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100 Words

Special Note to Residents: Janitor s/b all through at 4

An empty bar at 3AM is a wonderful space.

It's too way warm, for one thing, though. All that body heat clings to upholstery, to walls, to lights. As if said Little Missy Underwear rubbed her parts across the chairs.

No, I don't bend and sniff. That's not the style of a cleanup man. I'm here to pick up wet, discarded things, wipe enthusiastic fluids off otherwise shiny railings. Chrome should so gleam, you know, you know.

I'm not here to judge. Not behavior, anyway. Music? Well. We have such different taste.

Like now. Man. Birgit Nilsson owns this place.
 
The man who made it possible for me to live on in this world, died the other day. Doctor Debakey invented the roller pump that became an integral part of the heart-lung bypass machine that sustained my life as my surgeons repaired my heart. Anyone who has ever needed open-heart surgery or surgery where their circulation must be removed from the heart holds an eternal debt to Michael Debakey and some of us owe it twice.
 
champagne1982 said:
The man who made it possible for me to live on in this world, died the other day. Doctor Debakey invented the roller pump that became an integral part of the heart-lung bypass machine that sustained my life as my surgeons repaired my heart. Anyone who has ever needed open-heart surgery or surgery where their circulation must be removed from the heart holds an eternal debt to Michael Debakey and some of us owe it twice.
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May he rest, sweetly, surrounded by the great, beautiful, rhythmic and eternal heartbeat of Love that lies at the center of all things.

He takes the gratitude of millions with him, including those of us here who are joyful for your existence.

bj
 
Sometimes it’s not a metaphor but a warning. There’s a spider on my ceiling and a coyote calling under the window. The spider only moves when I’m not looking and the coyote blends with shadows when I watch. I think I want to live in a concrete world where everyone wears answers tied around their necks like bells or a sticker on their shirt that says, “Hello, My name is Irrelevant but I’ll be Fucking You Over Later.” I’m wrong. It’s best not to know that spider’s coming to bite you and the coyote is there to clean your bones.
 
champagne1982 said:
The man who made it possible for me to live on in this world, died the other day. Doctor Debakey invented the roller pump that became an integral part of the heart-lung bypass machine that sustained my life as my surgeons repaired my heart. Anyone who has ever needed open-heart surgery or surgery where their circulation must be removed from the heart holds an eternal debt to Michael Debakey and some of us owe it twice.
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Then I thank him for I know my life has been sweeter for knowing you
 
This was a challenge for sure *smiles*

The sweltering day caused my shirt to stick to me as I drove to the object of my affection, currently. There it was standing in all its glory. I parked my car and opened the door. Smoothing the wrinkles from my skirt, I realized I was almost seductive in my ministrations. I walked to the stand, going over all the delectable options they have while I wait for help. It comes.

“Chocolate, in a waffle cone. With sprinkles, please,” I said as I licked my lips, savoring the smoothness of the treat before it even touches my lips.
 
Penance for Sister's Pink

.
Red ruler marks crossed my palms, twice on each hand. They stung, but I didn't say why when Mother asked what I did to deserve them. I couldn't tell her I looked up Sister's vestments while flat repenting for another crime. I couldn't tell her I saw that Sister wore a thong, that Sister was a Blondie. I couldn't tell her instead of whispering to the rosary, I groaned prayers for more than a flash of pink. I couldn't tell her Sister answered me by bestowing welts, giving a first orgasm. Sister smiled then, sexy and dark as her habit.


 
Buzz buzz buzz. Busy bees working so hard, so attentive as they try to score some nectar. The garish decor and bad cover band spoil the mood for me, but hey, I'm not on the hunt. So what do I know.

I took a cab and stopped in for a few drinks to unwind from a day of fun, juggling stressed out suits at work. I really have to go shopping...pick up my own drink fixings. Well, hell. It's my turn. Breathe, just breathe.

Buzz along to the next flower, busy bee.
I am not on the menu tonight.
 
I need like a private journal or some such thingie ...


When the muse let's loose,
lord knows what's
to be said. From skinny dipping
teen - me, to a proud
primal animal - laying in wait.

watching, needing, horny
has to be said - but loneliness did
play her role - that aside, watch
as I freefall into nothingness
catch a whiff
perfumed sheets, naked nymph
gone wild -- willing a partner, any partner
to partake. wild, wanton woman, needing
a hard, rough lay, beside
inside. deeply worshiping
with fingers, like glue, stuck on
him. he who is always there, inside
my head, whispering -- glitter,
our code word for, lay down, throw down
let it all go.

scream the rafters down, debauch
every memory, just be here
now - with me. Take what I offer,
slap, kiss,
nip, tug
tug
on my heart strings as I yo-yo
back to catch wind
over and over again.

my light in the darkness,
soft landing place. a man
I can count on, who never
seems outta space, for me to curl up
on long, cold nights,
who understands my sighs, and knows
my grace. standing alone, a terrible
terrible spot - clinging to a dream
a memory
a delusion
of what really, was not ....



.....:rolleyes:
 
I lay in bed this morning listening to the radio play random music when Neil Young came on and I started to wonder what it is in his voice that is so appealing to me. He doesn’t have a great voice, he teeters on the brink of jarring sharpness and yet he manages to sound so vulnerable and tender. Other singers, Tom Waits, Dave Frishberg, Leonard Cohen and – since too many cigarettes have ravaged her pure voice – Joni Mitchel have the same ability to disarm. It’s a comfort to know a voice doesn’t need to be perfect to get a message across.
 
Predisposition

A father and son couch potato together, greasy crumbs tumbling to the floor as the pair study fashion models working some Milan runway. The father teaches his son about beauty, discussing the attributes of the models. The television is muted, the only voices theirs. They agree on the best specimen: long and smooth as a python, face hidden by netting. The father, gourd round and larvae soft, thrusts the asymmetrical tip of plastic straw through the small foil circle of his son's juice box, then once more through his own. Toasting first, they nurse purple sugar water from cardboard cubes.
 
I normally run a hundred miles away, from any kind of ownership -
That being said :::


.........



I saw it, an image.

His hand softly cupped
shoulder to arm. Guiding her, whispering
delicate whatnot's, not - to be forgotten.

He led, with fingertips, frolicking, her
hair gently lifted - by a soft, rose
breeze. She smiled
a slow, kind - turn of inviting lips
lingering for a moment, in his eyes
green as the moss, found in
the forest, by a warm
stream, where lovers cautiously
meet, for

a moment away, a casual glance
of forbidden get-away's. He leaned in,
moist lips trusting, testing the current.
Cautiously perfecting that point
of contact. Honoring, every word

she delicately delivered. Lost in casual
conversation - not knowing
a witness was left, behind. I see them
kind, caring - loving, every word- spoken.

I carry them now, in my minds-eye
seeking - that moment - to play
over, to recapture their sweet
caring - love, everywhere - I go ....



....

off da hipster as Sweets would say ~~~ Jus' sayin' ~~


:rose:
 
and with that, one word, he was
gone. leaving me barren of fruit
fossilized and cold. like usual - he checked in
saw the plants growth,
checked for temperature and germination

points


tantalized and teased, he can do that you know.
with a winsome smile, glasses on nose, tipped real low
like he's looking right through you, with that
love me, sexy grin. always, he catches my breath
throws in the towel, turns heel to toe
and calmly

walks

away with my soul, detached and torn, like
a solitary rose, pruned to close and left
wilted then clipped in rootless
resignation ....



....
 
The Thing About Gor

Look, I'm not judging, here. People can do what they want. But just try to read those books sometime! Oh lordy, why couldn't they have picked Frank Herbert to build a lifestyle on? But I digress. With an off-switch, roleplaying slavegirl could be fun, but

be prepared to lose your I, to be an object which cannot be, then, raped, murdered, only discarded, should he grow tired of you. And a slave's testimony in court only counts when she is tortured.

To Norman, only slaves were real women. Of course you could be
a Freewoman. If you wear a burqa.
 
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suffocating
a slow burning death
that grips the lungs
tears at the heart
and regurgitates
a living on spent
love.


~~~~~~


the eyes can be deceived
but the heart can tell,
knows when that embering flame
has whippled to an all consuming
low. a far sighted future calls
out, asking to be shown.
like a rerun
the heart has known,
felt the deep chill
of what has been
and what shall be
over
over again. it cannot
be tricked
or convinced.
the needle has been pricked
all that is left
is the blood letting ...


....


that 100 ?? grrr, maybe not ... sorry ~~~
 
Speling

I knew Dixon was in love because when he was in love he couldn't spell and the e-mail I'd gotten from him looked like txtspk thumbed in by a dyslexic with a broken hand. Her name was Laura or, perhaps, Lora and she was really hto and a god fuk and quite probably his solemait. I was well aware that Laura was, in fact, a God fuck because she was kneeling on my bed wiggling her bare ass provocatively, trying to get me interested in Round Three.

It was funny, though. Dix hadn't said anything about her grate blo jobs.
.
 
It all happened so fast that I didn’t even know what was going on. The sounds of squealing tires and children screaming, and out of nowhere the beautiful sound of a songbird singing, in a tree down the street, all intertwining in my memory, that seemed too unrealistic, too foggy. My hands were covered in blood, not my blood, i can’t remember. Fear crept into my mouth like a bad taste, and I swallowed it. With all the courage I had I stood in front of the street, people staring, mouths slacked, and I cried, I cried my eyes out.


100 words
 
I'm on page 5, so please forgive me for being so late to this wonderful thread.

bogusbrig said:
Never fall for a woman who writes perfect prose. There are no lines to read between, no inappropriate spaces between words, it flows perfectly, leading your eyes over the flawless page. Perfect punctuation is a craft achieved through practice but you're too damn gullible to read this as a fault, too dumb to understand, only fiction doesn’t trip over its own words.

I should have read her poetry. How it stammered over secrets, with the lines broken in the strangest places. Phrases looping back on themselves, awkward, as though they had something to hide but I was foolishly beguiled by her prose.
Click to expand...

This is just wonderful.

Sara Crewe said:
The problem with loving a poet is you can never accept his words without turning them over and checking to see where they were made and whether they have someone else’s name hidden on the bottom of the message. A poet breathes words into you that whisper long after his voice has gone silent. He talks to you like the pied piper and makes you feel like a rat when you follow him into the streets to dance naked in neon light. When you wake up in the morning sleeping in the alley you can’t remember the way back home.


I am off to try to write a happy poem before someone assumes I am some kinda violent psycho -bitch :devil: ;)
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Beyond fantastic...


Sabina_Tolchovsky said:
I have wanted to write to him for the last couple years. I know I never will, he is three children and a wife away from me now. So, here it is in the mass of the ever expanding cyber universe...let it be absorbed by the mathematics of life playing over and over again in my head like the sad key's on a piano.
75 words to good bye. Nothing more is needed...but god, I wish I could kiss you again.
Click to expand...

This is beautiful... sad, but painfully beautiful.
 
Ada left to change, I scribbled on my arm:

“Sometimes when I sit beside you, I'm unbearably anxious and hide mine from yours. But then I can't see the sublime area perforated by your pupil. Other times, I'll peruse your hair and hands and nails, stealthily, as you study a specimen. And as Odysseus reached the sad sandy shores of Ilium, not to be confused with your ilium(or right os coxae) or maybe even ischium when addled—surely the King was short, but not so that he could stand on your...”

She returned. Television gave voice to the silence.
 
You shake, staring at the bloody brain-matter flower painted on the wallpaper.

She asked you to do it. She asked you to do it; to put the gun inside of her. Just for a moment. Just to see what it felt like. She liked it.

“Stick it in... Gimme cold steel, babe” she’d said as she wiggled down on the barrel.

She was so moist, so excited, groaning with desire. Her juices ran down the barrel, down the handle. You tried to hold fast, but she squirmed so much in pleasure and your finger slipped and brains sprayed the wall.
 
Shopping at Neimann Marcus

The shoes are expensive—very expensive—some kind of Christian Louboutin leopard print ankle boot thing with spike heels tall and thin as stainless steel ball point pens. Like Lawn Darts, without the fins. Like heroin.

"Buy them for me, Derek," she purrs, and rubs her body over mine, "I want them."

Easy come, easy go, I think idly. Easy come, given those damn heels.

I look at the tastefully discreet price tag. "Not much budget left for the rest of your outfit," I say.

"Darling," Joy breathes, "Those shoes are the outfit."

"Cash or charge?" asks the clerk, straight-faced.


.
 
Tzara said:
The shoes are expensive—very expensive—some kind of Christian Louboutin leopard print ankle boot thing with spike heels tall and thin as stainless steel ball point pens. Like Lawn Darts, without the fins. Like heroin.

"Buy them for me, Derek," she purrs, and rubs her body over mine, "I want them."

Easy come, easy go, I think idly. Easy come, given those damn heels.

I look at the tastefully discreet price tag. "Not much budget left for the rest of your outfit," I say.

"Darling," Joy breathes, "Those shoes are the outfit."

"Cash or charge?" asks the clerk, straight-faced.


.
Click to expand...

*swoons....flings panties at Tzara*:rose::kiss::heart:

CHARGE IT! x 50
that should do for my 100 word post. :D:D:D
 
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