moves with effortless strides. She's quick under the saddle. Much too fast for my ten years of age. So instead of asking to take a ride, I sit and watch.
Fast forward four years.
It's seven on a summer morning, and I'm already outside cleaning stalls. Manure and horse flesh perfume the air. The sun's up and bright, bringing the flies to back to life. The pitch fork has warmed beneath my leather gloves. A trickle of sweat beads on my temple and I brush it away.  I have to finish before I can ride. And I need to ride so that I can work on my reining.
The buckskin mare approaches me as I scoop manure from the corner of the stall and dump it in the wheel barrow. She stays a good horse length away, watching as I work. She won't take her eyes off me, even though she has feed in the corner, and grain in the manger. She munches for a while, then turns back to get another bite. I watch as she refuses to loose site of me.
I wonder if she considers me a threat. After all, it's been four years since my old, reliable horse foundered, and I was forced to get on her back. She should've learned to trust me since then.
I check her water bucket and notice it's low. With a swift lift, I toss the remaining water onto the ground. The handle bangs against the side as I tip it back upright. The mare darts from where she's standing, ears up, eyes wide, nostrils flared. I take a step back. Not only has she frightened herself, she's frightened me.
By the time I'm done with the stalls, I head inside to eat some breakfast, then head back out to practice. I've got all day to ride, but I feel like the earlier I get started, the better.
I unlatch the halter from around the stall railing, then unhook the latch. The door slides open on dirt filled hinges, making a loud crunching noise.
The buckskin mare has made it from the belly of the barn to the outside run in the second it took me to slide the door open. She snorts and tosses her head like I've personally offended her.
"Come on, Cactus. Time to go." I lift up the halter, signaling my intent.
She stares, unmoving.
"Come on." My urging has no effect on her.
Giving up, I approach and take my time placing the halter over her head with slow, deliberate moves. 
I guide her over to the tack room. She's calm now. Her aparent goosiness gone. I count my lucky stars.
Saddle and bridle on, I mount up, and head toward the arena.
Her hooves kick up dust as I flex her, pulling her into a tight circle going one way, and then the next. She feels lazy under me, but I know to always be prepared. It could be a smoke screen to what she's really feeling.
By the time I warmed her up, the sun is beating down on my neck and bare arms. I roll up my sleeves a little higher.
The practice session continues until we're both drenched in sweat. The couple hours go by quickly, and I walk her for a half hour, letting her lather cool and her breathing become normal. We have a week to get ready for the first show. This year, my goal is to qualify for state. I've competed for four years, and I've been just outside of the standings. But I'm making it this year.
The same routine goes on through the rest of the long, summer days. By the day the rankings are announced at the county finals event, I feel like I've won the trust of this buckskin mare, a feat much more challenging than anticipated. It's a treasure I will never take for granted.
Her bucksin coat shines in the afternoon's summer sun as we stand in the middle of the arena, receiving awards for our achievements. I take a deep breath and listen to the names being read.
The announcer starts from the lowest rankings and moves up. It's a countdown from eighth place to first place among over fifty competitors.
As the first names are read, my palms begin to sweat. I rub them against the black denim jeans I'm wearing. They've announced some very good competitors, people who beat me out of ranking last year. 
My stomach ties in knots as they get to fifth and announce the person who took first the previous year.
My best friend takes fourth, and I feel like I'm going to pass out. She did really well this year.
Third, then second are announced.
I'm still waiting.
The butterflies in my stomach have turned to sour milk, and I feel like I'm going to throw up all over my saddle.
The first place spot is about to be read. Finally. It's the moment of truth.
My heart beats a rapid symphony behind my ribs. The announcer's voice becomes blurry and I miss the first place's name.
Someone reaches over and shakes me. It's my best friend.
"You've done it!" She yells. "You've won first place."
First place. State qualifier. I've accomplished my goal.
I reach down and pat my mare's neck. We've done it. Our hard work paid off.
I'm back in the delivery room. The nurses still shout and scream, yelling at me to push. I wrap my energy around the hard work and determination that won me first place. As I push, my head pounds, on the brink of exploding. My fingers wrap around the sheets, wrinkling them under the pressure.
The push is so hard, the baby's head finally pops into this world. The nurses keep screaming at me to push, but I have no energy left. It's gone. I reach for the memories. But they've evaporated as quickly as they came.
There is silence. Unending silence as I summon my strength, giving one last push to bring my baby the rest of the way. He comes, but there's no announcement of his birth. His face is blue, his eyes closed. No signs of life.
The nurses rush him over to the baby welcoming station. They hoover. I can't see my baby. But I'm so exhausted, I can't voice my concern. Worry naws at my empty stomach cavity.
The silence is so quiet, it's loud. I can hardly breath, even though my body yearns for air.
A single, meowing cry bounces off the bare walls of the room. It brings tangible relief. The nurses' tight shoulders relax. Deep breaths. Relieved tones. Calm voices. More crying from the baby.
It's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard, even better than the memory that made bringing that sound into the world possible. The sound of life. Potential. Love. Endless possibilites. I send up a prayer, thanking God for the sound of the living. It's better than any other announcement this world can bring.

Write about the most recent gift you, or a character, gave someone.

My phone chimes the familiar incoming text alert. It comes through later than my bedtime. But the screen has lit up the room, and I'm awake anyway.
I pluck my phone from the wooden nightstand. The screen is bright, and I squint against the light. It's blinding against the blackness.
I debate opening it, until curiosity wins out.
The text is from my friend. Her words are urgent. She needs me. Now.
I yawn and rub my eyes. I can't read the clock across the room, so I glance at the time stamp on the text. 1:27 am. I've been asleep on and off since midnight. Seems my night is going to be cut short.
I ask the essential questions...where she's at,  and how to find her when I get there.
The location is only a couple streets away. I text her I will be there in a few minutes.
Pulling on my discarded sweats on the floor next to the side of my bed, I wrestle with the point of waking up my husband and letting him know where I am going, or not. I decide I'd best tell him, just in case he wakes up to find me gone.
He wakes up with a start, his eyes wide, unseeing. I wonder if he will even remember what I'm telling him as I relay the message that my friend texted, then what I'm doing.
He nods his understanding, then lays his head back on the pillow, an instant snore slipping from his parted lips.
The carpet is cool under my bare feet. I grab a pair of socks from the sock drawer, then leave the room as quietly as possible. The stairs creak as I climb them. The clanging of my keys alert anyone awake enough to hear me, that I'm leaving. Luckily, nobody is that awake, not even my 2 year old.
The garage is cold. Winter air sneaks through every crack and crevice the structure owns.
Pulling my coat closed, I zip it to my neck, glad I have a scarf to fill the gap between my coat and neck.
The car starts with a groan, the same one that's been building in my bones since I slipped from the warm cover of my bed. I release mine too, letting it fill the silence.
Cold air blasts through the heater vents. I quickly turn off the air, before shifting into reverse.
The steering wheel is cold. My fingers begin to ache as they clutch it. I pray it warms up from whatever body heat I put off.
Streets are quiet and deserted. Houses have their drapes pulled. Lights are off. Only a stray outside light announces that anyone is home at my neighbor's. My house looks just as empty. I feel like I'm the only one on the snow covered earth.
The drive is fast with nobody out. I pick out the house the party is at as soon as I turn onto the drive. It's the only one with every light on, and music loud enough to hear through my car's rolled up windows. I feel bad for the neighbors, and send up a thankful prayer for the ones I have.
My friend bounds down the sidewalk, a look of terror on her face. What has her so frightened?
She slams the door behind her as she slides into the passenger seat. "Thank you so much for coming."
I nod. "Where to now?"
She bites her bottom lip. "Is it okay if I stay at your house tonight?"
"Of course. Just finished washing the sheets today." I'm silently thankful my husband helped motivate me to remake the bed before we called it a night. Can only imagine how hard it would be while I'm half awake.
"Thank you." She sighs before she launches into her story that has her freaked out.
I yawn and drive us back home, glad to be the safe haven my friend can depend on.

In what way are you, or a character, strong?

There's a sound. It's a whisper. Far away. I can't quite hear if it's human or animal. I silence my mind and zero in on the stillness.
There's no wind down here. No howling or groaning. Nothing living. Or dead. Only my beating heart.
The darkness is complete. My hand is as black as the blackness surrounding me as I place it on the stone wall next to my head, finding a good hold in a crevice. I try not to let the lack of sight disorient me. It's been a long time since my torch burned out, but I'm not turning back until I know how far I can go. My people are depending on me.
The rock is cool. Dry. Not damp. I'm deeper than the water surrounding the rocky island. Deep enough that water no longer threatens to overtake the earth. It's a good sign. And a bad.
I take a deep breath, my lungs tightening against the stale air. They wish to smell the freshness of above ground, but that's not my mission.
Shuffling my foot against the uneven stone, I  try to steady my body against the wall and floor. A hole could end up next to me, swallowing not only my body, but the hope of escape with it. I must be diligent in making sure this path is not only big enough to fit people through, but safe enough for children to navigate. If my village survives the attack from above, then we must not let our victory go to waste.
There. The whisper calls to me again. It's closer. Like feet against smooth stone. Not scuffing, but gliding. Almost inhuman in it's rhythm. Sure. Steady. Strong.
A hint of light shatters the darkness. Shadows dance around the tunnel as the light moves closer. I'm able to see how gray the stone is. Gray with streaks of black and brown and red. Years of erosion piled together.
I scramble to an alcove a few strides behind me. I'm too large to fit into the small crevice, but I push back against the rock as if I could mold it to my size. It doesn't budge.
The cool rock chills my alerted body. I'm frozen. Unarmed. Alone. Almost. I must rely on my instincts and body to survive.
A slight curve in the tunnel brings the light busting into the cavern. It's so bright that I squint. The sudden change has left me blinded. Vulnerable. I lift my arm, blocking the light, and try to blink my eyes into sight. They burn from the effort.
The light stops. Along with a deep inhale. Like a gasp. But from the bottom of the lungs instead of the top.
The whisper has stopped. But my heart has filled the space with it's own rhythm. So fast that it could be a sprint to death.
"Who are you?" A deep voice demands.
My eyes have adjusted. Barely.
A quick debate breaks out in my head. Should I tell him my real name? Or should I lie? Is he from my village? Another scout searching for escape? But if he was, surely he'd know me. He must be the enemy. I've run into a trap. Not only have they found a way to harness the skies, they've mastered light and the earth. There's nothing left for us.
My hesitation brings the man closer. He smells of sweat. But not the sweat that's repulsive. It's sweet. Like oranges and cinnamon mixed with cloves. Maybe a hint of leather in there too.
He notices my flared nostrils and takes a step away. One glance at my clothes, or lack thereof should've been a total giveaway that I'm not like him. That I belong to the other side. 
I whimper and press further into the alcove. Submissive. Weak. Innocent. Someone just trying to escape the war. A woman with no real consequence.
He takes a step closer and the light drops from my face to my toes.
The relief is instant. The burning gone. I glance up at his face. It's my turn to gasp.
He's handsome. So handsome that if I wasn't already trying to play dumb, I would be struck dumb. A look of concern softens his sharp cheekbones and strong jaw that looks as smooth as a newborn's skin. I marvel at the thought, my hand wishing it could reach out and experience the sight for itself. His soft blue eyes, filled with warmth, I would name after a clear, cool morning sky. His hair, not snarled, and shorn with curls peaking from behind his ears, is as clean as if he took a swim this morning.
He looks as frozen in place as I am. A realization that we're both human. And a certain heat that doesn't radiate off the earth, warming the space between us. That we could be friends. Lovers, even. Not enemies.
His eyes drop from my face, sweeping my body. They linger a little too long in certain areas, something I've noticed with these strange people who insist on wrecking havoc in our lives. His cheeks are tinged with a flush that betrays his poise. He's as affected by me as I am by him. 
My body reacts to his appraisal. I feel warm from head to toe. Like someone has relit my discarded torch with new oil. But the heat is within me. Burning to break free.
My eyes rove over his body, which is covered in a woven fabric that couldn't be achieved by our finest weaver. It's mesmerizing of it's own right. I stare at the earthy green color and wonder if our dyes could match the hue. There are decorations above a breast pocket. They look important. Almost like the marks we place over our warrior's hearts when they've achieved a great feat.
His body is large, his bulky muscle obvious under his attire. I have no doubt that if he were to attack, I'd be on the losing end. Even with my skill. His height alone intimidates. He's much taller than most the men in our village. Even my father, with his unusual height, which demands respect, would only come to the tops of his ears. His chest rises and falls with his breaths. They are deep, as deep as his voice.
I glance back up to his face, noticing his full lips pulled toward the ground as if in thought. His brow is furrowed, creating two lines in his smooth skin. The man is as tongue tied as me.
There are no words for the emotions encircling us. It's as if the rock has shifted beneath my feet. I'm falling into a whirlpool of sunshine.
The moment stretches. Becomes so intense that  I feel like my skin is aflame.
He clears his throat. Swallows. It sounds loud in the quiet expanse.
"You need to get out of here. Now." His voice is hoarse. "There are men following me. They won't hesitate to hurt you." A tortured grimace. "Go. Now. There's only one exit, which is the way we came. And wherever you came from." He motions behind me. His voice gains intensity. "Go."
His persuasion works. I dart back into the darkness. Feeling my way along the now familiar walls. Rushing through the darkness. Hoping to find safety on the other side.
I stop to catch my breath. My beating heart throbbing from the sudden rush. As I lean over my knees, I realize I'm alone. The whisper has disappeared, along with the light.
It was the cowardly thing to do. To run away. I should've at least tried to fight. But I couldn't bring myself to attack someone who wasn't attacking me first.
I run my hands over my body, feeling the heat and sweat on my bare skin. I'm getting closer to the surface. The sun is warming the rock, which is moist from the water, creating humidity. I take a welcoming breath of the moist air. It spurs me forward.
As I jog, my mind is filled with the man's face. How he held no malice toward me. Nor I toward him. It's a strange feeling. Something I've never experienced toward these raging human slaughterers. Instead of fear and hate, there was another emotion. A realization that we're not that different. And that maybe we could exist in the same world. Even coexist. Without killing each other. It's a thought that pushes me faster. I need to get to my father. If there is a way to stop this fighting, to save countless lives, then I will do it. If dropping our weapons is the answer, then I will do it. If love instead of fear and hate will save those I love, I will not hesitate. After all, love is the answer to so many unanswerable questions.
My chest fills with the desire and heat of the moment I've just ran away from. Yes, it was a moment of lust filled emotion. But there was more to it than that. I can't explain it right now. But just the feeling of being the same, being compatible, stopped a fight that would've ended in death. Maybe I can end the war the same way.

Describe the most beautiful sound you've ever heard.

The nurses shout for me to push, and I am, so hard that a scream builds up in the back of my throat. I urge it back down, but one nurse told me to give up all my dignity. On the next push, I scream so loud I'm sure the whole hospital can hear me.
"Don't scream! Use that energy to push!" One of the six nurses now standing around me scolds.
I try. I try to push. I am pushing. But nothing is happening.
Twenty three hours of labor. No food for the last twelve hours. Pushing for two hours. Vomit. Blood. Blacking out. I feel helpless. Incompetent. Like I'm a failure.
How can I fail at something that almost every woman who has ever lived, has accomplished? I am no failure. I am no quitter. I dig deep within my soul, finding the hardest thing I've ever done before this moment. There. Something that I wanted badly enough to work at for hours every day.
The memory takes shape behind my closed eyes.
The dappled buckskin mare is the most beautiful horse I've laid eyes on. But she's way out of my league. Green broke after being wild for three years, she's as jumpy as a tumble week in forty mile per hour wind. I've watched my mom ride her, and she moves with effortless strides. But she's quick under the saddle. Much too fast for my ten years of age. So instead of asking to take a ride, I sit and watch on my trusty horse, Dolly.
Fast forward four years.
It's seven on a summer morning, and I'm already outside cleaning stalls. Manure and horse flesh perfume the air. The sun's up and bright, bringing the flies to back to life. The pitch fork has warmed beneath my leather gloves. A trickle of sweat beads on my temple and I brush it away.  I have to finish before I can ride. And I need to ride so that I can work on my reining. Flying lead changes are the hardest part of the pattern, and I have yet to get it mastered before the first horse show.
The buckskin mare approaches me as I scoop manure from the corner of the stall and dump it in the wheel barrow. She stays a good horse length away, watching as I work. She won't take her eyes off me, even though she has feed in the corner, and grain in the manger. She munches for a while, then turns back to get another bite. I watch as she refuses to loose site of me.
I wonder if she considers me a threat. After all, it's been four years since I was forced to get on her back. She should've learned to trust me since then. I don't look like a threat. I'm human. Not a snake or mountain lion. But I know she's still leery by the way she watches.
I check her water bucket and notice it's low. She needs more. With a swift lift, I toss the remaining water onto the ground. The handle bangs against the side as I tip it back upright. The mare darts from where she's standing, ears up, eyes wide, nostrils flared. I take a step back. Not only has she frightened herself, she's frightened me.
By the time I'm done with the stalls, I head inside to eat some breakfast, then head back out to practice.
I've got all day to ride, but I feel like the earlier I get started, the better.
I unlatch the halter from around the stall railing, then unhook the latch. The door slide open on dirt filled hinges, making a loud crunching noise.
The buckskin mare has made it from the belly of the barn to the outside run in the second it took me to slide the door open. She snorts and tosses her head like I've personally offended her.
"Come on, Cactus. Time to go." I lift up the halter, signaling my intent.
She stares at it, but doesn't move.
I glance into the corner where I fed her. The hay and grain are gone. She's eaten well this morning.
She's still looking at me, her eyes expectant as I glance back. "Come on." My urging has no effect on her.
Giving up, I walk over to her and take my time placing the halter over her head with slow, deliberate moves. She lowers her head like I've taught her as I finish putting the metal clasp through the hole.
She follows me like a dog on a leash as I guide her over to the tack room. She's calm now. Her apparent goosiness gone. I count my lucky stars.
After tying off the lead rope, I find her favorite brush inside the tack room. She leans her head forward and nuzzles the lead as I brush under her neck.
She smells of fresh hay and clean hair. I lower my head to her neck to get a better whiff. I wake up to this smell every day, and I still can't get enough. She doesn't startle as I take a deep breath, relishing her scent.
Saddle and bridle on, I mount up, and head toward the arena. It's small, but I take pride in using it every day. It was last year's summer clean up project. If we took down the half century old railroad tied corrals, pulling out every nail, and then clearing the land, it would be big enough for a small practice arena, after we put in some better dirt.
Her hooves kick up dust as I flex her, pulling her into a tight circle going one way, and then the next. She feels lazy under me, but I know to always be prepared. It could be a smoke screen to what she's really feeling.
By the time I warmed her up, the sun is beating down on my neck and bare arms. I roll up my sleeve a little higher so I can keep working away on my farmer's tan. It's embarrassing having white arms to the elbow when I get back in school, and my school shirts have shorter sleeves than my work shirts.
I cue her into a trot, and slowly speed up as we work through our exercises. She's in great shape, and doesn't get winded as I keep her galloping for a few minutes.
I set her up to go into a figure eight, practicing the reining pattern. She follows my lead. I thrill in her cooperation as I start to cue her to get ready for a lead change. She knows what's coming and begins to speed up. I tighten the reins and lean back in my seat to signal her to slow. But she fights the bit and tosses her head. She's still not ready, and too stubborn to work with me. I continue through the half circle, bringing her around again for the change. She reads ahead of me, and gets herself set up, but still braces against the bit and the curve in her body.
As I ask her to change leads, her tail swishes, and she drops to a trot, then back up into a gallop. It's the easy way out. I let it slide, but keep working her.
The practice session continues until we're both drenched in sweat. I walk her for a half hour, letting her lather cool and her breathing become normal. We have a week to get ready for the big show. This year, my goal is to qualify for state. I've competed for four years, and I've been just outside of the standings. But I'm making it this year.
The same routine goes on through the rest of the long summer days, and by the day the rankings are announced at the county finals event, I feel like I've not only stuck with something close to impossible, but also won the trust of this buckskin mare, a feat much more challenging than I ever anticipated. It's a treasure I will never take for granted.
I'm astride the most desired horse in the county. Her buckskin coat shines in the afternoon's summer sun. I've worked every day to sit where I am. In the middle of the arena, receiving awards for my achievements. I take a deep breath and listen to the names being read.
The announcer starts from the lowest rankings and moves up. It's a countdown from eighth place to first place among over fifty competitors.
As the first names are read, my palms begin to sweat. I rub them against the black denim jeans I'm wearing. They've announced some very good competitors, people who beat me out of ranking last year. 
My stomach ties in knots as they get to fifth and announce the person who took first the previous year.
My best friend takes fourth, and I feel like I'm going to pass out. She did really well this year.
Third, then second are announced.
I'm still waiting.
The butterflies in my stomach have turned to sour milk, and I feel like I'm going to throw up all over my new show saddle I worked all summer to earn enough money to buy.
The first place spot is about to be read. Finally. It's the moment of truth.
My heart beats a rapid symphony behind my ribs. The beating reaches my ears. The sound of waves blurs the announcer and I have a hard time hearing the first place name.
Someone reaches over and shakes me. It's my best friend.
"You've done it!" She yells. "You've won first place. Not only are you a state qualifier, you've just won first place in the county."
I reach down and pat my mare's neck. We've done it. We're a team.
I'm back in the delivery room. The nurses still shout and scream, yelling at me to push. I wrap my energy around the hard work and determination that won me first place. As I push, my head pounds, on the brink of exploding. My fingers wrap around the sheets, wrinkling them under the pressure.
The push is so hard, the baby's head finally pops into this world. The nurses keep screaming at me to push, but I have no energy left. It's gone. I reach for the memories. But they've evaporated as quickly as they came.
There is silence. Unending silence as I summon my strength, giving one last push to bring my baby the rest of the way. He comes, but there's no announcement of his birth. His face is blue, his eyes closed. No signs of life.
The nurses rush him over to the baby welcoming station. They hoover. I can't see my baby. But I'm so exhausted, I can't voice my concern. Worry gnaws at my empty stomach cavity.
The silence is so quiet, it's loud. I can hardly breath, even though my body yearns for air.
A single, meowing cry bounces off the bare walls of the room. It's the first of countless cries my little one will utter in his life. It brings tangible relief. The nurses' tightened shoulders relax. Deep breaths. Relieved tones. Calm voices. More crying from the baby.
It's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard, even better than the memory that made bringing that sound into the world possible. The sound of life. Potential. Love. Endless possibilities. I send up a prayer, thanking God for the sound of the living. It's better than any other announcement this world can bring.

What is a memory you, or a character, would like to erase?

 

My hands curled around the car’s steering wheel. My eyes prowled the road in front of me.

I was doing it. Me, Ashtyn Park, the one and only: sneaking out of the house. Well, not my house exactly, but my friend Rachel’s house.

Sneaking out of my house would be suicide. My parents had that place on lock down. I’m pretty sure they had motion detectors that set off an alarm in their bedroom if I got up to use the bathroom at night. So, sneaking out a window would probably send a bullet through my brain.

But, Rachel’s parents slept deep. With her bedroom on the bottom floor, window even to the ground, it made the perfect combination for escape. Now I could cross: “sneaking around”, off my senior bucket list.

I tossed my messy blond hair over my shoulder and giggled. It didn’t matter that I had no makeup on, or that I was in my skimpiest pajamas, nobody could touch me and not be zapped by my awesomeness. My senior year in high school was already turning out to be the best, even though I was only a day into it.

The digital clock on the dashboard read 2:14 am. It was late, or early, whichever way you looked at it. Nobody should be out at this forlorn hour, especially not me. The thought of doing something forbidden gave my stomach the butterflies.

Idaho’s ebony sky loomed overhead, warning me to go back to where I’d come from. Who knows what was lurking in the darkness. Probably black cats and murderers, just waiting for me to stop my car so they could pounce. Living in the country had many perks, but pitch black nights weren’t one of them.

I stomped on the accelerator. The car’s engine growled beneath my feet. No time to waste. I had a boyfriend to see.

A pair of dim headlights broke over a distant hill. As the headlights got closer, I squinted against the light, making them bearable to stare into. I had to make sure they weren’t familiar. With the parents I had, they would probably be out stalking the neighborhood for me already. This could be them.  To my relief, an ancient Ford truck shambled behind those old headlights, not my parent’s SUV. I was safe. For now.

Coasting through a stop sign, I turned onto the road that would take me to my boyfriend’s house. We’d planned this night a couple hours before. He’d been on board with my plan the moment I mentioned it. That’s one thing I loved about Jence: never a party pooper.

I’d told my parents I was staying at Rachel’s house. Which was true. I’d be home in the morning. Which was also true. The more simple the better. They’d launched a million questions, but in the end, I was free. With freedom came the easy choice of sneaking out to be with the one person I really wanted to be with: Jence.

I parked a hundred feet away from Jence’s house, in a field that the pivot didn’t water.  My old car hit bottom a couple times as it bounced through the deep tracks left from a tractor. My shoulder slammed into the side window. Pain shot all the way past my fingertips, and I held back a curse that rose in my throat. I would be regretting that bump at volleyball practice the next day. But nothing could dampen my sunshiny mood tonight, not even a sore shoulder. I practically glowed as I slipped out of the car and darted toward his house.

Those hundred feet in the chilled, open-air felt like an eternity. Each step brought a new crunch of dead weeds, a twist of my ankle, and the sound of unknown animals scurrying through the night. By the time I reached the grass of Jence’s yard, my heart was about to burst. I swear, those crunching weeds under my feet were as loud as a base drum. The grass provided a much softer landing. I trotted in silence toward Jence’s house, which loomed over me like a fortress, telling me to stay out. But I was the sneaky one, and I would find a way in.

I’d never been in his bedroom before. His parents were almost as strict as mine. But, according to his description, it was the third window from the corner of the house. The second window was his sister’s room, and the first window, his parents. So, I had better count my windows correctly, or else. A lava lamp would be glowing in the window sill if the coast was clear. So, I couldn’t mistake his window for another as I found the orange glow coming from the third window over.

This was too easy. Sneaking around was supposed to be harder. Riskier. Something.

My lips curled upward in the darkness. Maybe I was just that good.  

I placed my hands on the brick wall. It was rough under my fingertips, but provided a sense of comfort against the night. With my back to the wall, I ducked under the first two windows and crept as quiet as a hunting cat to the third.

Slipping my cell phone out of my back pocket, I pressed the speed dial for Jence’s phone. It rang once. Twice. Three times before he picked up and answered in a groggy voice.

Wait! My fingers turned to icicles around the phone. Answering the phone wasn’t part of our plan.

No lights were on in the house, and his lava lamp still glowed. I stayed poised under his window, waiting for a signal. Nothing happened.

“Hello?” I whispered into the phone.

“Ashtyn?” Jence’s voice sounded different, strained.  

“Yeah?” I straightened my back against the brick, afraid to be seen. Not that it would be easy to see me, there was no moon.

“What’re you doing up?”

I groaned. “I’m here.”

“Where?”

“At your house, dummy. Now open up.”

“Your house?” A slight pause. “Why are you at my house? Aren’t you at Rachel’s house tonight?” He moaned into the phone, like he was rolling over in bed.

I took a deep breath. Had I come all this way for him to forget? “Yes. Don’t you remember that I was sneaking out to see you?”

“Why are you sneaking? Mom and Dad would let you in. Wait. It’s 2:30 in the morning…” His voice trailed off. I was hoping he was putting the simple puzzle pieces together.

I started to get frustrated. We’d planned all this. It was 2:30 am on my phone’s clock and…

I gasped. The phone almost fell from my frozen fingertips.

The letters on the screen didn’t spell out the right name. Or number. The time was 2:30 am, but I’d called the wrong person. Instead of calling my boyfriend, I’d called my brother.

Ah crap. That was NOT part of ‘The Plan’.

I heard my brother’s voice through the speaker right before I hung up on him. “Ashtyn? Are you okay?”

Write about a memory you have related to a campfire

The sand packed between my toes and flip flops stings. I wish I could just take off my shoes and run around barefoot. But my friends and I keep having people joining our group, making our rhythm change. It doesn't help that the music coming from the sound system in the back of the jacked up truck is so loud it's shaking my brain loose. And with all these people, it's near impossible to maneuver, let alone bend down and keep balance on one foot.
The flames of the bonfire plume towards the heavens. The flames move to their own beat. If you look, you will be entranced by their colors. Red, yellow, orange, and blue, variations of each mixed together in their own copulating dance.
A guy I've never met approaches our group. He's cute. And you can tell he knows it by the way he swaggers over. It's like we should be falling on our knees worshipping him, but we just keep dancing. Seeing a pretty face isn't something we're unused to. It's a common occurrence. One we roommates laugh about. In fact there are a couple dancing with us now, being polite and keeping their respectable distance.
A girl from the nearby group that the boy just left, sneers. She's gorgeous, and I wonder why she'd lower herself to the immaturity of a three year old who just got her toy stolen.
The boy moves from one of my friends to the next, getting a taste for each one of their dancing styles, almost like he's testing driving each of us before he decides which keys to steal. When he comes to me, I back away and stop dancing. I'm not one to entertain someone so brazen. One of my roommates grabs my hand and laughs, pulling me back into the group. The boy gives me a challenging look, like I can't handle him.
Taking a deep breath, I walk away, on the hunt for someone worthy of my time.
I find my victim surrounded by girls, wishing they could get their hands on the treat in front of them. Some of them are successful, before he gently brushes their advances away. His eyes are as blue as the fire is hot. His black hair a contrast. Tan skin peaks out from his button down shirt, glistening with sweat from the summer's heat.
I press my body into the small crack the girls create as they move back and forth, squeezing into the center. Once his eyes meet mine, he becomes pliable and moves to greet me. Grabbing his hand, I pull him from the group. A couple of the girls tug and hold on, crying out their dismay. But he shakes them off with a sultry smile, one that earns immediate forgiveness.
The boy who thought he owned us, eyes' widen, as I tote my prize back to my group.
Flicking off my shoes, I turn into my new man. A smile softens the planes of his face, knowing what I'm about to ask. We begin to explore each other's movements. He picks right up on the rhythm, meeting, then enhancing our moves so that we partner and mirror each other. He has moves that most men covet, and I work to show off every one.
I've lost track of how many floor to ceiling mirrors we've been seen in together. And don't even get me started on the home videos. Not only are our moves matched, our coloring and bodies have form and symmetry that only dancers' bodies obtain. We've been paired for reasons only experts can see. And seeing us in action is a dream even I have a hard time believing.
By the time the song ends, my breathing comes in a rush, my lungs starved for precious air.  My partner has me pulled up against him in a suggestive move that I usually try to avoid. But he must feel it necessary if he's chosen to do it now, in front of all these people. Most we call friends and will laugh off the move, but the ones, like the boy who thought he owned every girl here, who don't know us so well, will keep their distance from me for the rest of the night, which is exactly what I was trying to do.
A suggestive whistle sounds behind me, and I pull away before the next song begins. My partner bends down and brushes his lips behind my ear. "If you need me again, just let me know."
I watch as my best friend walks away. He's swarmed by more women, all wanting a chance of having the experience I just had. It's a high you don't come down from. I wonder if he feels the same pounding in his chest as his eyes meet mine over the heads of his worshippers. There's flames in them, flames that belong to the desire in one's heart.

What traffic sign reflects your life right now?

Reduced Speed Ahead
I sit down on the closest chair, grabbing my shirt and fanning it back and forth to cool my heated skin. Sweat covers my face and body. The air movement chills the moist molecules. I lean against the backrest, close my eyes, and focus on my breathing.
In. Out. In. Out. One. Two. One. Two. Slow. Deep. Breaths.
I can't believe I'm breathing so hard. That my body feels like it just climbed Mount Everest when I barely ran a mile. I was doing three miles without getting winded just two months ago. What is happening to my edge? The one I've worked so hard to maintain all these years?
My feet ache inside my shoes. The swelling making it hard for them to fit, but keep shoving them inside each day. I refuse to get out of my routine. I must keep up with life. My schedule. My to do list. I cannot let this take over.
I grab my water bottle off the bench where I slammed it down next to me a couple minutes before, and squeeze the water into my mouth. My breathing has slowed enough for me to take two mouthful gulps before I have to surrender my thirst of water for air.
In. Out. In. Out. One. Two. One. Two. Slow. Deep. Breaths.
Another gulp of water. I retire the bottle back to the bench.
My hand glides up to my rounded belly, an unconscious movement I've been catching myself doing more often now since I'm showing. Should I slow down? The doctor said I could keep up regular exercise, and this is under regular for me. But, it's taking a toll on my body. Exhaustion is threatening to take over every time I sit down.
A small kick against my hand lets me know my baby is feeding off my adrenaline. Soon the high will be gone and I will be left with my sleep deprived eyes and a runny nose. Curse those new hormones.
Another kick, this one pressing against my hand long enough to make me realize there is more to my life than just myself now. And maybe I should be taking my body and how it's under extra stress from growing another life into consideration. I take a deep breath, my breathing returning to normal. Well, that's a decision for tomorrow. Today, I still have a page long to do list to get done.

Write a quick love story. Try to give new meaning to our understanding of love.

He picks up her hand. Brown spots cover the once smooth skin, and wrinkles crease between the rounded joints.  Her fingernails are filed down to match her fingertip in length, and a pastel pink polish covers the tops. Her hand fits inside his like it was made to go there, and he wonders if God designed her hands for that specific purpose. It's the same hand he's held and loved for seventy years. How can he find the strength to let go?
Pressing her cool hand to his lips, he takes a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent of her skin he's loved since the day he met her. It's indescribable. Like sunshine and healing rain mixed together. Life and renewal. All things good.
He holds her hand to his forehead, bowing his head to show his love. His arm has gone numb before he slowly lowers it to place her hand on top of the other that lies at her waist. It's final resting place.
Memories crowd his mind. Each one shouting for his attention. But he pushes them back and focuses on his wife's face.
Even though she's pale and much older than when he first saw her, he can't remember a time she looked more at peace. Her closed eyes and relaxed facial muscles gives her a look of wisdom that only age can bring. Her eyes have witnessed miracles. Her lips have kissed the cheeks of beloved children. Her mouth has spoken words of love and compassion. And her arms have given warm hugs to heal a broken heart. Her ears have heard countless stories of love, life, and redemption. Her shoulders have borne the weight of a daughter, sister, wife, lover, friend, neighbor, aunt, mother, grandmother. So many names for such a choice woman. And everyone who has known her by those names have been richly blessed.
His eyes fill with tears as he glances down at her wedding band. Gold is wrapped around her finger, proclaiming their commitment to each other. But it was a commitment she kept inside her heart as well. He's the luckiest man, to have won the heart of nobility.  A heart he will never be able to lie his head down on her chest and hear again.
Her body looks smaller, more frail, without her spirit inside. Even though she was petite, she was a giant of a woman. The hole she leaves can never be filled. How could it?
He can't bring himself to leave her side, even as the time comes for the mortician to take her body and prepare it for burial. How can he leave her, when she stood faithfully by his side?
A sharp pain stabs his chest. He wonders if he's dying too. In some ways, he wishes he could, for then the separation would be over. But he knows she would never allow him to join her if he just gave up. So he bows his head and gives her one last kiss on her lifeless lips, then steps away.
As the bag closes over her head, the memories can't be held back any longer. He falls to his knees. The agony of her loss being too much for his aged body to bear. Tears of love and loss find their way down his cheeks and into his mouth. They taste salty, nothing like the sweet life that's just been taken from him. 
The funeral day comes. Passing in a blur, he finds himself in the cemetery, at the side of a casket not nearly beautiful enough to encapsulate the woman inside. As he places his palm upon the wooden exterior, warmth spreads across his hand and up his arm. It's as if she's saying goodbye with the warmth she radiated. He wishes he could open the lid one last time and say goodbye.
The promise of being together forever has always brought peace to his mind. And he relies heavily upon that promise as he eases his hand away. The emptiness of the air is a shock that brings more tears. Even though his hand is empty now, he prays it will be filled again. Someday soon. And he hopes he will be worthy of the honor of being with his cherished wife in the next life, for he feels he was never good enough for her in this life. How could he be, when he was just a man, and she, an angel?

If you were a book, in which section of the bookshop would you be shelved? Which genre are you most drawn to?

My cover is a splash of red and black, mixed with iridescent silver writing. The woman twirling the sword is wearing a gray tunic that billows behind her with the wind. Her hair is black as night, and her eyes glow like a cat's. The angles of her face are as sharp as the sword she's wielding. She's strong and feminine. A killer and a savior. Made up of all the things men dream of.
I'm placed on the top of the waist high bookshelf, displaying my title and credits. Not only am I written by a New York Times Bestselling Author, I am a Bestseller. I boast a single line review on my cover from a fellow Bestselling Author. If you glance in my direction, my eyes will captivate you, and you'll have to pick me up.
An old man scrolls through the historical section. And a middle aged, salt and pepper haired man is browsing the political thrillers.
I wait for my turn. Knowing it's only a matter of time before someone glances at my back cover to get a glimpse of what's inside. After all, the best readers know you can't judge a book by it's cover.
It feels like hours, and I become impatient as the two men leave without picking me up or even a glance in my direction. Sure, I'm placed in the Teen Read Section, but that doesn't mean I'm off limits to every one over eighteen.
A young mom walks in. She's holding the hand of a toddler who looks like she's ready to tear the pages off any book that gets into her dimpled hands. Even though those things look innocent, I've seen them do more damage than a vacuum machine.
The mom walks the daughter to the kids section, on the other side of the library. Of course, they wouldn't want to distract potential readers with rowdy kids, so there's a designated area for the younguns.
As I wait on the shelf, I realize someone is looking at me. It's the young mom. She squints like she's trying to read my title. My pages itch to be opened, devoured by the eyes of someone hungry for escape from their mundane life. Maybe this woman will be my next captivated culprit.
She's still staring when her daughter grabs her hand and pulls her away.
The day wears on. The mom leaves and more people pass by. But nobody cares to stop by my section. I'm beginning to wonder if my cover isn't flashy enough, or my credits grand enough to draw attention, when the young mom from earlier in the day is in front of me. She picks me up and flips me over.
Her eyes scan my summary and credits. A avid reader from the looks of how fast her eyes are moving from line to line. Before I know it, I'm taken to the front desk, a red scanner going over the taped sticker on my inside cover.
A new adventure has just begun.

Describe (write a story about) one odd item you have in your purse or wallet right now

The folded paper is tucked away so well, I'd forgotten it was there. I pull it out, careful not to dislodge the other papers and receipts folded into the same pocket. It comes out with some effort, and I unfold it to see what's hidden inside.
"Teaching Reverence to Our Children" the title reads.
It's a bullet point list that our women's church group (relief society (the largest women's organization in the world)) had a lesson on a couple months ago. I remember attending and being impressed with the amount of advice and help I received from other moms with similarly aged kids. It was one of those things where I had a complete mind shift. Things I'd never thought of, that were simple and easy, made the biggest difference.
As I scan through the list, I realize I've been doing a better job than I thought. I've really taken the lessons to heart, and found great success.  The biggest change I made was, instead of bringing my huge diaper bag full of countless toys and snacks to church, I now pack a couple quiet books, a handful of toys (usually 5 tractors or trucks that were Hesston's favorite that week), and a Lunchable snack pack (he loves those things, and it combines a drink with the crackers so I don't have to pack a bunch of different things last minute, because let's be honest, I leave things like that until the last minute).
It has been a huge help, keeping things simpler. I used to think that I needed to pack everything, and there would be toys and books and crayons and snacks scattered everywhere by the time sacrament meeting was over. I was so afraid that I couldn't keep him busy and happy with only a few toys, so I thought more would help. Contrary to my belief, the more simple I make it, the better. With only 5 toys, 3 books, and one coloring book, he stays more content, and less distracted by trying to go through all his toys in one sitting.
I remember the first Sunday I packed his backpack with the small amount of entertainment. I was worried, ready for a fight, and wearing my easiest to maneuver in dress, just in case I had to toddler chase or wrangle. But to my surprise, it was by far the best and easiest Sunday meeting I'd been to. Hesston played happily with his couple toys, even sharing with neighboring friends, and there were books he never even got to. It was like a miracle.
Every Sunday since that first Sunday has been getting better and better. We make it a priority to sing together, sit quietly and fold our arms when the prayers are said, pay attention while the sacrament is passed, and even listen to the speakers occasionally. With less toys, comes less distraction and clean up for mom and dad, so we enjoy the meeting more too.
I glance back at the paper. I can't believe all those lessons and memories came from a single bullet point on the list. But I'm more glad now than ever that I took the time out of my busy evening to attend this activity. It makes me appreciate the inspiration and guidance of the sisters in my church, and their love for us, especially our children, in teaching them reverence and respect for not only those around us, but for our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Do you have a tattoo? What is it and why did you get it? If not, would you ever get one? What would the tattoo be? What would it symbolize?

No tattoo for me. Never needed one. Never wanted one.
Why? You might ask...
Why would I want to embed toxic ink into my skin? Or do something so permanent? I have such a hard time deciding what to change my hair style and color to every six months, how could I decide to do something that will change my appearance forever?
When I was in high school, people would talk about getting tattoos and what they'd get. But I never had a desire to get one. I always felt like it would be something I would end up not liking. I mean, things in this world go in and out of style so quickly, why would I want to do something that is a permanent style forever? As lasting as tattoos are, and as fickle as art is, I would never be able to decide on something like that. It's just not something I could do.
And then there are my religious beliefs. 
My body is a temple, meaning a holy thing. It is a gift, not only from my parents, but from God. How I use and treat my body is showing my respect for something God has entrusted me with.
So, I feel like my body is on loan, and I would hate to return it in less than perfect condition. Don't get me wrong, I know it's not perfect, and neither am I, but I would like to do my best to keep it as close to perfect as it can be.
I like to envision myself standing before God at judgement day. It really helps me to think about my actions and what I do with my life before I do them. And getting a tattoo is totally taboo.

Look around and choose and object in the room. Now write something from the point of view of that object.

I really wish I could move. Being upside down, legs splayed, like a bloated, dead animal isn't the most comfortable position. You'd think after being washed, twirled and dried, I'd be clean enough to get some extra attention. But no. I am just good for night cuddling. And keeping the bad dreams away.
My white mane and tail are tamed. My brown fur smells like tide detergent. My hooves, even though they are brown, are pristine. I bend and move to my owner's demands. Get smushed against mattresses and tossed across the bed. And some nights, I get cuddled, then forgotten, left in the middle of the bed, alone and afraid of the shadows covering the room.
Why do people take advantage of us? I mean, we're always there for them. We don't get up and walk away. We stay right where they leave us. We help them calm their fears. So why don't they give us some extra attention? Maybe a little play time to show we're more than just a stuffed thing they own?
By tonight, I'm going to be tucked inside arms, held tight, and keeping bad dreams at bay. I wish that were enough. But I'd like more.
Life's tough when you wait for the sun to go down. The days are long, filled with endless light.
Can you guess what I am?

Write about something you frequently forget

I am driving faster than the speed limit. Mainly because I only have a half hour to get an hour's worth of shopping done.
There's an empty parking stall in the front row, and I snatch it before anyone else can. Smiling to myself, I turn the engine off and collect my things.
Where's my shopping list?
I check the space between my phone and wallet. Nothing. What about the center console? Not there either. I rummage around the truck cab, not finding the slip of paper that has the whole reason I rushed here on it. Did I really leave the list sitting on the kitchen counter at home? Impossible. I remember grabbing it. So where did it go?
I remember a few of the items, the most important ones. But there are others that I need, that I've already forgotten.
Should I try to find some paper and re list the items? Or should I run back home?
I glance at the clock and cringe. Down to twenty five minutes. No time to go home. A makeshift list it is.
There's some note cards in the center storage compartment. I dig them out, then try to find a pen. After digging deeper, I come up with a broken pencil. That won't work. Dropping the pencil back into the bin, I take a deep breath.
Pen. I need a pen.
My wallet. It always has a pen in it, ready to write checks. Thank heavens for that wallet.
My handwriting looks worse than a first graders, but I think I got everything recorded. Wracking my brain one last time, I put the pen down and fold the paper into my jacket pocket.
Recollecting my keys, wallet, and cell phone, I check the clock again. Twenty minutes.
I start toward the store at a quick pace, hoping I can make up some time.
The carts are pushed together in neat rows, and I grab one, heading toward the produce section.
I place my wallet and cell phone in the empty cart, then notice my list is missing yet again. Where did that go? A hurried check of my pants pocket, then a thorough pat down doesn't turn up anything.
Sighing, I figure it's probably no use to go shopping anyway, especially without a list and limited time. But something spurs me to go forward, to just finish the task I set out to do.
The shopping is fast. And I feel like I've gotten several things that weren't on my list, and forgotten the ones that were.
By the time I get to the checkout, my head is hurting and I'm ready for a nap.
The cashier takes the items and scans them with methodical passes. I remind myself to be patient. It's not their fault I'm running late. By the time I pay and get my receipt, I feel like I've aged a year and lost.
As I near the truck, I reach into my jacket pocket where I safely placed my truck keys. Paper rubs against my fingers. I pull the paper out and read it.
There's my shopping list!

You look outside: Ah, it's snowing. But look closer. Those are not snowflakes falling from the sky! What is it snowing at your house?

The white flakes fall like snow. They don't melt when they hit the ground. It's June and eighty degrees outside. They should melt. But they simply fall, then stay. I reach down and touch one. It sticks to my pointer finger, like snow would, but it's not cold. It looks like sugar. I wonder if it tastes like sugar too. I open my mouth to take a lick, but my phone rings.
The caller ID reads my boyfriend, Lewie. I hurry to pick it up, dusting the white stuff off my finger in the process.
"Hey baby, how are you?"
"Been better. There is a bunch of crap falling from the sky. It keeps sticking to my windshield and I can't get it off, even when I use the wipers. Everyone is having the same problem, and traffic is backed up all over. I don't know how I'm going to make it home. I can't even get out of the parking lot."
"Can't you walk?" I ask. His apartment is a block from mine, which puts him about 15 blocks from work.
"Not if I want to live. I hear this stuff falling from the sky is toxic waste. Who knows what will happen if it touches you."
I pull my phone away. My fingers that grasp my phone touched the toxic waste. And the same finger has been touching my cheek.
The phone is on the tabletop before I can hear anything else from Lewie. My hands burn as I wash them under scalding hot water, hoping it'll wash away whatever that stuff is. I proceed to my cheek, scrubbing until it is red in my reflection. That should do it.
I rush back to my phone, Clorox wipe in hand, and scour it. I doubt Lewie is still on the line, so I take my time.
A minute later, I check to see if he's there. To my surprise, he is.
"Lewie?" I question. "Lewie!"
There's no response. But I can hear muffled voices and people screaming. As I pull the phone away from my ear, I realize the screaming is coming from outside my apartment.
I dash back to my patio door, glad that I'd left it open, and try to locate where the screaming is coming from.
The sound ricochets off the buildings around mine, making it hard to find. But it seems like it's coming from the street. I rush to my entryway door, grab a pair of shoes I wouldn't mind never wearing again. After pulling them on, I jog down the stairs, taking two at a time, until I'm at ground level.
There's a crowd of people surrounding someone on the sidewalk. White flakes cover their clothes and hair. Some seem oblivious to it, while others peer at the fluff curiously.
I press through the crowd, ignoring the white flakes that are gathering in my hair and on my face. If these people are still alive, and it's touched them, and I've touched the stuff, then it must not be toxic enough to kill you upon contact.
A little girl lies on her back, her eyes open, but unseeing. It's a look I've seen a couple times, but never on a human, or someone so young. I rush to the screaming woman's side, who must be her mom, leaning over the child.
"Help me!" Her voice is shredded, torn at the seams.
I touch the girls neck. There's no pulse. Her skin is ashen colored, devoid of life. Her throat constricted, like she chocked to death. I tilt her head back and check her throat for an obstruction, but nothing is there.
"What happened?" I ask in my calmest voice.
The lady, who I presume is her mom, shakes her head, sending snot, tears, and saliva sailing in all directions. I can't imagine what she must be going through, witnesses the death of your child.
"We were walking... down the street..." she stammers,  "and... she lifted up... her head... to catch a snowflake on her tongue...and then she just...fell over. I tried to revive her...give her mouth to mouth...but..." a cry builds up in her throat and her body rocks back. She's passed out.
But the look on her face isn't one of peace that people get when they pass out, it's a look of horror. I feel for her pulse. It's slow, too slow.
She makes a chocking noise. I rush to clear her throat, protecting my fingers in case she's having a seizure, but there's nothing there.
I pull back, shocked, and check her pulse again. It's stopped. I begin chest compressions, but someone grabs at my shirt, pulling me away.
People start screaming and darting in all directions. I fold over my body, trying to protect myself from the stampede.
Something isn't right here.
I regain my feet, and get out of the street. I reach for my phone in my back pocket, and head back to my apartment entrance. The entrance is jammed with people, written with looks of fear. I push past and start for the stairs.
Lewie is still on the line. "Lewie. Lewie. Lewie, are you there?"
I keep repeating his name, but there's no answer, just muffled voices, like he's stuck his phone in his pocket and forgot about it.
I hang up and dial 911. I have a bigger problem to worry about right now.
The operator answers and I recount the little details I know from the horrific event that just happened a couple stories beneath my window. The operator doesn't sound surprised or freaked out like I thought she would. In fact, she sounds calm, like this kind of call comes in every day. Maybe it does. Or maybe she's too well trained to get excited about things. She asks questions I can't answer, but I do my best. She lets me go, saying a crew is on their way.
As I hang up, I realize I've made it back to my apartment. I push open my door. I'd left it unlocked in my rush to get to the street.
Glancing at my hands and arms, I realize I have the white stuff all over me. I remove my shoes at the door, and tip toe across my floor, praying none of the unknown substance gets on my hardwood.
In the bathroom, I shake my hair over the tub, trying to get all the pieces out. Then I strip my clothes, tossing them, and the rug I'm standing on, in the washer. I start the cycle, then turn on the shower.
I'm curious what this substance will do once water hits it. But my curiosity isn't appeased, as it breaks apart under the spray and then washes down the drain in tiny crystals.
I decide it is safe to shower and wash my hair to get the rest of it off me.
After a quick shower, I towel off and dress in my most comfortable sweats. After what I've just witnessed, I'm in shock, and can't get warm enough. Pulling the blanket Lewie and I made together on our first year anniversary off the back of the sofa, I wrap it around me. It helps, a little.
The patio door is still open, but I don't have the energy to close it. Besides, I can hear the outside sounds much better this way.
I'm curious if the rescue crews have made it to the woman and her child below me. I pray they have. The way the crowd just disappeared from the street has left it unusually quiet. Especially for a Friday evening.
Red lights bounce off the glass, alerting me that crews have just arrived. I glance at my phone. It's been twenty minutes since I placed the call. That sure took a lot longer than expected. Must be super busy right now.
I find the energy to stand, and walk to my window seat. The bodies are still there, lying on the ground. Crews are checking their vitals, just like I did, but they can tell it's of no use. They are already gone.
I shiver as I return to the sofa, wrapping the blanket tighter.
What happened down there? I'd never seen anyone die like that before. Chocking on nothing. It's like the lady's neck muscles contracted, shutting off the airway, but there was nothing down there.
I rub my hands against my sweats, trying to get the feeling of her skin off mine.
I wish I paid more attention in my CPR class. But I did it just to get a job that I only kept for a week. So, the lessons learned didn't really stick.
Picking up my phone, I dial Lewie's number. It rings three times, and I think he's not going to pick up, but a voice does answer. But not his.
"Hello?" A soft, female voice.
"Hello? Is this Lewie's phone?" I'm super confused, wondering if I dialed the wrong number in my shock. After glancing at the screen, I see I've dialed correctly. I put the phone back to my ear. "Is Lewie there?"
"I don't know." A pause. "I don't know if  Lewie is in this pile of people in front of me or not. But this phone was ringing, and I found it in some bushes next to the parking lot. I don't know who they are. They're all over each other, like they just fell over on top of each other. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help." She's rambling, and it makes me grip my head to stay calm.
"Well, this is Lewie's number I called, so it must be his phone. Is there someone that has short brown hair, spiked in the front, with a business suit on?"
There is a rustling, like the woman is moving. "Does he have glasses?"
I sigh. "No."
More rustling. "Wait. I have to dust them off to get a better look. There's snow everywhere."
Not snow, I think, but don't say anything.
"I think I might've found him."
There is a long pause. So long that I think she's hung up. I keep checking my phone to make sure she hasn't.
"Hello?" Her voice is softer than before.
"Yes? Did you find him."
Another long pause. "I did. But I'm so sorry. He's...he's dead."
"What?" My voice doesn't sound like my own. "What do you mean he's dead?"
A soft sob echoes across the line. "I'm so sorry. I don't know how...but there's five people lying here on the ground, all of them covered with white dust, dead. The only way I know it's him is, I found his wallet in his back pocket."
Lewie. Dead. The two words don't go together. "How?"
"I don't know." It sounds like she's scrambling away. "I'm so sorry, but I have to go."
"No, wait, don't go."
It's too late, she's already hung up. I stare at the phone. Lewie. Dead. The thought bounces around my head, but it doesn't want to stick. I can't let it stick. No way. Not until I know for sure.
I practically fall against the window as I try to see if the rescue crews are still below my apartment. Maybe they know what's going on. They're there.
My heart battles my lungs for space, beating my ribs to a pulp, as I dart down the stairs.
The entry way is even more packed than it was the last time I came in. I slam against the glass door, only to bounce back.
"I'm sorry, but you can't go out there." The door man has a firm look on his face, like he's not to be messed with.
"Why not?"
"Because we don't know what that crap is out there, and we're not about to let people go out there and possibly die while we're watching." He nods toward the rescue crews who have cleared the two people from the street. "Whatever caused that wasn't normal. I'm not about to allow that to happen again. Not on my watch."
"But what about all these people? Are you going to keep them locked in here?"
"Nobody wants to leave. Not with that out there." He nods outside.
I point at the crews. "But maybe they know."
"Doubt it." He says. "They looked just as dumbfounded to find two people dead from no apparent cause as we did."
The flakes are still falling, looking harmless. But maybe they're not. Maybe they're just as Lewie said, toxic. I rub my arms. But I've touched it, and it's hasn't killed me. I glance around at the room of people. They've touched it too, and they look okay. Some are on their phones, others are having hurried conversations with each other, and a couple people huddle together on benches, like holding onto each other will save them.
I feel empty. Will I ever get to hold Lewie like that again. The thought lodges a crater in my throat.
I turn around and return to my apartment. It's the second time I've left the door unlocked today. I'm surprised by my rash actions. I'm clearly not thinking straight, and need to stay put.
I decide to close my patio door. If that stuff is toxic, I don't even want the smell of it in here. Maybe smelling it will kill you. Slowly.
To distract myself, I turn on the TV, looking for a news station. One is on, a special report about the falling flakes, but they don't seem to know what is going on. There is a long list of emergency reports, reports that match the one I called in. Mysterious suffocation.
I stare at the TV for hours, calling Lewie's phone every fifteen minutes, praying he will pick up. Each time, my hope dims a little more. Tears streams down my face, and I have a huge headache. I lie down on the sofa, too exhausted to make myself dinner, and having no appetite to fill, even though I haven't eaten since breakfast.
After midnight, I am woken by my cell phone. It's ringing. I grab it and answer without looking at the caller ID. I'm too shocked by the fact that I fell asleep to notice.
"Em?" The voice on the other line is familiar. 
"I'm here." I choke. If he's calling, it must be bad news.
Lewie's dad's voice cracks. "He's gone, Em."
Those few words shut down my world. I'm lost in a sea of questions, not knowing which one to ask first. Instead of questions coming out of my mouth though, a horrible wailing fills the space. I can't believe it's me, but the pain in my chest warrants a siren like this. I'm dying inside. 

What do you think is the most important thing for today's kids to learn in school?

There is a clear separation between the people who follow God and those who do not. People who choose to do good, are getting better. People who choose to do bad, are getting worse. It seems as though the line between good and evil is becoming bigger. That there is no room for gray area, or fence sitting. That people have to stand for what they believe in or else they get lost in the muck of the world. Beliefs have to be convictions.
The war in heaven never ended. Sure, we took sides there, but we are still being tested to find out which side we will support before judgement day. And since that day is drawing near, Satan is trying harder than ever to win the souls of men to his side. This is not only a personal battle, but a battle in the home and in school and in work. It's a battle for life.
Respect. Love. Kindness. Hope. Understanding. Patience. Selflessness. The virtues God gave us. The tools He wants us to use to save ourselves. Those are the things that we need to reestablish in society, and I believe it starts not only in the school system, but also in the home. If you want to change society, you change the rising generation, because they are the future of the world.  
Something that is really hurting the school system is, the lack of respect for teachers and authority. I mean, media is throwing police under the bus right now. Police who maintain order and keep us safe from criminals. And the criminals are being glorified. If we throw the people who keep people following the rules of society under the bus, how do we expect our children to respect their teachers, who do the same thing? And is God not the ultimate teacher, mentor, and judge? How can we expect our children to respect God and His rules if we don't teach them to? And by losing God, you lose all right or wrong. Hence, there are no rules, and you can do no wrong.
Good principles should be something kids understand, so that by the time they get into school, they can apply them. And the school system needs to enforce these principles. The schools and parents should be working hand in hand to raise kids with good values. The thing is, without basic principles, there is nothing. We become animals. And the basis upon which our society is built, crumbles. We regress into a state of poverty, self gratification, and murder. We debase our whole intelligence by succumbing to the ways of nature. And natural man is an enemy to God.
Think about how Satan has gained control of civilization. Is it any surprise media glorifies murder? Sex? Hate crime? Unnatural practices? Satanic worship? Any and all practices that ruin our relationship with God? And they make it look good. Like murder is okay, as long as it is justified. Or sex is okay, because it feels good or right. Hate crime is okay, because those emotions are valid. Unnatural practices are okay, because there is no right or wrong. Satanic worship is okay, because he is the God of this world. And isn't that true? That Satan and his evil practices have become the Gods of this world. We worship cars. We lust after riches. We create wars from hate and misunderstanding. We foster the murder of millions of unborn children. How can we look back on any other society and condemn them, when we are much worse than they? Have we not become the natural man that is an enemy of God?
So you wonder what I think kids could be taught in school. They are all things that should be taught in the home first. Because family is the backbone of America. And as we have seen, the breaking down of family units is creating a mess that is hurting everybody. Basic, fundamental, God-like principles. There is still hope for a bright future. Put down your phone. Turn off the TV. Stop being lulled into nothingness by entertainment. Open your eyes. Look around. Make productive changes. Start today.
Return to God. Return to love. Return to peace. Return to hope. Return to family. Return to life.

Write about something you woud still buy if it cost twice as much as it costs today

Burial Vault
The granite burial vault holds the tiny body of my baby. It's been two years since we laid her to rest. Two years for me get used to her name on the grave. But it still feels too fresh to be real.
I place my palm against the cool rock. It warms under my skin. I think of my baby, how her body is as cold as the stone I'm touching. How it should be warm like my body instead.
Too many wishes crowd my mind. Wishes of life. Wishes of smiles. Wishes of hugs. Kisses. All the things children are made of. If only I could experience those things with my precious child. But I'll never know if she'd stick out her tongue if I said something funny. Or if she'd hold my hand if she was scared. She will never need me like a child needs her mother, because she's not here. But I am. Alone. Wanting. Wishing for a life unknown.
A tear slips down my cheek. The wind chills the trail it leaves. I shiver and pull my coat tighter.
How do I go on? How do I keep moving forward when my life has come to a halt? How can I help others when I can barely help myself?
I send up a silent prayer, asking for strength. Strength to keep going. Strength to live another day. Strength to smile when all I want to do is cry.
I pull my hand away and stare at it. If she's not in my hands, then I pray she's in God's hands. That she's with my father, sister, grandparents, uncles, cousins, all my relatives and friends that  have graduated from this life.
She must've been perfect. So perfect that she didn't need this life to be perfected.  I cling to that hope, for now, even though my hands are empty, my heart is full of love and longing for this precious child I will have to wait to hold until I join her in paradise. 

What are you (or a character) recovering from right now?

Spinning. Every thing is spinning. Even when I close my eyes. How is that possible? I'm laying down, flat on my back, on my non spinning bed, and yet it feels as though I'm stuck on a merry go round.
My stomach becomes a jumble of knots. I take a deep breath, trying to calm it, but the pressure just makes it worse. On my exhale, the whole world dissolves into my stomach and the need to empty it.
I fall off the bed and army crawl to the door, barely making it to the bedroom trash can.
Being in semi-upright position makes the spinning increase. I moan and flop onto the floor next to the garbage, trying to ignore the smell and how it's increasing my chances of another visit.
My fingers spread through the thick carpet. I wish I could ground myself. Find my balance where everything stays where it's supposed to be.
What is going on with me? This is the second episode this week. Should I call a doctor? Everything I read online is inconclusive, could be a million different reasons for my vertigo.
With my stomach more settled, I slither back to the bed. Pulling myself up must look like I've lost all control of my body, which I have. How humbling this experience is. When I don't have my health, I don't have anything. I'm a slave to my body. I hate this feeling of powerlessness.
"Mommy, you 'kay?" My little guy climbs up next to me. I hope he hasn't spilled the contents of the trash can all over the floor.
"Mommy sick." I get out.
"Sick?" His voice holds a note of concern. "Cuddle?"
I nod. "Cuddle."
His warm little body snuggles up to mine. He burrows his head into my shoulder and rubs my cheek. The motion makes the spinning worse, but I can't bear to ask him to stop. He's showing his reassurance the only way he knows how. "Love you."
"Love you, buddy."
I lie still. All I can do is pray. Pray that a miracle will happen. Pray my world will go back to normal. It's all okay. Breath in. Breath out. Repeat.

I wish an alarm would notify me whenever... (Finish this sentence)

No more alarms. That's it. I've had it with alarms, beepers, anything that disrupts my day.

I don't have a doorbell. I don't have an alarm clock. I turn off the beepers on the washing machine and dryer so I don't have to listen to them whenever a load of clothes are done. I don't have a watch that beeps every hour. If I could disable the alarm on the dishwasher, I would do that too. And don't even get me started on the microwave...

The only alarm I actually appreciate is the timer on the range oven. If it weren't for that, I would burn tons of food.

Yes, we have an alarm system in our house, but it doesn't beep every day. Only when we accidentally set it off.

Our lives are so full of noise and distractions. It keeps our minds so busy, we miss a lot of small, quiet promptings. It's not that I mind noise, but since I am an audio learner/observer, it really affects me.

So, that's my response to today's prompt. No More Noise! No More Alarms! I'm going on an alarm strike.

Write about a souvenir you have bought or received

The gray and white Alaskan Husky looks just like the stuffed animal in my hands. She even has the same blue eyes, and curled tail. I hug my stuffed animal. Holding the memory of my trip to Alaska, it's become priceless in the few short minutes since I bought it.

The owner straps the dog into a harness, then attaches it to a snow sled. The dog is a lead dog, one of the best pullers, and most obedient. It's makes me proud of my souvenir. This pup shows me that it pays to be a leader, confident and self assured.

The owner mounts the snow sled and takes off over the snow covered ground. The dogs bark and leap forward in great strides, their muscles rippling beneath their thick coats.

The skid of the skis across the snow make a smooth gliding noise. The dogs' paws are broken into unsynchronized symphonies of pounding. A clear whistle directs the dogs. I listen, trying to decipher the different signals.

I imagine what it'd be like to travel this way. What if this was the only mode of transportation? Would I be able to train dogs to pull a sled for me? What happens in the summer when the snow is gone? Would they pull a wagon?

I take a deep breath. My nose prickles against the chill in the air.

Tightening my arms across my chest, I tug my coat tighter. It's getting dark, even though it's just past midday. I wonder how cold it will get tonight.

My stomach rumbles. I've forgotten to eat lunch, too distracted by the spectacle of the dog sledder.

As I walk toward the town center, I scan the little shops. Their weathered wood exteriors provide a cozy contrast to the snow covered ground.

My feet are beginning to get cold inside my Ugg boots. I wiggle my toes and enter the first cafe I spot. As I take a seat, I think of the reasons I came on this trip. Not only to visit a friend, but to enjoy the beauty and freedom Alaska holds. It's a majestic place. Inspiring. I feel more independence and confidence since coming here. I've proven I can do something on my own.

I place the gray and white stuffed animal in front of me. It looks like a kid's toy on the wooden table, young and vulnerable in a grown up atmosphere. It makes me wonder if I look the same. Am I a kid, trying to live in a grown up's world? Is 21 too young to travel the world by myself?

I smother the thought and take a deep breath. I have two more days here. Two more days of endless possibilities and discoveries. Who knows, maybe I'll spend them exploring the untamed territory. Without anyone telling me how to be and what to do, I might just find out who I really am.

I stroke the fluffy coat of the husky and smile. I think I'll do just that.

Write about a time everything changed in a blink of an eye

I've been waiting for this moment for the last two years. But now since it's here, it feels different than I anticipated. Instead of excitement, I feel fear. Fear of the unknown. How will I survive on my own? Without someone there to tell me what to do, or how to do it. I never realized the freedom that came with growing up could be so daunting. My dependence made me brave. Will my independence make me braver?

I glance at the bare, twin bed in the corner. The rest of the room is just as empty. The small desk with drawers under it are cracked open, with barren shelves. The closet is white, with nothing distinguishing about it. I feel just as bare as the room, like a book full of blank pages, and no story to fill it.

I fear I will make mistakes. Mess up. Without my family to help and guide me, how will I know what is right? Or wrong?

My belongings I brought with me from home fit into a couple suitcases and a clothes hamper. The expensive comforter and sheet set I bought for my new bed looks a lot less appealing than it did when I bought it. I'd hoped it would ease the transition, having a super comfy bed to fall into at night. Now all I want to do is go home and never look at it again.

I have a couple hundred dollars to my name, and a job hunt to fulfill before classes begin in two days. It feels like a huge mountain stands in front of me, and I have to climb it. By myself. Without a map. How will I ever accomplish what I set out to do?

My parents carry a couple boxes into my room.

"We wanted to get you something special for graduation, but wanted to wait to give it to you until you moved to college. That time has come. So, here you go." My mom sets down a computer screen box onto the empty desk.

My dad follows suit with what appears to be an actual computer, and a printer.

I'm shocked. I cover my mouth with my hands, but can't contain my excitement and jump up and down. Throwing my arms around them, I begin to cry. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

My dad pats me on the back. "We wanted you to have access to your own computer and the internet so that you wouldn't have to spend all your time at the busy library."

I cry harder. They are so thoughtful. I feel blessed to have them in my life.

It takes me a couple minutes to collect myself. When I do, my dad has tears in his eyes, and my mom is crying.

"Well, we better get going. We have to get home to do chores before dark, and you need to get all your things put away so that you'll be ready for school."

I nod, unable to speak. My throat constricts, and I know I'm about to start crying again.

My parents move toward the door. I follow them through the apartment. It felt so big when I looked at it before deciding on staying here. Now it feels like the walls are closing in.

As we get to their car, my mom turns around and gives me another hug. "We love you. We're only a phone call away. Call us if you need anything."

"Thank you." My words wobble.

I stand there until they have turned onto the road and driven past the building, obscuring them from view. Then I dash back into my apartment and watch out the window until they disappear down the road.

My chest feels empty. Hollowed out. I wonder how my brother did this two years ago. How did he keep himself at college instead of jumping in the car and following them home. It's a serious struggle I'm battling. How do all the other college students do it? Even though I am only an hour away from my home, it feels like an eternity.

"Let me guess, a freshman? First semester?" A girl with dark brown hair pulled back into a ponytail stands inside my door frame, with arms crossed. She looks amused, like she's seen this same situation a million times.

"Yes." My voice comes out as a croak.

"Well, if you're serious about this whole college thing, you'd best get unpacked. Otherwise, you'll be out the door before you know it. Trust me, the sooner you get your things in your room, and make it belong to you, the more it'll feel like a place you belong. It'll never be home, but it'll help make the transition easier."

I nod my agreement and back away from the window.

"I'm Mary, by the way. You're new roommate." She holds out a hand and I shake it. "Welcome to apartment 403."