I keep meaning to sit down and release a particular story into the universe but every time I sit down to write it, something else clamors its way in the front of my brain. Perhaps it'll have its turn here, in this medium, in this now not so secret place.

So far it is just this: My old bed, the very old one that I had to climb into, tall as I was. The headboard that almost went to the ceiling. Dark mahogany, inlay, broken. The white bedspread with the tiny purple, yellow, and pink flowers - little balls from too many washings under its scratchy surface. The blanket that no matter how much I tugged always made its way to around my ankles. My hand, always seeking for that place, never satisfied and always greedy. A whole summer spent almost entirely inside. Sister with a job at the video store, a working mother and father. Me, in my tall old bed, a fledgling knowledge of self, of my own beauty, of my own power. The summer in between sixth and seventh grade: push, pull, light, hard. Mine.

The warm bed under the arctic chill of powerful central air conditioning. Warm in my jeans, cool under the sheets after I slipped them off at least once a day. Sometimes several times a day, sometimes quick and on the sly. Given the chance I'd always be in this state, and get absolutely nothing done.