I'm awake, but I keep my eyes closed. 

It was a late night and I try to remember where I am. I reach across the air mattress and feel Rob's warm arm, and then I hear Shawna's voice from somewhere outside the open, once-dining room that has turned into a makeshift guest bedroom. I'm at Davidson College, in her house, and it's Spring Frolics weekend.

The running water of a shower cuts off with a squeak from the faucet and a hair dryer roars to life. Shawna's roommates chatter upstairs as they get ready for the day.

I can feel the sun, streaming in through the half-cracked mini blinds, on my face. I hear bare feet padding across the linoleum floor of the kitchen and country music blaring through a stereo in the living room. The coffee maker gurgles and drip drip drips. I finally open my eyes and follow my ears throughout the house to find Shawna, one of my very best friends.

I may be in a different state, but I'm still home.

And so ready for spring.

The problem with creative non-fiction is that sometimes, you forget what's real and what's made up. I can't tell if it's a sign of a good imagination or a bad memory, but either way, I'm pretty sure that the following story never actually happened. 

Fiction. Mostly.

I always thought pomegranates were cool. I love their ugly, tough exterior and the fact that below their shell lies a wealth of jeweled seeds the color of juicy rubies. I like working for something good--awkwardly plunging a knife into this fruit and pulling it in half, then taking a quarter of an hour just to seed the thing. 

I would get them at the store every now and again when I saw them, but eventually stopped because of the mess they made. Each seed contains tiny amounts of juice, but the entire fruit bleeds thin crimson nectar all over the counters and onto your clothing. 

Obviously, the only proper way to do this is to get naked.

At my family's lake cabin one summer years ago, already clad in a bikini, I took the liberty of splitting open a ripe pomegranate and taking it to the bathroom. I sat in the tub with the two halves and ate the entire thing, one handful of seeds at a time. Sticky scarlet juice ran down my arms and face in long droplets, and when I was done, I set the husks of the fruit aside and took a bath.

I don't know if you missed it, but last week my Old Friend from Far Away post was about remembering.

I can't decide if I should put the writing prompt at the beginning of the post or if I should tell you about it beforehand. I also can't decide if I want to do these creative writing exercises on Fridays or Saturdays or if I just want to be sort of uncommitted and ambiguously call it Creative Writing Weekend. What do you think?

Anyway. I'll file all of these prompt posts under the label "Old Friend from Far Away," if you're wondering.

This is the next one. I thought it might be fun to announce some of them so that if you want to, you can play along.

"Here is a test. The good thing about it is all answers are correct. Right off the top you receive an A" (Goldberg, 6).

1. A memory of your mother, aunt, or grandmother. 03/26

2. A memory of the color red. Do not use the word "red." 03/05

3. A memory of sound. 03/12

4. Write a picture of a teacher you had in elementary school.

5. Write about a meal you loved. 02/26

6. Write about rain. 04/09

I'm probably going to break these up and use one or maybe even two each week for a few weeks, then announce the next prompt. I'll even come back here and cross them out as I go so you can follow along.

What are you going to do?

Ready? Go.