Every day, I post. Once a week, I haiku. At random? I post real talk.
Here's where you come in: prompt me. Ask me, tag me, link me, share me.
I welcome your love and your challenges.
Eleanor was freezing. She’d been freezing since the age of seventeen. Even so, she never once shivered. Not from cold, anyway.
She sat on a bench at a bus stop three years later, flicking a lighter with a cigarette between blue-frosted lips. The pale white on dark skin drew the eye, but she wasn’t looking their way, anyway.
It wasn’t lipstick. She didn’t smoke. She was not afraid and, admit it or not? That kept them well away from her.
She didn’t smoke, but that didn’t stop white puffs from flowing out and curling up to fleck the tips of her silver-tipped afro. It was short. Compact. Concise. It suited her. Her face was sharp and disinterested. Her shoulders were broad, thin, and like her crossed legs at the knee? Dismissive. Her shirt hung off the sides of muscled arms, baring traceries of white - jags and curves that didn’t mean a thing to anyone but herself.
She wore short shorts and big boots. It was October in Indiana. She waited.
Flick. Flick. …Flick. It ought to be maddening. Like clockwork, but every third stroke lingered and lay there, an impossible pressure on her thumb. Then?
Gas vented free into open air. She had the scent of it, that butane funk, but the lighter never spat. There was no tongue, no red, no flash of flame. No spark. Just gas. Just frost and dripping lines of condensation. Flick. Flick.
…Flick. Eleanor was freezing. Hadn’t frozen yet, but she felt it coming.
A car pulled up. A window slid down. “You her?” asked the dark inside.
She got up. She got in. They drove off.
Two days later, they found the first body. Frozen. Fingertips burned black.
Instead of creating a character that can manipulate fire, think about a character who can’t touch fire—now why can’t he? Is there something about his exterior that won’t allow it, or will the fire bring him to Hell?
(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Kinda like her. Do you like her? I do.
Last: True, But Not Love - Why would your soul mate be a romance?
This is what I think is the hardest part for the privileged to understand - IEDs.
Being black, I feel like I’m living in people’s idea of Iraq. Lots of cool people, local or otherwise, but I can never know when someone will reveal not just vileness, but danger to me. I have to question every cop. I have to be wary that I don’t scare people walking alone. I have to listen when sirens go off. Because I don’t know.
And I’ve had enough voices that use the same words as dangerous people that you can’t demand I risk it. I will never see you as just you - that is the gift of the ignorant. To be at ease.
Women know. LGBTQA know. Hell, the poor know. If you aren’t afraid of IEDs?
Make sure you don’t behave like one.
Until their hands clasped tight, he’d never known. After? He believed.
Before that conduit, he’d been a beast of thirst. Every action was a wrenching desperation, a tearing at dry earth. Of course he’d hurt people. Bare nails and claw-taut fingers always hurt. He’d never realized just how scorched a tongue could taste. Bereft of cool water? He’d settled for alcohol and spilled, sandy blood. He used to think that’s all there was.
Before that conduit? She’d been afraid. Of God. Of darkness. Of men most of all. Of him? Of course, of him. She’d been bred to be a creature of panic. She’d been taught that flame was danger, never warmth. She’d been told that ice was numbness, never a salve against the sun. Most of all? She’d believed her overflowing soul was a curse… Never a salvation.
Until their hands clasped tight, she’d always known. After? She demanded.
It wasn’t love. It was ignition. It was mutual ignorance broken open. Burst.
Hands clasped? They could be cool water, gentle flame. Could be more.
Hands clasped? They had questions.
Questions that demanded answers.
Prompt: via dailytextprompt
(c) 2014 Lawerence Hawkins. Not feeling well tonight. But tomorrow?
Last: In The Thick - Who glorifies in the world of things we bury deep?
The stench choked out my headache. It filled my belly with hot, fat steam.
Aside from that? I have to admit there was a certain richness to it all. Fuck…
Broken pipes rose like the tips of spears, all sheared at random angles like a mountain treeline, such a jagged horizon. Gold wires threaded through them like electric ladders - escalating, always escalating. Copper shone and rust dusted from an old steel sky. Flecks and flakes rained like spring showers, bright and damp. He’d forged a hell, slick and industrial.
And at a throne of cracked and pitted porcelain, there he sat. A river of soggy paper cloth, indestructible wet naps, the occasional glazed sock, and a raw effluence of various effluvia formed a moat between the king and the vermin in the mix. He watched and smiled as the river moaned.
His smile was copper-brown. His eyes were the gold of fresh corn.
The shit lord lounged, a bound god, forbidden to act with his true might.
He stank worse than shit had any right to stink. I tasted him. I breathed him. I hated him. And I hated that rich, brown smile worst of all.
"Hello, little sister. How are things up in heaven?" he asked, almost sweet.
"Brother," I replied. "Love what you’ve done with the place." No lie. "But let’s talk business. You have a soul that belongs to me. Return it. Now."
Gods and men have fallen to their knees, eager to please that voice.
My brother, the utter shit lord? Giggled and leaned in. “Is that so…?”
Rust reddened my face. Rage didn’t help.
It was set to be a long and shitty night.
Prompt: via myjawislikeashovel
"You complete shit lord."
(c) 2014 Lawerence Hawkins. I can still taste it in my head… Ugh.
Last: Art is Life - What lives inside of the transhumanist artist?