James B. William R. Lawrence
Bio
Young writer, filmmaker and university grad from central Canada. Minor success to date w/ publication, festival circuits. Intent is to share works pertaining inner wisdom of my soul as well as long and short form works of creative fiction.
Stories (67)
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M. Theostrata Philosophicus (unedited).
Alan Watts: Because when we listen to music, we hear melody, only because we remember the sequence. We hear the intervals between the tones, but more than that we remember the tones that led up to the one we are now hearing - and we are trained musically to anticipate certain consequences. And to the extent that we get the consequences we anticipate, we feel that we understand the music. But to the extent that the composer does not adhere to the rules, and gives us unexpected consequences, we feel that we don’t understand the music … But of course it becomes apparent, that the perception of music, the ability to hear melody, will depend on a relationship between past, present and future sounds …
By James B. William R. Lawrence4 years ago in Longevity
Gone the Tides of Earth
In the late hours of morning, I am woken and told we are to make ourselves ready for active duty that evening. Such as do beat cops, our task is to make rounds, patrol the festivities and strike sentry positions near some of the more popular proceedings.
By James B. William R. Lawrence4 years ago in Fiction
Gone the Tides of Earth
Towards the banks of the river are setups of faux gladiator pits carved out into dirt circles with imported chalklike sands. These favoured exhibitions are heralded with money-clenched fists and hurrah of both personnel and samaritans alike. Most of the sporting is kayfabe, except every so often a real money bout occurs when amateur boxers, mixed-martial artists, or trained combat specialists (blunted spears, shortswords) take the ring.
By James B. William R. Lawrence4 years ago in Fiction
Gone the Tides of Earth
At dawn, before light, we bathe in a cold creak with rising mists, and at water’s edge is an old forsaken cabin with the front door caved in and windows smashed out. Its exterior is prolifically graffitied, the entrance hall and living room littered with dirt, refuse, though the bedrooms have mattresses on frames with springs, and were not so messy or filthy we couldn’t tidy them up and rest with ease and some degree of comfort.
By James B. William R. Lawrence4 years ago in Fiction
Gone the Tides of Earth
Like floating barrels jettisoned from a barge the water throws us along its course throughout the night. To our benefit, downriver where it eddies are lodged deadfall and much of this hardwood which we are mostly able to cling to. At the river’s partition, where it trickles across a shallow bridge of stones, pebbles unto cascades we are delivered hence, each sprawling wherever they terminate, waterboarded, slept in frigid exhaustion.
By James B. William R. Lawrence4 years ago in Fiction
Prescott Partings & Company
It was a wet, late autumn and matted leaves coloured brown, yellow and red were raked in ovals larger than the shrubs in their thickets lining the front of the cemetery yard. In the morgue’s embalming room below its chapel, parlour, down a spiral flight into the basement on a cold, clear and dreary evening the funeral home’s mortician had begun the process, draining substance of red from the veins, forcing one in and the other out. The removed articles of clothing, in a bungle on the floor and stained with the essence of final substances released yellow and brown, he rolled into a ball and threw in the trash.
By James B. William R. Lawrence4 years ago in Horror
Modern Vampyr
Wintry anorexia of decrepit bone trees, grey overcast sky, sheer emptiness in the howling wind. Deathly mounds of white en masse, roads slick with black ice. Sleet gunking up streets and spilling from snowbanks, pooling atop manhole lids, rushing sidewalk gutters. Whiteout blizzard.
By James B. William R. Lawrence4 years ago in Fiction
HELL OF HADES
Behind in the distance the three-headed dog’s mad barking and baying subsided as he rose high enough, out of the catacombs and necropolis. He climbed the many flights with vigor in the luster of half dark and the ruddy, oily shade cast from the torches. Glinting below each, the encasements of the sconces were bronze and smelted in the shape of a bullhead. His grainy silhouette played off the perforated whitewashed walls, unnerving in the silence. In a swallowing spiral all of the staircases spun off another concentrically. Beyond, at the top where the last dim remnant of torchlight faltered ahead, he stepped forth and out to enter the maze of the beast.
By James B. William R. Lawrence4 years ago in Fiction
Unbidden
February 29th, 2021, The black book in possession, in the brown parchment box, was bequeathed to Mary; Last Will and Testament of an estranged great uncle. Days earlier she'd been ignorant about any surviving family members, both parents having died before she had been born. Raised in a rural orphanage, the only real family Mary ever knew was her fiancé, Dimitri. Together, they coasted to a stop up the drive of the isolated, seaside mansion.
By James B. William R. Lawrence4 years ago in Fiction
