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You slapped that Royal Flush down hard,
harder than a hard-headed heart
who just broke 21,
with hardiness and guard undone.
It’s hard to be the joker of omit
in your set of cards, I’ll admit,
but if ever this was a game to play,
this is chess, and not cardplay, I’d say,
for you’ve stormed the castle and broke the gates,
removed the king, and declared checkmate.

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(Prompt: Symmetrical Dance by ~kamakebelieve, via characterinspiration)

Beauty has a certain gift for contradiction. No, not contradiction. Deceit. Layers. Interpretation.

Or maybe it's that I do. Maybe I'm just crafting stories,  making myself the hero. Wiser. Worthy. 

Some might see little hands with unremarkable fingers, little arms with too little mass. Eyes hop down the stepping stones of her bare spine, never quite finding a slope worth stopping for. Or not.

How sad is that, to see so little in so much? They or I can't imagine the texture on her fingertips. They or I can't make out wires underneath her skin, arms ready to fly or tense or tuck into a moving picture portrait.They or I see stepping stones, not the feather trigger mechanism, set to launch a body against gravity. Hard. Soft. Controlled. Raw. Energy. 

Some see a dress. Pretty flowers. Vain and soft. A blanket over a dear girl and a dusty floor.

Some see potential energy, waiting for that kinetic kick. For life. To whirl. To move.

I see a goddess. I see a woman bowed and bent. I want to see her weak, to save her. Strong, to save me.

No matter what, I see a hammer cocked back, light but as heavy as a body, ready to fire. Blow. Burn.

I see a shot ready to pierce me. And I just pray that I'm a target.


(C) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Always seeking writing prompts.

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I set a foot into the licking edges of an infinite. Beyond? A lip. A gaping throat. The abyss itself.

All around me, children played and teenagers tried or failed to make love.

Beyond lay waves that have kissed a dozen coasts. Beyond lay azure, cerulean, and emeralds rendered down to a juice that sparkles diamond-bright with salt. Under the sun. Under the moon. Under stars. Beyond the edges lie a thousand colors under a roaming band of sunsets. Beneath?

Darkness. The self-conscious tan, the uncomfortable cook and peel, and someone reads a book.

In that darkness are creatures vast enough to bring us back to a history that does not favor us. Lovecraft's unmentionable horrors reflect the sea that's right in front of us. It's swallowed ships, dreams, ambitions, and Amelia Earhart. If you dare to delve down deep, you will be crushed. If you rise or fall too quickly, bubbles will erupt inside your blood. She can't be forced, only courted.

Somewhere, my mother shouts that I'm daydreaming. My sister puts something cold against my neck. She thinks I'll snap awake, but I am awake. I'm awestruck, in love, and terrified.

I suck on a plastic, freezy cylinder thing while I contemplate that great blue frontier.

Man... freezy pops are rad. Treats and salt water make a man profound. 

Prompt: A pelagic Anonymous asked me:


So glad to be home for a while. That said? I want to reblog stuff. Well, I want to reblog stuff with a review added. So if you want a piece reviewed? E-mail me and I'll reblog it. So there.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. And as always, I welcome your prompts.

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The First

My lip still aches from a hungry nibble, just a pound per square inch past what might be called a bite. It wasn't a bite, though; there's a certain way that only teeth can cuddle, safe and sharp.

My lip still throbs. The punctures pulse and drip onto my tongue. I can taste soaking, sticking mouthfuls of my own blood, rising like gorge from a knotted belly. I feel like I'll live forever in that moment, in that flavor, in the aftershocks of something sweet and this yawning time ahead.

Vampirism is a curse.

I still stink from sweat and lubricants, social and otherwise, under the first shirt that I could find. It isn't mine. It doesn't fit. That tightness  used to feel safe. Now the neck is choking me.

Toys still lay abandoned where they fell, rolled, or hung from headboards and helpful rafters. Confetti, not rose petals, line the not-even-that-good cotton sheets. Our champagne came in plastic flutes. I won't even mention what we did with the floppy little buzzers. I can't even think about funny hats without breaking out in tears. Not in front of strangers. Not now. No, not now.

New years are supposed to be beginnings.

We'd fought, but no, it wasn't that clichéd. Was it? Is it? We'd tossed things in a row.  We hit. We cried. We kissed. We'd said words that, yeah, you really can take back in time. We even said a few that, yeah, you never really can.

We even made a resolution: to live and love like there's no tomorrow. We just needed coffee. It was just across the street. Our street. This was a home. Home's supposed to be our safe place.

I wasn't ready. I'm not ready. Please. Please, just this time, God.

But the ambulance isn't in a hurry anymore.

New years are supposed to be beginnings. Vampirism is a curse. This lip will throb forever.

Prompt: A reminiscent Anonymousasked you:

You never know the last time is the last time.

Love is ambiguous. Loss is universal. Sometimes you don't see it coming. Sometimes... you do.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins, seeking writing prompts, feedback, review requests, or questions!

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A Chill with Destiny

Meeting you was a choice. What came next? That was destiny.

I could have walked through any other door. I could have slammed it. Nailed it shut. I could have run my Chevy through the cheap and shoddy frame of the facade. I could have killed a dozen people. It's not that I'm morbid, the idea just struck me on the way in. It was kind of funny.

After all, my therapist said that I should be spontaneous. I'm getting to that.

When I saw you, I could have escaped from the strings of fate. I even thought about it for a second. A second's a long time for a talented social deflector like myself. I could have caressed you with my eyes, sliding away in just the right way to jiujutsu right over my shoulder. I could have bumped on, bumped you, and bumped through. I could have started talking to a very awkward stranger, loud and unconvincing. If I was really being honest, I could have withered in a sweat right then and there.

After all, I have a history of anxiety and difficulties communicating, or so they say. I'm getting there.

Instead, I said 'Hi.' You said, "Huh?" I said, "Hi" again at a human-audible volume and threw my name in after. I came off as clumsy, dialed in, and so over-committed to the small talk.

Apparently, you liked that. That's fate. That's destiny. That's doom.

You have every choice in the world, except for what's in someone else's head. Watch your ass.

It didn't work out, by the way. Spontaneous isn't sustainable and no one cures me, but me.

Just thought you'd like to know.


Prompt: An auspicious Anonymous asked you:

Write about fate
A bit of a delightful wander through my unusual head. Not bad for out of town. (c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins  
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I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) by Sleeping at Last on Grooveshark


There's nothing wrong with silly little love songs. There's something wrong with heaviness.

I sat there, propped against a door and buried in the road dust of a dozen years. I couldn't see my face reflected in the little mirror wind-chimes anymore. My legs were too long and couldn't hold me up. The cracked white porch. The cracked white swinging chair, half-cracked and half slapped to the ground. Worn and weathered, that was us. Worn, weathered, and too heavy to fully fall.

So we lean.

I know there's nothing on the other side of that door. The road dust of a dozen years doesn't just wash away. I'll never be a boy again and you're already long gone and lighter than air. The only way to get less heavy is to fall, but we old things are heavy. We're stubborn. We're tough.

So we lean.

I'd cry if I still had tears in my chest, the kind of fluttering panic that used to move my eyes whenever you looked too hard at me. I'd get up, if I had anywhere to go. I'd fall over, if I had the strength. It would be comfortable with any company. Well. I had the door. The house. Time.

So we lean.

In time? Time will crumble us and we'll both be as light and free as the dust I couldn't touch.


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!

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Write about a journal. Does it have an interesting look? Who does it belong to? Is it a mystery? Does it have a lock? What types of entries are inside? Are they personal thoughts, information, or random notes? Try writing them. 

(Prompt: GTD Index + Notebook + leather cover + antique key by Patrick Ng via get-scribbling)

I want to keep a record of the real you. Not before, not after, but who you ought to be.

I'm going to scratch on dry, browning paper all the perfect words that won't get any older, any wiser, any harder from the friction of the lives we've led. It'll just be wet ink on dry wood, treated with more care than we ever really managed. I'll leave the marks I always saw in you.


But this time, I'll be so much more inspired. I'll see you through me, past me, and over me. This time, I'll describe you. I'll go down every detail like little bites along your shoulder blades - I'll make it good, I promise, make it more about you than just myself. I'll rework every unsung song, revise every half-spoken conversation. I'll do you better. I'll be better. You'll be better than...

...You know. Before.

And when I'm done? You'll know. You'll see. I hope you cry, because you haven't for too long.

And when I'm done? I'll give it all to you: a leather-bound notebook, a key, and even matches.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins

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You Miss Me (and you know it)

I am not godless,
I just wake up in the morning
Feeling a longing
For something I never had,
And at 2 am the moon shines
Right in my window,
Reminding me 
That another floating piece of junk
Is only 238,900 miles away.
So button your lips, 
And button your coat,
Because the summer is turning to fall,
And the leaves are burning 
Like the fire in the souls 
Of those who know what they’re fighting for.
I’ve said it before, 
But there is nothing more beautiful
Than the stars in the sky.
Look up, they burn just for us.
Remember when we were younger?
We wanted to be the sky. 
Less than two years later, we still want to be something marvelous,
We just arent sure what.
Determination pulses through our veins,
Glowing as if we are made 
Of radiation. 
Wake up! 
The world is calling,
So you better answer.
You’re lost, uncertain,
You love with your full being.
The tides of distant shores whisper our names,
Like ghosts that wander the decks of ships
Long ago lost to the sea.
And with the storm raging inside of you,
Release the kraken!
Let all know what fury you contain,
Strike fear into the hearts of those 
Who did you wrong,
But never forget to be gentle to those
Who spoon-fed you compliments when you were feeling lower 
Than the bottom of the Grand Canyon,
Who sewed you up, mending your wounds
From the last time you hit the self destruct button.
They collect your pieces, and rebuild the city
That was your heart,
The fortress that for so long kept everyone out,
And held so few in.
And I fell, like a comet from the sky,
Crash-landing straight through those walls,
Convincing you to leave it down,
Let me clean up the mess this time.
But no broom could sweep away the cobwebs 
In the parts of your heart that were made to love.
You’ve been alone for so long,
That you didnt even notice when I left
Until it was too late, 
All that was left was my shadows on the walls
And a few broken pieces of my own
That I havent been able to reclaim,
No matter how many people put their mind to mending me.

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Choosing to leave

The sky was bloody by the time he left.
You gave him everything inside, turned 


your spine inside out to show him how much
you needed him to walk, let your stomach fall 


to the floor to prove your hunger, coughed
up your Adams apple to let him take the first 


bite.  He left you mangled in the driveway,
buried in cement, drove away from a life


he never lived. You watched the sky turn
to bullet holes. The night formed crystals


under your eyes, spent years in therapy
so you could run again. The effects of watching


someone you love choose to leave ripple 
through your existence.  Their emptiness 


can be felt in everything, walking the dog,
washing the dishes, sleeping alone.  You beg


not to be boxed up in closet space.  When
he is finished, you asked to be shipped home.


He will find someone new who does not 
replace you, but becomes you. Stealing 


your skin from thrift shop windows. One day, 
you will find someone who becomes him.


One day, you will heal, the sky will change 
from red to blue, but today the sky is still bleeding.

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Cold Calculations

I beg you to stay with me,

pleading for yet another cold day

of  you looking at me

as if you never hated anyone more

and your scorching words

brutally reminding me

of my abundant inadequacies.


You always sullenly oblige,

and we suffer through another cold evening

of this hell.

Every night as you fall into

 a nightmarish slumber,

you hold me so close as if

you think I can protect you from

your tormented mind.


Your body warms my skin

yet another cold night

but the broken sobs

and tortured whispers

telling me that you love me

when you think I’m sleeping

chill me to the bone.


You kiss my neck and stroke my thigh

at the break of another cold dawn

until I turn to you

and we lose ourselves

in a momentary glimpse

of past happiness.

Morning arrives too soon

and the warmth of the golden light

complements your burning, blue glare.

Love lies abandoned

between our now chilly sheets

as you wake to resent me

another day.


I don’t know what’s worse:

the potential pain of losing you

or the pain of having you here

telling me how desperately you

wish you were not.