1 0 1

The Grind

What makes the world work? I do.

And let me tell you a little something. It isn't conventionally pretty.

I do my rounds covered in a sheen of sweat, a film of oil, and a glittering of brass dust and iron filings. They all coat my curls, bristle my beard, and line my lungs with a sort of reverberating, constant cough. I cough like pistons strike. I croak like gears grind. I rasp in whatever the pneumatics hiss out.

I live for work. If I stop, you stop. If I stop, we all stop. So I work. I work.

It's crimson-gold down here. It's blood and molten gold. It sparks in 3/4 time. It's waltz, rococo, chiaroscuro, and it looks steampunk to those who don't know any better. There is no counterculture, no counter-clockwise turns here. This is the belly of the world and it does not care if you are dapper. It just works, because I work and I suck in all the mess life levels.

I am more rag sometimes than engineer, but that makes me twice as vital.

Life is a messy machine, after all, in constant need of delicate repair.

Prompt: via writeinspiration

Rapid Prompt - The gears of the world.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking prompts, feedback, and your attention.


1 0 1


(Prompt: This image by piper60, via picturewritingprompts)

Closed doors aren't all that new to me. I've been pushing all my life.

Inside, I can hear them. Sometimes, they're singing holiday songs. Sometimes, the only noises are the gnashing of something fleshy in between jaws, maybe the slosh of milk or wine. Sometimes, they're shouting. Sometimes, they hit each other, but that doesn't scare me.

We hit each other out here, too. Some of them don't know when to stop.

Inside, I catch all kinds of smells. Some good. Some bad. Some weird and rank and vile, like potpourri. Who's idea was it to dry out flowers, to ruin them in such a way, to fill the air with a sort of sun-scorched rot? Still, that doesn't scare me, either. Sometimes, it smells nice in there.

We get smells out here, too. Some of them remind me of too many things. Some of them just remind me of too much. Most aren't good.

Inside? I like to think they keep futures in there. It's silly, I know. They keep futures in banks and bedrooms, not in the foyer where I might see them, scent them, hear what one sounds like. I could have been a poet.

We get poets out here, too. After. Always after. It isn't pretty, not one bit.

I've been pushing on these doors my whole little life. And yeah, I know. They've got those kinds of handles. They're not push doors, they're pull doors. Still, I can't stop my palms, the sides of my arms, my shoulders. I push and push and push, and I think I know why. I don't want in there.

We get them out here, too. Some of them need to stay in there forever.

Some of them should never be let out.

If I pull? That kind might just pull back.

It's not so bad out here, is it? Nah.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, as always.

Last: Unprompted - Come One and All

0 0 0

A Couch Session With a Nature Spirit

You ever wonder if the rot ever gets lonely. I do. Get lonely.

I mean, it's such a destructive relationship.

What would you do, if nothing came to you until its ripeness faded? What would you have to say to something or someone or some story, already long past its prime? I'm sure it's still good for somebody. People and creatures, fungus and bacterial cultures out there are starving for a little malnutrition, but does that make it right?

If you come early, are you stealing freshness out of someone's mouth?

I mean, autumn's celebrated. All the colors on the leaves change, but then they fall. They become messy piles and some other poor bastard's problem. Pumpkin spice lattes go on sale, but they aren't really vegan, are they? Not really. That makes them killers, in an abstract sort of way, but so's time. So's society, if you want to get ridiculous and vague. If you want to feel important.

But what else is there do, when rotting season's catching up with us? If we've sowed, maybe we reap. If our luck's good, what we sowed wasn't swallowed up by crows or scarpered off with by some bloody savages. If our prayers can hold it, we might have something a little warm by winter. We might just be okay. But if we're the season? If i'm the rot? Then... will we really?

Sure, autumn's celebrated. So are compost heaps and fermentation. But there's a common theme. There's a thread that ties that all together. We feed the weary something ruined 'til the cold comes in. We're gone by the first green of spring. Don't get me wrong, rot works year round. I'll never die. But you'll never even feel me until you're already dying.

What kind of existence is that? No wonder I hate and haunt you.

No wonder autumn and fear are such good friends. Fear lasts.

Fear rots, but never really fades.

Prompt: via thedailywritingprompts


(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts. Need to review some tagged work. Busy.

1 0 1

A Gift to You

The sweet old words weren't written for me. You'll never sweep me off my feet. Is that it?

Is that why you've get that guilty look after you kiss me? 

I worked. I fought. I trained, just like everybody else. I've seen things, done things that set me twice apart from a world that has to glance down to even see me. The worst part? Then? They look away, like their eyes offend me. It's not the look that does it; it's that shame from looking.

Look at me. See me. See there's nothing wrong with me. But no. I haven't got a leg to stand on.

With the power, none of it should have mattered. When the glow and rhythm rolls against my spine, I feel it to the floor. It's not phantom limbs - they're phantom wings. I'd never waste a moment of that majesty on what I don't have. I'm not struggling to be you. I'm just struggling.

Am I trying to stand on my own two feet? No. I'm trying to fly. Why can't you see that?

It's fine to push me along, when I let you, but you're the one who should be thanking me.

You should be the one falling head over heels. Those sweet old words weren't written for me.

Prompt: A supine Anonymous asked me:

"to stand in your arms without falling to your knees."

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Open to prompts, feedback, suggestions, insights, or experiences.

0 0 0


The care of monsters requires, more than anything, a kind hand. They are born as nothing; as they are fed, they become.

He always shows his companion nimble, but forceful fingers. He strokes the razor ridges of her spine, ever careful but unafraid of the edge. Kindness is knowing danger, accepting it, and loving anyway. He taught her that, until his companion could meet his eyes without violence or fear.

He took care in training her. Others focus on the claws or wings or burning bile. Not him. He took her in his arms, into his room, into the living spaces of the world. He taught her what people are: laughter, fear. Music. He taught her music with a patient joy. He appreciated music.

Music is the scent of the soul, after all. It lingers in the air and reveals so much.

When she struggled - when her talons cut the steel strings, when she missed complicated notes, when she labored to convey human emotion - he took the time to lead her fingers, correct her errors, to explain how feelings ought to feel. He always smiled. He always gave her a reward.

He'd dangle the treat just shy of her fangs, bouncing and bobbing out of reach. He wanted her hungry. He needed her to understand. He made her wait, but not too long. It had to be fresh.

Just before the edges of rot would ruin the flavor, he dropped the dripping eye into her mouth. He'd give her a smile, give her another song to learn - this time, Paint It Black - and he'd listen.

While his companion labored, he scooped nimble, but forceful fingers into the skull of the crying man beside them. He understood how the man felt, even if he couldn't begin to feel it himself. All he felt was pride. Her music was improving. Her appetite was growing. She'd be ready soon.

Monsters are born nothing. They are what they're fed. Their care requires kind, nimble hands.

Prompt: via promptoftheday


A lizard learns to play the guitar

-thanks clovexei for today’s prompt

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking prompts, love, affections, and slavish devotion. Or cookies.

Title is a terrible pun.

1 0 1

By Any Other

What's in a name? Sounds? Syllables? Hopes, dreams, promises? A future? A legacy?

I wouldn't know. I wasn't given a name. I was given power.

The cities stink. It's not the exhaust or the coal dust. It's not the people pressed together like hogs in a pen. It's not the sweat of half-filtered alcohol and the back-alley puddles of urea. It's not the dying or the dead. It's the neither. Those yet waiting. Those, who at the end, shall wait more still.

They reek like a bare wound, rich with cream and crackling corners. What is their name?

I wouldn't know. They each have a name. It gives them power. It gives them purpose. And pain.

It gives them a function. The girl writhed on the ground, hugging her ratty leather jacket close. The name on the back said Priest, but the shoulders were far too big for her. Her cheeks hung too hard off the bone. Her eyes, wet and smoking, had seen more of hells than heavens. She saw me.

Those weeping, hissing eyes ran up my boots, but stopped. Trapped. Shuddering. "Run," she said.

"No," I answered. I knelt, placing a palm against her cheek. The weeping smoke billowed back from me like sailcloth, snap-taut in a heavy breeze. It howled, high and hideous, like a cracked pipe.

She met my eyes, or tried to. All she saw was the shadow fallen over my brow. She smiled.

"Are you an angel?" she asked me. Clinging. Sighing. "Are... can you help me? Who are you?"

There was a short snap, the screaming of a thing with an unspoken name, then silence.

"Solace," I answered. "Or something like it." I stood. I left. The smoke trailed after, unable to run.

What's in a name? A wish, and only that. It's the same wish any mother or father makes.

It's a wish that tomorrow will be better than yesterday.

Prompt: A lingering Anonymous offered: "Solace"

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

0 0 0


The sensation of the sight of the bare outline of my being has been known to cause tears.

Am I crying? So I am.

It is not the power. Nor the glory. Not the honor that drives in me, not anymore. It did. It was. I was, something glorious and powerful. Honor. No, honor's never left me. No. No, nothing has.

I am yet glorious, but I still feel ash and gristle dug deep in my fingernails. The grit of victory.

I am yet powerful. So much have I broken, I build little things when my mind's half asleep, a dreamer's penance. I give of what I have, more than I need, more than I dare. But I give. Why?

Because I remember the taking. Taking. Taking. And I remember that all of it was beautiful.

No, honor's never left me. Nor the glory. Nor the power. Nor the tears, both yours and mine.

I will never fall. Never falter. Never turn my face from the light that shines against my brow.

I don't deserve that kind of respite.

The light blinds me. I welcome it.


Prompt: via hourlywritingprompts

Writing prompt of the hour: resplendence

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, feedback, fanmail, and 8 more followers.

2 0 2

Gravity Always Wins

This post is not available to guests, please login or register to view this post.
1 0 1

Clutching Happy Endings

Fifteen hours on a stimulant solution. Fifteen hours, hand in hand. Tethered down tight, both of them. She in leather straps and IV needles. He had the needles, too, but his own grip held him, knuckles white.  Slick in sweat. Not daring to look outside. Not the windows. Not the door.

There was no world for either of them past the plastic, automatic door. There was nothing for the clear sheet to show him, anyway - no missions, no more dreams, no hard realities. Just this.   Just them. Just chemicals and surface tension. Two pairs of eyes boring into one another.  

One refusing to let go. One full of something very close hate. Both full of hurt. Both so very tired.

If either fell asleep, it would be the end for both of them.  She would let go, and he was not okay with that. There are worse things than a dreamless oblivion. She knew that.   He knew it, too, but to him, all of those things were a lack of her. They knew one more thing, one hard, cold thing.  

There was only so much stimulant  in the one room left in all the world.  

He held on tighter. She watched his eyes, awake, waiting for the nightmare to end.

Prompt: countingstarsincabinsix submitted to writeworld 

He was afraid that if she closed her eyes they would never open again.

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!

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

0 0 0

The Thief of Tears

The stronger I become, the more afraid I get. For all I've got, for all I've gotten, for all I get...

What if it's just not good enough? What if stolen power doesn't pay off?

It would be kind of poetic, after all. I'm not the chosen one, branded by destiny. I wasn't anointed by any angels, not woven into some great goddamned tapestry. I didn't have the luck or bloodline for that kind of rich noble's adventure. I grew up poor. I grew up hungry. Ugly. Cruel.

But I grew up clever. I grew up bitter. I read a lot of very bad books.

I asked for this fate. No, I didn't ask. I just took it. Why?  Because I don't look like my heroes. Yes, I stole the mark off of the skin of a better boy. Why? Because he didn't know what it's worth to a shame-skinned beggar whoreson. Sure, he'd lose his pretty things. His family. His comfort. His peace. He'd invest  his tears into some grand purpose and come out all the stronger.

No. Not like that. I stole his tragedies. Why? Because no one called me a martyr when it hit me.

And it did. And now I am. And tomorrow, it all ends. This mark burns against my skin; it knows.

It knows I'm not a good man. Ugly magic binds something beautiful against my ugly, angry soul.

But let me tell you one more thing, before the last dawn of my days. Yes, I'm afraid. Sure.


I will never regret making myself the hero. Who else ever would? And no matter what? T

his is my conclusion. Mine.

Mother, I've made something out of our tears. Heaven or Hell, we'll both know by morning.

Prompt: from hourlywritingprompts

Writing prompt of the hour: finish line

We must steal whate we aren't given by an ignorant and uneven world. It is always more noble to steal than starve. Humility is of the Lie; we are glorious. Namers. Visionaries. We are the gods.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, feedback, questions, comments, etc.