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Legacy Might Be a Dick

I like to think of myself as a nice guy. I even wondered why the lava supermodel seemed to be crying. Or leaking.

Probably leaking. Lava girls don't cry. Do they?

Anyway, I hit her with a trash can. She falls. The can melts.

The poor guy underneath her hips had third-degree burns, scratches and body pressure cauterized against his neck and other tenderer locations,  but he'd live. If he got medical help. Like me. I'm not a doctor. I skipped my residency to aid foreign kids in...uh... I forget. Guam?

Anyway.

Black lips hissed like a wasted sirloin, then she lunged at me. Probably a scream or roar or something. So I slash the lid across the back of her (literal?) obsidian hair as hard as I can. 

She falls. The lid starts to bend like butter. I drop it fast. 

I hit my panic button for an ambulance - private care is always faster, then I get him elevated and covered in my tux. I knew that jacket would get ruined. Who hosts a party in Detroit? I work soup kitchens, sure, but let's be serious.

Okay. Maybe not everyone in Detroit's a demon. Maybe.

The demon snaps up, throwing a clumsy punch. The air from it scorches an inch off of my left eyebrow and warps my glasses right out of prescription. Goddamnit.

"Those were 200 dollar glasses, asshole!" I throw an overstated roundhouse kick that sends her flying. The Italian leather goes with her, seared into her face. I swear. 

Then the fire in her dies. Under the ashes, there's a knockout blonde in the natural. Unconscious, but crying.

"Oh, goddammit..." I mutter. 

Like the superhero I aim to be, I give 8-Mile a good look at my fantastic obliques as I carry my demon off in my own shirt. I keep on the cummerbund, though. I am sexy.

And, yes, Doctor Franks, I know it. It was going to be a dumb party anyway. Exes...

 

writeworld:

I don't just want to be famous, I want people to really love me.

Writer’s Block


In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

Because I like to see capable "normals" on a roster. His privilege is his superpower. He means well,  I swear.  He's just really, really working on his daddy issues. And god complex. And...

(C) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins.  Send me prompts.

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Anthrópinos Biblio

You were the novel I had 
somewhere on my book shelf
(i never read you)  

the one I wanted my arms
to wrap around some day.
(I never held you) 

I wanted to feel the weight 
of your spine
(how heavy was your cross?) 

to let your words 
send shivers 
down mine.
(tell me how hard you fought.) 

I wanted to see how 
your sleeve 
caught the sun’s rays
(I didn't see you at all) 

in a hot-as-an-oven July,
on a warm-as-ever August day.

I wanted to crash 
into your world,
and crawl beneath its sky.
(I should have) 

Oh but how I hate spoilers,
don’t we all?

I hate them.

I hated the finding out;
(life cheats us all)  

I hated the shapes my mouth made.

Saturdays hurt now.

October smarts my tongue,
it’s too cold.

I was told 
that you were
(too cold) 

because
like oral tradition,
your 
circulation
stopped

Fuck ‘the end’ and 
all the ‘never agains’
I will always 
love y—

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Promises To Keep And Miles To Go Before I Speak, or, Update (27/7/13)

Silence has always bothered me. Not silence in conversation so much, as sometime there is nothing to say; but silence in writing.

 

I have always felt awkward when I haven't written anything in a while. I get that same feeling like when someone hurls an insult at you and you can't think of a witty reply until hours later and you say "That's what I should have said!"

That's how I feel when I'm silent in my writing.

And I'm going to be be silent for a while to come unfortunately. Or, more correctly, silent in this big Happy-Land known as the internet.

 

But just because I am silent here does not mean I am silent everywhere. I am taking some time away from my short stories as I have a novel to complete. I've been working on it for about two years now and I believe it's time to see it done. I'm hoping to have it complete before the year's end (or, at least in some form that's akin to a readable and, dare I say, enjoyable novel).

 

That being said, I do feel as though I have maybe one or two short stories left to tell before I take this internet vow of silence. I promise nothing, only that if I do write them, you can find them here and that they will be worth the read.

 

I'll still be around though, like an evicted tenant who has nowhere else to go, rifling through your bins and scanning your blogs for something to keep me warm.

 

I will still be writing for www.fbiradio.com in case your needing a fix of my amazingly brilliant humour (aka testicle and fart jokes) and once I'm done with the novel, I plan on sharing a chapter or two with you all here.

After all, if it wasn't for the internet, I would never have found the courage to find my writing voice, something which, while you may not find it online, you'll definitely be hearing from again. Soon hopefully than later.

 

And so, I leave you with the sound of silence.

 

Talk soon,
Daniel. 

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i wanted messy
i wanted searing hot
i wanted noisy
i wanted bloodshot

give me slamming doors, pointed fingers, ties tearing
five months of sealed bottles, wall-broken and glaring 
give me guns blazing and emptied clips
innocence and never-been-kissed lips

i wanted messy
i wanted searing hot
i wanted noisy
i wanted bloodshot

instead i did what i do best
i took my bags and threw away the rest
i cut my tongue, i walked away
i should have known you’d have nothing to say

i wanted messy
but kept my composure
i wanted searing hot
your apathy froze over
i wanted noisy
not even a botttle spilled
i wanted bloodshot
my misgivings fulfilled

instead of breaking until all crumbled
i let myself; i never mattered
so away i stumbled
while inside i shattered

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Bringing the Band Together.

o0Oo0Oo by Oberhofer on Grooveshark

Nimble fingers plucking out a random rhythm on a beat-up bass. That was everything to her.

She used to care about big, shiny parties. Sometime, she still shivered from the long-expired leftovers. She could feel the hungry people, clutching at her like finger sandwiches, soaking her skin in champagne. She remembered feeling beautiful at first. Like a tablecloth, you know, before.

White-on-black kicks, scuffed into something gray, textured, and tough tapped out a rhythm.

She used to dream about music. Now she needed songs to sleep. She used to roll down rivers, Brandon Boyd singing a lullaby while whatever new dad roamed the halls in the wrong direction. Her way. She let Lostprophets drown out all the girls who hated her hips, all the boys who loved her body, while she sunk deep into circuit boards and sound consoles. She was Tragedy Bound.

Lips popping out percussion, until clean, white teeth part and pull at the cheap, red second skin.

She lights went brought across the cityscape and she looked up. The gunshots didn't get any quieter. Police sirens and ambulances still roared like an angry crowd. The light was supposed to be about hope, but what's hope without music? What's imagination without a little desperation?

Then some creeper walked by, a zonked half-naked girl in his arms. Her mental record skipped.

STALKER by the pillows on Grooveshark

 

He was dressed like Chippendale's. It was just the sort of thing she'd see at the wrong parties back West. The music stopped, or at least it shouldn't have. She didn't notice the riffs ramping up. She only heard the ringing in her ears, her half-imagined battle aura like some anime. She imagined being strong.

Then she slammed her Rickenbacker hard across the back of his skull. He didn't see it coming.

The girl dropped, but he went flying a good 30 feet into a Cadillac. She hadn't seen that coming.

Then the gang across the street spilled out like ants. Then the blonde girl woke up and spontaneously combusted. Then a black girl cosplaying TRON goes to PROM descended from the sky. Then a random... girl? Boy? Street kid dropped a reuben and screamed like all hell. At her.

Holy rusted metal, Batman... She was glowing. Her bass vibrated like sex. The track changed...

Gold Guns Girls by Metric on Grooveshark

Nessa blinked. Nessa freaked out for exactly two and a half seconds.

Then Vanessa Elliot kicked a lot whole Metric ton of ass.

Prompt:

Writer’s Block

Music is love in search of a word. Find the words.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this song. Write something about this song .

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

And with the team brick, I'll shelve that experiment. That said, if anyone requests more stories of any/all of these characters, I'm happy to continue. (Adamant | Michael/Noel | Cali | Legacy )

You never call... You never write... These old bones start to worry.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts and more.

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The Exhausted Optimist

Don't you see? You see, wanting is the death of having. And no, it's not a pretty death.

Don't be ridiculous. Nothing's pretty until somebody makes it up. If only with their eyes.

How many dreamers have you met in life? How many romantics have you come across? How many projects, plans, and perfect days have been just across the next horizon? How many wadded-up pricks of paper line your pockets? Be honest now. None isn't as sad as several. Let me explain.

What sane kind of creature makes their fingers bleed? Who writhes and swears and throws things with real value over something half-imagined and half-overheard? Who cries at songs, for what they say, but for the words in them that they have to just pretend to understand? Do you? I'm sorry.

I'm not sorry if you don't, though. There's dying ugly, and there's dodging life. Tomorrow, will you? Today, will you buy little notebooks and a few dozen more guitar picks? Yesterday, did you go to bed with a full belly and an empty page or two? Did you set goals? Were you reasonable? Well?

Wanting and not doing is so much easier than trying and failing. This is already known.

Wanting and losing is so much easier than failing again. Again. Again. This is no surprise.

So do. And do. And do until the day you die. You may not even once, not even once manage a damned thing. But you'll die with full pockets and fingers that feel good to the raspy touch.

Want will eat you alive. It has. It will. Too bad.

Bite back while you can.

Prompt: hourlywritingprompts:

Writing prompt of the hour: desire

He said to himself, projects on the afterburner. Because it's not the block, but the silence after...

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Send me prompts, questions, feedback, or anything. I'll be here.

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Tastemaker

Paparazzi by Greyson Chance on Grooveshark

"Remain calm," I always whisper against my microphone. Because that's the only truth I know.

Some words, by their nature, have the opposite effect. The more I lie, the more truth itches.

I travel the world, sucking oxygen from pressurized first-class cabins or breathing in the cigar stink of one too many taxi cabs. I interview the most interesting and mostly-human people, and then I make collages out of their own words, in their own words. I make entire pictures out of my choice of frames, and let me tell you. I am very good at sating you without the substance.

But that's the trick, isn't it? That's the burlesque show we came to see. A glimpse, but only that.

I bare the barest edges of a human being for a living, so that you can feed your fantasies  raw pork and other not-quite-kosher meats. So remain calm. Be fine. Trust me. Don't think about it.

Pay me to make your skin itch, so that your families of famous and familiar ghosts remain alive.

But... your mosaics don't belong to you, and never forget it. I make entire pictures out of frames.

And let me tell you... I am very good at shining new light through a broken, fun-house mirror.

I can make the stars you love out of anything. That is my very special super-power.

"Remain calm."

Prompt: writeworld:

Writer’s Block

Music is love in search of a word. Find the words.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this song. Write something about this song .

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

Still looking for writers interested in a review! Just send links to A Prompt Review.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins

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The Crow and Wolf Woman

Should a fool girl venture on the Silent Snows

Thump-thump. Thump-thump! Like drums, ears will ring...

For ike crows, like carrion beasts, they fell upon one just like her.

They rent her raw and ragged, flesh to scraps, and swallowed.

They tore out her kidney meats first

To make her bloody run filthy.

Then they tore out her ice-green eyes.

To blind her to the warmer world.

Then they consumed her songbird tongue

So no more music graced her pretty little lips.

Then, last? They left her heart in its cage of white

To sour, rot, and thump out music nothing like a song.

Like crows, like carrior beasts on the Silent Snows, they now follow.

And she will rend you down to ragged flesh,

To her music. Thump. A-thump. A-thump.

Prompt: hourlywritingprompts:

Writing prompt of the hour: en masse

A little taste of the macabre for a busy night. So busy. So night-like. Good night. Good night...

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, feedback, and more.

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Rising Action

In my fantasies and little frissons, it's never that last kiss - it's the shared breath between former strangers.

When I imagine my idea of victory, it's never the end of the road - it's the wall's first bright crack.

When I don armor and draw chimeric steel, I never dream of the killing blow, but of suiting up.

When I imagine your arms around me, it's not a wedding day or the twirling in the air at airports.

I live on waiting for, "Hey."

I ache and fight and train for the day when I say, "Hey," back? You really get it.

I'm in love with that first capital letter. I mean, who knows how the sentence will

 

Prompt: Anonymous asked you:

Write about what you value the most

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins - Submit prompts, requests for advice, or items for review to prompts@aprompripost.com.

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Having Kittens

We drowned the litter 
in a black bag by the
river never forgetting to 
feed each one milk.

It tugged at your fingers
purring as the white nectar
squeezed out from a bottle
landed on each small wet tongue.

We’d met one week one summer
there and then moved in together
greeted by chubby Mother moulting
by the empty fireplace.

Then came the Autumn that nipped at our heels,
feeding us bone soup and canned dog food.
The days and our cash were short.

That Christmas Day we ate our last supper in toast of 
the year’s survival; rice, peas, red wine;
whilst Mother screamed wrenching five 
out of her five covered in blood, mucus, miracles.

You blew the last cash on a pair of blunt scissors
and I sweeped your hair into the fire. Mother was stiff
her fur damp with the spit of her five furless spawn
mewing and licking at the dry lumps on her chest.

After, you’d leave me there to watch the bubbles
rise then stop, thinking the days were never
long enough the nights were never 
fast enough the water never 
deep enough for me the day 
we drowned the litter in a black bag
by the river.