jwelker76
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Written by jwelker76

Music Box

One night in Silver Lake,

I was driving on Vendome Street

and passed a staircase that led up

to the next street. I had not lived

in Los Angeles very long, but I knew

this staircase; it was famous, it was

the one from the old Laurel and Hardy

movie, the one where they try to

push a piano up a flight of stairs.

I parked and walked up and down

them three or four times, replaying

scenes in my head, laughing to myself.

As I was walking back to my car, a man

smoking a cigarette in the doorway of the 

building next to the staircase asked me if 

I was a fan; I said I was, and he said,

I see them here, almost every night.

I bummed a cigarette off him even though

I don't smoke and asked him what he meant.

The thin one and the fat one, he said, inhaling.

They come around two or three in the morning,

there's no piano, they just sit beside each other

and talk. Some nights I can hear them through

my bedroom window - and he gestured behind him

at the building - I can almost make out what

they're saying. How do they look, I asked,

and he said, About the same. He paused and looked

at me and tilted his head to the side, as though

taking stock of me. They loved each other very much,

he said. And I nodded. It was so, I had read how

broken Laurel had become after his partner's death, 

how he had refused to work again, how he had paid 

Hardy's medical bills after a series of strokes had left

him mute, immobile and broke. That's why they 

were so funny, I said, because they loved each other so much.

I thanked him and drove home and watched 

the piano movie online. A few weeks later, I took a date

on a walk to the stairs and told her the story of the

movie, of the two comedians. She had never heard of

them, and started to make jokes about how they must

have been gay. It was late at night, and I stood on a 

mid-level stair and she stood a few stairs below me

and her mouth was on me and I forgot for a few 

moments how much I disliked her, and after 

she had swallowed me I followed her down the stairs,

telling her again about them, about bonds of 

friendship equal to or surpassing love, and

didn't she have anyone like that in her life, and she

had laughed, and then I had laughed, because,

anymore, I didn't either, and the sound of us

was like a piano rushing through the dark,

gaining speed, unseen behind us. 

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Written by jwelker76
Music Box
One night in Silver Lake,
I was driving on Vendome Street
and passed a staircase that led up
to the next street. I had not lived
in Los Angeles very long, but I knew
this staircase; it was famous, it was
the one from the old Laurel and Hardy
movie, the one where they try to
push a piano up a flight of stairs.
I parked and walked up and down
them three or four times, replaying
scenes in my head, laughing to myself.
As I was walking back to my car, a man
smoking a cigarette in the doorway of the 
building next to the staircase asked me if 
I was a fan; I said I was, and he said,
I see them here, almost every night.
I bummed a cigarette off him even though
I don't smoke and asked him what he meant.
The thin one and the fat one, he said, inhaling.
They come around two or three in the morning,
there's no piano, they just sit beside each other
and talk. Some nights I can hear them through
my bedroom window - and he gestured behind him
at the building - I can almost make out what
they're saying. How do they look, I asked,
and he said, About the same. He paused and looked
at me and tilted his head to the side, as though
taking stock of me. They loved each other very much,
he said. And I nodded. It was so, I had read how
broken Laurel had become after his partner's death, 
how he had refused to work again, how he had paid 
Hardy's medical bills after a series of strokes had left
him mute, immobile and broke. That's why they 
were so funny, I said, because they loved each other so much.
I thanked him and drove home and watched 
the piano movie online. A few weeks later, I took a date
on a walk to the stairs and told her the story of the
movie, of the two comedians. She had never heard of
them, and started to make jokes about how they must
have been gay. It was late at night, and I stood on a 
mid-level stair and she stood a few stairs below me
and her mouth was on me and I forgot for a few 
moments how much I disliked her, and after 
she had swallowed me I followed her down the stairs,
telling her again about them, about bonds of 
friendship equal to or surpassing love, and
didn't she have anyone like that in her life, and she
had laughed, and then I had laughed, because,
anymore, I didn't either, and the sound of us
was like a piano rushing through the dark,
gaining speed, unseen behind us. 
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Rhyming challenge! write a silly poem, rhyming one or all of the following words: hippopotamus, yeti, giraffe, capsule, abominable, frolicsome.
Written by jwelker76

First Impressions

On the day they met, he

told her of the yeti

in High Tibet he had found.

She thought his tale

frolicsome, if a little

neurotic; some part of her

wanted to run.

He related his fear of death

so near, saying oh who'll

deliver my capsule

of cyanide, such a fate so

abominable I face!

An honorable constable

in crampons and rope

took pity and gave me hope,

he went on. Back safely

at camp, by the light of a lamp

we all of us stood

as a hippopotamus would,

surly and mannishly proud.

She listened with polite 

interest, nodding and making

no gaffe. But toward tale's end

she saw walk in a friend,

the tall one they all called Giraffe.

With a smile and a yawn, 

she stood and was gone,

and he gaped as he heard her

wry laugh.

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Rhyming challenge! write a silly poem, rhyming one or all of the following words: hippopotamus, yeti, giraffe, capsule, abominable, frolicsome.
Written by jwelker76
First Impressions
On the day they met, he
told her of the yeti
in High Tibet he had found.
She thought his tale
frolicsome, if a little
neurotic; some part of her
wanted to run.
He related his fear of death
so near, saying oh who'll
deliver my capsule
of cyanide, such a fate so
abominable I face!
An honorable constable
in crampons and rope
took pity and gave me hope,
he went on. Back safely
at camp, by the light of a lamp
we all of us stood
as a hippopotamus would,
surly and mannishly proud.
She listened with polite 
interest, nodding and making
no gaffe. But toward tale's end
she saw walk in a friend,
the tall one they all called Giraffe.
With a smile and a yawn, 
she stood and was gone,
and he gaped as he heard her
wry laugh.
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Written by jwelker76

Swedish Lullabies

After the movie, 

he said he was hungry,

so we went to the pho place

that's open late on Fridays.

I asked him what he thought

of the movie, and his eleven-

year-old enthusiasm was joyful

to see. Two huge steaming bowls

were set before us and we ate in

silence for a few moments; then,

he put his chopsticks down and

looked up at me. Did you ever know

my mom, he asked. Never, in

the years I had known him, had he

ever asked about his mother, who is

dead now. I set my chopsticks down

and said, I only met her a couple of times.

He waited. The first time, I went on,

was before you were born, right after 

your dad met your mom. Your dad 

introduced us; it was at a beach party.

This was all down in Los Angeles, 

I'm sure you know that. She was my

friend's girlfriend, right? So we talked a

little, got to know each other. But it was

a year or so before I saw her again, and 

she was pregnant with you that time. She was-

and here I struggled with how to describe

to her son what Karen was like; an addict,

a thief, a failed starlet, generous yet cruel,

capable of vast love and sacrifice and

selfishness beyond metric - She was 

very excited to be a mom, very excited

to meet you. She used to sing to you, 

while you were kicking inside of her,

songs from her country; they were so 

beautiful and sad sounding, I couldn't

bear to listen for long because they always

reminded me of things I didn't want to think

about. But they were lovely songs, to 

give you peace. I had to stop here, I had to 

look away from him. She loved you, I told him

and he said, How do you know,

and I answered, Because she tried to be stronger

than she knew how to be, so you could 

be here now. She turned her back on herself

while you were growing in her, to protect you.

The last time I met her, it was just before I 

moved back here. You were a few months old,

I guess. I met you for the first time, too.

She was so happy - and I stopped again, 

because I remembered that night and how

I had gone out to the supermarket and bought

her a dozen cases of formula because when I saw

her try to breastfeed him I knew there was junk

in her and I panicked and wanted to do something,

anything, no matter how futile, how small and 

irrelevant, and she had hugged me tight and thanked

me with tears in her eyes because she knew why I had

done it and we stood there in each others' arms

crying as he slept wrapped in flannel on the

couch beside us - so happy you were finally there.

I don't know what he knows about his mom,

what his dad has told him; she died when he was

barely a year old. Do you remember her, I asked.

He shook his head, picked up his chopsticks

again and said, It's for the best. And I said,

why's that? You can't miss what you don't remember,

he shrugged. And I thought, is that really so?

Is that why we are allowed to forget?

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Written by jwelker76
Swedish Lullabies
After the movie, 
he said he was hungry,
so we went to the pho place
that's open late on Fridays.
I asked him what he thought
of the movie, and his eleven-
year-old enthusiasm was joyful
to see. Two huge steaming bowls
were set before us and we ate in
silence for a few moments; then,
he put his chopsticks down and
looked up at me. Did you ever know
my mom, he asked. Never, in
the years I had known him, had he
ever asked about his mother, who is
dead now. I set my chopsticks down
and said, I only met her a couple of times.
He waited. The first time, I went on,
was before you were born, right after 
your dad met your mom. Your dad 
introduced us; it was at a beach party.
This was all down in Los Angeles, 
I'm sure you know that. She was my
friend's girlfriend, right? So we talked a
little, got to know each other. But it was
a year or so before I saw her again, and 
she was pregnant with you that time. She was-
and here I struggled with how to describe
to her son what Karen was like; an addict,
a thief, a failed starlet, generous yet cruel,
capable of vast love and sacrifice and
selfishness beyond metric - She was 
very excited to be a mom, very excited
to meet you. She used to sing to you, 
while you were kicking inside of her,
songs from her country; they were so 
beautiful and sad sounding, I couldn't
bear to listen for long because they always
reminded me of things I didn't want to think
about. But they were lovely songs, to 
give you peace. I had to stop here, I had to 
look away from him. She loved you, I told him
and he said, How do you know,
and I answered, Because she tried to be stronger
than she knew how to be, so you could 
be here now. She turned her back on herself
while you were growing in her, to protect you.
The last time I met her, it was just before I 
moved back here. You were a few months old,
I guess. I met you for the first time, too.
She was so happy - and I stopped again, 
because I remembered that night and how
I had gone out to the supermarket and bought
her a dozen cases of formula because when I saw
her try to breastfeed him I knew there was junk
in her and I panicked and wanted to do something,
anything, no matter how futile, how small and 
irrelevant, and she had hugged me tight and thanked
me with tears in her eyes because she knew why I had
done it and we stood there in each others' arms
crying as he slept wrapped in flannel on the
couch beside us - so happy you were finally there.
I don't know what he knows about his mom,
what his dad has told him; she died when he was
barely a year old. Do you remember her, I asked.
He shook his head, picked up his chopsticks
again and said, It's for the best. And I said,
why's that? You can't miss what you don't remember,
he shrugged. And I thought, is that really so?
Is that why we are allowed to forget?

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Written by jwelker76

Here Comes the Nighttime

For awhile,

in the dark of adolescence,

I sought out the thing

that was done to me.

Under stars, or in the rain,

always when sleep escaped

me, which was often,

and sometimes I found it:

on blackened park paths, 

the stairs of the water tower,

or once in the shadows 

cast by the Episcopal Church.

Strangers, unbelieving their eyes,

overcame themselves and my own

believing eyes would shut as hands

and mouths connected with 

smooth, terrified skin.

Nearly every time, at some point,

I would start to tremble and

quietly cry, and for most of them

this was too much and they 

scurried away. I would move

through the dark like a living

shadow, hiding from passing cars, 

waiting for clouds to cover the moon,

and slither back into my bedroom

like oil or smoke, whimpering

into my pillow, still feeling the warmth

of hands and mouths on me,

still electrified by their touch, 

their desire. I would fall asleep

and wake a second later to sunshine

and my brother's alarm clock.

I wouldn't shower, because I wanted

them to linger on my skin,

until later in the day, after gym class,

and my stomach was twisted in

knots and I shook with shame,

I stood under scalding hot water

until my skin was bright red, 

and even when I undressed for bed

that evening, my brother asked 

if I had a sunburn I was still so pink,

but I pulled on my underwear and

my Batman t-shirt and

slept the night through. 

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Written by jwelker76
Here Comes the Nighttime
For awhile,
in the dark of adolescence,
I sought out the thing
that was done to me.
Under stars, or in the rain,
always when sleep escaped
me, which was often,
and sometimes I found it:
on blackened park paths, 
the stairs of the water tower,
or once in the shadows 
cast by the Episcopal Church.
Strangers, unbelieving their eyes,
overcame themselves and my own
believing eyes would shut as hands
and mouths connected with 
smooth, terrified skin.
Nearly every time, at some point,
I would start to tremble and
quietly cry, and for most of them
this was too much and they 
scurried away. I would move
through the dark like a living
shadow, hiding from passing cars, 
waiting for clouds to cover the moon,
and slither back into my bedroom
like oil or smoke, whimpering
into my pillow, still feeling the warmth
of hands and mouths on me,
still electrified by their touch, 
their desire. I would fall asleep
and wake a second later to sunshine
and my brother's alarm clock.
I wouldn't shower, because I wanted
them to linger on my skin,
until later in the day, after gym class,
and my stomach was twisted in
knots and I shook with shame,
I stood under scalding hot water
until my skin was bright red, 
and even when I undressed for bed
that evening, my brother asked 
if I had a sunburn I was still so pink,
but I pulled on my underwear and
my Batman t-shirt and
slept the night through. 
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’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.' This is a piece taken from Lewis Carol's "Jabberwocky", one of my favorite poems of all time. Even though the poem is written in gibberish, with words from Carol's own imagination, it still manages to convey meaning and capture a strong tone. Poems don't have to make sense to be enjoyable. Write your own poem in gibberish, but try to capture a certain tone, funny, solemn, urgent, mysterious. If it has a rhythm or meter, all the better. But most importantly, have fun! 100 coins to the winner.
Written by jwelker76 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

The Hakestrade

All lurmond and queet was he,

moirish to his very core.

Never wint I so gwarmy 

a throthfract as he.

Ah, but to strue at the very

enstrueing is best, as they say.

Many long morth have past

since first our glamwit broles

did carrunt together.

And yarly did we minsch

one to the other, in that strue.

He was trissom and fleeth,

no hint of gurgishness in him,

then. Yea, I sisperth myself

no small durl when I haebleed

my minnery of him. 

But, morret and alon, he

begormed before my very nins.

Margy and puellid he grew,

susserpating his voice became,

and his very prestery blanned into

sheer cromigiery. 

Soon I could twithly bestrom

his very innuration. Every

preet, every hawm, 

every treening goit of him made me

wambrish in my very finnows.

Now he brames at me, yurling my

clature and snurling his trilleries,

hoping to aumbre my grilth,

but I sprine him, I sprine him

to his unserous plute. 

I keet him now, barbling and

snivving at me, making such

a frimbellaria of it all.

I should wroge him, trafe him,

bratten his nerts until they blorf!

Ah, but no. I must be the

quincel lad, the airly brove.

But yea, surely, one fine hawling,

I would not be gorwinkled to

find him purnt and garley,

sprecked from colm to carn,

and a right long chiggle I will

have of it, too.

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’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.' This is a piece taken from Lewis Carol's "Jabberwocky", one of my favorite poems of all time. Even though the poem is written in gibberish, with words from Carol's own imagination, it still manages to convey meaning and capture a strong tone. Poems don't have to make sense to be enjoyable. Write your own poem in gibberish, but try to capture a certain tone, funny, solemn, urgent, mysterious. If it has a rhythm or meter, all the better. But most importantly, have fun! 100 coins to the winner.
Written by jwelker76 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
The Hakestrade
All lurmond and queet was he,
moirish to his very core.
Never wint I so gwarmy 
a throthfract as he.
Ah, but to strue at the very
enstrueing is best, as they say.
Many long morth have past
since first our glamwit broles
did carrunt together.
And yarly did we minsch
one to the other, in that strue.
He was trissom and fleeth,
no hint of gurgishness in him,
then. Yea, I sisperth myself
no small durl when I haebleed
my minnery of him. 
But, morret and alon, he
begormed before my very nins.
Margy and puellid he grew,
susserpating his voice became,
and his very prestery blanned into
sheer cromigiery. 
Soon I could twithly bestrom
his very innuration. Every
preet, every hawm, 
every treening goit of him made me
wambrish in my very finnows.
Now he brames at me, yurling my
clature and snurling his trilleries,
hoping to aumbre my grilth,
but I sprine him, I sprine him
to his unserous plute. 
I keet him now, barbling and
snivving at me, making such
a frimbellaria of it all.
I should wroge him, trafe him,
bratten his nerts until they blorf!
Ah, but no. I must be the
quincel lad, the airly brove.
But yea, surely, one fine hawling,
I would not be gorwinkled to
find him purnt and garley,
sprecked from colm to carn,
and a right long chiggle I will
have of it, too.
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Written by jwelker76

He Do the Police In Different Voices

The light bulb swinging on its chain

gives the impression that we are standing

on the deck of a ship being tossed

by the waves; a weak pool of light 

sliding back and forth over the floor

and walls of the cluttered attic while

we stand still, side by side, is making

my stomach flip over and my head feel

like it is rising off my shoulders like

a balloon. You don't seem to notice, 

but it is your house after all; you have

probably been up in this attic dozens 

of times. Today is my first time, and

I am here with you and your older 

brother, who is peering into an 

open tin box and seems to have 

forgotten we are here. You and I

are not good friends, both of us

will admit it, but today at school

when you invited me to come over

and see something you called

very secret that your brother had, I

did not really think why you were asking me,

and said yes. Now I regret it; I don't like

being here, or your brother. I know he

stole from the 7-11 and smoked cigarettes

and so was inclined to dislike him, but now

in the rolling light of the attic, he seemed

positively demonic, hunched over the little

tin box and then suddenly barking at us

to hold the light steady. You flinched and

reached up, stopping the bulb's swinging,

and then stood so close to me I could smell

the sweat and deodorant under your arms.

Your brother fumbled with the box, 

and without looking up, said in a guttural

voice that was not his own, that seemed

theatrical and calculated to to frighten 

and so merely drew attention to itself,

that if we told anyone about this box

he would cut our pricks off and shove them

down our throats. Then he sat cross-legged 

on the floor, and we followed suit,

and he pried the lid off the box - which

had once held Lipton tea - and let us lean 

toward him and peer inside. At the time,

I did not know what it was: a small pellet

of dark wax, a dirty spoon, a length of rubber,

a rusty needle. Now watch, he said, cooing 

as though coaxing an unwilling lover.

Years later, I would come to know this

ritual, and perfect it and adapt it

to my own need,  but this was the first

time outside a doctor's office I had ever seen

a needle enter flesh, and never so hungrily,

never so much like a seabird diving

toward the surface to claim an unsuspecting

fish. I watched you help him, dab at his

forearm with the hem of your t-shirt,

pack the works back into the tin and

bury it back at the bottom of the trunk,

close it and then turn to watch him 

lean backward, smiling deadly, his eyes

fluttering then coming into sharp focus

long enough to lock onto mine, and hear him

whisper clearly in another new voice,

I can see you, and I knew that he could,

only not in that moment but in another

yet to come. 

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Written by jwelker76
He Do the Police In Different Voices
The light bulb swinging on its chain
gives the impression that we are standing
on the deck of a ship being tossed
by the waves; a weak pool of light 
sliding back and forth over the floor
and walls of the cluttered attic while
we stand still, side by side, is making
my stomach flip over and my head feel
like it is rising off my shoulders like
a balloon. You don't seem to notice, 
but it is your house after all; you have
probably been up in this attic dozens 
of times. Today is my first time, and
I am here with you and your older 
brother, who is peering into an 
open tin box and seems to have 
forgotten we are here. You and I
are not good friends, both of us
will admit it, but today at school
when you invited me to come over
and see something you called
very secret that your brother had, I
did not really think why you were asking me,
and said yes. Now I regret it; I don't like
being here, or your brother. I know he
stole from the 7-11 and smoked cigarettes
and so was inclined to dislike him, but now
in the rolling light of the attic, he seemed
positively demonic, hunched over the little
tin box and then suddenly barking at us
to hold the light steady. You flinched and
reached up, stopping the bulb's swinging,
and then stood so close to me I could smell
the sweat and deodorant under your arms.
Your brother fumbled with the box, 
and without looking up, said in a guttural
voice that was not his own, that seemed
theatrical and calculated to to frighten 
and so merely drew attention to itself,
that if we told anyone about this box
he would cut our pricks off and shove them
down our throats. Then he sat cross-legged 
on the floor, and we followed suit,
and he pried the lid off the box - which
had once held Lipton tea - and let us lean 
toward him and peer inside. At the time,
I did not know what it was: a small pellet
of dark wax, a dirty spoon, a length of rubber,
a rusty needle. Now watch, he said, cooing 
as though coaxing an unwilling lover.
Years later, I would come to know this
ritual, and perfect it and adapt it
to my own need,  but this was the first
time outside a doctor's office I had ever seen
a needle enter flesh, and never so hungrily,
never so much like a seabird diving
toward the surface to claim an unsuspecting
fish. I watched you help him, dab at his
forearm with the hem of your t-shirt,
pack the works back into the tin and
bury it back at the bottom of the trunk,
close it and then turn to watch him 
lean backward, smiling deadly, his eyes
fluttering then coming into sharp focus
long enough to lock onto mine, and hear him
whisper clearly in another new voice,
I can see you, and I knew that he could,
only not in that moment but in another
yet to come. 
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Written by jwelker76 in portal Romance & Erotica

Electricity

The power was out when she got home, the air conditioning as well. She sighed; it was hot outside, hotter in the apartment. He was coming, was on his way. They had texted each other back and forth all day, ramping each other up to the point that she had finally told him to come over after work, that she couldn't be alone with only thought and words tonight.

She dropped her purse to the floor and went to the window, shoving it open; a wall of warm evening air rolled in against her. She sighed and felt her temperature rising, slowly but surely.

In the kitchen, she poured herself a tall glass of ice water, then dragged the office chair next to the window and sat down, trying to cool herself off. The breeze had the opposite effect; it was thick, humid, draining. A drop of condensation fell from her glass and landed on her shirt. As though the idea had just come to her - thought she had been thinking it on and off all day- she peeled it up and over her head and dropped in on the floor. The next droplet hit her navel and set a cold stabbing downward that she did dislike.

It was hot; she could feel sweat on her upper lip, under her arms, between her breasts. She unhooked her bra and let it fall, but there was no relief. She stood and squirmed out of her pants. Her inner thighs were sweaty, the crack of her ass. She loved the heat, she loved the sweat of her body, the salt. She loved the taste and feel of it on her skin, but more especially the feel of someone else's. Her thoughts went to him; she took up her phone and reread their texts from the day, feeling the familiar flush, the butterflies between her legs.

This was not working, she realized. Hooking her thumbs into thin silk, she lifted her ass up off the chair and slid her increasingly wet panties down and off, kicking them from the toe out into the middle of the room. She was flushed, warm to her own touch. The evening air poured over her like lukewarm water. 

As if on cue, her phone bleeped. His text, he was downstairs. He was here. Her nerves fluttered. After far too long, there was light knock on the door. It's open, she said, her voice so soft she wasn't sure it carried, but then the door was open, and he was there, closing it behind him, smiling at her. 

She swiveled the office chair to give him a full view of what she had been teasing him with all day. Without a word, he moved toward her, unbuttoning his shirt, lowering himself. He kissed her on the lips, open mouthed and minty. She could smell his sweat, and something deeper underneath it; his need.

The stubble of his chin scraped her lips and sent fire down her body as they bit and kissed. He dragged his face down her body, the stubble like sandpaper on her skin, over her nipples, her stomach, between her legs. He lingered millimeters from her, inhaling her scent, her sweat and salt; she could feel his breath hot on her lips, her inner thighs.

He studied her; she had tormented him all day with this very object now in his face, within kissing distance. He wanted to know it before he partook; he lay his head on her inner thigh and looked, he breathed her deep, his fingers brushed and pressed. He could feel her body respond, tense and relax; he heard the heavy breaths and felt them in his hair.

And then, two fingers on each side of her, he split her and blew lightly on her. She shivered, and felt a trickle of sweat run down between her breasts, down to pool in her navel. His tongue, when it touched her, was hotter than the room, hotter than the day. Her fingers dug into his hair, pulled him against her. He responded by placing his hot hands behind her knees and lifting her legs, her knees brushing her nipples.

His tongue plunged into her, tasting the smooth velvet of her walls, and then back out to slide down toward her ass. The taste of her salt, her tang, filled his mouth and every nerve called out for attention, for release. He pushed back into her, grinding his face against her. His tongue, the stubble; she was crawling out of her skin. She held him by the ears, firmly planting his face where she had needed him all along, since the morning or perhaps even before that.

There was more of him she wanted, of course; she had thought about his body, his fingers, his cock. But right now, all she could think of was the depth of his tongue. She rocked her hips on his face, whimpering without realizing. Suddenly another need overtook her, and she pulled him up and lunged at his mouth, sucking lightly on that tongue that had swum in her like an eel. She tasted what he had tasted, and the thrill of it made a tremor slide through her. She sucked his tongue clean of her, and then pushed him down again, 

down her sweating, vibrating body, pulsing and hungry. 

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Written by jwelker76 in portal Romance & Erotica
Electricity
The power was out when she got home, the air conditioning as well. She sighed; it was hot outside, hotter in the apartment. He was coming, was on his way. They had texted each other back and forth all day, ramping each other up to the point that she had finally told him to come over after work, that she couldn't be alone with only thought and words tonight.

She dropped her purse to the floor and went to the window, shoving it open; a wall of warm evening air rolled in against her. She sighed and felt her temperature rising, slowly but surely.

In the kitchen, she poured herself a tall glass of ice water, then dragged the office chair next to the window and sat down, trying to cool herself off. The breeze had the opposite effect; it was thick, humid, draining. A drop of condensation fell from her glass and landed on her shirt. As though the idea had just come to her - thought she had been thinking it on and off all day- she peeled it up and over her head and dropped in on the floor. The next droplet hit her navel and set a cold stabbing downward that she did dislike.

It was hot; she could feel sweat on her upper lip, under her arms, between her breasts. She unhooked her bra and let it fall, but there was no relief. She stood and squirmed out of her pants. Her inner thighs were sweaty, the crack of her ass. She loved the heat, she loved the sweat of her body, the salt. She loved the taste and feel of it on her skin, but more especially the feel of someone else's. Her thoughts went to him; she took up her phone and reread their texts from the day, feeling the familiar flush, the butterflies between her legs.

This was not working, she realized. Hooking her thumbs into thin silk, she lifted her ass up off the chair and slid her increasingly wet panties down and off, kicking them from the toe out into the middle of the room. She was flushed, warm to her own touch. The evening air poured over her like lukewarm water. 

As if on cue, her phone bleeped. His text, he was downstairs. He was here. Her nerves fluttered. After far too long, there was light knock on the door. It's open, she said, her voice so soft she wasn't sure it carried, but then the door was open, and he was there, closing it behind him, smiling at her. 

She swiveled the office chair to give him a full view of what she had been teasing him with all day. Without a word, he moved toward her, unbuttoning his shirt, lowering himself. He kissed her on the lips, open mouthed and minty. She could smell his sweat, and something deeper underneath it; his need.

The stubble of his chin scraped her lips and sent fire down her body as they bit and kissed. He dragged his face down her body, the stubble like sandpaper on her skin, over her nipples, her stomach, between her legs. He lingered millimeters from her, inhaling her scent, her sweat and salt; she could feel his breath hot on her lips, her inner thighs.

He studied her; she had tormented him all day with this very object now in his face, within kissing distance. He wanted to know it before he partook; he lay his head on her inner thigh and looked, he breathed her deep, his fingers brushed and pressed. He could feel her body respond, tense and relax; he heard the heavy breaths and felt them in his hair.

And then, two fingers on each side of her, he split her and blew lightly on her. She shivered, and felt a trickle of sweat run down between her breasts, down to pool in her navel. His tongue, when it touched her, was hotter than the room, hotter than the day. Her fingers dug into his hair, pulled him against her. He responded by placing his hot hands behind her knees and lifting her legs, her knees brushing her nipples.

His tongue plunged into her, tasting the smooth velvet of her walls, and then back out to slide down toward her ass. The taste of her salt, her tang, filled his mouth and every nerve called out for attention, for release. He pushed back into her, grinding his face against her. His tongue, the stubble; she was crawling out of her skin. She held him by the ears, firmly planting his face where she had needed him all along, since the morning or perhaps even before that.

There was more of him she wanted, of course; she had thought about his body, his fingers, his cock. But right now, all she could think of was the depth of his tongue. She rocked her hips on his face, whimpering without realizing. Suddenly another need overtook her, and she pulled him up and lunged at his mouth, sucking lightly on that tongue that had swum in her like an eel. She tasted what he had tasted, and the thrill of it made a tremor slide through her. She sucked his tongue clean of her, and then pushed him down again, 
down her sweating, vibrating body, pulsing and hungry. 
15
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Written by jwelker76 in portal Romance & Erotica

This Is The Way

They had dispensed with the formalities. Dinner was behind them, hours earlier; he had barely tasted a thing his mind was so preoccupied, but he distinctly remembered watching her eat, the way her full red lips opened, the glimpse of wet pink tongue, the slow closing of her mouth. After dinner, a walk, hand in hand, through the evening, but he knew, and knew that she knew, that they were just killing time until her roommate was gone.

In the elevator up, she had pushed him lightly against the wall and leaned in close, so close he could smell the strawberries on her breath and see the outline of himself, upside down and black, in her eye. Her breasts, beneath her blouse, kissed his chest and she looked up at him wordlessly, the elevator juddering upward. He could feel it in his knees, slowly rising, and when the carriage finally stopped, a wave roiled through his lower abdomen and she stumbled slightly against him as the doors slid open.

The place was quiet and dark as she slipped the key back into her purse and shut the door behind him. She called the roommate's name; no answer. She led him through the hallway and flicked on a light, turned and smiled at him. They moved against one another, she whispered into his ear words he already knew by heart, and then they were kissing, his body humming, skin alive to one another, as his hands slid down her sides to find the hem of her skirt.

Lips and tongues crash and hands and fingers slither and caress as they move, she forward he back, until she turns and backs into the kitchen table, and before she can regain her balance, his hands are on her waist, lifting her up and onto it as he sinks to the floor. His lips kiss up her inner thigh as he inhales deeply of her, huffing the scent of her. His nerves have boiled up to the surface of his skin as he drags her skirt up and she lifts herself slightly to let it slip over her ass. Electricity ravages his body, he fumbles at every button and snap and belt loop, sparks nipping his fingertips.

Her panties are red, and he can see the wet soaking through. He kisses the wet and her hands are in his hair and her hips push her against his mouth. He bites her through the lace and her body shudders; his own body screams and pulses like molten gold.

Fingers pull aside lace, fingers slip up and down the wet cleft slowly, then inward, even more slowly. Lips warm on her, upward to her navel, upward to her breasts, her neck, her own lips. She wants more than fingers and lips, the hunger like banked fire simmers just behind her navel; he just kissed it, just then, and she had clenched herself on his fingers.

Now his hand is in her long, shining black hair, he has kissed up her body and he stands now between her knees, the heat of her making him sweat. The blouse is open, peeled off; his shirt. He is still knuckle-deep in her, but even he knows this is not what she is needing. He is aware of himself, heavy and long and ready. She knows she is aware of him; when her fingers brush his chest, when she lays her palms flat on him and slowly slides them downward, he feels tremors throughout his body, shivers of cold fire.

Her fingertips spider into his silk black hairs and find him. Ravenous, she lunges to kiss him; their lips meet, mouths open, tongues thrash. He wraps her hair around his hand and says, Is this what- 

-and before he can finish she draws him close, closer, and in.

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Written by jwelker76 in portal Romance & Erotica
This Is The Way
They had dispensed with the formalities. Dinner was behind them, hours earlier; he had barely tasted a thing his mind was so preoccupied, but he distinctly remembered watching her eat, the way her full red lips opened, the glimpse of wet pink tongue, the slow closing of her mouth. After dinner, a walk, hand in hand, through the evening, but he knew, and knew that she knew, that they were just killing time until her roommate was gone.

In the elevator up, she had pushed him lightly against the wall and leaned in close, so close he could smell the strawberries on her breath and see the outline of himself, upside down and black, in her eye. Her breasts, beneath her blouse, kissed his chest and she looked up at him wordlessly, the elevator juddering upward. He could feel it in his knees, slowly rising, and when the carriage finally stopped, a wave roiled through his lower abdomen and she stumbled slightly against him as the doors slid open.

The place was quiet and dark as she slipped the key back into her purse and shut the door behind him. She called the roommate's name; no answer. She led him through the hallway and flicked on a light, turned and smiled at him. They moved against one another, she whispered into his ear words he already knew by heart, and then they were kissing, his body humming, skin alive to one another, as his hands slid down her sides to find the hem of her skirt.

Lips and tongues crash and hands and fingers slither and caress as they move, she forward he back, until she turns and backs into the kitchen table, and before she can regain her balance, his hands are on her waist, lifting her up and onto it as he sinks to the floor. His lips kiss up her inner thigh as he inhales deeply of her, huffing the scent of her. His nerves have boiled up to the surface of his skin as he drags her skirt up and she lifts herself slightly to let it slip over her ass. Electricity ravages his body, he fumbles at every button and snap and belt loop, sparks nipping his fingertips.

Her panties are red, and he can see the wet soaking through. He kisses the wet and her hands are in his hair and her hips push her against his mouth. He bites her through the lace and her body shudders; his own body screams and pulses like molten gold.

Fingers pull aside lace, fingers slip up and down the wet cleft slowly, then inward, even more slowly. Lips warm on her, upward to her navel, upward to her breasts, her neck, her own lips. She wants more than fingers and lips, the hunger like banked fire simmers just behind her navel; he just kissed it, just then, and she had clenched herself on his fingers.

Now his hand is in her long, shining black hair, he has kissed up her body and he stands now between her knees, the heat of her making him sweat. The blouse is open, peeled off; his shirt. He is still knuckle-deep in her, but even he knows this is not what she is needing. He is aware of himself, heavy and long and ready. She knows she is aware of him; when her fingers brush his chest, when she lays her palms flat on him and slowly slides them downward, he feels tremors throughout his body, shivers of cold fire.

Her fingertips spider into his silk black hairs and find him. Ravenous, she lunges to kiss him; their lips meet, mouths open, tongues thrash. He wraps her hair around his hand and says, Is this what- 

-and before he can finish she draws him close, closer, and in.


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Pick any emotion and write about it.
Written by jwelker76

The Sídhe Discomfits Marx

Numb, the body;

the phantom limb.

A wasteland opens: desert, ice, skin,

the yawning maw of cosmos.

Strangers meet and part strangers,

like ghosts

or reincarnated souls who have

no memory of one another;

or the changeling children full grown, 

leaves in their hair they do not notice,

but they feel a shiver of light when

they walk softly on moss, and

their burdens lessen with every step

away and further, their footprints

in the old world, while the new panics.

The alien other bleeds red blood,

like every stranger like every 

frostbitten vein that thaws,

in secret, or forgotten.

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Pick any emotion and write about it.
Written by jwelker76
The Sídhe Discomfits Marx
Numb, the body;
the phantom limb.
A wasteland opens: desert, ice, skin,
the yawning maw of cosmos.
Strangers meet and part strangers,
like ghosts
or reincarnated souls who have
no memory of one another;
or the changeling children full grown, 
leaves in their hair they do not notice,
but they feel a shiver of light when
they walk softly on moss, and
their burdens lessen with every step
away and further, their footprints
in the old world, while the new panics.
The alien other bleeds red blood,
like every stranger like every 
frostbitten vein that thaws,
in secret, or forgotten.

17
5
0
Juice
61 reads
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"Why is Jimmy running around naked outside?" Anne asked...
Written by jwelker76

Orion, the Hunter

Why is Jimmy running around naked outside, Anne asked herself. It was the middle of the night, another night of insomnia, of half-remembered snatches of dream. She was sitting in the dark on the porch in the warm summer dark. There were still hours before sunrise. Whenever she couldn't sleep, which was more and more these nights, she would come out here and sit on the porch swing that Calvin had hung up the day they had moved in, over thirty years ago. Her son oiled the chain every time he came to visit so it did not creak as she swung back and forth like a pendulum.

The street was quiet, houses full of sleeping families, the children off for the summer; some houses were empty, their owners at the shore or Florida. She had been rocking herself calmly, gazing up into the night, trying to remember all the constellations Calvin had taught her in those first days, lying out in the grass behind the barn, breathless. And then something drew her eye down to earth again.

It was James. Jimmy. The boy from three houses down. He was running, or more accurately, stumbling along the sidewalk, every other step clumping onto the street, then back up onto the curb. He was stark naked. She barely knew his family, but, like all the neighborhood, had heard the stories and rumors about him. For a fourteen year old, Jimmy had a reputation for being, frankly, nearly feral.

He slogged past the walk that led up to her porch. She peered out at him, pale and exposed in the dark. She held her breath, listening; he was muttering to himself as he went by, and as she stared, she saw he was limping, favoring his left leg. She planted her feet on the porch and stopped the swing. Anne stood, the tartan blanket falling to the floor.

In two strides, she was at the top of the porch stairs. James, she called in a loud whisper, a soft shout. He stopped as though he had hit an invisible wall and peered around for the sound of the voice, even looking up for some few seconds, as though heaven had spoken.

She said again, slightly louder, James. Over here. He looked and she waved, beckoning.

He stood frozen for a moment, then came up the walk, imperious like a conqueror. He did not cover himself, and so she saw all of him, his boyish parts and fuzz. He climbed the stairs with head down, and she stepped back as he reached the top.

What is wrong, James, she asked. Jimmy, what's happened?

He looked up at her, and she saw the black eye, the split lip. Mrs. Harper, he asked, as though recognizing her in a strange place. She nodded. James, what's happened, tell me.

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and winced.

He came at me again, ma'am, he said, his voice a knife's blade. My dad.

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"Why is Jimmy running around naked outside?" Anne asked...
Written by jwelker76
Orion, the Hunter
Why is Jimmy running around naked outside, Anne asked herself. It was the middle of the night, another night of insomnia, of half-remembered snatches of dream. She was sitting in the dark on the porch in the warm summer dark. There were still hours before sunrise. Whenever she couldn't sleep, which was more and more these nights, she would come out here and sit on the porch swing that Calvin had hung up the day they had moved in, over thirty years ago. Her son oiled the chain every time he came to visit so it did not creak as she swung back and forth like a pendulum.

The street was quiet, houses full of sleeping families, the children off for the summer; some houses were empty, their owners at the shore or Florida. She had been rocking herself calmly, gazing up into the night, trying to remember all the constellations Calvin had taught her in those first days, lying out in the grass behind the barn, breathless. And then something drew her eye down to earth again.

It was James. Jimmy. The boy from three houses down. He was running, or more accurately, stumbling along the sidewalk, every other step clumping onto the street, then back up onto the curb. He was stark naked. She barely knew his family, but, like all the neighborhood, had heard the stories and rumors about him. For a fourteen year old, Jimmy had a reputation for being, frankly, nearly feral.

He slogged past the walk that led up to her porch. She peered out at him, pale and exposed in the dark. She held her breath, listening; he was muttering to himself as he went by, and as she stared, she saw he was limping, favoring his left leg. She planted her feet on the porch and stopped the swing. Anne stood, the tartan blanket falling to the floor.

In two strides, she was at the top of the porch stairs. James, she called in a loud whisper, a soft shout. He stopped as though he had hit an invisible wall and peered around for the sound of the voice, even looking up for some few seconds, as though heaven had spoken.
She said again, slightly louder, James. Over here. He looked and she waved, beckoning.

He stood frozen for a moment, then came up the walk, imperious like a conqueror. He did not cover himself, and so she saw all of him, his boyish parts and fuzz. He climbed the stairs with head down, and she stepped back as he reached the top.

What is wrong, James, she asked. Jimmy, what's happened?

He looked up at her, and she saw the black eye, the split lip. Mrs. Harper, he asked, as though recognizing her in a strange place. She nodded. James, what's happened, tell me.

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and winced.
He came at me again, ma'am, he said, his voice a knife's blade. My dad.
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