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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.

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A Bad Man's Lullaby

Prompt: , via writingprompts)

There's no heaven in the skies above for a man like me. Instead, there's Aria. There's only Aria.

She dredged me up from the cold, dark waters. Her fingers came as thirsty roots, seeking out bad men's blood in the deep black. Well, when she found me, adrift and under? She found it.

The sigh that trembled up her body sucked right through me like the pressure of a deep-dipped straw. Her pleasure teased the edges of my unsleeping consciousness - not in a sensual way, but in a clean sort of satisfaction. To Aria, I was sweet, chilled juice. I was something nourishing.

When she drank up a taste of my sins, her dark skin of green algae freckles started to glow.

She hauled me up and into a certain kind of paradise. I wasn't alone, and yet I really was. She set me up, at attention, on my feet, both beside her and inside of her. She hung there, hanging me from luminescent threads, under a shade of veiny moss, like witch's hair. Her roots dug deeper into me -draining out the bloat, the lingering trace of blood, and drop by drop? The memories.

I remembered dying, and then I didn't. It didn't matter. I remembered a Gloria? No, only Aria.

I reached out with hollowed hands. She let me hold her for a little while. Maybe a year. Maybe a decade. Maybe a moment, but moment's aren't a real measure of time. Not in a sensual way, but a clean kind of comfort. Her belly hummed a lullaby as her rough fingers stroked my soaked hair dry. Her eyes glimmered like coins in a pool. My arms began to blossom. Leaves and soft lilac.

Her kiss left my tongue as raw as sandpaper. It tore, but nothing bled. I gasped. She sighed.

She sucked out something important and slipped free of me. Not in a sensual way. Clean. Kind.

I'm never alone, but I am alone. I am alone, but I am grateful. I don't remember what I did wrong.

Thank you for that, Aria. Thank you.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, reblogs, follows, feedback, and exposure!

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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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Restless Possibility

(Prompt: Autumn greatness by ~tadzio89, via writeworld)

There are places that are still okay. There are places where sleep still leads to dreams, where the earth still grows in shades of green and the seasons turn in death and in rebirth. There, natural reflections shine. There, there is a silence to the soul. There, there are doubts, no hopes, no mysteries.

There are only trees. Just... trees. Hannah fights for them. To Hannah, it is paradise.

There, dreams cannot cross. Dreams cannot find her. Only the trees dream and their dreams soothe the restless possibility inside her.

Outside of that lonely wilderness, she is unstoppable. She is the howling wind. She is the falling leaves. She is as timeless as centuries. She has all the mercy of hunger and of thirst. She is nature, but now she has dreamed nature. Now? nature dreams of her. Tree dreams root the malady of endless opportunities. Soft soil buries the whirling glass that constitutes her form. 

And Hannah is grateful, for the first time since she broke apart. She is content. Indebted.

What does the earth itself wish for, Hannah once wondered. The trees gave her an answer.



Writer’s Block

A picture says a thousand words. Write them.

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

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

Oklahoma. Your roads disgust me, but your people honor me with a snack and drink bar. You may live...for now.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins

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waxing goddess.

a bashful beauty,

blinding me with the

boldness of her curves:

how my human soul

deserves such a sight,

I will never understand,

but I will not complain.



arraigned by an aura of 

absolute magic,

stuck in a stasis 

stimulated by the stare

that we are sharing;

though you’re only baring

but a bit of your body,

the darkness shows me 

things that the light

will never see. 

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At Dawn

Cold morning air

Thick fog hangs above the green fields 

I sip my warm coffee

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Beyond Comprehension, Leaving only Inspiration

I can feel the thunder rolling in
booming laughter finding earth
full of elemental power
charged by lightening newly birthed
and raindrops fall upon my brow
yet still my eyes remain upturned
for I'm awed by this beauty not of man
but of a power too grand to spurn

ever so beyond comprehension
leaving only inspiration
and awe in man..