0 0 0

The Queen on 4th

Have you seen the Queen today? That girl's my morning coffee. She plays the violin on 4th.

Her hair glistens like the dew. She cleans it every morning in the sink of that Pakistani gas station. She buys the same things with her allowance: one Rock Star canister, a pack of Trident (original - she's simple that way), fifty deli sandwiches, and two bag-fulls of bottled water.

How does she make her money? She plays a well-oiled Stradivarius that someone dropped into her lap four years ago. Her patron considered it worthy of her nimble fingers, her oddly half-open eyes, her loving touch. She just considers it a pretty good replacement to the one she bought, the last thing she ever bought easy. She doesn't know. She hasn't realized it yet.

If she did, she'd have sold it for a cheaper one. It would've hurt, down to her fingertips, but still.

That's a lot of sandwiches. That's shelter space. That's a story worthy of the Internet. She knows people love those kinds of stories, and she doesn't blame them for it. That's the trick, isn't it? The difference between most people and the rest is what they notice they can actually do.

That's good. That's evil. That's kind and cruel. that's sandwiches, water, and her Rock Star.

She doesn't know the good she could do, so she does the good she knows. She plays.

She's good, but not symphony good. She's kind, but not a saint. She shines like morning dew.

She plays the kind of music that can wake you up inside. She plays honest.

Prompt: An actualized Anonymous asked me:

Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete? Proving nature's law is wrong. It learned to walk without having feet. Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams, It learned to breathe fresh air. Long live the rose that grew from concrete when no one else ever cared.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, general approval, and to beat resistance.

0 0 0

The Bad Ending

So, that's it. You got me. You've won. This isn't Christopher Nolan. It's Coen Brothers. Fuck.

I put it all on the line. I rose to the challenge. I learned the score. I exposed my vulnerabilities. I lost and found and lost and found. I lost and found myself. I followed the road. I followed On the Road. I went back to the beginning, just like Vicini said. I grew. I really grew. Just as planned.

Wicked pose. Pen strikes the notebook. Bam. I'm dead. I lose. You win.

In the end, growing is a kind of running away. It's like turning your back to an explosion. The world' still going off behind you, but you look cool as you strut or stumble or just get launched ahead. It's cool, right? I was cool, right? I was really good? But now I'm ready. For this. For now. For you.

The squid is shouting, but there's no pulling back from this. And with that, I'm all out of cute shit.

You fucked me. You fucked me, fucked me, fucked me but good. I always wanted to be somebody.

I just never thought that somebody would be you.

You can't run from what's already inside you.

You can't run from fate.

You can't even run.

You just fall.


Prompt: A cosmological Anonymous asked me:

There is nowhere in this universe to hid from you tonight.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Pay no attention to the brackets below. Just send me love.

[Rough outline. Is there a Shermer in Illinois? Jay says no.]

0 0 0

It all turns kind of blinkery and blinding after a while. There's just too much goddamned neon.

Sure, it came around in its pretty plastic packaging.  Hard as hell, though. We broke scissors and a few nails. It was hell to get it all unpacked, put together. It took us even longer to learn what to do.

But now?

Lights glow. LED. HUD. GPS. Wi-Fi. Li-Fi. Sci-fi. Information eroded all distance.

Streets glow. Full bellies or fuel cells. Bright smiles - skin, silicon, and chrome.

Words glow. From holy writ to sacred advertising. Philosophy,  politics, and some all right poetry. 

Lights. Streets. Trees. Most kinds of cat. Everything glows these days.

You shined. That plastic really was hard as hell.

You would have loved this. So would I.


Prompt: via hourlywritingprompts

Writing prompt of the hour: day-to-day

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, feedback, hope, fear, and interesting pain.

0 0 0

White Knight Complex

(Save Your Soul - Jamie Cullum)

I don't know how not to save people. I'm sorry. Forgetting that I'm a hero scares me.

Not being a hero? Forgetting that feeling is every other day. That scares me.

I'm not looking away because I'm ashamed of you, your legs, your hair, not even those angry eyes. I love those eyes, even when they burn me. Especially. I mean, I know you've earned them. I know we've all earned them, that you've struggled. I'm not looking away from any of that. I'm looking away from me - I can see the reflection. I can't meet anybody's eyes too long. I see me.

I see the biggest, baddest, burliest son of a bitch to ever overclock his amygdala. Sure, you can fly, but when I run? The ground flies. The air cuts corners around me. Sound bends. Light gets a little closer. And when I have to hit something? I hit it hard. I hit my target. I've saved sixty-seven lives. I've never killed anyone, because that's not how it works for me. It doesn't scare me.

It's the feeling that thrives. It's remembering how invincible felt. It's forgetting growing up. No.

No, it's all those others days that scare me. The days I sit in that office chair with one broken wheel. Circling around a spot burned into the carpet. Papers unwritten. Meditations incomplete. My screen beeps with your messages for hours sometimes, but I've got just enough left in me to set myself as "Away". Because I am. Away. It's not the gift. It's not the losses. I'm not sad.

I just am. Away. So yeah. I save people. I work hard to be the big, bad, burly son of a bitch.

And I flinch when you look at me like I'm the bad guy. Because if I'm the bad guy? Well...

Then what the fuck is all of this for? What the fuck am I here for?

It's okay if I'm a hero. Heroes aren't allowed to be happy. If I'm a hero? Then I'm okay.

I can get up. I come back. I smile. I remember that you love me. I remember me.

Prompt: An amnesiac Anonymous asked me:

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, questions, attention, exposure, and more.
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.

1 0 1

Puff and Pass

You say, "I'll be the death of you", like that's a bad thing. Who else really deserves the privilege?

I mean, I'm on a rail here, gravitating closer to the far end of the line. There are stops and there are starts, and Gods above, there are some interesting surprises. There's stains on all the seats. But we know one thing - one thing - for sure. Everybody gets off eventually.

It's just a matter of where we stop. I want to stop with you inside of me.

Not in a vulgar way, no. Of course not. But, Hell. I'll take that, too.

Like I took your breath away. I locked it up inside my lungs. I sucked it in and let it burn my bronchioles a pepper-powder black. It wasn't good for me, but Gods above, it tickled something excellent. I mean, you came back up the ridges tongue like a spicy cough. You left my tongue all sandpaper and warm breath, then I tasted you all over again. I tasted blood, but that might not be mine. Hell baby, you tell me. I've got an open ear to spare - it's a road right up to my blockages.

So they say, "You'll be the death of me", like that's a bad thing. But could it really be anyone else?

It could, but hey. Hell. I look that much cooler with you curled up all around me. Then I cough.

Prompt: Writing prompt of the hour: carcinogenic - hourlywritingprompts

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. I am not a smoker, but a recovering addict from the taste of trouble.

0 0 0

Curled Up

There's a heavy lump in my throat, next to the warm body, next to mine.

There's such a softness that I can't believe I'm reaching out to touch it. The calm, cool curve of a sleeping shoulder. The lion purr of her rising, falling chest. Her elbows burrow in and down my chest, arms pressed close like a guard against me. Little puffs of breath push through to taste and tease my neck. All curled up in a den of lithe little arms, drawn-in knees, and so much hair I can't see her face. I don't need to see her face, but I wouldn't have minded. Much. So I can't see her.

But I can smell her - no poetic scent, just a human being.

And I can feel her - heat, breath, and a constant pressure.

The pressure builds. The pressure crests. Something between a long sigh and a deep yawn escapes.

I slump forward in an empty bed, now half-awake and out of memories. The lump slides back in.

Was it a dream? No, I must have been awake. Just crazy.

I can't sleep next to anyone.

Prompt: A lackadaisical Anonymous asked me:

What I'd like to wake up to every day...

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, 6 more followers, and hot platonic love.

0 0 0

Poor Baby... (TW: Abuse)

It's not the lies, you know.. You never told me any lies worse than the ones I told myself. It's that you never once even tried to correct me. You knew when I dressed us both up in those spoon-fed Midwestern fantasies, but like a deaf-mute or a helpless doll, you didn't make a sound.

You let me play with you. Your lies held mine together.

It's not the money, either. You never took a dime from me. In fact, that's the worst part. You took my time, my faith, my patience, and the nights I could have just slept. You took the meat off of my bones. You took the smooth skin from underneath my eyes. You took my breath away and stowed it high inside my chest until you could get away with it. But you didn't make it back.

You left it there. Buried treasure, lost to time.

It's not the bruises, though it should be. It should have been. Why wasn't it? That's  it, isn't it? That it's not the bruises. I can feel them, but I can't quite put it all together. I can't imagine how they got there. I can't believe for even one second that I'm that weak. That you're that strong.

That none of the rules apply to us.

It's not the bruises, no. It's the way your heart broke when you saw them. The way you cried.

Your heart hurts you more than impacts on your knuckles.

That just isn't fair.

Prompt: An apoplectic Anonymous asked me:

Things I will never forgive you for.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, fanmail, follows, and enabling behaviors.

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.