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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.

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Cards on the Table

The body slumped - first to its knees, then a growing puddle on the ground. It. Not her. Not her.

"Sorry, Mil," he whispered. The body was still gasping. Still blinking. Almost confused. Definitely Shocked. Alive, but not for long. Not her. It.

He turned away. He didn't have any more reasons to be afraid. "I was quicker. Smarter. Better."

The body rasped out blood-soaked words, too much punctured air to be comprehended. He got it.

"Hey," he called, hand on the door. "You were right. I promise; I'll do this the right way."

The body hit the floor. The door opened. It closed. He drew a smoke, fingers fumbling.

"You cheated," she whispered. She. Another she, but not her. She'd never be her.

"Everybody cheats at this game," he answered. "That's the only way to win." He lit up.

"So now what?" she asked.

"Now? I play fair. This isn't the kind of game you win." She. Her. The ever-after her knew better.

He knocked a little ash loose. He watched the embers fall. "I just want to lose with dignity."

She. The second she, never her, nodded. "We all make our compromises."

The gun pressed into his back. He closed his eyes and smiled.

Prompt: From wonderfulwritingprompts

#49: Dialogue
  • Use this exchange in your story or poem:
  • "You cheated."
  • "Everyone cheats at this game, that's the only way to win."

Just a little style practice.

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

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No one ever asks to be the center of a meaningful story. Those who do, don't know better.

They don't know how much it hurts to travel through the sea of hard-eyed faces that represent real conflict. Settings are arenas. New people are the honored dead, or even worse, they're lions. Try it sometime. Find out what's happening just past polite. Find out who needs you. Listen.

Give it a week. You'll realize how wrong you were.

Give it a month. You'll change, whether you let yourself or not.

Give it a few more character establishing arcs. You won't even recognize what you once knew.

Then compare the pain to your progress. If you're even close to happy? Your life's a genre story.

If you don't have answers, congratulations.

Your life is literary. I hope you win a prize.

Prompt: wonderfulwritingprompts

48: A Word

It's late. I finished a manuscript draft. The opinions represented here only represent one of many of my many contradictions. My editing department is currently furloughed. (Thanks, Obama...) (c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking prompts, feedback, and amusingly sarcastic memes.


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They Call Me Viral...

...And this is all I really know.

Energy can neither be created nor destroyed. Our feelings are the same way. They're a kind of heat. 

How do I know? Of course I know.

How do I fly? Because I know. Why do I fly? How could I not?

Why do I get up just to get beat down again? Why do I show up, half the time for fans that don't quite understand me? Why do I show up, half the time for critics who think I just want fame? Why do I wake up every morning - aching, bruised, beaten down, and with blood in my teeth? Why do I go to bed an hour or two before that, knowing that I won't ever get enough? Why do I fly?

Because energy can neither be created nor destroyed. Our feelings are the same way.

How do I know? I can hear you crying.

How do I fly? You give me the strength. You. Your pain. Your anger. Your hope. Your attention.

Why do I fly, then? It's not for you. It's not for me. It's not to beat the bad guys. Not for fame.

I fly because somebody's got to fly. All of that energy, crying up for an answer...

It has to go somewhere.

You get it yet? Heat rises.

Prompt: A palpitating Anonymous asked me:

Every little beat of your heart. Every little beat of my heart.

And every beat of mine demands an answer. Sometimes, I even hear an echo. Do you?

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking prompts, feedback, reblogs, and all your beating hearts.

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A Glimpse Under the Shadows

(Prompt: Monolith Canyonby *TitusLunter, via writeworld)

The steam parts like my own, personal cloudburst. I spread my arms like jet wings as I break past the gloom. The glow that beams down on my face might as well be sunlight. To me, it's better.

I range and run and leap and lever myself over fallen communications hubs. I mount dragons of concrete and abandoned armor, thirty feet high. I have a hangar of forgotten treasure ships. I have a whole wide world of dark corners and secrets to explore. I'm not afraid. How could I be?

I'm home. I'm here. So I just breathe deep whatever chemicals I get and hope they're beneficial.

I mean, they haven't killed me yet. That means I'm special.

I'm a survivor. Soon, I won't be the only one. I'm gonna be...

A hero.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, feedback, follows, love, and a hero.

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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 Put a Spell On You by Willy Moon on Grooveshark 

"I love you." I hung above, on my knees. Tears in hard eyes, hair draping a blood-soaked frame.

Three words have never started, stopped, or twisted so much. Those three words ended me.

The feeling started in my fingertips. Copper-soaked but careful, I seized and scraped against an almost human clavicle. My focus narrowed down like a masked lamp, until all that I could see was that glimmer of that blood against nail's edges. I could taste it. Then? It crept inside me.

"I love you." Little trickles, like winter ice, phalanx by phalanx, pooling in frozen lakes between my knuckles. My wrists locked up in rigor mortis. All too soon, elbows, once clean and dry, hung limp, soaked in something frigid. Steady hands started to tremble. Healer hands. My hands. Mine.

"I love you." Like ladders of lightning, sensation snapped across my femurs, to strike hard at my chest. My chin. My tight jaw. My eyes snapped wide. Hairs atop my head, against my brow, behind my straining neck - all rose up like regiments. Like green recruits, like soon-to-die sons.

"You don't," a voice not quite my own answered. My voice was strong. Stern. Hard-earned afield.

That voice was weak. Trembling. Unsure. Interrogative. It wasn't mine. It couldn't be my voice.

"I do," he whispered. Eyes as red and dark as dried bloodstains looked up at me. Certain. Sure.

Around us lay two dozen bodies, two dozen of my former countrymen. They lay in bits and broken halves, like a butcher's bloody practice, laid across their prince like dry wood for his pyre. With him, my hope would have burned. He'd killed them all. So many before. So many to come.

"I love you," whispered the monster man, the hell soldier, the iron door to Hell. I felt his heartbeat underneath my palms, an inhuman cantering rhythm that tried and failed to match my own racing heart. His heart was covered by hard, scarred flesh, sewn close by a lacing of my hair.

"You saved my life," he whispered. "It is yours." The blood taste in my mouth turned to gorge. 

I didn't dare let myself weep. I knew exactly what he was. Surgery, bloody and exact. My tool.

"I love you, too," I lied. The iron door to Hell, underneath my hands. A heart more like a demon.

My kind healer's needle made the perfect key.

Prompt: A locked-away Anonymous asked me:

A keyless door

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking likes, reblogs, writing prompts, and your attention.

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Typed on Looseleaf Paper

Dear darling (or to whom it may concern):

First, please allow me to apologize for this most unusual format. Letters. Structure. Steps and stages, all of it's so old-fashioned. But so is undying love. Uncompromising good. So is easy joy.

So call me old-fashioned.

I would like to request a refund on the software that I've so recently purchased. All of the stories I can access on your system display in gray tones. I can't feel context on my fingertips. The only scent I breathe in is so much burning ozone. There's sound, sure enough, but there's no music.

I can make my own music. Please, be quiet. Just let me listen.

I would like to file a complaint regarding your customer service. I am not a customer. I do not want to be serviced. I want an old friends at the coffee shop. I want to be the new girl at the bookstore. Your online chat was helpful, though, after I ran them out of scripts.

Please stop coaching them. People can be lovely or hideous. They don't need to suppress that.

I would like to speak to your CEO. Your president. Your board of directions. Their administrative assistants and the fitness instructors that come by every Tuesday and/or Thursday. (Sandwiches are Wednesdays - too much mayo. Counter-productive.) Not to yell; I just want to meet them.

I want to know they're really there. Are you sure? When was the last time you checked?

So, in conclusion, I would like to thank you for your software. For your hardware. For your gray stories and your popular personalities. I think that what you've made is lovely,  in its way. Clearly, a lot of work went into it. Someone loves it. I've tried. But thank you, anyway. I honor the effort.

Even so, I just want my simple stories back. My human beings. My old-fashioned "feels".

So, with all my love,

To all of you,

From all of me,


A Person, Unimpersonal

P.S.: Bring back Firefly. That was the shit. Please?

Prompt: An expressive Anonymous asked me:

"Dear darling:"

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

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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.

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To Daughters of the Western Shore

The colors run, an ocher sun,

Makes paces from an eastern sea.

The flower and the thistle both,

Arise to greet the lady's hand.

The skies alight, with joy and fright,

As all new seasons we first see.

The lover and the mother both,

Arise to track the eastern sands.

The brothers and their fathers run,

A race to summer, shame, and proof.

Their lovers and their mothers both,

Arise to cheers or grief-wrung hands.

The ponies run, the girls are young,

The odds are there to beat the frost.

Grown kin, mothers, fathers both,

Arise from knees to tend swelled lands.

Yet first snow falls, chill winds yet run, 

The western moon alights, aglow.

Arise to meet the sun again,

To feed the suns and season's sands.

What's young, now old. What's old, to seed.

What's said, bound into songs we know.

And diamond snows hide colors past,

And steps swallowed from eastern sands.



Prompt: An equestrian anonymous asked me:

"The ponies run, the girls are young, the odds are there to beat."

Ah, for youth again... it was this or My Little Pony fanfic. Dash > you.

(C) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins