Memoir Pitch

The prompt this week for RemembeRED from Write on Edge was to write a 200 word pitch for your memoir.

An idyllic childhood turns sour when a young girl makes the mistake of angering her friends, leading to her ostracization.  Compounding the problem are her family issues, which lead to her withdrawing into herself.

After being bullied for years, she is broken and feels like she has nothing to live for.  Her self-mutilation and cries for help go unanswered until she meets the man who will change her world.

He is everything she thought she wanted, but the fairytale doesn't last long.  She gets drawn into a dark underworld of abuse, drug addiction, and lies, where, in desperation, she sinks to unfathomable lows.

Although she finally gains the courage to break free of the relationship, she can't kick the drugs and manages to drag everyone around her down as well.

An unexpected pregnancy gives her the strength she needs to turn her life around.  Motherhood proves to be a fulfilling experience, and she finally finds the happiness that  has escaped her for so long.

Exploring Friendship

We met the first day of college.  Somehow, it came up in our conversation that she had a car and planned to go home on the weekends.  I planned to go home on the weekends, too, but my car was back home in New York, and I was now living in a dorm in the lovely city of Philadelphia.

After class, I went with her to a cafe and met her mom.  We had a great time, and by the end of the day, I felt like I had known her for years.

Her apartment was only 5 blocks from mine, and we started meeting up in the mornings to go to class together.  Between classes, we would head to Taco House, a little dive of a restaurant that had a huge, $5 lunch special.

On Fridays, we would leave the city after class.  She dropped me off at the train station near her parent's house, which was halfway between Philadelphia and my home.  I would then take a train to NYC followed by a bus to my suburban neighborhood.  On Sunday nights, my dad would drive me 45 minutes to her parents' house, and we would go back to school.

Our sophomore year, I moved to an apartment half a block away from hers.  By that point, we spent all day together.  We went to the same classes, and spent all our spare time at my apartment (sometimes we went to hers, but she lived in a 10'x10' room and I had the bigger place).

We started taking my car after she totaled hers, which worked out better for me because it was quicker than having to take a train and a bus to get homch e.  We shared so much of ourselves with each other on those car rides, and know all each other's secrets.

We've been there for each other through thick and thin, love and breakups, drunken sob fests (where I passed out on her floor on top of a bunch of gummi bears), roommate problems, boyfriend problems, and everything in between.  She loves my kids like they are her nephews and niece, and they call her Auntie Michelle.

Even though we don't spend nearly enough time together anymore because life gets in the way, we're really close.  I only see her 4 or 5 times a year, but we cherish the moments we have together.  We're still just as close as we were when we spent every waking moment together.

I thought I had met a ride home, but I really met my closest friend that fateful first day of college.

This post was written for this week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge. This week, we’d like you to explore friendship. You can talk about a current friendship or one from your past, a friend you met over kindergarten snacks or happy hour at your first job. Examine your emotional interest in the friendship and the role it plays, or played, in your life. The word limit for this prompt is 400 words. 

Tagline for my Life

Little Girl Lost, Woman Found: One Woman's journey from idyllic childhood to the depths of addiction and back, finding her purpose in motherhood.

This was written in response to this week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge.  Imagine your life, or a part of your life, as a title and tagline.  That's it.

The Morning Battle

"Three, two, one," I stare at him, eyes narrowing.  "This is your last chance."

He spits in my face.

"That's it, I'm getting your father."

"Noooooooooooooooo!" he wails, in the earsplitting tone only small children can muster.

"Then get dressed, right now.  We're going to be late for school."

He crosses his arms and turns away from me.  "I go bye-bye with Gamma."

"You can go out with Grandma after school."

"No school!" He lays on the couch and covers himself with a blanket.  I attempt to put his clothes on,
getting a swift kick to the chest for my efforts.

I hear the thud of footsteps on the stairs and say a silent thank you.  "He won't get dressed again."

"Listen to Mommy!" his dad tells him.

"No thank you." I try to get his pants on again, and again he spits at me.

"I'm done," I say, trying to keep my temper in check as I walk to the kitchen to get his snack ready.

The booming voice of his dad reaches the kitchen.  "Get dressed right now and say sorry to Mommy or you're getting a spanking!"

"No, no, no!" he screams before dissolving into tears.  I know the tears mean he's finally getting dressed.  Another morning battle has just barely been won.

This post was written for this week's red writing hood prompt from Write on Edge.  The prompt was to write a post starting with "Three, two, one" and keep it under 300 words.

The Doorbell

The doorbell rang; I'm hiding in the kitchen.   I hear the false voices of family greeting each other.  I hate big family get togethers.  Especially at my mom's house, when she drives my dad an me crazy for days, tells us she needs more help, then decides neither one of us can do anything right.

I hug my aunt, uncle, and cousins, listen to them gush about my kids for a few minutes, and retreat back to the kitchen and food that I've been preparing very slowly for a reason.

It's such a farce.  My oldest cousin, who's my age, thinks he's hot shit because he's a CPA and acts like he knows everything and is smarter than everyone.  There's no discussions with him; just lectures.

The next cousin is a year younger than me.  We got along well as kids, but she's typical ditzy blonde ex-sorority girl who works all day, parties all night, and lives with her head in the clouds.

There's my semi-relatable cousin, who's 5 years younger than me.  He has some issues, but he's good for conversation for a half hour or so, when I get creeped out by him staring at my boobs.

My youngest cousin is 16 and an angry teenager.  She talks to no one, sitting silently with her ipod.

My aunt is fake nice, as long as everything is going her way.  I can't stand it.  She wears the pants in the family, and her husband and kids seem to defer to her.

My uncle thinks he's more important than he is.  A big shot CFO at a fortune 500 company with the wife, kids, houses, rental properties, and golf skills.  Oh, and a standing in the community because of his work with his church and as a basketball coach.

The 5 years we didn't speak to each other because of my uncle's affair sits like a gorilla in the room as the snow begins to fall.

This post was written in response to this week's Red Writing Hood prompt from Write on Edge. 
We’d like you to craft a piece of fiction or creative non-fiction around the holiday season, keeping in mind that for some people “the holiday season” begins around Halloween and doesn’t end until well after the New Year is underway.  The piece should begin with “The doorbell rang” and end with “snow began to fall.”

The Car Accident

The three of us giggled as we walked out of the firehouse and into my car.  I was with my little sister and her best friend.  We went to the firehouse to see my sister's boyfriend and his friends.  It was always so much fun there. You would probably be surprised to find out what we all did in that firehouse-teenagers can be wild and crazy.

We drove out of the parking lot to head to the mall, which is where we told my dad we would be.  I had just gotten my driver's license two weeks ago, so my parents wanted to know where I would be with the car at all times.

There was an intersection that had a blinky red light, but it should have had a traffic light.  The people with the right of way were either going up or coming down a hill that peaked maybe 20 yards from the cross street.  I stopped at the red light on the cross street, looked both ways, and put my foot on the gas.

That's when the red Camaro came shooting over the top of the hill and into the back of my car.  I was horrified.  We were all okay, but the car wasn't.  I didn't even have the car for a month and it was messed up.  Then the guy in the Camaro got out with a baseball bat in hand, screaming at us.  My horror turned to terror as  I floored it and drove away.

Thankfully, the guy didn't follow us,  I knew you weren't supposed to drive away from an accident, but
at the time, it seemed like the right thing to do.  We pulled into a nearby school parking lot to check out the damage.  My entire rear bumper was dangling off the car.  It was only held on by 1 bolt.  There was also damage to the rear wheel well and the side of the car.

I felt even worse after I saw the damage.  The three of us decided that my dad would be really mad if he found out what happened.  So we drove to the mall we were supposed to have been at the entire time.  Then we called my dad and told him someone must have hit my car when it was parked in the parking lot.  After he came, we made a report with mall security.

To this day, my dad has no idea that the car wasn't really hit in the parking lot.  Looking back, I can't believe I was more afraid of my dad being mad than I was of the bat-wielding Camaro driver.  I just hope that asshole totaled his car that afternoon.

This week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge is a flash prompt using the word crash. Take the next ten minutes to write about the first single memory that word calls up. Focus on the emotions and the experience, spend ten minutes really exploring that memory. Then wrap it up, publish, and come back to link up.

My High School Soundtrack

This post was written in response to this week's Red Writing Hood prompt from Write on Edge.  That soundtrack – that’s where I want the focus. First, find the song that will be played during the pivotal scene in the movie based on your magnum opus. With that song playing, write that pivotal scene – it’s your choice whether you write it as a screen play or as it’s played out in your novel.

I chose to write a montage of my high school experience to Bush's "Glycerine".  I will warn you now that this is not one of my happier posts-high school was not a great time in my life.


INT. HIGH SCHOOL HALLWAY- DAY

SHE walks alone, carrying a stack of books.  All the other STUDENTS ignore her.  A group of GIRLS pass, one points at her and says something we can't hear.  The others laugh.

CUT TO:
INT-HOUSE-DINING ROOM- DAY

Tearful, she checks out the window to make sure she is alone.  She opens the cabinet and pulls out a bottle of liquor.  Tilting back her head, she swallows a quarter of the bottle, wipes her mouth, and replaces the bottle.

CUT TO:
INT. HOCKEY RINK-NIGHT

She walks in full gear alone from the bathrooms, into the rink, and to the locker room, alone.  A COACH stops her, shaking his head.  She leans against the wall and waits until the rest of the HOCKEY TEAM exits the room.  They laugh and joke with each other.  Ignored, she follows them onto the ice.

CUT TO:
INT. GIRL'S BEDROOM- DAY

The room looks like a typical teenage girl's room with posters plastering the walls.  She sits on the floor, head in her hands, sobbing.  She gets up and pulls an Exacto knife out of a desk drawer, sits back on the floor, and cuts her arm again and again, until her arm is covered in blood.

CUT TO:
INT. SCHOOL- HALLWAY- DAY

She walks close to the lockers, alone.  Two GUYS walk in the other direction. As she avoids an open locker, she passes them and they shove her into the open door.  Laughing, one high-five's the other, who punches the locker right above her head, startling her.

CUT TO:
INT. GIRL'S BEDROOM- NIGHT

She sits alone on the bed, her legs crossed, headphones on.  A discman sits in her lap.  Her eyes are closed and she mouths the words to the song, a smile on her lips.

My Quiet Place

The dented and faded floral couch sags gently underneath as I cross my legs and lean back comfortably.  I reach up my arm to turn on the lamp that has stood here since before my birth.
Bathed in gentle light, I silently slip my book off the end table, gently brushing my elbow against the black rotary phone.
The fire in the cast iron stove flickers gently, embers dampened until morning.
The steady ticking of the kitchen clock mixed with the small snores of children soothe me.
I am finally alone and at peace.  Only the crickets stir in the pitch dark night.


This post was written in response to this week's remembeRED prompt from Write on Edge. Where is your quiet place? What does it look like? What happens there?
I, of course, wrote again about reading at night in my cabin upstate.  There is nothing more calming, soothing, or fulfilling than practically anything I do in that house.  I just love it so much.

The Last Solo Bar Trip

The door slammed with a thud. "Get out here!" she screamed, "I want my daughter now!"

Rubbing his bloodshot eyes, he staggered out of the bedroom. "What is your problem?"

"I am not the one with the problem!  Give me my damn daughter, I am taking her away from you!"

"No, it's 4am and she's my daughter too."

"But I didn't go out and cheat on you! And stay out all night!  And not even answer one goddamn phone call!"

"What the fuck! I didn't cheat on you, and I didn't hear my phone because I was beatboxing with the band."

"You were out with a girl! At a bar! While I was sitting home, 7 months pregnant with your third baby!" Her screams dissolved into sobs.  "I hate you!"

"I was not!"

"Don't lie! My sister texted me that the stupid horse bitch you were out with texted her that you two were going to the bar!"

"And you're going to believe your sister why? She likes to start drama."

"I had a friend go to the bar to make sure!  I wanted to believe you were out with your friend from Queens!  But you lied!  He saw you together, and people have been telling me shit about you all  night!  And then you don't answer the phone? Fuck you!"

"You had someone spy on me?" he stared at her, incredulous.

"You think you can go to my fucking town and people won't tell me what's going on?  All those guys you think are your friends, they would give you up in a second to me.  They have my back, not like you.  If I wanted, I could have had someone beat the shit out of you as soon as you stepped outside that bar! I want my daughter, asshole!"

The slap to his face resounded throughout the now silent room. Grabbing the sleepy toddler, she slammed the door as hard as possible, burying her tears in the child's pajamas.

This post was written in response to this week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge. Recreate a pivotal conversation with us this week. Remember, this is memoir. You can only record what was actually said. Save the bon mots and imagined snappy retorts for fiction.

The SIL From Hell

"Why does she have a key and I don't?" I ranted to the boyfriend.  "I live here!  She doesn't.  I want her key."

The 'she' in question was the boyfriend's sister.  I discovered she had let herself into our house while I was still asleep, and I was beyond shocked to find someone sitting at the computer when I went to get a bowl of cereal.

She looked me over, said nothing, and turned back to the screen.  I went upstairs and raised hell.  It made me uncomfortable that she could just walk into our house at any time, whether we were here or not, and do whatever she wanted.  I'm sure the fact that I was 6 months pregnant and trying to take care of a 9 month old baby didn't help either.

Eventually, I brought the baby downstairs to see her.  I thought that maybe I was overreacting to her, and I would give her another chance.  I put him in his bouncy swing-the kind that hangs from the doorway. 

"Why is he so chubby?  Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

Excuse me?  You've never met me or your nephew before and those are the first words out of your mouth?  I was seriously thisclose to yanking a cleaver out of the knife block and stabbing a bitch.

You're barely 21, married your military boyfriend so you would get money (and promptly got divorced once he left active service), and don't have or want kids (just yappy, poorly behaved dogs), and you have the nerve to criticize me?  And my infant?  When this is the first time we've met and you didn't even have the decency to introduce yourself?  Who the hell do you think you are?

That was the moment I knew it would never work out.  She and I would never be friends, and we have, in fact, become enemies.  She is no longer allowed to see my kids after many more unpleasant incidents.  As far as I'm concerned, the only aunts my children have are my sister and my best friend from college.

I know the boyfriend wishes I could pretend to like her, but I don't have it in me.  I put up with her crap so many times.  I'm not going to sit there and take insults about my kids, or veiled nastiness.  It would be different if she was nice to my kids-she's not.  She won't even pick them up.  So the only one losing out is her.  Maybe one day she'll either drink herself to death or get over herself.   Until then, she is dead to me and my babies.

This post was written in response to this week's remembeRED prompt from Write on Edge. This week, we asked you to write about a relationship you knew was doomed from the start. It could be your own relationship or one of a close friend or family member. The only thing we required was that it not be fiction.

Eight AM

Sunlight filters through the blinds.  A cat stretches languidly at the foot of the bed.  The morning news provides a background in the quiet room.

The baby rolls over, covering his face with the comforter.  His kicking feet disturb my slumber and I cover my head with a pillow.

In the crayon-blue kids' room, Daddy and daughter sleep intertwined on the beat-up beige couch.  Toddler beds lay empty as Oswald blares on the TV.

T is sprawled across Grandma's bed, wrapped up in the giant fleece blanket.  More cats jockey for position in the windows.

The quiet house stands ready for the day to begin.


This post was written in response to this week's Red Writing Hood prompt from Write on Edge.  This week we asked you to give us 8:00 -AM or PM, fiction or creative non-fiction- but 8:00. In 200 words or less.

Snow Days and Soup

I always loved the first snow day of the year.  My sister and I would sleep in, only to realize the winter wonderland before us hours after we would have normally needed to be up.  Excited, we would pull on our snowsuits, gloves, hats, and boots, and our dad would take us out sledding.

We trudged down the snow-covered street to the hill at the elementary school.  It was the biggest perk of living two houses away from the school.  We would sled until our faces were red and our fingers were numb.

Once we entered our vestibule and stomped the snow off our boots, we opened the door to the house and were hit with the smell of potato soup. 

My mom has always cooked potato soup on snowy days.  I love anything potato.  As far as I'm concerned, potatoes should be in their own food group.

I always rushed into the kitchen, got my chair and dragged it to the stove, and helped.  My mom would have the chicken broth, onion, and potato chunks simmering on the stove.  It was my job to mash the potatoes when they were done.  Not all of them, just enough to make the soup a little creamy but still a little chunky.

My mom then ladled the soup into mugs, and I added a couple spoonfuls of Parmesan cheese into each mug, followed by a sprinkle of dried parsley.  The whole family sat at the kitchen table and ate soup for lunch while we talked about sledding and the snow.

My mom still makes me this soup on snowy days, even though I could (in theory) make it myself.  It tastes better when she does it.  I know it's a really simple recipe, but when I think of winter and snow days, I immediately think of my mom's potato soup.  It is everything good about winter.  So far only Princess shares my love of this soup, but I'm hoping the boys will eventually follow suit.

Mom's Potato Soup
-2 cans chicken broth
-1 small onion, chopped
-4-6 russet potatoes (this really varies depending on the size of the potatoes, but I say more is better), cut into 1/2" cube
-Parmesan cheese, 2-3 spoonfuls per serving
-dried parsley, for garnish

-Add first 3 ingredints to 2qt saucepan and simmer about 30 minutes, until potatoes are tender.  Use a potato masher to mash about half the potatoes.
-Ladle soup into a mug or bowl and add Parmesan cheese and parsley. Serve and enjoy.

This post was written in response to this week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge. Take me back…whether to a month ago or decades ago.  Share with me a special recipe, but don’t just list out ingredients.  Take me there…in 500 words or less.

Dance Recital Fail

I practice the dance moves again and again in the ballet studio until every step is perfect.  I want to make sure I don't mess anything up because I am the leader for the song and the entire audience will see me first.

I'm excited as my mom helps me get ready for the recital.  I use her shoulders for balance as I pull on the white tights.  Next comes the blue and white striped leotard and the white tutu, then the matching white Tom Sawyer hat with the blue ribbon.

I fidget as my mom applies pink blush to the apples of my cheeks, even though I'm already prone to looking flushed as it is.  She also puts some lipstick on me, then fixes my hair into a bun.  I make sure we don't forget my umbrella with the lace ruffle around the edge as we rush out of the house.

Backstage, we receive our cue as "The Yellow Rose of Texas" begins to play.  I am exhilarated as I dance onstage, all the other girls following me.  The stage lights shine brightly down.  I see the large audience dimly lit in front of me.

I can't focus.  My tutu is itchy.  I'm trying to find my parents in the audience.  I have some mosquito bites on my thigh that are suddenly irritating.

I stop on the side of the stage.  I can't help but scratch my bites furiously.  Tears are streaming down my face.

"Mommy!  Daddy! I'm itchy!" I scream again and again until my parents rescue me from the stage.

This post was written in response to this week's Red Writing Hood prompt from Write on Edge.  Some people consider themselves athletes. Others do not.  Write a piece of fiction or creative non-fiction in which athleticism features prominently. Use one of these photographs for inspiration.

I knew I had to write about my dance recital.  I was 5 or 6 years old when it happened, and afterwards, I stopped ballet lessons and didn't dance again until college.  I have the whole thing on videotape, and it is equally hilarious and humiliating.  Although I failed as a dancer, I was a great soccer player growing up, so I guess it's a good thing I stopped dancing so I could focus on that.

My Favorite Halloween Costume

It was my final year trick-or-treating.  I was 14 and in ninth grade, and wasn't sure if I was too old to trick-or-treat.  A lot of the other kids in my grade were going to Halloween parties, but I wasn't invited to any.

I was too old for the cutesy kid costumes and too young (and chubby) for the skanky grown-up ones.  I didn't know what to do until my dad came up with the perfect idea: wear his army dress greens from Vietnam.

My dad and I went to our basement and he opened the green metal cabinet that I'd always overlooked.  Inside hung two pristine uniforms: my dad's and my uncle's.

Examining the uniform and the dog tags was like visiting history.  I asked my dad a ton of questions about his time in the service.  I discovered that he was in Chem Corps and got to stay in the states, while my uncle was a medic stationed in Germany.  My dad joked that his brother came back 20 pounds heavier from all the food he ate there.

I tried on the uniforms, and, although my dad's was too small, my uncle's fit.  I called my best friend Iris, and she agreed to wear my dad's uniform.

On Halloween, we donned the caps, jackets, and trousers and went out.  Trick-or-treating was not that fun, and at one point, the police even stopped to ask us where we had been because some kids vandalized a house.  I was self-conscious about being too old, and a little embarrassed and upset that I wasn't going to a party like everyone else.

But I loved my costume.  I learned a lot from my dad because of it.  I felt like I was wearing history, which made me want to learn more about the Vietnam War.  It was like I was finally privy to a piece of family history that had eluded me until that point.

I got to look at old photos of my dad and uncle when they were in the service.  I found out my dad really did have a giant fro (I never believed it before I saw it), and that he looked like the guy in Welcome Back Kotter.

So even though the trick-or-treating experience wasn't the best, the costume and everything I learned about my family as a result made it an incredible experience.

This post was written in response to this week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge. For Tuesday, reach back to a costume that made an impression. Was it yours? A friend’s? Maybe it was a costume you never got to wear. Show it to us with your words, draw us into the emotions it evoked at the time. Word limit is 400.
Also, I'm sorry if this post is not up to my usual caliber.  My youngest, Goober, has been really sick with a high fever since Thursday so I've been preoccupied and totally unfocused.

Fear

You need to come get me now. This was a mistake. I don't know how long until he finds me. Please hurry.


This post was written in response to this week's Red Writing Hood prompt from Write on Edge. This week, we invited you to compose a text–160 characters–that would either elicit or express fear.

Fall Memories

My Oma piles up the cushions on the driver's seat of her 1984 baby blue Toyota Corolla.  Giddy, my sister and I slide into the backseat.  We are greeted by the comforting scent of dog that always lingers in the car.  Long dog fur covers the throw and attach themselves to our clothes.

Oma drives slowly down the empty road as we look out the windows at the cows and horses.  Finally, we pass the large home modeled after an Italian Villa (Oma always calls it the mobster's house), and turn down the dirt drive to the orchard.

There are apple trees everywhere we look.  Many are heavy with fruit, but the ones closest to the road have already been picked clean.

Oma parks in front of the old blue house.  We run to the door and let ourselves inside before she even has a chance to get out of the car.

The only light inside is sunlight filtering through the windows.  There are tables full of apples-bagged, loose, red, green.  We pick a bag of red apples and I look to make sure they aren't bruised or bug-eaten (I am super picky with my apples-they have to be perfect or I won't eat them).

I run to the refrigerator and grab a gallon of apple cider.  Oma opens the register and deposits money for the apples and the cider.  Before we're even back outside, my sister and I are crunching apples, smiles on our faces.


This post was written in response to this week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge.  This week we asked you to use the weather, or a photo of an autumn day bursting with color to inspire an autumnal memoir piece. Word limit is 300.

I knew I had to write, once again, about a memory I have with my Oma.  I loved going to her house in the fall because she would always take us to the apple farm.  It was always on a weekend morning when the store was closed, but, since she lived in a rural area, the farm owners would leave the door unlocked and trust anyone who came in to leave the money in the cash register.  I always thought it was so cool to be in a store that was closed and still get to pick out  my apples and cider.

On Tattoos and Family

I have a lot of tattoos-14 to be exact.  And I've already written a post about how I have been negatively judged for one of them.  You can read about that here.  So enough about my naked lady tattoo. I'm going to talk about my favorite.

Everyone always asks me about my tattoo on the front of my leg, near my ankle.  It reads "Familie ist Leben, Liebe, Herz, Seele, und Respekt" (this is German, by the way).  I got it in college, when I was living in Philadelphia (at Olde City Tattoo, by Steve Tiburi).  It's for my Oma.  She was still alive at the time, but she has always had such an impact on my life that I wanted to honor her and everything she stood for.  You can read more about my Oma here.

In English, the tattoo would read "Family is Life, Love, Heart, Soul, and Respect."  And for me, that is what rings true.  My family is really important to me.  I was very close to my Oma when she was alive.  And my Grandma was a big part of my life when I was a kid-unfortunately, she suffered from Alzheimer's, and the last 10 years of her life, she wasn't the grandma I grew up with. 

I'm very close with my parents as well.  They live right down the street and they are always there for me.  They watch my kids if needed, buy diapers and formula when we can't afford it, and make sure my kids have presents on Christmas and their birthdays. 

I would have nothing without my family.  My family is my life.  And I wanted to make sure I would never forget that, so I got my tattoo to commemorate what family means to me.

Sorry, I tried to get the whole thing and it took 3 views since it wraps around my leg

This post was written in response to this week's Red Writing Hood prompt from Write on Edge.  If you haven’t figured it out, this week, we’d like you to write a piece in which a tattoo figures prominently. Fiction or creative non-fiction. There is a lot to think about: why someone would get one, what they chose, when they got it, what message does the tattoo(s) send?  You will have 300 words with which to play.
It was really hard for me to keep to the word limit.  There is so much more I could have said about what my family means to me.  I guess I'll have to save that, and the meanings (or lack thereof) behind my other tattoos, for another post.

The Ice Rink

My heart pounds as bile rises in the back of my throat.  I try to calm down by telling myself I do this every night, tonight is exactly the same as last night and the night before that.

Focusing away negative thoughts, I tug the laces again and again until they are tight.  I spend a full 10 minutes on the effort.  I roll the clear tape over my socks, making a big X from my ankle to my knee.  I pull on my helmet, fastening the straps, and yank the gloves over my fingers.

I breathe slowly a few times, fighting the rising panic.  I walk down the hallway and through the  swinging double doors.

I am hit immediately by the cold, frozen air.  It smells like rubber, sweat, and old gym bags.  For some reason I love that smell.  It is what finally puts a smile on my face.

Pucks crack loudly off sticks and echo as they slam the boards.  Sharpened blades dig into the ice, making a barely audible swish.

I enter the rink and all of a sudden, I am the same as everyone else.  I finally relax.  As we line up and run drill after drill, I know I am doing what I need to be doing, whether anyone else likes it or not.

This post was written in response to this week's RemembeRED post from Write on Edge. In “On Writing” Stephen King wrote, “The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things can only get better.”  Write a memoir post – first-person and true – inspired by that statement.  Word limit is 300.
I knew I had to write about hockey again because I recently ran into my old hockey coach as well as the teammate who broke my heart.  You can read about that here.

I Love Upstate

Happiness flows through my veins as soon as I turn down that dirt road.  Gravel crunches under my car, sunlight streams through the canopy of trees overhead.  The air is crisp and fresh.  There is a coolness to it that is impossible to find unless you are at the top of the mountain.

The trees flanking the road change to pines on the left-my father planted all those pines with his father and brother years ago.  I maneuver the car down the short, steep, driveway, making sure to kept left and avoid the trees.

It feels like home as soon as I get out of the car.  The house borders the road and opens up to a huge meadow.  The knee high grass hides countless wild raspberries.  Wildflowers in all shades of red, orange, yellow, and purple dot the landscape.

The garden is full of potatoes and blueberries.  Blackberry vines snake around the compost heap.  The old stone fireplace stands like a relic from the past in the middle of the meadow.

I hear the stream trickling next to the woods.  The birds chirp in the trees.  Shots and the barks of faraway dogs echo across the mountains.  A mama black bear and her 3 cubs are visible down by the pond, foraging.

I love upstate.

The road to the house

This post was written in response to this week's Red Writing Hood post from Write on Edge.
Good writing plants the reader’s feet into your story.  Good writing is also concise.  So when you’re trying to decide where to spend your words – where to use the most imagery and details and senses – I say setting is where its at.  This week, I want you to take me there. You have 200 words.
I knew I had to write about my house upstate.  I love everything about it.  As a child I spent my summers there.  The best memories I have of my Oma are there.  And I still go as often as I can with my kids in the hope that they will love it as much as I do.

Why I'm Happy Summer is Over

The sun viciously beats down.  Tar bubbles; heat steams up off the pavement.

Sweat beads on my face, constantly dripping.


My face is so flushed I look like a cooked lobster.

Livid bruises in all shades of red, purple, green, and yellow cover my arms and legs.

I feel like I'm trying to breathe underwater-the air is thick with humidity.

My hands tremble, getting tingly and numb as the seconds progress.

Multicolored dots cloud my vision, increasing until my world is black.

I am falling.  My ears roar with the sound of crashing waves. 

This post was written in response tothis week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge.
Writing short posts is an excellent way to flex your word choice muscles. Which word is the most clear? Poignant? Direct?  This week I want you to conjure something. An object, a person, a feeling, a color, a season- whatever you like. But don’t tell me what it is, conjure it.
You have 100 words, use them wisely. And yes- you so can do this!

Here's a little background info on this post.  I have a bleeding disorder called vonWillebrand's disease.  My blood doesn't clot right, and it really affects me in the summer.  I am usually okay when the weather is cooler, though.  I really can't even go out in summer because I faint constantly.  So I sit in the air conditioning whenever it's hot.  And I pretty  much hate summer, because I've had a lot of bad experiences where people did nothing when I fainted.  I will always remember fainting in the doorway to an ice cream store (literally half inside the store, half outside) and no one even asked me if I was okay.  All I needed was one person to be nice and see if I needed anything (I really needed some cold water) but no one did and I couldn't even sit up for a half hour.  People just stared at me and walked over me to get in and out of the store.  It was awful.