jwelker76
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Written by jwelker76

The Shortstop

I was fast

and quick to the ball.

I had an arm like a gun,

and I looked good in

a uniform and cap,

my arms and neck and face

tanned, my hair sun-yellowed.

I liked the smell of cut grass

and sweat, the dirt, and

the arcing throw.

I was never much of a hitter

but once, on the Fourth of July

when I was thirteen,

I hit a home run and my

teammates clapped me on the

shoulders and ass and

we lost anyway, but

here I am, much older now,

still remembering it,

still happy.

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Written by jwelker76
The Shortstop
I was fast
and quick to the ball.
I had an arm like a gun,
and I looked good in
a uniform and cap,
my arms and neck and face
tanned, my hair sun-yellowed.
I liked the smell of cut grass
and sweat, the dirt, and
the arcing throw.
I was never much of a hitter
but once, on the Fourth of July
when I was thirteen,
I hit a home run and my
teammates clapped me on the
shoulders and ass and
we lost anyway, but
here I am, much older now,
still remembering it,
still happy.
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Tell a story through a list: 1) It can be broken by numbers or bullet points or commas or something else. 2) It can be a collection or sequence or whatever you want. 3) Winner gets 50 coins.
Written by jwelker76

Day One

1. 6:30 am. Wake up. Take a shower. Shave, brush teeth. Do fifty push-ups to get your biceps pumped. Get dressed, nothing fancy, just dress like you normally dress, they said. Check yourself in the mirror, three four five times. Wonder what the fuck you are doing. Check your arms. 

2. 7:00 am. Sit on the couch, kill time. Watch t.v. but don't pay attention. Skip breakfast, just to be on the safe side. Try to read a magazine, but don't pay attention. 

3. 7:15 am. Decide maybe you should eat some yogurt or something. Don't finish the bowl. Brush teeth again. Check hair. Check arms. Do another fifty push-ups.

4. 7:30 am. Lock the front door, walk to the car. Drive to a warehouse in the Valley. Arrive early and sit in the car for twenty minutes, staring at your reflection in the rear view mirror, at the entrance to the warehouse. Take a drink from the bottle of whiskey in the glove compartment. Check your wallet. Check your arms. Take off your sunglasses and look yourself in the eye in the mirror. Tell yourself you are handsome, you are going to do this. Roll up your sleeves so your biceps show.

5. 8:05 am. Walk into the warehouse and ask for the office. Smile at the receptionist and don't look down her shirt. Fill out the most rudimentary application you have ever seen: your real name, the name you want to be known by, your age, your address. Surrender your ID to be copied and returned to you. Have a seat. Wait.

6. 8:40 am. Meet the Boss. Be friendly. Shake hands, smile, maintain eye contact. Stand up straight. Look confident. Look baller. Look like you have done this before.

7. 9:15 am. Go the bathroom. Drink water from the tap. Check yourself in the mirror. Check your arms.

8. 9:20 am. Meet your Co-worker. You are not famous, you are a dumb kid. She is not famous but she has done this before. Be friendly, don't look down her shirt either. Shake hands, say it is good to be working with you. Smile. Forget you are eighteen.

9. 9:30 am-1:00 pm. Decline the pills. Do the work. Fuck the girls. Ignore the men.

10. 1:10 pm-2:30 pm. Lunch. Get a Snickers bar from a vending machine. Sit in the car and eat it. Finish the whiskey.

11. 2:40 pm-6:45 pm. Decline the pills. Do the work. Fuck the girls. Ignore the men.

12. 7:00 pm. Take a shower. Say thanks to everyone who says, Great work today, kid or some variation, Smile sheepishly, good-naturedly when the men call you donkey. Shrug. Make some bland comment about luck.

13. 7:15 pm. Say goodnight to the Boss, to the Co-worker, Drive to the liquor store near your apartment. Buy three bottles of whiskey with the cash you earned today. Buy heroin from the kid in the next apartment.

14. 8:00 pm. Shoot up. Go to sleep. 

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Tell a story through a list: 1) It can be broken by numbers or bullet points or commas or something else. 2) It can be a collection or sequence or whatever you want. 3) Winner gets 50 coins.
Written by jwelker76
Day One
1. 6:30 am. Wake up. Take a shower. Shave, brush teeth. Do fifty push-ups to get your biceps pumped. Get dressed, nothing fancy, just dress like you normally dress, they said. Check yourself in the mirror, three four five times. Wonder what the fuck you are doing. Check your arms. 
2. 7:00 am. Sit on the couch, kill time. Watch t.v. but don't pay attention. Skip breakfast, just to be on the safe side. Try to read a magazine, but don't pay attention. 
3. 7:15 am. Decide maybe you should eat some yogurt or something. Don't finish the bowl. Brush teeth again. Check hair. Check arms. Do another fifty push-ups.
4. 7:30 am. Lock the front door, walk to the car. Drive to a warehouse in the Valley. Arrive early and sit in the car for twenty minutes, staring at your reflection in the rear view mirror, at the entrance to the warehouse. Take a drink from the bottle of whiskey in the glove compartment. Check your wallet. Check your arms. Take off your sunglasses and look yourself in the eye in the mirror. Tell yourself you are handsome, you are going to do this. Roll up your sleeves so your biceps show.
5. 8:05 am. Walk into the warehouse and ask for the office. Smile at the receptionist and don't look down her shirt. Fill out the most rudimentary application you have ever seen: your real name, the name you want to be known by, your age, your address. Surrender your ID to be copied and returned to you. Have a seat. Wait.
6. 8:40 am. Meet the Boss. Be friendly. Shake hands, smile, maintain eye contact. Stand up straight. Look confident. Look baller. Look like you have done this before.
7. 9:15 am. Go the bathroom. Drink water from the tap. Check yourself in the mirror. Check your arms.
8. 9:20 am. Meet your Co-worker. You are not famous, you are a dumb kid. She is not famous but she has done this before. Be friendly, don't look down her shirt either. Shake hands, say it is good to be working with you. Smile. Forget you are eighteen.
9. 9:30 am-1:00 pm. Decline the pills. Do the work. Fuck the girls. Ignore the men.
10. 1:10 pm-2:30 pm. Lunch. Get a Snickers bar from a vending machine. Sit in the car and eat it. Finish the whiskey.
11. 2:40 pm-6:45 pm. Decline the pills. Do the work. Fuck the girls. Ignore the men.
12. 7:00 pm. Take a shower. Say thanks to everyone who says, Great work today, kid or some variation, Smile sheepishly, good-naturedly when the men call you donkey. Shrug. Make some bland comment about luck.
13. 7:15 pm. Say goodnight to the Boss, to the Co-worker, Drive to the liquor store near your apartment. Buy three bottles of whiskey with the cash you earned today. Buy heroin from the kid in the next apartment.
14. 8:00 pm. Shoot up. Go to sleep. 
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Written by jwelker76

The Disaster Man

It was his accent, I suppose, that made the whole thing bearable. That smooth British accent - born in Wimbledon, he had said - was so smooth, so proper it took the edge off everything he told me. The local radio station should hire him, I thought, to read out weather warnings and school closures; the mere sound of his voice would calm people, let them know there was nothing to worry about, this was all normal.

We sat at the marble counter, drinking ginger ale. He had been sober thirteen years, he'd said. I needed a drink, but stayed myself. The television was on in the living room, the sound low; I had been watching when he'd come to the door. Between us was a manila folder, closed. I'd seen what was inside, what he'd come here to show me: photographs. His wife. My husband. I was not, perhaps, as surprised as he was, but matters of degree are irrelevant in these matters.

"We married in Wales," he was saying, his words rich and tonal, like having the BBC on in the background. "We took the boat to Ireland for our honeymoon." I said nothing. I didn't want to elaborate to this man the history of my marriage. I nodded, the ice in my glass clinked.

No children, he said. Catherine - his wife - had had three miscarriages and so they had stopped trying. Involuntarily, my eyes went to picture on the fridge: me, James, our son Matthew at the Wisconsin Dells two summers ago. Hearing him say the word "miscarriage", again I had the auditory fantasy of waking up and turning on the radio to hear his voice, this Robert Huntington, telling me of some awful terrorist attack somewhere, some disaster striking on the other side of the world.

"What happens now?" I finally asked.

"Now?"

"Yes. Are you going to divorce?"

He hung his head and stared into the mica flecks of the counter top. Should I have not said the d-word? Was it too soon?

"How long have you known?" I asked.

He looked up and past me. "The private investigator gave me the photographs this afternoon. I decided I should come and speak with you."

"But you must have suspected?"

"Did you?"

Did I? He'd shown up on my doorstep an hour ago, at seven-thirty on a Friday evening, in a charcoal suit and burgundy tie, a Burberry scarf and a manila folder in his hands. I thought he was running for town council.

"James worked a lot," I answered. "He was always travelling, or late at the office."

He glanced up, smiled, and downed the last of his ginger ale.

Catherine and Robert Huntington. On the doorstep, he'd said we had met, at a holiday party. I didn't remember him, but Catherine's name rang a bell. I let out a long sigh and flipped open the folder. The black and white photographs were lying face down; I turned one over.

James and Catherine, embracing, kissing, in a parking lot.

"This is like something from a movie," I near-laughed. Robert nodded into his glass.

I got up and refilled our glasses.

"What are we going to do now?" he asked as I set his before him. A calm, soft yet strong voice. Tell me about the earthquake in Peru, I wanted to say, about the bombing in Cairo.

For the briefest second, I thought of kissing Robert Huntington, of how it would feel, how it would make him feel.

"Do you still love her?"

"Very much."

"Are you angry with her?"

He looked up at me now, his eyes red-rimmed and watery. He opened his mouth to answer and then shut it again. I stood and went to him, embraced him as he sobbed against me.

Over his shoulder, on the television, I saw footage of a plane crash. I wanted him to turn around, to watch with me, to narrate what we were seeing. To walk me through this unfolding nightmare. 

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Written by jwelker76
The Disaster Man
It was his accent, I suppose, that made the whole thing bearable. That smooth British accent - born in Wimbledon, he had said - was so smooth, so proper it took the edge off everything he told me. The local radio station should hire him, I thought, to read out weather warnings and school closures; the mere sound of his voice would calm people, let them know there was nothing to worry about, this was all normal.

We sat at the marble counter, drinking ginger ale. He had been sober thirteen years, he'd said. I needed a drink, but stayed myself. The television was on in the living room, the sound low; I had been watching when he'd come to the door. Between us was a manila folder, closed. I'd seen what was inside, what he'd come here to show me: photographs. His wife. My husband. I was not, perhaps, as surprised as he was, but matters of degree are irrelevant in these matters.

"We married in Wales," he was saying, his words rich and tonal, like having the BBC on in the background. "We took the boat to Ireland for our honeymoon." I said nothing. I didn't want to elaborate to this man the history of my marriage. I nodded, the ice in my glass clinked.

No children, he said. Catherine - his wife - had had three miscarriages and so they had stopped trying. Involuntarily, my eyes went to picture on the fridge: me, James, our son Matthew at the Wisconsin Dells two summers ago. Hearing him say the word "miscarriage", again I had the auditory fantasy of waking up and turning on the radio to hear his voice, this Robert Huntington, telling me of some awful terrorist attack somewhere, some disaster striking on the other side of the world.

"What happens now?" I finally asked.
"Now?"
"Yes. Are you going to divorce?"

He hung his head and stared into the mica flecks of the counter top. Should I have not said the d-word? Was it too soon?

"How long have you known?" I asked.
He looked up and past me. "The private investigator gave me the photographs this afternoon. I decided I should come and speak with you."

"But you must have suspected?"
"Did you?"
Did I? He'd shown up on my doorstep an hour ago, at seven-thirty on a Friday evening, in a charcoal suit and burgundy tie, a Burberry scarf and a manila folder in his hands. I thought he was running for town council.
"James worked a lot," I answered. "He was always travelling, or late at the office."
He glanced up, smiled, and downed the last of his ginger ale.

Catherine and Robert Huntington. On the doorstep, he'd said we had met, at a holiday party. I didn't remember him, but Catherine's name rang a bell. I let out a long sigh and flipped open the folder. The black and white photographs were lying face down; I turned one over.

James and Catherine, embracing, kissing, in a parking lot.
"This is like something from a movie," I near-laughed. Robert nodded into his glass.
I got up and refilled our glasses.
"What are we going to do now?" he asked as I set his before him. A calm, soft yet strong voice. Tell me about the earthquake in Peru, I wanted to say, about the bombing in Cairo.

For the briefest second, I thought of kissing Robert Huntington, of how it would feel, how it would make him feel.
"Do you still love her?"
"Very much."
"Are you angry with her?"
He looked up at me now, his eyes red-rimmed and watery. He opened his mouth to answer and then shut it again. I stood and went to him, embraced him as he sobbed against me.

Over his shoulder, on the television, I saw footage of a plane crash. I wanted him to turn around, to watch with me, to narrate what we were seeing. To walk me through this unfolding nightmare. 
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Write a set of three haikus that follow an individual falling in love. The three stages are: Falling in love, Being in love, and Falling out of Love. Be creative, bold, and unforgiving. Best of luck! Tag me in your post, I really want to read your ideas.
Written by jwelker76 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Sea of Tranquility

I. The man in the moon

looked down upon you and I,

first kiss under stars.

II. Heavenly kisses -

Brightness in the darkest night -

Lingering, enough.

III. But dawn follows dark,

the blackness between the stars

swallows up the light.

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Write a set of three haikus that follow an individual falling in love. The three stages are: Falling in love, Being in love, and Falling out of Love. Be creative, bold, and unforgiving. Best of luck! Tag me in your post, I really want to read your ideas.
Written by jwelker76 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Sea of Tranquility
I. The man in the moon
looked down upon you and I,
first kiss under stars.



II. Heavenly kisses -
Brightness in the darkest night -
Lingering, enough.



III. But dawn follows dark,
the blackness between the stars
swallows up the light.
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Can you write a story only using dialogue?
Written by jwelker76

Source of the Nile

"I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Do I know you?"

"We've met, once I believe. At the holiday party? Maybe two years ago?"

"Holiday party?"

"For Bertram & West?"

"I'm afraid I'm not..."

"It's not important. Please, may I come inside? It's chilly out here, and I have something I need to tell you."

"No, I don't think..."

"Please. I won't take up much of your time. But, you see, it's rather important. It's about your husband."

"James?"

"Yes. James. And my wife. Catherine."

"...I'm afraid I don't..."

"Please. I don't want to have to do this out here."

"I think you'd better..."

"Listen. Look at these. I had a private investigator follow them. He took these. Just look at them."

"You need to go now."

"Just look, Diane! It's him! It's James. And that - that, her, right there - that's my wife. Catherine."

"...What is this?"

"It's right there, in black and white. You must see?"

"I don't..."

"Please. We need to talk."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Robert Huntington. My wife Catherine is your husband's.... Listen, I know this is a lot to take in at one time. It's a lot. We've met, we met at the holiday party. Don't you remember?"

"Catherine Huntington?"

"My wife. Yes."

"She's James's therapist."

"Yes."

"What's going on. Please tell me what this is all about."

"Please, Diane. Let me come in. We have a lot to talk about."

"This can't be happening..."

"I'm afraid..."

"Oh...oh."

"Yes."

"...Please. Won't you come in."

"Thank you."

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Can you write a story only using dialogue?
Written by jwelker76
Source of the Nile
"I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"Do I know you?"
"We've met, once I believe. At the holiday party? Maybe two years ago?"
"Holiday party?"
"For Bertram & West?"
"I'm afraid I'm not..."
"It's not important. Please, may I come inside? It's chilly out here, and I have something I need to tell you."
"No, I don't think..."
"Please. I won't take up much of your time. But, you see, it's rather important. It's about your husband."
"James?"
"Yes. James. And my wife. Catherine."
"...I'm afraid I don't..."
"Please. I don't want to have to do this out here."
"I think you'd better..."
"Listen. Look at these. I had a private investigator follow them. He took these. Just look at them."
"You need to go now."
"Just look, Diane! It's him! It's James. And that - that, her, right there - that's my wife. Catherine."
"...What is this?"
"It's right there, in black and white. You must see?"
"I don't..."
"Please. We need to talk."
"Who are you?"
"I'm Robert Huntington. My wife Catherine is your husband's.... Listen, I know this is a lot to take in at one time. It's a lot. We've met, we met at the holiday party. Don't you remember?"
"Catherine Huntington?"
"My wife. Yes."
"She's James's therapist."
"Yes."
"What's going on. Please tell me what this is all about."
"Please, Diane. Let me come in. We have a lot to talk about."
"This can't be happening..."
"I'm afraid..."
"Oh...oh."
"Yes."
"...Please. Won't you come in."
"Thank you."
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Written by jwelker76 in portal Haiku

You Came Back

The feel of fingers

that were once there but now gone

still thrill on the skin.

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Written by jwelker76 in portal Haiku
You Came Back
The feel of fingers
that were once there but now gone

still thrill on the skin.
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Written by jwelker76

Distorting Mirror

When I worked for the high-school paper, 

they sent me to Coeur d'Alene, Idaho

to interview members of the Aryan Nation

youth. They met me in a park

beside the lake and they agreed 

to answer my questions. There were

two of them, a boy and a girl, both

my age, seventeen. The girl had buck teeth

and a plain face, unremarkable; 

but the boy was tall and had a 

blond crewcut, a nice tan, bright blue eyes

and wore tight jeans, combat boots

and a fashy-boy haircut. He was and remains 

the handsomest boy I had ever seen. 

We sat at a picnic table and the boy 

asked me if I was Jewish, or knew any

Jewish people, and I admitted that I didn't.

They talked, mostly the girl with the boy

interjecting at various junctures, about 

their lives, their community, their beliefs.

Everything they stood for and worked for

and believed in nauseated me, and I tried

very hard to dislike the boy who looked

 like an angel when he said

things like "race traitor" and "white heritage",

and "Christian nation" and was so friendly

and smiled so wide. But I couldn't,

not completely, and so I left Idaho

sick in my heart and wrote the article

and won an award for it 

and mailed a copy to the boy and the girl

and received a letter back that said

I had been fair and showed them 

in an unbiased light, and when I

got that letter I quit the newspaper

and took a black girl to prom 

partly because I felt guilty but 

mostly because she was beautiful.

I am still ashamed of that article,

still wonder every time I date a blond girl,

still feel a horrific electricity in my nerves

at the sight of a blond boy speaking 

and smiling. Whatever atom 

in me that was not repulsed by him

that day I pray - though I am 

not religious - will detonate in 

my heart and blink out. Even though

it was the messenger, 

not the message, it is no difficulty

for me to see that day beside the lake

as the first step downward

into the tantalizing beauty of evil.

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Written by jwelker76
Distorting Mirror
When I worked for the high-school paper, 
they sent me to Coeur d'Alene, Idaho
to interview members of the Aryan Nation
youth. They met me in a park
beside the lake and they agreed 
to answer my questions. There were
two of them, a boy and a girl, both
my age, seventeen. The girl had buck teeth
and a plain face, unremarkable; 
but the boy was tall and had a 
blond crewcut, a nice tan, bright blue eyes
and wore tight jeans, combat boots
and a fashy-boy haircut. He was and remains 
the handsomest boy I had ever seen. 
We sat at a picnic table and the boy 
asked me if I was Jewish, or knew any
Jewish people, and I admitted that I didn't.
They talked, mostly the girl with the boy
interjecting at various junctures, about 
their lives, their community, their beliefs.
Everything they stood for and worked for
and believed in nauseated me, and I tried
very hard to dislike the boy who looked
 like an angel when he said
things like "race traitor" and "white heritage",
and "Christian nation" and was so friendly
and smiled so wide. But I couldn't,
not completely, and so I left Idaho
sick in my heart and wrote the article
and won an award for it 
and mailed a copy to the boy and the girl
and received a letter back that said
I had been fair and showed them 
in an unbiased light, and when I
got that letter I quit the newspaper
and took a black girl to prom 
partly because I felt guilty but 
mostly because she was beautiful.
I am still ashamed of that article,
still wonder every time I date a blond girl,
still feel a horrific electricity in my nerves
at the sight of a blond boy speaking 
and smiling. Whatever atom 
in me that was not repulsed by him
that day I pray - though I am 
not religious - will detonate in 
my heart and blink out. Even though
it was the messenger, 
not the message, it is no difficulty
for me to see that day beside the lake
as the first step downward
into the tantalizing beauty of evil.
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Tell me a story: About someone who is trying to get the courage to tell someone they can't remember their name.
Written by jwelker76

That One Girl

I woke up to the smell of coffee, and I knew there was someone else in the house. The pillow beside me was crushed and matted with use, the sheets tangled. Oh shit, I thought. I sat up in bed; there was a pile of clothes on the floor either side - mine, on my side, and a stranger's, a female stranger's, on the other. I clamped my eyes shut and dug the heels of my palms into them. What the fuck. Again?

I swung my legs out of bed and opened the drawer of my bedside table. There was still an unopened box of condoms in it. Unopened. Shit, again. I stood and groaned; my head throbbed, my mouth tasted like a garbage dump had puked diarrhea into it. The smell of coffee coming from the kitchen was making my stomach roll over.

Stepping into a pair of sweats, I went into the bathroom and surveyed myself. No black eyes, no split lips. Just an all-American fuck machine. Shit, again. Who was that making coffee? Who's clothes were those? I left the bathroom after a thorough tooth-brushing and bent over the pile of women's clothes. 

The panties were pink, the bra was pink, the jeans were dark blue, the top was peach. There as no purse; she probably took it with her into the kitchen. No overprotective mother had stitched this girl's name into her panties. I had nothing. No recollection of this person. Face the music, I told myself.

Opening the bedroom door, I went down the hall to the kitchen. She stood with her back to me, wearing only an old pair of my boxers she must have found in a drawer. Sure enough, her purse was on the counter; next to it was her phone. She didn't hear me come in, so I stood watching her. She was drinking from a mug, she was tall and slim, nice legs. Olive skinned. Black hair. Who the fuck was this girl?

I cleared my throat and stepped forward; she turned, smiling. "Good morning," she said, chipper as a flight attendant. Drawing a blank. She was pretty, green eyes, small lips, small tits. "Morning," I managed. Her teeth were very straight, very white. She might be my dental hygienist, I thought.

"How you feeling this morning?" she asked.

"Bit of a headache," I answered. She laughed. 

"I'm not surprised. You really put it away last night," she patted my arm. "Not that it affected your performance any. Wow, is all I can say. That's what I texted my friend when I got up, is that tacky or what?"

I granted it was, but didn't elaborate much. I accepted a cup of coffee from her, her fingers sliding along mine as she passed the mug. She glanced up at microwave clock.

"Shit," she barked. "I've got to get going. I'm showing a house this morning."

"You're a real estate agent?" I ventured. She looked at me puzzled and laughed. 

"You really did get shitfaced, didn't you? We talked about real estate for an hour last night."

This was news to me, as I know nothing about real estate, but I am a good faker, especially if there is some ass to be had out of it. But really, I had no memory of this woman, or last night. The idea that I bullshitted about real estate with her, while drunk, for an hour, was utterly bizarre.

She downed her mug, raced back to the bedroom - with her purse and phone - and I heard water running. She emerged ten minutes later in the clothes that had been piled on the floor. 

"That was an amazing night. Just what I needed," she cooed, coming close for a kiss. I gave her one; no memories jogged.

"We should do it again then," I ventured. She was hot, certainly, and I had apparently made a good impression.

She lit up like an all-night pharmacy sign. "Yes! I was hoping you'd say that!" She pulled her phone from her back pocket. 

"What's your number?" I told her.

Then she smiled like she'd just farted in church and gave me a little nervous giggle. 

"Um. What was your name again?" she asked.

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Tell me a story: About someone who is trying to get the courage to tell someone they can't remember their name.
Written by jwelker76
That One Girl
I woke up to the smell of coffee, and I knew there was someone else in the house. The pillow beside me was crushed and matted with use, the sheets tangled. Oh shit, I thought. I sat up in bed; there was a pile of clothes on the floor either side - mine, on my side, and a stranger's, a female stranger's, on the other. I clamped my eyes shut and dug the heels of my palms into them. What the fuck. Again?
I swung my legs out of bed and opened the drawer of my bedside table. There was still an unopened box of condoms in it. Unopened. Shit, again. I stood and groaned; my head throbbed, my mouth tasted like a garbage dump had puked diarrhea into it. The smell of coffee coming from the kitchen was making my stomach roll over.
Stepping into a pair of sweats, I went into the bathroom and surveyed myself. No black eyes, no split lips. Just an all-American fuck machine. Shit, again. Who was that making coffee? Who's clothes were those? I left the bathroom after a thorough tooth-brushing and bent over the pile of women's clothes. 
The panties were pink, the bra was pink, the jeans were dark blue, the top was peach. There as no purse; she probably took it with her into the kitchen. No overprotective mother had stitched this girl's name into her panties. I had nothing. No recollection of this person. Face the music, I told myself.
Opening the bedroom door, I went down the hall to the kitchen. She stood with her back to me, wearing only an old pair of my boxers she must have found in a drawer. Sure enough, her purse was on the counter; next to it was her phone. She didn't hear me come in, so I stood watching her. She was drinking from a mug, she was tall and slim, nice legs. Olive skinned. Black hair. Who the fuck was this girl?
I cleared my throat and stepped forward; she turned, smiling. "Good morning," she said, chipper as a flight attendant. Drawing a blank. She was pretty, green eyes, small lips, small tits. "Morning," I managed. Her teeth were very straight, very white. She might be my dental hygienist, I thought.
"How you feeling this morning?" she asked.
"Bit of a headache," I answered. She laughed. 
"I'm not surprised. You really put it away last night," she patted my arm. "Not that it affected your performance any. Wow, is all I can say. That's what I texted my friend when I got up, is that tacky or what?"
I granted it was, but didn't elaborate much. I accepted a cup of coffee from her, her fingers sliding along mine as she passed the mug. She glanced up at microwave clock.
"Shit," she barked. "I've got to get going. I'm showing a house this morning."
"You're a real estate agent?" I ventured. She looked at me puzzled and laughed. 
"You really did get shitfaced, didn't you? We talked about real estate for an hour last night."
This was news to me, as I know nothing about real estate, but I am a good faker, especially if there is some ass to be had out of it. But really, I had no memory of this woman, or last night. The idea that I bullshitted about real estate with her, while drunk, for an hour, was utterly bizarre.
She downed her mug, raced back to the bedroom - with her purse and phone - and I heard water running. She emerged ten minutes later in the clothes that had been piled on the floor. 
"That was an amazing night. Just what I needed," she cooed, coming close for a kiss. I gave her one; no memories jogged.
"We should do it again then," I ventured. She was hot, certainly, and I had apparently made a good impression.
She lit up like an all-night pharmacy sign. "Yes! I was hoping you'd say that!" She pulled her phone from her back pocket. 
"What's your number?" I told her.
Then she smiled like she'd just farted in church and gave me a little nervous giggle. 
"Um. What was your name again?" she asked.

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Write about some part of you that has remained the same since you were very young.
Written by jwelker76

Freud's Ribbon

I've had the same dream,

almost weekly,

since I was eight years old.

In it, I notice something stuck

to the tip of my middle finger.

I try to pull it off, but it is

my skin.

It unravels, like a pulling a

sweater string, up my arm

across my chest, up my neck

around my face and down

my side, between then down

my legs, back up again, uncoiling

unspooling like a thread

until a pile of pink bloody

candy floss is piled at my feet.

I can feel the nerves shredding,

the cold air against what is now exposed.

       Once, I woke up and my arm

       was covered in blood from the elbow

       to the wrist, my bedsheet red and saturated;

       I had dug trenches on the white

       underbelly of my forearm

       in my sleep.

Now, I wake up tingling all over

and barely give it a single thought

anymore; why do I still

have this dream? Why does it not

terrify me anymore?

Even in dreams, you can get used

to anything. If anything is terrifying,

why isn't it that?

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Write about some part of you that has remained the same since you were very young.
Written by jwelker76
Freud's Ribbon
I've had the same dream,
almost weekly,
since I was eight years old.
In it, I notice something stuck
to the tip of my middle finger.
I try to pull it off, but it is
my skin.
It unravels, like a pulling a
sweater string, up my arm
across my chest, up my neck
around my face and down
my side, between then down
my legs, back up again, uncoiling
unspooling like a thread
until a pile of pink bloody
candy floss is piled at my feet.
I can feel the nerves shredding,
the cold air against what is now exposed.
       Once, I woke up and my arm
       was covered in blood from the elbow
       to the wrist, my bedsheet red and saturated;
       I had dug trenches on the white
       underbelly of my forearm
       in my sleep.
Now, I wake up tingling all over
and barely give it a single thought
anymore; why do I still
have this dream? Why does it not
terrify me anymore?
Even in dreams, you can get used
to anything. If anything is terrifying,
why isn't it that?
6
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Juice
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Pick a food and be passionate about it. Write a poem, tag another, and have a battle of colorful flavors! Good luck... and make me hungry!
Written by jwelker76

Passionfruit

A burning hunger 

roils deep- I am deprived

and lusting for the 

right taste, a ravening bite

that will spill juices and

fill me. 

The fruit of five wounds?

I can think of three, at least,

calling out for sweetness,

for sticky syrup.

The first molecule on my lip

and more is needed, craved, 

spiraling upward in frenzy, 

crescendo of tension and

sweet, dripping, slavering

drops, falling down

covering the coals of this 

yearning fire with a glaze

of spill.

19
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Juice
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Pick a food and be passionate about it. Write a poem, tag another, and have a battle of colorful flavors! Good luck... and make me hungry!
Written by jwelker76
Passionfruit
A burning hunger 
roils deep- I am deprived
and lusting for the 
right taste, a ravening bite
that will spill juices and
fill me. 
The fruit of five wounds?
I can think of three, at least,
calling out for sweetness,
for sticky syrup.
The first molecule on my lip
and more is needed, craved, 
spiraling upward in frenzy, 
crescendo of tension and
sweet, dripping, slavering
drops, falling down
covering the coals of this 
yearning fire with a glaze
of spill.
19
6
26
Juice
83 reads
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