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

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  
1 0 1

Red Dress

They come for the red dress, not for the symphony gathering like storm clouds, waiting to spill from her fingertips, or her hair, black as the moonless night, cascading over her shoulders, caressing the small of her back.

She takes the stage, barefoot and tight-lipped. They wait for her instrument to sing, a syncopated melody made of tears, the endless silence of countless nights without sleep, wishing the dawn would never come.

The shower of applause fades as she raises her bow, a stillness reaching as far as the back row where the commoners sit. They do not know she has been fighting, penning love songs in the margins of an empty notebook, and lyrics on the pages in between.

Her first notes are a tapestry of sadness, a requiem for a lost soul, caged in iron and stone, immortal now only in the photographs on her vanity.

They do not come for the song bleeding from her instrument, or her broken heart pouring music into the barren wasteland of this ordinary life.  They come for the red dress…

… but I come for her.

0 0 0

Cinnamon and Vanilla.

I want to bite you, cut into your skin with my nails to see if your blood burns like mine, veins that hold lava and makes my bones writhe within. I am trapped, confined in a prison made of skin, a being of avarice and passion that melts into burgundy rivers and floods the valleys of my flesh. My body is set ablaze with brush strokes of capillaries that dance, sweat clinging like sweet morning dew to webs without spiders that glisten in daybreak. Our building orchestra of sighs and exclaims peak and crescendo at the last syllables, wrapping our mouths deliciously around names, savoring each sound like they tasted of cinnamon and vanilla – warm, soft with enough pungency to invoke gasps when lips were recaptured. You’d swear there was a bird, stuck inside of my chest when I am with you. It beats its wings so violently, trying to break free of its ivory cage and soar to the heights it craves. You are its liberator and jailer in one. Contradiction is the infliction it suffers, to lust for freedom and captivity together, the bitter sweet elixir I drink from your words. To consume and be consumed until there is nothing left but stories about a love that combusted with flames of a passion not understood. We are all that is bad but badness tastes so good in the arms of Love. Like sugar and spice and all things that dance in the darkness and beckons us in. We play in the dark because we are the obsidian butterflies that flirt with the forbidden, whispering confessions that bounce off our wings. I will be your penance for secrets shared but no appeasement for you. Not in this lifetime. Confide in me all your sins, please.. I’m listening.

4 0 4


I smell you in the morning, like sweet honeydew curling around my fingers. In a soft tendril of fragrance, I watch as they cast shadows, twirling in bed sheets painted by hanging linen against an open window. They're secretive, billowing from the warmth of the sun. I am radiant against you, for you, wrapped in you. I will be for all of time. Let me love you. Take me in. Become and we will, too, be wrapped like irises of gold trapped in the small kisses you left against my shoulder and spine. I think that is where you will stay. I will keep you here in pale stains, made from our love, where my heart will trace the lines of forever. Infinity is spent, only in you, my love.

0 1 -1

I love you ('s)

I’m not a visual artist, by any means, no paint brush or concept of colour was I gifted with. I can’t design landscapes for you with lines and strokes of pastel calmness, tranquil scenes that lull and soothe you. I can’t today and I am not sorry nor will I ever be. What I can do is mix your ire on my palette and watch how it darkens the surface with passionate rage, like scarlet streaks that crudely crisscross. I paint with finger tips and lips. Crude materials to etch my name onto your skin, smudging cursive against your breath with all the I love you (’s) that we could hope to contain.

1 0 1

Brass keys and Cages.

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


Her shoes rest by the door, waiting for her to silently slip her feet into them. The floorboards creak as she slides out of the bed, looking over her shoulder at his sleeping frame. He looks so peaceful, but she can’t stay any longer than she has. 
She tiptoes past the records hanging on the walls, and shuts the bathroom door before turning on the light. 
In expo marker on the mirror, she writes him a message: “I’ll give you all my time, but not my love. I’m going to miss you when I’m gone. I hope you’ll miss me too.”
She throws her hair up into a bun, and turns the light off. 
The door hinges squeak slightly when she opens the door, but she can see him still sleeping in the dim light. 
She goes into his room, and picks up a tee shirt- his, one of his band tees- and walks to the door. 
She pauses, and surveys the scene behind her. The small kitchen sink with her cup still in it from the day before, the couch sitting in front of a tv, next to the door leading to the balcony, and beyond that, the sun slowly rising over the city. 
She sighs, and slips her feet into the waiting shoes. 
“Goodbye.” She whispers to the apartment, and the sleeping form one room over. 
She unlocks the door, takes one last, longing glance, and shuts it behind her.
The elevator seems to take forever to arrive, and each moment she is anticipating being caught. 
The doors open on the bottom floor, and she jogs outside the building and around the corner.
She sits down under the street light, and calls a cab.
“What’s a beautiful girl like you doing at this time of morning, alone?” The cabbie asks when she gets in. 
“Leaving.” She replies.
“The airport it is.”
The drive is agony, the lines inside the terminal worse, and when she finally steps foot on the plane, there is a hole in her heart that only time can repair.

3 0 3


Fragile lines I cross, no border control or passport attendant to question my right of being here. I belong here, on you, around you. I own the land that is you - my property, my landmarks of bites and scratches that separate my planes of acreage. Your continents of flesh and nerves I inhabit. I will dominate your soil, plunge my hands into its moistness and grow life, your laborer, mistress and God. I will consecrate and defile you, bathe you and worship you. No colony could hope to settle on terrains of such jagged landscape, rocks that bite and lacerate into my skin to hydrate you with crimson drops. I’ll feed you with my life and give my soul for you to flourish. You are my world.