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Written by GhoulCircus in portal Stream of Consciousness

Simply

Simply put, I could have done better.

So I scribbled words while you sat on the verge of tears, mourning the jeers and sneers as I spun stories to trap your fears. You told me you were in love with an angel; fall foliage hair, eyes like the smoldering heart of an autumn furnace. Was it her beauty that made you cry? I couldn’t understand why. And what a dream for me, for every brother’s glee, to allay guard of sweet sister’s heart. But still, you sat fraught; mewling, distraught.

Simply put, I could have done better.

So I told you about the boy in theater class. The one who admired my chassé, said he fell fast for my art, how his lips dared to part. On center stage, we kissed before an audience of mist. You asked me if I liked it; I said yes. You asked me if I liked kissing Madeline Dubois in our summer at Barjols; I said yes. You asked me who I liked kissing better; I said neither. I told you I’m simply a greedy tart whose heart can’t decide on a side beneath my ribs— Left or right, left or right! And for the first time, after all you’d cried, you laughed.

So I told you, if you ever see the girl with fall foliage hair, eyes like the smoldering heart of an autumn furnace, dare your lips to part.

Simply put, I could have done better.

So I did my best,

for you deserve no less.

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Written by GhoulCircus in portal Stream of Consciousness
Simply
Simply put, I could have done better.

So I scribbled words while you sat on the verge of tears, mourning the jeers and sneers as I spun stories to trap your fears. You told me you were in love with an angel; fall foliage hair, eyes like the smoldering heart of an autumn furnace. Was it her beauty that made you cry? I couldn’t understand why. And what a dream for me, for every brother’s glee, to allay guard of sweet sister’s heart. But still, you sat fraught; mewling, distraught.

Simply put, I could have done better.

So I told you about the boy in theater class. The one who admired my chassé, said he fell fast for my art, how his lips dared to part. On center stage, we kissed before an audience of mist. You asked me if I liked it; I said yes. You asked me if I liked kissing Madeline Dubois in our summer at Barjols; I said yes. You asked me who I liked kissing better; I said neither. I told you I’m simply a greedy tart whose heart can’t decide on a side beneath my ribs— Left or right, left or right! And for the first time, after all you’d cried, you laughed.
So I told you, if you ever see the girl with fall foliage hair, eyes like the smoldering heart of an autumn furnace, dare your lips to part.

Simply put, I could have done better.

So I did my best,
for you deserve no less.
#siblings 
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Written by Cross in portal Poetry & Free Verse

The Mask You Loved

            This is the mask you loved.         For I modeled it after you.

         I wear it still.                                                               Decayed

           Bloodstained                                                          Rotting

              Smirched                                                  Falling apart.

                Cracked                                                             It

                   I refuse to let it go.                              Mirrors 

                                                                            You

                                                               Perfectly.

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Written by Cross in portal Poetry & Free Verse
The Mask You Loved
            This is the mask you loved.         For I modeled it after you.
         I wear it still.                                                               Decayed
           Bloodstained                                                          Rotting
              Smirched                                                  Falling apart.
                Cracked                                                             It
                   I refuse to let it go.                              Mirrors 
                                                                            You
                                                               Perfectly.
#romance  #poetry  #masquerade 
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How do you define hate? Do you hate? Or is hate too strong a word?
Written by LillyZ in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Damaged.

Nothing comes close

to the skin she wears.

hatred knitted into

fibers of her bones.

stolen soul, and hidden,

deep, within evil dreams ...

no yesterday's lift her head.

blood washing down drains,

with secrets to keep,

and a gullet full of whiskey to 'mend' ...

How about,

Fuck you.

yes, hatred is real.

Hatred is felt.

Hatred is lived.

Hatred is betrayal.

Hatred kills and

sends unwanted souls to hell.

pain is only but a scar,

it scabs, it heals

and you move the fuck on.

Hatred is forever ...

It's what you hog tie

as you beat it

like a piñata,

laughing in the face of weakness,

squealing in fear,

giving a half assed attempt for forgiveness.

but the damage has already been done ...

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How do you define hate? Do you hate? Or is hate too strong a word?
Written by LillyZ in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Damaged.
Nothing comes close
to the skin she wears.
hatred knitted into
fibers of her bones.
stolen soul, and hidden,
deep, within evil dreams ...
no yesterday's lift her head.
blood washing down drains,
with secrets to keep,
and a gullet full of whiskey to 'mend' ...

How about,
Fuck you.
yes, hatred is real.
Hatred is felt.
Hatred is lived.
Hatred is betrayal.
Hatred kills and
sends unwanted souls to hell.
pain is only but a scar,
it scabs, it heals
and you move the fuck on.

Hatred is forever ...

It's what you hog tie
as you beat it
like a piñata,
laughing in the face of weakness,
squealing in fear,
giving a half assed attempt for forgiveness.
but the damage has already been done ...
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Write about Lust.
Written by JeffStewart

Bleeding sweat.

The ocean turned over in beats and bass, and the sand moved in the roll of a tongue beneath her stomach and hips, and the rest of the beach gazed at her there while her headphones blasted Modern English and other post punk ‘80s bubblegum resurrections. The smell of Coppertone and Pacific had married above her body and pinned my vision on the horizon behind the top of her perfection. I ran my middle finger down her knuckle and she smiled beneath a shroud of wild hair with sweat at the roots.

Back at the house we made it halfway up the stairs before my tongue was up her ass and she was grabbing my hair. Her palms leaned forward and pressed into the carpet while I held her legs off the ground, the grip of my hands on her hips, and I watched her body bounce off our sex while she bucked and came, her hair in her face, her perfections hard at their tips. I arched my back and shot into her and we were frozen there like statues bleeding sweat, my love for her a poem I could never write.   

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Write about Lust.
Written by JeffStewart
Bleeding sweat.
The ocean turned over in beats and bass, and the sand moved in the roll of a tongue beneath her stomach and hips, and the rest of the beach gazed at her there while her headphones blasted Modern English and other post punk ‘80s bubblegum resurrections. The smell of Coppertone and Pacific had married above her body and pinned my vision on the horizon behind the top of her perfection. I ran my middle finger down her knuckle and she smiled beneath a shroud of wild hair with sweat at the roots.

Back at the house we made it halfway up the stairs before my tongue was up her ass and she was grabbing my hair. Her palms leaned forward and pressed into the carpet while I held her legs off the ground, the grip of my hands on her hips, and I watched her body bounce off our sex while she bucked and came, her hair in her face, her perfections hard at their tips. I arched my back and shot into her and we were frozen there like statues bleeding sweat, my love for her a poem I could never write.   
#prose  #challenge 
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What is life?
Written by A in portal Philosophy

Savory Symphony

Life is a dance between energetic elements. It does not emerge or begin at the cellular level. No, that is a far too conservative denotation of life. Why is the cell alive but not the atom, or electron, or neutrino? Of course, the cell can reproduce. It can split and replicate. But is that truly what makes it alive? 

Motion, interaction, revolution, capture the essence of life. Life is motionfull, death is motionless. The entire cosmos is infinitely alive, all the strings, waves, and particles ecstatically dancing to the same evolutionary concert.

You probably know the DJ.

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What is life?
Written by A in portal Philosophy
Savory Symphony
Life is a dance between energetic elements. It does not emerge or begin at the cellular level. No, that is a far too conservative denotation of life. Why is the cell alive but not the atom, or electron, or neutrino? Of course, the cell can reproduce. It can split and replicate. But is that truly what makes it alive? 

Motion, interaction, revolution, capture the essence of life. Life is motionfull, death is motionless. The entire cosmos is infinitely alive, all the strings, waves, and particles ecstatically dancing to the same evolutionary concert.

You probably know the DJ.
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Written by SunKiss in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Black Man

He smiled but it didn't seem to touch his eyes...

Eyes filled with century old hidden and forgotten cries...

Cries that came from murders, rapes and lies...

Lies that led to his peoples demise...

-SunKiss

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Written by SunKiss in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Black Man
He smiled but it didn't seem to touch his eyes...
Eyes filled with century old hidden and forgotten cries...
Cries that came from murders, rapes and lies...
Lies that led to his peoples demise...

-SunKiss
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Prose Challenge of the Week #37: Write a piece of poetry or prose inspired by or using the following word: Manifest. The winner will be chosen based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Number of reads, bookmarks, and shares will also be taken into consideration. The winner will receive $100. When sharing to Twitter, please use the hashtag #ProseChallenge
Written by swadhi

old friend

I knew you,

River, you were

a kinder thing -

      what sunless wild tore

      your tongue into

      this spitting froth -

      knotted with your heart,

      what swallowed stone

      made home now 

      grates to frantic grit

the song that

held me gently

once?

16
6
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Prose Challenge of the Week #37: Write a piece of poetry or prose inspired by or using the following word: Manifest. The winner will be chosen based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Number of reads, bookmarks, and shares will also be taken into consideration. The winner will receive $100. When sharing to Twitter, please use the hashtag #ProseChallenge
Written by swadhi
old friend
I knew you,
River, you were
a kinder thing -

      what sunless wild tore
      your tongue into
      this spitting froth -

      knotted with your heart,

      what swallowed stone
      made home now 
      grates to frantic grit

the song that
held me gently
once?
#nature  #friendship  #change  #pain 
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We all know that sometimes the Devil will make a deal in exchange for a soul, but what happens when he comes to collect? Imagine a person who has sold his/her soul to the Devil. How does he come for them? Does he take them directly to Hell? How does he get them wherever they're going and what happens when they get there? Write a story exploring what happens after a deal with the Devil comes to an end. Base it on traditional folklore, or make up your own totally new ideas!
Written by Helenalyn in portal Horror & Thriller

Giving the Other his Due

He stood with the Other in the bent light of time halted.  Flames leapt from either wing and black smoke filled the air to the West.  The nose, suspended mere inches above the ground, reflected the sun's rays in a stagnant beam flattened out against the tarmac.  All two hundred and thirty three souls aboard, including his own, were frozen. 

Although most were caught open-mouthed in the act of screaming, a few he had seen as he cupped his hands against the glare, were cradling the heads of their children, trying in vain to protect them using only their arms as shields against the inevitable.

In the real moment, he had been in 27 B, on top of the right wing.  He had held Jessica's hand in his right and Melanie's in his left.  They had descended gradually after the first engine caught fire and then whooshed out seconds later, but when fire shot through the fuselage to the other side, well...that had been the end.  A Navy pilot, he knew the sound and what it meant before the rest of the plane.  With both engines gone, they were going down and fast.

The pilot had come on then, starting "Ladies and...oh...".  He cut off and came back on quickly, shouting "BRACE BRACE BRACE!!"  Travis's knew they were about five thousand feet up.  Maybe enough time to flatten out and try for a belly landing, but probably not.  It was then that he had grabbed his wife's shaking hand and his daughter's small one.  Then he had bent his head in prayer, not to the One but to the Other.  And he had made the deal that brought him back here today.

The man that stood next to him now had not aged in a half century.  Travis had lost most of his thick black hair and what was leftover was cottony.  He was soft in the gut and walked hunched over, most days with a cane.  Fifty years ago he'd had a flat stomach and broad, strong shoulders. 

This man though, he was still just as Travis remembered.  Tall and lean, with fair hair that fell away from his high hairline and past his shoulders.  His face was handsome, but not remarkable.  His eyes were yellow, his only unusual feature.  Yellow like old newspaper and tea-stained cloth.  Travis had never seen the man smile before, but he did so now and it was charming, winsome. 

The Other dropped a wink, "Travis, did you miss me?"

Travis had sudden strong desire, just on the tip of his tongue actually to say "Yes, my Lord", but he won the private battle and instead, said "Why would I have missed you?  You were a useful tool and I have enjoyed my life.  At this point, you've earned my soul.  Let's get on with the hellfire and brimstone.  I'm tired."

The Other laughed.  A languid and hearty chuckle.  "Yes of course..of course. We will have plenty of "hellfire and brimstone" to come.  But there is also the matter of payment."  He held his hand out in front of him then.  Glancing at his palm, Travis noticed there were no lines at all.  Just a flat waxy cover, like the hand of a mannequin. 

When Travis blinked and frowned, but said nothing, the Other seemed to think for a moment, then reached up quickly to the nose of the plane and with the tip of his finger spun it.  The entire jet turned as if on an axis in midair, the flames and the smoke spinning with it, enveloping it.  It was amazing to watch and Travis quickly forgot where he was, who he was and more importantly, who he was with. 

The sun blinking off and on as the airliner spun faster than a top throwing huge whipping shadows across the hot tarmac.  Travis watched for at least a minute he thought, maybe two, but the airliner never slowed its rotation and eventually, Travis lost interest and looked back at the man.

The Other was crouched on the ground just off the tarmac, hands hanging off of each knee in a frog-like position.  He was using a stick to draw lazy circles in the dirt and when Travis eventually tore his gaze away, he motioned for Travis to join him.

"You see," the man began "We are both here and not here. You are in that plane," he pointed toward the still-spinning metal and fire top behind them "and you are with me now.  You have lived the last fifty years of your life because that is what I allowed you to have."  The man was getting louder now.  He wasn't shouting, it just seemed as if the volume had been turned up.  Travis was hearing him internally somehow and it hurt at his chest and the back of his eyes.

"You prayed to me to save your life and I did that.  You did not ask me to save the lives of your wife or your child or of the other people on the plane for that matter, you selfish bastard."  On the word "selfish", Travis noticed the man's tongue had darted out of his mouth quickly and it was much much too long.  Sickeningly long.  And forked.  That too.

When Travis failed to respond, the Other went on, "You have not yet paid me what I am due."  Travis, a bit wooly in his advanced age, just wasn't catching on and frankly he was sick of the whole thing.  He didn't want to think about what he had done.  It was so long ago.  "Yes, yes.  I'm here to give you my soul.  Let's do this."  He made a "wrap it up" motion with his finger.

The Other sighed and dropped the stick.  Then he stood up and dusted off the knees of his jeans and pointed at Travis.  "I'm not here simply to collect your soul Travis.  It's a shriveled up old thing and it wasn't particularly good to begin with.  Not exactly worth all this time I'm spending."  He shrugged expansively at the impending crash.  "No, I'm here to collect all of the souls that you left behind.  It was fifty years ago, but it's also just happening now.  Time is fluid."  At that, he held his finger in the air and the plane stopped, slowly coming to rest right side up still inches above the crash site. 

"But wait, they are dead and buried fifty years ago!!  And they aren't going to Hell, my wife, my chi..."

The Devil cut him off, "Travis, they weren't your family, not really.  You abandoned them when you could have saved them.  You never asked me to save them and I could have.  I would have!  You were a selfish prick then and you still are.  So, they are mine now, just like you are.  And so are all of the other souls on that plane.  Like I said, time is fluid.  They may have been buried fifty years ago, but their souls are still trapped on that plane right now.  And you are going to help me collect them.  Oh, it's a dirty, nasty process too...."  The Other smiled at that.  This grin was oily, hot.

Travis, who had been shaking his head vigorously throughout, said, "But NO! That wasn't our deal!"

The Devil gave that same slow, good-natured laugh.  "Oh, but haven't you heard, Travis?  I'm a liar."

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We all know that sometimes the Devil will make a deal in exchange for a soul, but what happens when he comes to collect? Imagine a person who has sold his/her soul to the Devil. How does he come for them? Does he take them directly to Hell? How does he get them wherever they're going and what happens when they get there? Write a story exploring what happens after a deal with the Devil comes to an end. Base it on traditional folklore, or make up your own totally new ideas!
Written by Helenalyn in portal Horror & Thriller
Giving the Other his Due
He stood with the Other in the bent light of time halted.  Flames leapt from either wing and black smoke filled the air to the West.  The nose, suspended mere inches above the ground, reflected the sun's rays in a stagnant beam flattened out against the tarmac.  All two hundred and thirty three souls aboard, including his own, were frozen. 

Although most were caught open-mouthed in the act of screaming, a few he had seen as he cupped his hands against the glare, were cradling the heads of their children, trying in vain to protect them using only their arms as shields against the inevitable.

In the real moment, he had been in 27 B, on top of the right wing.  He had held Jessica's hand in his right and Melanie's in his left.  They had descended gradually after the first engine caught fire and then whooshed out seconds later, but when fire shot through the fuselage to the other side, well...that had been the end.  A Navy pilot, he knew the sound and what it meant before the rest of the plane.  With both engines gone, they were going down and fast.

The pilot had come on then, starting "Ladies and...oh...".  He cut off and came back on quickly, shouting "BRACE BRACE BRACE!!"  Travis's knew they were about five thousand feet up.  Maybe enough time to flatten out and try for a belly landing, but probably not.  It was then that he had grabbed his wife's shaking hand and his daughter's small one.  Then he had bent his head in prayer, not to the One but to the Other.  And he had made the deal that brought him back here today.

The man that stood next to him now had not aged in a half century.  Travis had lost most of his thick black hair and what was leftover was cottony.  He was soft in the gut and walked hunched over, most days with a cane.  Fifty years ago he'd had a flat stomach and broad, strong shoulders. 

This man though, he was still just as Travis remembered.  Tall and lean, with fair hair that fell away from his high hairline and past his shoulders.  His face was handsome, but not remarkable.  His eyes were yellow, his only unusual feature.  Yellow like old newspaper and tea-stained cloth.  Travis had never seen the man smile before, but he did so now and it was charming, winsome. 

The Other dropped a wink, "Travis, did you miss me?"

Travis had sudden strong desire, just on the tip of his tongue actually to say "Yes, my Lord", but he won the private battle and instead, said "Why would I have missed you?  You were a useful tool and I have enjoyed my life.  At this point, you've earned my soul.  Let's get on with the hellfire and brimstone.  I'm tired."

The Other laughed.  A languid and hearty chuckle.  "Yes of course..of course. We will have plenty of "hellfire and brimstone" to come.  But there is also the matter of payment."  He held his hand out in front of him then.  Glancing at his palm, Travis noticed there were no lines at all.  Just a flat waxy cover, like the hand of a mannequin. 

When Travis blinked and frowned, but said nothing, the Other seemed to think for a moment, then reached up quickly to the nose of the plane and with the tip of his finger spun it.  The entire jet turned as if on an axis in midair, the flames and the smoke spinning with it, enveloping it.  It was amazing to watch and Travis quickly forgot where he was, who he was and more importantly, who he was with. 

The sun blinking off and on as the airliner spun faster than a top throwing huge whipping shadows across the hot tarmac.  Travis watched for at least a minute he thought, maybe two, but the airliner never slowed its rotation and eventually, Travis lost interest and looked back at the man.

The Other was crouched on the ground just off the tarmac, hands hanging off of each knee in a frog-like position.  He was using a stick to draw lazy circles in the dirt and when Travis eventually tore his gaze away, he motioned for Travis to join him.

"You see," the man began "We are both here and not here. You are in that plane," he pointed toward the still-spinning metal and fire top behind them "and you are with me now.  You have lived the last fifty years of your life because that is what I allowed you to have."  The man was getting louder now.  He wasn't shouting, it just seemed as if the volume had been turned up.  Travis was hearing him internally somehow and it hurt at his chest and the back of his eyes.

"You prayed to me to save your life and I did that.  You did not ask me to save the lives of your wife or your child or of the other people on the plane for that matter, you selfish bastard."  On the word "selfish", Travis noticed the man's tongue had darted out of his mouth quickly and it was much much too long.  Sickeningly long.  And forked.  That too.

When Travis failed to respond, the Other went on, "You have not yet paid me what I am due."  Travis, a bit wooly in his advanced age, just wasn't catching on and frankly he was sick of the whole thing.  He didn't want to think about what he had done.  It was so long ago.  "Yes, yes.  I'm here to give you my soul.  Let's do this."  He made a "wrap it up" motion with his finger.

The Other sighed and dropped the stick.  Then he stood up and dusted off the knees of his jeans and pointed at Travis.  "I'm not here simply to collect your soul Travis.  It's a shriveled up old thing and it wasn't particularly good to begin with.  Not exactly worth all this time I'm spending."  He shrugged expansively at the impending crash.  "No, I'm here to collect all of the souls that you left behind.  It was fifty years ago, but it's also just happening now.  Time is fluid."  At that, he held his finger in the air and the plane stopped, slowly coming to rest right side up still inches above the crash site. 

"But wait, they are dead and buried fifty years ago!!  And they aren't going to Hell, my wife, my chi..."

The Devil cut him off, "Travis, they weren't your family, not really.  You abandoned them when you could have saved them.  You never asked me to save them and I could have.  I would have!  You were a selfish prick then and you still are.  So, they are mine now, just like you are.  And so are all of the other souls on that plane.  Like I said, time is fluid.  They may have been buried fifty years ago, but their souls are still trapped on that plane right now.  And you are going to help me collect them.  Oh, it's a dirty, nasty process too...."  The Other smiled at that.  This grin was oily, hot.

Travis, who had been shaking his head vigorously throughout, said, "But NO! That wasn't our deal!"

The Devil gave that same slow, good-natured laugh.  "Oh, but haven't you heard, Travis?  I'm a liar."
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Write a piece of poetry or prose about losing your virginity. Winner will be judged not only on likes and comments, but on fire, form, and edge. The writer that kicks me in the teeth the hardest gets $200.
Written by OnyxCity

Pressure, Not Just Once But Again and Again

Losing her virginity was about more than just sex. It was about pressure. Pressure to rid herself of a burden, a distorted moral failing, that branded her a naïf, a misfit, a pariah among the girls who, even in those tender teenage years, were liberated females of a modern age, comfortable in their ripe maturity and schooled in the ways of the world.

When her time came, she thanked God she was in a bed and not in the backseat of his parents’ car on the side of a semi-deserted stretch of road, or wedged against the filthy inside of a bathroom stall on teen night in some grungy nightclub. And, even years later, when she looked back on that night with a mixture of sentimentality and disgust, she had to admit that he was a nice boy, and she was there because she wanted the first time to be with him. But, as she delved deeper into the memory, her face would darken and her nose would twitch ever so slightly as though she caught a whiff of rotten fruit. Because even though she had done it because it was what she wanted at the time, there was always that pressure. Pressure to be a woman, a woman who could give in to sexual pleasure and who could give it in return. But, maybe most of all, that pressure to lose the twisted mark of Cain that obstructed her view of Adulthood, Population: Everyone But You, Honey.

All this and more mingled with the pressure coming from within her as she and that nice boy, in a frenzy of awkward teenage passion, clumsily peeled off just enough clothing to do the it of which everyone spoke. She could feel that pressure pulsing inside her, something in her heartbeat that changed when he looked at her. This, coupled with another pressure, lower in her body, that cried out for a release that she wanted to think could only be granted by his touch. Except there was no release. There was only more pressure, the heavy weight of his body on top of her, the hotness of his ragged breath on her neck, the pushing, tugging, tearing of him inside her, pressing on her innermost soul. And even as she closed her eyes and begged herself to feel pleasure, to be satisfied, to reach that height of sensation that was supposed to be the goal of the whole endeavor, the nagging voice in the back of her mind would not allow her to experience anything more than that searing pressure: Does it feel good yet? How about now? What about him? What are you doing for him, sweetheart…?

Afterward, she was relieved, and the disgust welled up within her like an overflow of muddy water in a backed up storm drain. Because she was not relieved that she had done what she wanted, not even that she had lost that pesky purity, that terrible taint of innocence that marked her as a social outcast among her giggling girlfriends, most of whom were, in any case, probably lying about having “gone all the way.” She was relieved because he had reached that peak that remained stubbornly out of her reach, and she could content herself with the knowledge that she had served at least one womanly purpose well enough, even if only by the not particularly lofty standards of that adolescent age.

She could live with the misplaced relief, and even with the self-loathing that it inspired, but what she was completely unprepared for was the new pressure that now rested like a lead weight on her soul. She had done it and her virginity was no longer a cross to bear as she journeyed ever forward into adulthood. But now she had changed, she was no longer an innocent but was, instead, experienced. She must be not just sexy, but sexual, passionate, seductive. She must want sex, seek it, revel in it, and she must know how to do it right.

As she slowly untangled her clothes from the mess of salty, sweaty bedsheets, she chose not to notice how the nice boy avoided looking her in the eye. She turned her face away as she pulled on her rumpled jeans, casting her mind’s eye forward to the next time they would meet like this, and the next, and the next, already working on the script that would guide her through those encounters, the desperate hope that he would somehow magically follow the part she had written for him in her head already threatening to suffocate her in a haze of uncertainty.

So, her first time was not the stuff of the sensual whispered dalliances she had so often seen in movies, or in the dime store romances she hid under her mattress to read in secret in the middle of the night. But, as a release from the pressure, it served, and it could not compare to the bitter disappointment she later felt upon learning a lesson that was not in any of the sexy books or movies that were her only teachers in matters of love. She had lost her virginity, yes, in the only way that was ever spoken of by anyone she had ever known, the way that necessitated the acceptance of someone inside her, to experience that sensation, and to allow another to experience her body in that most intimate of ways. And what was that act, really, except a first? A first loss of the innocence that can only exist before a person gives up a part of their very being to another. But what of all the other firsts she would later come to experience, the ones that stripped her, little by little, of another piece of innocence, a piece she was not even aware she possessed until it was ripped so savagely away?

What of the first time the next nice boy pushed her head down and held it down, oblivious to the strangled gagging squeezing its way out of her throat, not letting go until she pummeled his chest with her fists, that completely unconcerned look with which she would become so familiar staring with such gratification into her watery eyes? What of the first time the nice boy after that pinned her down, holding her wrists together over her head, pressing not just into her, but onto her, unwilling to be aware of her struggle to draw in the shallowest breath under a body easily twice her size, blind to the minute bursting of blood vessels under the crushing pressure of his fingers that would become the throbbing, purple signs of their union? What of the first time with yet another nice boy who choked her, suddenly and without warning, in the middle of an otherwise banal occasion, wrapping his hands around her tender throat and squeezing, choosing to ignore the way her eyes widened in fear and her fingers clawed desperately at his, the throbbing in her head reaching an almost intolerable level before he finally, and equally abruptly, let go? And what of the first time after that, with the next nice boy who whispered sweet nothings in her ear, who cajoled her with gentle coaxing that turned to wheedling and, ultimately, to more pushing, pushing to do something she swore she would never do and, when words failed, pushed with actual pressure, on her arms, back, legs, until the pressure became a burning ache deep in a part of her she did not know could feel such pain?

Those were the times no one warned her about, the ones she told herself must happen to everyone, but that she dreaded deep down had only ever happened to her. And those were the firsts that left the deepest impressions on her psyche, and that she thought of as the real losses of her so-called virginity. Because the first nice boy at least had the decency to stay a nice boy, allowing her to preserve the memory of that first of first times in something of a treasured state, a remembrance of a time when innocence lost did not equate with humanity taken away.

She would never speak of those other times aloud, of the virginities lost in the playing out of so many of the unwelcome and uninvited fantasies of another. And, in the end, the burden of carrying those secrets would become the strongest, most unrelenting pressure of them all.

19
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Write a piece of poetry or prose about losing your virginity. Winner will be judged not only on likes and comments, but on fire, form, and edge. The writer that kicks me in the teeth the hardest gets $200.
Written by OnyxCity
Pressure, Not Just Once But Again and Again
Losing her virginity was about more than just sex. It was about pressure. Pressure to rid herself of a burden, a distorted moral failing, that branded her a naïf, a misfit, a pariah among the girls who, even in those tender teenage years, were liberated females of a modern age, comfortable in their ripe maturity and schooled in the ways of the world.

When her time came, she thanked God she was in a bed and not in the backseat of his parents’ car on the side of a semi-deserted stretch of road, or wedged against the filthy inside of a bathroom stall on teen night in some grungy nightclub. And, even years later, when she looked back on that night with a mixture of sentimentality and disgust, she had to admit that he was a nice boy, and she was there because she wanted the first time to be with him. But, as she delved deeper into the memory, her face would darken and her nose would twitch ever so slightly as though she caught a whiff of rotten fruit. Because even though she had done it because it was what she wanted at the time, there was always that pressure. Pressure to be a woman, a woman who could give in to sexual pleasure and who could give it in return. But, maybe most of all, that pressure to lose the twisted mark of Cain that obstructed her view of Adulthood, Population: Everyone But You, Honey.

All this and more mingled with the pressure coming from within her as she and that nice boy, in a frenzy of awkward teenage passion, clumsily peeled off just enough clothing to do the it of which everyone spoke. She could feel that pressure pulsing inside her, something in her heartbeat that changed when he looked at her. This, coupled with another pressure, lower in her body, that cried out for a release that she wanted to think could only be granted by his touch. Except there was no release. There was only more pressure, the heavy weight of his body on top of her, the hotness of his ragged breath on her neck, the pushing, tugging, tearing of him inside her, pressing on her innermost soul. And even as she closed her eyes and begged herself to feel pleasure, to be satisfied, to reach that height of sensation that was supposed to be the goal of the whole endeavor, the nagging voice in the back of her mind would not allow her to experience anything more than that searing pressure: Does it feel good yet? How about now? What about him? What are you doing for him, sweetheart…?

Afterward, she was relieved, and the disgust welled up within her like an overflow of muddy water in a backed up storm drain. Because she was not relieved that she had done what she wanted, not even that she had lost that pesky purity, that terrible taint of innocence that marked her as a social outcast among her giggling girlfriends, most of whom were, in any case, probably lying about having “gone all the way.” She was relieved because he had reached that peak that remained stubbornly out of her reach, and she could content herself with the knowledge that she had served at least one womanly purpose well enough, even if only by the not particularly lofty standards of that adolescent age.

She could live with the misplaced relief, and even with the self-loathing that it inspired, but what she was completely unprepared for was the new pressure that now rested like a lead weight on her soul. She had done it and her virginity was no longer a cross to bear as she journeyed ever forward into adulthood. But now she had changed, she was no longer an innocent but was, instead, experienced. She must be not just sexy, but sexual, passionate, seductive. She must want sex, seek it, revel in it, and she must know how to do it right.

As she slowly untangled her clothes from the mess of salty, sweaty bedsheets, she chose not to notice how the nice boy avoided looking her in the eye. She turned her face away as she pulled on her rumpled jeans, casting her mind’s eye forward to the next time they would meet like this, and the next, and the next, already working on the script that would guide her through those encounters, the desperate hope that he would somehow magically follow the part she had written for him in her head already threatening to suffocate her in a haze of uncertainty.

So, her first time was not the stuff of the sensual whispered dalliances she had so often seen in movies, or in the dime store romances she hid under her mattress to read in secret in the middle of the night. But, as a release from the pressure, it served, and it could not compare to the bitter disappointment she later felt upon learning a lesson that was not in any of the sexy books or movies that were her only teachers in matters of love. She had lost her virginity, yes, in the only way that was ever spoken of by anyone she had ever known, the way that necessitated the acceptance of someone inside her, to experience that sensation, and to allow another to experience her body in that most intimate of ways. And what was that act, really, except a first? A first loss of the innocence that can only exist before a person gives up a part of their very being to another. But what of all the other firsts she would later come to experience, the ones that stripped her, little by little, of another piece of innocence, a piece she was not even aware she possessed until it was ripped so savagely away?

What of the first time the next nice boy pushed her head down and held it down, oblivious to the strangled gagging squeezing its way out of her throat, not letting go until she pummeled his chest with her fists, that completely unconcerned look with which she would become so familiar staring with such gratification into her watery eyes? What of the first time the nice boy after that pinned her down, holding her wrists together over her head, pressing not just into her, but onto her, unwilling to be aware of her struggle to draw in the shallowest breath under a body easily twice her size, blind to the minute bursting of blood vessels under the crushing pressure of his fingers that would become the throbbing, purple signs of their union? What of the first time with yet another nice boy who choked her, suddenly and without warning, in the middle of an otherwise banal occasion, wrapping his hands around her tender throat and squeezing, choosing to ignore the way her eyes widened in fear and her fingers clawed desperately at his, the throbbing in her head reaching an almost intolerable level before he finally, and equally abruptly, let go? And what of the first time after that, with the next nice boy who whispered sweet nothings in her ear, who cajoled her with gentle coaxing that turned to wheedling and, ultimately, to more pushing, pushing to do something she swore she would never do and, when words failed, pushed with actual pressure, on her arms, back, legs, until the pressure became a burning ache deep in a part of her she did not know could feel such pain?

Those were the times no one warned her about, the ones she told herself must happen to everyone, but that she dreaded deep down had only ever happened to her. And those were the firsts that left the deepest impressions on her psyche, and that she thought of as the real losses of her so-called virginity. Because the first nice boy at least had the decency to stay a nice boy, allowing her to preserve the memory of that first of first times in something of a treasured state, a remembrance of a time when innocence lost did not equate with humanity taken away.

She would never speak of those other times aloud, of the virginities lost in the playing out of so many of the unwelcome and uninvited fantasies of another. And, in the end, the burden of carrying those secrets would become the strongest, most unrelenting pressure of them all.
#life  #sex 
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Written by iaj4

Bleak

Jello! 

Mountain ranges and mountain crust are sensational things. The Himalayas, the Pamirs and the rugged peaks that go and go beyond Ulaanbaatar. What this sizzle of a single seed does is nothing but rally what man could pave, and through the paved palette colours are seeked and found. This dibble dabble pupil looks around, fondles around and green parrots with yellow beaks are found, hawks chiseled in existence observe this sizzle of a single seed in his seemingly miraculous bid to seek.Here,in this maze set by divinity, seeked by mortality, answers exist. To close your eyes and look up at the sky and see. Here the sky replies, not that it doesn't reply in London, Havana or Lahore, it does; but here the Vodafone towers don't interrupt the maze. The down-link is as clear as the up-link.

6 ft of meat, black hair, kinda sexy eyes and all the gadgets given by God and bought in markets standing in abundance. What is it in these rugged, rifty rafty triangles of God that isn't undone by the skylines of modern civilization? There man questions, here God answers. In the pippled search of modernity, man becomes suave.Nightmares, messages and hallucinations are given worldly names. The realisation that a bird returns to her nest with little worms in her mouth and a tabby eats better meat than that cat-food eating coon is dismissed as unnecessary realisation, but we think. We think, but the sphere of ATM to wallet is too tedious to entertain the monotones of the message. It is the only backdrop, the only reality. The mountains enlarge the backdrop. Zach, this is you, beyond the labels and the lubricated condoms of dystopian urgency, little freak, this is you.

To drive, drive and drive. Drive till nothing ceases, drive to new beginnings and colours that were unseen. On little roads where the river gushes and kisses the surface, proud to its life in comparison to the stone triangles watching over since the tale of Sheba. What are you seeking, Zach? What, fuckin' tell me, what are you seeking? Why are you going forward, forward and forward? Why aren't you stopping? This sizzle of a single seed shall pluster to a million different wall, it shall sizzle till they put it in a wooden box and bury it like they buried Hitler and like they buried Teresa. Let it sizzle. Ashes to the Red Sea.

Uma Thurman and the question of creation. The question and the answer that all are created equal, the dog with his jawline engraved in garbage and the snake leather draping her feet are all by virtue of the wand, by virtue of the divine order equal. Men demarcate, boundaries and red-lines are drawn between us, and creation is considered as trinkets of different drawers. We’re all the same.His jawline as dear as mine, mine as dear as his. And in the solid expanse of God, in the mountains that go on and on beyond the kingdom of acceleration, it is realized that all are equal, but the hawk has reached the summit, and it is only the summit that should inspire creation. The glorification of the summit is not to undermine the journey, for without a journey there is no summit. This sizzle of a single seed has reached many a summit, and so shall all, so shall one, so shall you, so shall I.

Dear Zach:

The above written rubbish is a piece of your dad's diary. That utopian cunt.He was a dreamer. He was fond of the mountains where he tried, albeit tried to achieve a state of nirvana, but his life was a mystery. Too much of a riddle between whores and divinity. For years and years you asked me about your father, you asked me about how did I meet him. I was a whore exhibiting at Sunset Boulevard. He picked me once, fucked me hard and in came you, Zach. He was a frequent visitor so he knew you but I couldn't mend my ways for him and he couldn't mend his for mine. And then he gave me this cheque.30,000 $'s.I left America and came to London to seek a better life for you and I, here I wasn't a whore and neither were you a bastard.I was Mrs. Jennifer Williams and you're Zach Williams, but the chance is that you'll never get to read this letter or this page of your dad's diary which I stole whilst I met him for the first time in years, he had traced me. You remember that guy who was over for dinner and gifted you a copy of 'Age of Kings’, that guy is your dad. He’s physically alive and you can trace him like he traced us to London, and I won't be giving you his address as you're a seeker like your dad. In this great city which took you and I both in her womb like nothing else, my past is irrelevant. Here nobody but this piece of paper knows about it, not even you. I’ll always be a class 3 teacher here. And within a few months I'll die as one. Forgive me or not, it’s upto you. But I changed because of you and for you and you'll never in your life regret my soul or my body. I had to write all of this; it was a necessity for me though I pray you never get to read this. A necessity so that if you ever fall in the rut of social dilemma, you remember the tale of a woman who flew all over the Atlantic so that you, unlike her are able to differentiate between right and wrong, social dilemma or whatever you kids call it these days.

And don't ever blame him. Even the moon is scarred.

Momma

London

2015

9
5
12
92 reads
Written by iaj4
Bleak
Jello! 

Mountain ranges and mountain crust are sensational things. The Himalayas, the Pamirs and the rugged peaks that go and go beyond Ulaanbaatar. What this sizzle of a single seed does is nothing but rally what man could pave, and through the paved palette colours are seeked and found. This dibble dabble pupil looks around, fondles around and green parrots with yellow beaks are found, hawks chiseled in existence observe this sizzle of a single seed in his seemingly miraculous bid to seek.Here,in this maze set by divinity, seeked by mortality, answers exist. To close your eyes and look up at the sky and see. Here the sky replies, not that it doesn't reply in London, Havana or Lahore, it does; but here the Vodafone towers don't interrupt the maze. The down-link is as clear as the up-link.

6 ft of meat, black hair, kinda sexy eyes and all the gadgets given by God and bought in markets standing in abundance. What is it in these rugged, rifty rafty triangles of God that isn't undone by the skylines of modern civilization? There man questions, here God answers. In the pippled search of modernity, man becomes suave.Nightmares, messages and hallucinations are given worldly names. The realisation that a bird returns to her nest with little worms in her mouth and a tabby eats better meat than that cat-food eating coon is dismissed as unnecessary realisation, but we think. We think, but the sphere of ATM to wallet is too tedious to entertain the monotones of the message. It is the only backdrop, the only reality. The mountains enlarge the backdrop. Zach, this is you, beyond the labels and the lubricated condoms of dystopian urgency, little freak, this is you.

To drive, drive and drive. Drive till nothing ceases, drive to new beginnings and colours that were unseen. On little roads where the river gushes and kisses the surface, proud to its life in comparison to the stone triangles watching over since the tale of Sheba. What are you seeking, Zach? What, fuckin' tell me, what are you seeking? Why are you going forward, forward and forward? Why aren't you stopping? This sizzle of a single seed shall pluster to a million different wall, it shall sizzle till they put it in a wooden box and bury it like they buried Hitler and like they buried Teresa. Let it sizzle. Ashes to the Red Sea.

Uma Thurman and the question of creation. The question and the answer that all are created equal, the dog with his jawline engraved in garbage and the snake leather draping her feet are all by virtue of the wand, by virtue of the divine order equal. Men demarcate, boundaries and red-lines are drawn between us, and creation is considered as trinkets of different drawers. We’re all the same.His jawline as dear as mine, mine as dear as his. And in the solid expanse of God, in the mountains that go on and on beyond the kingdom of acceleration, it is realized that all are equal, but the hawk has reached the summit, and it is only the summit that should inspire creation. The glorification of the summit is not to undermine the journey, for without a journey there is no summit. This sizzle of a single seed has reached many a summit, and so shall all, so shall one, so shall you, so shall I.

Dear Zach:

The above written rubbish is a piece of your dad's diary. That utopian cunt.He was a dreamer. He was fond of the mountains where he tried, albeit tried to achieve a state of nirvana, but his life was a mystery. Too much of a riddle between whores and divinity. For years and years you asked me about your father, you asked me about how did I meet him. I was a whore exhibiting at Sunset Boulevard. He picked me once, fucked me hard and in came you, Zach. He was a frequent visitor so he knew you but I couldn't mend my ways for him and he couldn't mend his for mine. And then he gave me this cheque.30,000 $'s.I left America and came to London to seek a better life for you and I, here I wasn't a whore and neither were you a bastard.I was Mrs. Jennifer Williams and you're Zach Williams, but the chance is that you'll never get to read this letter or this page of your dad's diary which I stole whilst I met him for the first time in years, he had traced me. You remember that guy who was over for dinner and gifted you a copy of 'Age of Kings’, that guy is your dad. He’s physically alive and you can trace him like he traced us to London, and I won't be giving you his address as you're a seeker like your dad. In this great city which took you and I both in her womb like nothing else, my past is irrelevant. Here nobody but this piece of paper knows about it, not even you. I’ll always be a class 3 teacher here. And within a few months I'll die as one. Forgive me or not, it’s upto you. But I changed because of you and for you and you'll never in your life regret my soul or my body. I had to write all of this; it was a necessity for me though I pray you never get to read this. A necessity so that if you ever fall in the rut of social dilemma, you remember the tale of a woman who flew all over the Atlantic so that you, unlike her are able to differentiate between right and wrong, social dilemma or whatever you kids call it these days.

And don't ever blame him. Even the moon is scarred.

Momma
London
2015
#occult  #zach 
9
5
12
92 reads
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