'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.