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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A Disgruntled Writer
Paris of the present day was much changed; it had lost all touch with the magic of the Lost Generation. Either that or the charms Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Porter musingly reported of had never existed. She had been a fickle, unprofitable muse for his days - the City of Lights, its avenues, sights and even French belles blended into the background cacophony of a dilettante's neurosis. The money was spent. Writing had not gone.
By James B. William R. Lawrence4 years ago in Fiction
Meditations After The End Of The World
Together the crone and I walked in country by sea an afternoon late that summer. Having left through a pass in the southern hills we started out not long after dawn. The sun in our eyes and harsh bearing upon us. Along past the winding hills turned northeast down a disserviced road; an hour later cleared a wooded area, diverged onto a rubble backroad and started coming back closer to the water.
By James B. William R. Lawrence4 years ago in Fiction
Debutante Darlings, Harlots and Debonair Charlatans
Big Les held the best parties. At turn of the twenties the great, vain fun of the many heirs of Long Island were just these such events thrown by the poorly closeted bootlegger. Mansion, garden and ocean strolls. Sultry evenings in summer limelight under the stars and all the money whore males drinking mock cocktails. Those who were bold enough, connected even sometimes snuck in real champagne or sparkling wine. The fanciest pimps depraved enough even brought with them their best girls.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in Fiction
The Olive Trees
Kneeling at the edge of morass I am beside the girl, whose eyes loll like beachballs, below the tree with the hanging man. Scattered aground in the muck are the contents of an artist’s portfolio, and atop a mere fraction of letters which aren’t ruined.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in Fiction
Meditations After The End Of The World
Together the crone and I walked in country by sea an afternoon late that summer. Having left through a pass in the southern hills we started out not long after dawn. The sun in our eyes and harsh bearing upon us. Along past the winding hills turned northeast down a disserviced road; an hour later cleared a wooded area, diverged onto a rubble backroad and started coming back closer to the water.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in Fiction
Gone the Tides of Earth
Late midseason was crisp cold and fresh snowfall blanketed the mountains. All along the roads were levelled by a few inches of powder, remnants of disowned sleeping bags and tents covered ivory like alpine miniatures. Shovelled walkways led the way from the cabin back to the outhouse, to the cellars and there was another that connected with the outpost on the distant side of camp. Trailing them was customary only for the preparations of meals, routine checks, to use the toilet or rarely in the odd case that fresh stationery or candles were required. It gave one a false sense of secondary soldiering in the habituation dugouts that accommodated personnel behind frontline trenches.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in Humans
Gone the Tides of Earth
Inertia overcame us in the heated sedan cruising through the clear, crisp coldness of the mountain roads. Nestled up front Cian had dozed off quite fast, incubated in the direct, warming stream of the radiators. In the backseat sat Alci and I, windows rolled down until from the chill could only bear leaving them open a crack. The driver was a trim, middle-aged man with beard stubble and a stern lip; he was in uniform, so were we, although unlike us his lapel boasted the colours of a few commendations.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in Humans
Gone the Tides of Earth
The lodging of our mandate was a basic troops’ tent, blue with a white cross ordaining one side, stripes horizontally the other. Three foldouts were inside equipped with twill blankets, one against the backwall, two the sides. Off a notch on the uppermost point of the ceiling hung an LED lantern, and on each cot a nylon pillow, file-folder brimming with contents. Both flaps, outwardly tied back made the interior visible as we came up; finer, bland assignment made better without bitterness of mountains.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in Humans
Gone the Tides of Earth
The game was afoot ever since leaving estate - finally at sundown a great party commenced, festivities of the night turning into a whole different beast. Beforehand, sometime along families, certainly all youths had retired from the field. Those who remained were recruits, drifters, tent-dwellers; mostly a rowdy type of spectator entertaining grand expectations of debauchery, intent on putting dents in the part of brain which processes memory. Evening onward any available meals became sparse, non-perishable, and alcohol grossly expensive. Vendors carted supplies as well; spare bits of cloth, cut into little squares, sold pants, t-shirts to the ratchet and defunct.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in Humans
