Poetry and Prose
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Brian loved the way Megan touched him in the middle of the night as they slept. He'd questioned her last night about it, his mouth forming a smirk, his arms encircling her and pulling her closer.

This afternoon, as Megan lay mulling over that thought, she remembered telling him how much she enjoyed feeling him swell beneath her fingers, but she didn't tell him all she'd been thinking. On the occasions where she was conscious, she did enjoy waking him for mid-night lovemaking, but much of the time she was unconscious when he'd wake up to the feel of her hand massaging and kneading his hardness through his boxers. He would roll over, half on top of her, caressing her breast. She mostly woke up groggy and would concede while he loved her enthusiastically those nights. But, she thought, how could she possibly tell her lover that the manipulations of her wandering hand most of those nights, which he found so damned erotic, were motivated by unconscious actions? And worse, how could she tell him what she thought: that what gave him so much pleasure and sexual energy stemmed from the tragedies of her childhood?

Tuesday, March 09, 2004
Warm Honey
took bout half an hour to write this and get it just as I wanted it... Leave comments if you please.

Warm Honey

Burnt orange
Lightly toasted yellow
Red of passionate lips
The saturation of his aura
The intrigue of his undeniable presence
The persuasion of his seductive carefree smile
The coercion of his eyes’ cleverly veiled desire

Slowly spreads like warm honey, melting her icy flesh

Wednesday, March 03, 2004
Calla, Like the Lilly
Scattered, I know... I'll revamp when I get the time and motivation.

Sometimes, idly, she'd pick her nose, a habit she'd began at 4 and never quit, to the chagrin of her parents. She stared out the window in her little corner, just remembering that, letting her mind freely wander over the people as they passed her. She didn't have to worry about being seen, as she'd taken her position in a remote corner of the stacks. Besides, as her mother Josephine so often pointed out, she wasn't particularly noticable, or beautiful, like her mother. Maybe her nose really was too broad and flat, her cheeks too full, giving her round face a resemblance to a cherub, or worse, an apple. Her only noteworthy features were a crown of thick, dark hair which she always wore tightly pulled back, and "expressive eyes"--at least, that's what she'd been told by the guys she used to fool around with in the backseats of their cars.

She didn't really feel too guilty about fooling around, she thought. Her family was more religious than she was; threats of death and hell offered little deterence from her life of sin, which, apparently, included getting felt up, occasionally leading to not-so-good sex, and sometimes smoking weed with her brother and his best friend in the laundry room of their apartment. That's not to say she was a problem child, or even a person predisposed to lawlessness. She was a good student and respected her parents' wishes, for the most part--up to the point where her rebelliousness kicked in. She knew that Josephine herself understood her daughter had a deep rebellious streak, a problem with authority that lay below her docile surface.

All worldliness and vices aside, she'd say she knew little about the world she so often ovserved from the outside. Peoplewatching was her favorite pastime, so she continued, tempted to skip her next class. It was a 90-minute long lecture on the classics of the 18th century, taught by a professor so boring she had to bring Mountain Dews to every class. Literature was enjoyable, but not more so than music, which ignited passion within her. She'd longed to practice piano or even the violin, as her music teachers over the years had cajoled more than encouraged. During senior year, her high school music teacher claimed she was blessed with the gift of long, lean fingers just perfect for making "beautiful music". Apparently he shared the same digital gift, as three months later she found herself in his office after school, sitting on his lap as he practiced his fingering inside her.
First post is dedicated to the reasoning behind this new page.

I got a jolt of inspiration this afternoon while waiting for class to start, and before I knew it I'd written almost a page (in my characteristically tiny handwriting). So.. I'll post my random short stories, poems, or even mere paragraphs of prose for you. Don't steal, and if you'd like to comment, don't be mean. Thanks.

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© Laura Farr

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