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.
Yellow was my inspiration this time. I started with the bottom of the sky.
Stealing the sky is easy - everybody does it, from beasts to bushes. The trick is not to steal the sky. No, the trick is to seduce it. Instead of distracting, reveal. I showed the twilight her ashen hair, shivering for lack of color. It was cruel, I know, but I was transfixed by a need. So I gave of need.
After that, after the yellow came an orange glow - a rising heat of at-first chaste affection. I let the morning wrap this like a shawl around her shoulders, a laurel at her crown. I let the softest borders of the sun kiss just a hint of shadow into her. My twilight child would always be pale. Always hungry for the sun. She’d leave the east window open. Exposed.
The coming crimson, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with. So? I let nature happen. I let rose petals press into her lips. I beckoned the pink to peer into her velvet secrets. I filled her with a clever tongue and an uncomplicated crux. The last light of dawn gave her a layer of fire underneath her frailty. I let her sop up that heat. I had no need of it.
I’d seduced the sky and she was just the daughter of that interlude.
I made the sky… blue. Isn’t it beautiful? And what? What of the girl?
You think she’s interesting? Fine. I have no need of her, either.
(c) 2014 Lawerence Hawkins. That certainly went… somewhere. Prompts?
Last: The Unlucky One - What if the good fight wasn’t optional?
I keep reminding myself - make room for the reader. They need space to put your posters on the wall. They’re the ones who speak the lines and move the actors in your script. Give them room to breathe and they’ll breathe life.
In short? Get off of your own genitals. Ask, “What can I give them to use?”
There’s something special inside of me. Get it out. Please. Get it out.
I don’t want to wake up again. No, I don’t wanna die, but I don’t want to feel what waking up feels like anymore. It feels like…feels like, like my blood doesn’t start until the morning light hits me. It’s like I’m not alive until the thaw. It feels like shards of settled glass - clots, you see. Those rough and jagged clods of blood have to get a running start. And then?
Boom. Boom. Boom! There goes my heart. Stopping and starting like a beat-up fucking Chevy. I wonder every time if it’ll turn over. It keeps shunting broken bottles through my body with every clench, and no, not just my left arm. I wonder every time, because by then? By then, it’s too late to sleep.
By then, I want to survive waking up. And the hell of a thing? I always do.
Sitting up is like tearing that one frozen hot dog from the pack. Like using a bendy steak knife for an ice pick. I leave skin behind sometimes - some days are harder than others. Some nights they work me hard before the freeze. I’ve had to pull out dents of lead. Broken blades. Front teeth and incisors.
I’m not invulnerable. I’m not made of steel - hell, I’m made of glass. But every night, they pour my broken bits back into the box. And every dawn?
I wake up again. I heal pretty fast, but I am so not fucking whole.
I never should have signed up to be a superhero. Save me.
Prompt: an unsettling Anonymous sent me…
"I was born with glass bones and paper skin. Every morning I break my legs, and every afternoon I break my arms. At night, I lie awake in agony until my heart attacks put me to sleep."
(c) 2014 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking prompts. Even Spongebob, see?
Last: Introductions - What is it with people and first impressions, anyway?
A Ripost Prompt. Use it. #/@ me. I’ll be glad to crit and reblog.
The problem with houses is that some of the walls really are important.
I manage to tackle Eleanor through the rubble before the rubble includes the upper story, a packed attic, way too many boxes (Really, people! Goodwill!), and a roof covered in solar panels. All of that falls on the driver.
When I get up, my good arm hangs numb against my cold shoulder. Frost covers the sleeves of my cheap, black suit. The girl has my sledgehammer. Old Faithful was cheating on me. Again. It happens…
"Listen! Eleanor, you’re my mark now. I’m here to-" She hit me with my sledgehammer. In retrospect? I could’ve explained that a lot better. Not all marks get the hammer. Some get a hand. She just got the upper one.
I go down hard. She frows, even as a rime goes up the wooden handle. “Hits harder when you got it. You cursed, too, then?” I spit out blood and mumbled something. Diction’s difficult with a broken jaw. “I have had it with people after me,” she says. “Too bad for you.” She raises the sledge up high - that takes some strength. I wave her off, mumble again. Loud.
My broken jaw gave the driver all the time he needed. He’d reformed behind her, pierced through with a beam of broken plywood. Leaking fire. On the rough vestiges of a face it had, you’ll never see such rapture. It vented flame as it tore the sledge from her hands. Struck her. She fell.
"It’s the shell, see?" he admits. "The skin’s hard to ignore. Instincts..Crude." That skin boiled from contact with my vested tool, but not fast enough. He raises it high, laughing, side hissing like some infernal tea kettle. "There’s no more use for you, girl. If you won’t kill. My employer is not the type for blessing peacemakers. Alas. As above…"
The sledge comes down. Well, falls down as he screams. The skin blackens and collapse in on itself like newspaper in a fireplace. The stink is even worse. And the sound? That scream had never once been human.
Behind the smoke, a white girl in a tux jacket, a corset and cargo pants steps up. Her whole left arm is burnt bone, but forming back from the cinders as she flinches. “Ow…Damn it! Hey, guys!” She tried to smile. “Suuuup? Umm… I’m Vellum, and? This might be rude, but is your girlfriend freezing the grass? Because that’s maybe the coolest thing ever. Ever. And, wow, I am really bad at this.” She was squirming. Really?
"Rescues?" I ask. I get up, dust off my suit. What? I’d seen weirder.
"People," she answers. Eleanor snorts in agreement. I just shrug.
Then Eleanor punches her. Hard. For all her fire, she goes out like a light.
"Me, too. Now, what the fuck’s a mark? Talk!" Eleanor turns on me. Frost spreads over the lawn, up the trees, freezes over the fences like an icebox.
This… could have gone better. Best to be honest, then. “Both of you are. So if you want to live? Answer me one question - do you like waffles?”
Prompt: A foreseen Anonymous sent me…
we’re all marked
(c) 2014 Lawerence Hawkins. First impressions are important. Oops.