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Between the Covers

Find me…

a book with covers that warm like blankets
of snow - drifting through non-fictional towns -
where glowing streetlamps light the dust - dancing
between the shelves of old books - in a shop
that doesn’t sell coffee - only stories -
rare handwritten autobiographies -
telling the secrets of these dreams - slowly
turning through the pages of history -
reaching a conclusion - where I am warm -  
between the covers of your mystery.

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Running Mascara

the last time I saw her

she was standing ankle

deep in the sandy shore

watching as the waves

try to kiss the continent

continuously falling back

into the arms of a past

lover that has found a

home with someone else

she stared at the water

as if the ocean would show

her truth in the reflection

she is a beautiful mess

she is running mascara

broken stain glass windows

I never asked her name

just watched as she walked

with no expression to the

end of this country and

stared into the infinite blue

she was never seen again

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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.”

“Oh.”

“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?”

“Yes.”

 

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

 

“Hey, can I tell you something?”

“Always.”

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

“Okay...”

“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.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

 

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.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

 

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?”

“Yes.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“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.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

 

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.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Do you want to be with me?”

“Yes.”

 

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

 

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

“When?”

“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?”

“So what do you think we should do?”

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

“Okay.”

 

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.  

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Making the Most

Whats Going On by Marvin Gaye on Grooveshark

We painted the walls red. It's fine. The blood was ours; the room wasn't.

The night was good.

We'd shopped at a shopping mall. We'd had drinks and told edgy jokes at our neighborhood disposable restauraunt. We'd walked for hours through well-lit boulevards and smoky lots. We'd kicked cans. We'd danced to music that we made up, silly little hums. Everything was all fine.

Then the muggers found us. They thought we looked rich. They thought we looked easy.

When we got back up, all slit and savaged, they screamed and left half a dozen wallets behind.

We'd kissed gently at each other's painless wounds. We'd laughed, even if we'd cried a little. It had been the perfect, peaceful evening, but then it wasn't, and then we had to cry a bit. We really had been asking for it, hadn't we? It was what we were. Not. Normal, that is.

So we broke into a pawn shop, all off-white walls and thin glass cases. We rocked and rolled against each other until we shone like iridescent porcupines. We made an evening out of it.

We weren't normal. We weren't nice. But we were together, and we had two pints of Dreyer's.

Strawberry. Of course it was strawberry. What else could it have been? The night was good. 

Prompt: writeworld:

Writer’s Block

Music is love in search of a word. Find the words.
 

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

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

Still on the road. Still seeking love and other input.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, feedback, questions, or what-have- you.

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The Tinker's Doll

You made my wings from wax and lonely wishes. You made me something very close to whole.

Then you twished me to fly, like it was nothing. Like I was air. But I wasn't. I was heavy matter.

Then you were gone. You take in air, after all. It's only natural that it can take you back.

Just like that, I felt the hot kiss of the lights like solar flares. I was disrupted, cast aside, shut down, and left inert. Without your touch and tender maintenance, I became nothing more than electronics, polymer plastics, and black, scorched feathers. I sparked and spat. Then I just was.

Trash. Garbage. Your distance made me so much lead again.

I was supposed to be your Galatea. In the end? I comprehend that I was just a lonely hobby.

I don't know how to be as soft as her. Make me soft.

Make me anything again.

Prompt: An accusing Anonymous asked me:
You once wrote that words lie from lips to ears... and you write in music because words fail: Alchemy, by Above and Beyond .

Home, but not for long... Feeling just a little neglected, boys, girls, and otherwise.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Thank you for your prompts and feedback. More, please!

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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  
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In Spring

Sweet words softly sung

From meek earth it gently sprung

Melts the winter's ice

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Serendipity

I met this boy today

of gentle eyes

and of purest soul.

He reached out his hand

and told me his name

and as the sound of his name

escape from my lips

and the moment I grazed his delicate palm,

the circuits in my brain went overdrive

and with a soothing voice it told me,

"This is your man."

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Journal


Write about a journal. Does it have an interesting look? Who does it belong to? Is it a mystery? Does it have a lock? What types of entries are inside? Are they personal thoughts, information, or random notes? Try writing them. 

(Prompt: GTD Index + Notebook + leather cover + antique key by Patrick Ng via get-scribbling)

I want to keep a record of the real you. Not before, not after, but who you ought to be.

I'm going to scratch on dry, browning paper all the perfect words that won't get any older, any wiser, any harder from the friction of the lives we've led. It'll just be wet ink on dry wood, treated with more care than we ever really managed. I'll leave the marks I always saw in you.

 

But this time, I'll be so much more inspired. I'll see you through me, past me, and over me. This time, I'll describe you. I'll go down every detail like little bites along your shoulder blades - I'll make it good, I promise, make it more about you than just myself. I'll rework every unsung song, revise every half-spoken conversation. I'll do you better. I'll be better. You'll be better than...

...You know. Before.

And when I'm done? You'll know. You'll see. I hope you cry, because you haven't for too long.

And when I'm done? I'll give it all to you: a leather-bound notebook, a key, and even matches.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins

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Childhood Friends

"Are... are you sure it's okay?" he asked, hands clammy and shaking.

She had to bite her lip. He really made her feel like the girl of his dreams.

Clammy hands didn't bother her so much, then, not when they were his. They'd laughed together. Cried together. They'd grown up together, and now they'd both grown into something different. Something  She was ready.

"Go ahead... it's all right. I..." The words caught in her throat. So instead, she unbuttoned her white cotton blouse. (She still wore his clothes out of habit, after all these years.) She curled his fingers around the back of his palm. She led him forward, nine tenths of the way. She could feel his heavy breathing, felt his blood pounding in his veins. She could almost taste his terror, but the anticipation! God, that was even sweeter.

"I..." she tried again. "I want to make you happy. Just like always, Owen. You...still like me, right?"

He swallowed, forced himself to nod. He'd never looked more like a boy, so very serious with sweat and swallowed air. She felt warm all the way down her skin. Now she felt clammy, too. Damn it. She thought, Maybe this was-

Then his palm pressed against her soft chest. She let out a sigh. He let out a shudder. 

"Do I...?" he asked.

"Keep going!" she demanded. "Please..." And so he did.

Inch by inch, he slid his hand into the soft heat of her skin, until it gave and sank and slid over him. Soon, he was enveloped to the elbow in the clinging, clammy gelatin. Now, he was close enough to kiss. When she did, her tongue tickled the lining of his esophagus like cinnamon sticks and two full cans of Monster. He didn't choke; he spasmed. She filled him all the way up.

As he fell into her, he heard her voice in the warm, velvety darkness. "I always want to make you happy, Owen. I will always keep you safe. I promise, you'll never, ever have a nightmare."

"I love you..." Down and down. Down and down. Down and down.

Owen woke up clammy, sort of sticky, but smiling like a boy in love with his imaginary friend.

Sure, she'd turned into some kind of succubus, but he had hair in places you wouldn't believe.

People grow up. People grow. Then they wake up tangled in their sheets. He couldn't breathe.

writeworld:

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!

Offered without comment. Tags don't count...

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Send me your writing prompts, your review requests, your huddled anonymous asks.