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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Tragedy At Foxe Island
The worst summer of my life thus began, coinciding with the makings of what might’ve otherwise turned into the best … … as the wisest prophets among us know: the things which happen in our lives, that truly make a difference and turn the chapter, come always hasty, unexpected.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in Psyche
In War, Good Graces
Silently, we looked out on the field from the depth of our trench, fellow comrades leaning against the bunker, glazed eyes peering through peepholes in mortar, folds in sandbags, mouths exhaling hot stale breath that misted in our faces in the cold morning air. We were a stack of sardines pressed against the interminable, cemented walls and heavy, sand-filled burlap sacks comprising the barricade, green steel helmets and bayonet-tipped rifles flitting the air. All of us, hundreds were collect, ready in courage, yet unspeakably horrified we might not be coming back.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in Serve
Debutante Darlings, Harlots and Debonair Charlatans
Big Les threw the best parties. At the turn of the twenties the great, vain fun of the heirs of Long Island were just these such events thrown by the poorly closeted bootlegger. Mansion, garden and ocean strolls. Sultry evenings in the 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 Criminal
An 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. Time, labour were proven fruitless.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in Criminal
Indian Boy
At first it had seemed not a bad thing, to pass the trucks of bleating cattle, frightened sheep, squealing pigs and feel just the same as a herd of animals caught in transport. They themselves like the beasts were so many in the back of the wooded bed with the tattered canvas that it necessitated standing. Regardless, the little boy had smiled at them in their metal carts, knowing not their destination as livestock was one of processing, slaughter. Nothing made any difference; amidst the secure, peculiar retreat he had felt no reason to lack for happiness. Colder at night and during the dry heat of day the spring air tasted crisp, sweetly even despite the dusty, dirty swirl of rattling flatbed. On his face, wind flew hard and consistent always, fluttering in through the flaps, and when it came in wet he’d known it must be raining. None of that former condition then had ever seemed perturbing or disturbing, congestion of so many strangers of little consequence compared to troubles of the old country.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in The Swamp
Psychospiritual Healing & The Dark Night
Disclaimer: Possible Triggers Pertaining Mental Illness The content of this article will be varied, if not somewhat scattered and hopefully intriguing, informative. These are ideas of mine and no way are they meant to trigger or otherwise deleteriously affect mental well-being.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in Psyche
Aging Time
Leaving the warehouse was something he’d always expected to do. At the end, forty-five years of it, he never had. This morning, another arduous day come would just as surely go, he filed into the megastructure amidst the silence of every other worker. Their legion came from regions far and wide for the dawn shift, fleeing fast out of the dark bitter winter twilight; heavy safety boots smacked the pavement, breaths misting in the air. Soon the automatic doors swung open, ushering inside the tired silhouettes. Hacking throats that betrayed smoke-choked lungs, fingers tossing cigarette butts. Assembly herded within.
By James B. William R. Lawrence5 years ago in Humans
