Kristin. So powerful. I literally gulped, trying to respond.

Thanks Cindy. I'm crying a little, to tell you the truth. Needed to be written, though.

Kristin, I know. Deep breath of my own, over here, recovering one of the more important memories I'd misplaced, that first time together, that first kiss:

Bliss/Burn

The lock of eyes, binding, yours to mine. This moment is inevitable; you knew it before I did, because you saw me first.

Recognition takes me hostage, places me at your side, in your arms, in your bed, places you in me. I'm seventeen. Lip belly breast and speaking souls, this is the best heaven holds. My tongue samples your scarred places, trying to take your damage as my own. Heaven is all about strength shared.

Later, as you sleep, I stare at the walls of a bedroom that will never be fully mine, a man I somehow know I'm not meant to save or keep.

Hell? Is all about being lost.

FYI: I made one small amendment to the challenge, and so peoples don't have to scroll back, here it is:

You don't necessarily need to take the "and" literally -- it could also be "heaven OR hell." As always, up to all y'all.

Kristin, Deb -- those are so. fucking. powerful.

Wow. Kristin, Deb, way to start off. Both of those gave me a lump in my throat.

Beautifully, honestly written, both of them.

Kristin's just about broke me in half.

Heaven/Hell

I have a note I saved, proof against the revisionist historians. Mother's handwriting says, "We may be a little late. There's dinner in the refrigerator." Dad's says, "Fuck you."

At least your father never hit me.

No, the broken wrist and the cracked ribs came from grabbing and shoving.

We had so much fun playing Parcheesi with Dad.

You used to scream at each other at the top of your lungs. He would curse. You would yell, "I wish you were dead."

This was your Dad's birthday. I wish he was here.

You can't get to heaven by denying hell.

God DAYUM, Ginger.

Just - wow.

This category is going to literally blow the walls apart, isn't it?

Drive. Drive. Drive. Just get there. Get there. Before. Keep driving. Only 500 more miles.

Sing. Keep your mind on the road. “You need to get here now.” Drive.

“I’m about 200 miles away.”

“They’ve moved him to a room to keep us more comfortable while we wait.”

Drive. Get there. Now. Get there. Reach out for a cat who understands. Drive.

Find the unknown hospital and the only door that’s open at midnight. Just inside the door is a woman who looks like me.

“Daddy’s awake and talking.”

We both made it.

Damn, those are all intense. You all broke me. My only defense is to offer something a bit on the lighter side.

The Stomach Knows

The waiting seems to be interminable, heart palpitating and hands sweating. At last, you get to strap yourself into the car for the ride of your life.

The climb up the hill is slow, but steady. As the car reaches the pinnacle of the track, it seems to hover in that weightless space right before you reach what might be heaven. Balanced there, between heaven and hell you can see both spread out before you.

Then, with a thunderous roar the car speeds down the track and you scream in terror/delight as your stomach flies into the first corkscrewing turn.