Lexy is a freelance writer and ghost writer, with a B.A. in Film and Creative Writing from Muhlenberg College.
Although she deals mostly in fiction and poetry, Lexy is well versed in analytical writing. Her work has been featured in several small literary magazines in different states in the north east, including Pennsylvania and Connecticut.
Some Samples of her work can be found below:
Sample Creative Prose:
I learned math in a castle, and spelling too. We had turrets, stonework, a large pond at the base of the drive, and a roaring brook. On days when the water only trickled between the cracks of ice, or early September dried the river beds, some of us would sneak down the hill to the secret stairs hidden in the brush. We would walk along the riverbank collecting frogspawn and salamanders.
Renbrook sat atop the Mountain like a throne to a whole separate kingdom. Tudor braces clung to the outside of the building like vines, and the glass was cut into diamonds and glued together with black pitch. Sometimes the grade-schoolers flitted, pixelated, down on the lower field in battle – capture the flag, a soccer match, or once a year, Civil War Day, when the campus transformed into an anachronistic array of pitched tents and children eating hardtack, and watching carefully hewn surgical tools cut off each others’ limbs. They divided us Yankees up and no one was sure how to feign team pride for the confederacy. We heard the dean speak. We heard Lincoln. I don’t think any of us quite bought it.
The walk through the renovated buildings opened up into the mysterious and dark lair where the nurse worked. Tapestries flank the walls. The ceiling, though unpainted, has patterned woodwork woven through it. One time I watched a girl of seven vomit on the antique paneling of the drawing room. Despite the heat beading on my forehead, I opened a crack hidden in the wall and closed myself into the narrow stairwell behind it.
There were three ways into the attic that I know of. An official door under key at all times. The wall panel by the nurse’s office. The high window in the three year olds’ building. No one tried to climb in. It was there to peer into, a looking glass. A special task force of children sent ourselves to keep watch, should the haunted lady ever appear. We all claimed to see her, of course. I can remember the curve of her wrist as it rose gracefully to retrieve a pin from her hair. The lace on her dress wavered incandescently in soft sunlight. But she does not exist, of course.
The spirits of the linoleum lined classrooms diffused into the sloping mountain. They trickled between the plaster and flowed high to the upper fields where they pooled on the edges of the tree line. The woods were no secret to us and we dove into them regularly. Between trees poked wires and finished wood. The trees kept the winds at bay. The fields, adjacent, could be fragmented by whistling patches. Sometimes the wind blew so hard that we could lean into it and never fall down. We lost many soccer balls to the thistles. The ropes and wires were hung in trees, and the only thing preventing the us from climbing them was that the rungs began eight feet up. The ropes course was required for a year. Each day was a different feat, and the greatest of all was the pamper plank.
A scrap of wood nailed to a tree: the small platform, atop a thirty-foot roost, swayed at the peak of the mountain. There is always a harness, always a rope, but the placement of the latch, attached between the platform and the trapeze, eight feet out, pulls and tugs the hips. Safety beckons you over the edge. The eight feet to the metal bar seems farther than the thirty feet below, the ten foot dip to the field, the view to the castle-school, the sprawling arms of Hartford below. When you jump you do not reach for the bar. You spread your arms like a tenement and fly for the tallest tower, crapping yourself with hope that you won’t crumble on the landing.