"Write about two memories."

The first memory that came to mind was the best first kiss I've ever had. It's strange, I don't usually recall this when I think of good memories, but it was the first to pop up this time. Maybe it's because I'm sitting in winter's keep, dreaming of summer.
This first kiss was summer. Everything about it. It was mid July, with the weather hot and humid so much so that hardly anyone wore real clothes. I was in some sort of sweat stained tank top and denim shorts that rode up too far. I think my shoes were an old pair of destroyed vans or converse. The fields down the road from my house were occupied by a carnival, the one that came every year around this time. I was fifteen with a job at my local summer camp. I had my own money in my pocket and loads of friends to spend all my afternoons with.
At the carnival, I met up with an old flirty friend. We were both newly single and undoubtedly attracted to each other. Just the previous week, he gave me a piggy back ride around a craft fair, where we fought over a painting and he bought a ridiculous safari hat. But here at the fair, we had better plans. We hung out in a large group of friends, but as the night went on, some slowly dropped off. The unbearable heat was fading into a comfortable warmth. We rode the Zipper, over and over, swapping partners and trios amongst our various crowd. We rode together, maybe the third time that night we'd been alone, and we talked. We giggled and smiled. The lights from the carnival eyes put diamonds in our eyes.
"I kind of want to kiss you right now." He said.
"Then do it." I snapped back, with all the sexy confidence I could muster.
And he did. His mouth full of braces didn't bother me. My damp body didn't bother him. We kissed.
We traded partners again, but kept coming back to each other, and kissing, and kissing, and kissing. The kissing never stopped. It continued the next night, and the next, all the way to the last day of the carnival. We were inseparable for the rest of the summer.

The second memory I thought of was actually a product of my day. I'm moving by the end of the month, and then moving again in four months, so I was going through old things and sorting out where to put them. I found three posters my friends made for my eighth grade talent show performance.
I wanted to feel famous, so I asked them if we could get together to make posters that said "Go Malmo!" (my nickname). They were big and pretty and super fun.
Before the show, our DECA chapter hosted a spaghetti dinner which my friends and I took part in. They decided to stay for the show, which I was the only one performing in.
I took to the stage, overtaken with nerves. This was my first time performing with guitar. My stepdad went home early because he was drunk, so I was embarassed. And the outfit I'd ordered for the show and our DC trip hadn't come in yet. I was uncertain and scared of how things would turn out. I scanned the crowd for my friends, which didn't take long at all.
In the front row, the four of them sat with the three orange posters, all smiles and thumbs up. I noticed the posters were littered with little writings to cheer me on. I played my little All Time Low song with definite tears at the end, and I've kept those posters after all these years.