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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Gone The Tides Of Earth
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, bearing upon us, the path we went quite long, austere. Along past the hills turned northeast down a disserviced road away; still later cleared a wooded area, diverged onto a rubble backroad and, again, started coming back closer to the water.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in Futurism
Gone The Tides Of Earth: A Novel
Driven by the feeling, I press ahead to a jagged threshold spliced in corner of the most distant wall; an uneven, roughhewn opening like a natural cavemouth. Dark matter flakes swirl in shrouded specks, iodized in the stale air. A chilly draft flooded out, flew beyond blackness of what lay within, dank frigidness seeping into bone. Pallid gunmetal-blue glints off the edges of cavernous rock - mirage perhaps - as I step forth, down slab steps unto what awaits below. Inside as expected she is, and prostrated aground, readying preparations with resources possessed herein. An old lady, garbed in a luxuriously coloured robe of hempen twill, feet covered with vinyl sandals; hair incredibly long, running down back in set tangled knots, of beautiful thickness and sandal-brown colour.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in Humans
Gone The Tides Of Earth: A Novel
Tide washed in past the shoreline as the red disc of a blood sun retreated into a beam of ichor upon the horizon. Borne with current, fish carcasses and seaweed began to flush in and straddle dry sand. There were bits of driftwood and litter caught in perpetual ebb, bobbing at the brink of the water. Seafoam already fizzled along the eclipse of golden beach.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in Humans
Making It Through Mental Illness
Breathe. Whether you identify yourself or are considered by others to be an Indigo Child, Lightworker, and/or know that you are in fact an HSP/Empath, than you are simply here to collaborate on the greatest common purpose with so many: bridging the gap between worlds, connecting the spiritual and material. Each and every mission is different, and what you do in this life won't exactly fit the same bill as the next guy or gal, yet there is much higher probability that if you are any of these things, then before knowing where to go you will, or have, found yourself buried in a graveyard, required to dig yourself out of it it before finding the means to fulfill your purpose, mission, having found your practice: mental illness. Exhuming one's own life is hard work, perhaps the hardest work you will ever do as a soul incarnate, though rising from the ashes is so worth it.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in Longevity
Unbidden
February 29th, 2021, The black book in possession was bequeathed to Mary; Last Will and Testament of an estranged great uncle. Days earlier she had been ignorant about any surviving family members, both parents having died before she'd been born. Raised in a rural orphanage, the only real family Mary ever knew was her fiancé, Dimitri. Together, they coasted to a stop in their sedan up the drive of the isolated, seaside mansion.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in Horror
ode to a restless black bird whose grey eyes glean
When she’d been younger, Robin was an actress. In thus childhood, she’d appeared in a few small roles for television, and then in her teenage years starred in a prominent indie film made by a Cannes-winning French director.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in Humans
Lost in the Foreign Realm
They didn’t want to leave us there, but they’d had to. The locals who took us to the place weren’t evil, nor by any sorts villains, however this circumstance bore no choice for them. Even our parents seemed then to understand, implored at distance from us as the two boats drifted amiss. The black and brown tour guides were humble and commiserative, as well, each of them reaching towards with sorrowful, outstretched arms, weeping and tragic. They mourned our passing there, bid us existential farewell into the exiled land lovingly, knowing something we didn’t know, perhaps why there wasn’t alternative for us to have nor beget.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in Horror
