0 0 0

My best friend has fallen in love

This post is not available to guests, please login or register to view this post.
0 0 0

White Knight Complex

(Save Your Soul - Jamie Cullum)

I don't know how not to save people. I'm sorry. Forgetting that I'm a hero scares me.

Not being a hero? Forgetting that feeling is every other day. That scares me.

I'm not looking away because I'm ashamed of you, your legs, your hair, not even those angry eyes. I love those eyes, even when they burn me. Especially. I mean, I know you've earned them. I know we've all earned them, that you've struggled. I'm not looking away from any of that. I'm looking away from me - I can see the reflection. I can't meet anybody's eyes too long. I see me.

I see the biggest, baddest, burliest son of a bitch to ever overclock his amygdala. Sure, you can fly, but when I run? The ground flies. The air cuts corners around me. Sound bends. Light gets a little closer. And when I have to hit something? I hit it hard. I hit my target. I've saved sixty-seven lives. I've never killed anyone, because that's not how it works for me. It doesn't scare me.

It's the feeling that thrives. It's remembering how invincible felt. It's forgetting growing up. No.

No, it's all those others days that scare me. The days I sit in that office chair with one broken wheel. Circling around a spot burned into the carpet. Papers unwritten. Meditations incomplete. My screen beeps with your messages for hours sometimes, but I've got just enough left in me to set myself as "Away". Because I am. Away. It's not the gift. It's not the losses. I'm not sad.

I just am. Away. So yeah. I save people. I work hard to be the big, bad, burly son of a bitch.

And I flinch when you look at me like I'm the bad guy. Because if I'm the bad guy? Well...

Then what the fuck is all of this for? What the fuck am I here for?

It's okay if I'm a hero. Heroes aren't allowed to be happy. If I'm a hero? Then I'm okay.

I can get up. I come back. I smile. I remember that you love me. I remember me.

Prompt: An amnesiac Anonymous asked me:

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, questions, attention, exposure, and more.
0 0 0


He didn't want to take it, but he took it anyway.

It was too small in his large, unclumsy hands. Too smooth, when he could barely feel it out through all the calluses. Too light, when he was used to bearing burdens. Too clean. Too much.

He didn't want to open it, but still, he opened it.

The clasp opened too easily. His finger and thumb were too well trained. He'd opened another, a twin to this one, one too many times over too many nights. It left scars on the hard hide he'd earned. That's why it felt too small, too smooth, too light, too clean. Too little. The clasp hurt.

He didn't want to look at it, but he looked.

He didn't look up. He didn't want to watch her leave.

Of all the things that he'd survived, he didn't expect to survive seeing an empty locket.

Where was his face? His picture? He'd wanted to see the man he used to be.

So had she, but she'd thrown it out anyway.

Prompt: via writeworld.

He stared at the locket, and it shook in his trembling hands.

Writer’s Block

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

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Ow. Ow, ow, ow. Fuck. Ow. Ow. Ow. Writing hurts. Novels? More.

0 0 0

Curled Up

There's a heavy lump in my throat, next to the warm body, next to mine.

There's such a softness that I can't believe I'm reaching out to touch it. The calm, cool curve of a sleeping shoulder. The lion purr of her rising, falling chest. Her elbows burrow in and down my chest, arms pressed close like a guard against me. Little puffs of breath push through to taste and tease my neck. All curled up in a den of lithe little arms, drawn-in knees, and so much hair I can't see her face. I don't need to see her face, but I wouldn't have minded. Much. So I can't see her.

But I can smell her - no poetic scent, just a human being.

And I can feel her - heat, breath, and a constant pressure.

The pressure builds. The pressure crests. Something between a long sigh and a deep yawn escapes.

I slump forward in an empty bed, now half-awake and out of memories. The lump slides back in.

Was it a dream? No, I must have been awake. Just crazy.

I can't sleep next to anyone.

Prompt: A lackadaisical Anonymous asked me:

What I'd like to wake up to every day...

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, 6 more followers, and hot platonic love.

1 0 1

Start to Finish

Eye contact. Smile. Look away. A sideways glance. Eye contact. Grin. Uncertain Laughter.  

“Is it just me or is this super awkward?”

“It's not just you.”

“Well that's a relief...”


Pause. Look away. Look up.


“So, you like me, huh?”

“I mean... I don't know you.”


“But I would like to.”

“Oh.” A smile.


A meeting. Refreshments. Conversation. Laughter. Conversation. Deep and intimate thoughts, exchanged.


“This is weird.”

“What is?”

“I don't know...” Awkward half-laugh. “I guess it's just that, we've only just met. You and I have really only seen each other a few times but the way we talk, it's familiar. Like we've been exchanging witty banter for years now and this is just a part of our routine.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No... It shouldn't be...”

“You don't seem sure of your answer.”

“I suppose I'm just not used to letting people in.”

“Is that what's happening here? You're 'letting me in'?”

“I think so.”

“Does that scare you?”



Another meeting. More conversation. More laughter. Performances given. Performances observed. Performances, enjoyed. A car ride. A confession.


“Hey, can I tell you something?”


“I haven't been totally honest with you.”


“Well, you see,” inhale, “I like you. I mean, I guess I have sort of a crush on you. It's fine if you don't feel the same I just – I wanted to clear the air.”






Time wasted. Time spent. Time shared. A plan. A get together. A weekend get away. Alcohol. A touch. A joke becomes a proposition. A kiss.


“I thought you didn't feel the same way about me.”

“Maybe I changed my mind. Maybe you misunderstood me. Maybe I lied. You'll never know.”

“Won't I?”

“Maybe.” Pause. “I'm not looking for a relationship.”





More kissing. Touching. A break. Lie down. Sleep. A day passes.


“What happened yesterday probably shouldn't happen again.”

“Alright. Why?”

“I really like you. I don't want to get hurt.”

“I understand.”


Weeks pass. A friendship grows. Feelings grow. Two people. A sleep over. A morning spent together. An afternoon spent together.


“I have a problem.”

“What is it?”

“Well, remember what I said? About keeping 'us' a friendship?”


“I changed my mind.”


“I want you. And even if I can't have all of you, I like you a lot. I shouldn't not do something because I'm afraid of being hurt.”




A nod. Smile. Lean in. Kiss. Kiss harder. Fall back. Hands push. Pull. Hips sway. Fingers wander. Lips wander. A tongue slips. Lips part. A moan. A sigh. A plea.


“Don't stop.”


A dynamic changes. Hugs. Hands held. Kisses. Warm embraces. Bodies fit like puzzle pieces. Heads on shoulders. Sounds absorbed. Scents memorized. Sights, mesmerized. Time passes. A dynamic changes.


“I guess I'm just afraid that, if we get together, I don't know... things will change. Or, worse, they'll end. Just like that, just as soon as they've begun.”

“I mean, we're already pretty much in a relationship, all that's missing is the title.”

“I know but it just feels different”

“Well, I don't want to pressure you but I know what I want. It's still the same. I still want you. We could stay together years or we could break up an hour from now but I'd like to give us a shot.”



“Do you want to be with me?”



Time passes. Happiness. A relationship grows. A love grows. Suddenly, things change.


“So, I think it's for sure. I think I'm leaving.”


“A couple weeks...”

“Okay... You know, as much as this is going to hurt, I think you're doing the right thing. This is really important for your future. No matter what, I support you one hundred percent.”

“Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you too.”


Four days before three months. A great distance. One has been gone some days. Things have become too much. Tears. No embrace.


“I love you. I love you so much. But I can't handle this.”

“I love you too. What do you want to do?”

“More than anything, I want to be with you. I want us to be happy again. But that's not something that seems possible right now.”

“I know.”


“So what do you think we should do?”

“I don't know... I guess... I guess, for now, we should just be friends.”



For weeks after, her eyes watered as though she'd been staring at the sun and had only just stopped to make eye contact. She stumbled when she walked, drunk off sleepless nights and restless thoughts. Her only redeeming quality was that she did this with a smile on her face. People believed that her allergies were acting up. People believed that the medicine was having side effects. The smile she so often wore to comfort others, remained, as genuine and soothing as ever. As quickly as they were created, whole worlds shattered inside her. Universes fell apart in the folds of her skin. Stars didn't explode out of existence, they simply ceased to be and all she was left with, was the hollow black of empty space.  

0 0 0

The Bard's Tongue

I Don't Trust Myself (With Loving You) by John Mayer on Grooveshark

The only words that come to me, come in poetry. Yet here I am, covered in snot and tears and a shaking sack of broken lines, and I'm supposed to find this beautiful? Is this what I'm here for?

I mean, I know all the right words, or at least a few good ones. Her hair - I could just say something about her hair, about the way it used to shine in the light. Used to. No, no. Not her hair. Her eyes, then? Gods, I can't remember the color of her eyes. Her eye-shadow used to glitter, turquoise and gold sometimes. Kohl used to smoke and streak like some other culture's stolen mysteries, like something cursed. Now? The only colors I can see are red cracks and muddy, murky stains. So no. No, not her eyes. Let's just forget about her face entirely. Okay.

Okay. I can lie, I guess. I could be empathetic. I could try to understand her situation, but fuck, I'm barely surviving my own. Who came up with this scenario? You cry, I hold you. I cry, you hold me. Is that all we are? Just.. pillars on a weak foundation, holding one another up? Is the ground that bad? Is the floor that horrible? Can I even care about somebody else so very goddamned broken? Can I?

Should I? Or is this about me? Oh, yes. Of course. It's always about me. I mean, I know all the right words, or at least a few good ones. At one time or another, I've even meant them. 

They don't work on me. Still, I hope that they make you feel better.

I'm at my most honest when you beg me to lie.

Prompt: An expressive Anonymous asked me:

"Never let me go".

Yup. And I've got the notes to prove it...

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, reblogs, feedback, or proof you read this.

0 0 0



(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.

0 0 0


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.

0 0 0

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!

0 0 0

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