He’d claimed a desire to change, but the words were meaningless when his next sentence announced his ignorance as to what he had have ever done wrong. #TrickyTues
— Emmi Lawrence (@EmmiLawrence) January 2, 2018
That hall held an age, a thousand years or more. And if one walked that corridor, a thousand years he’d feel.#1linewed #TalesNoir
— Emmi Lawrence (@EmmiLawrence) January 3, 2018
Over and over they said he would only live once, that his youth would fade as surely as the summer morphs to fall. They meant his body, his suppleness and strength, and did not realize the smoothness of his features hid an age far surpassing theirs. #1lineWed
— Emmi Lawrence (@EmmiLawrence) January 10, 2018
The stillness of the water could not fool me, for I sensed a darkness, a shifting so subtle and deep it did not disturb the surface. #Thurds
— Emmi Lawrence (@EmmiLawrence) January 11, 2018
Devoid of oils and pencil and paint, he drew on the ethereal fabric of the nether, with sunlight as his colors and stardust bristles as his brush. #3wordthurs
— Emmi Lawrence (@EmmiLawrence) January 11, 2018
Heat turned the rocks to coals against our feet as we scurried to the safety of the shade. There, we melted together under the thick branches of a maple. #FridayKiss
— Emmi Lawrence (@EmmiLawrence) January 12, 2018
He held that musket as if the metal and powder and pain were some comfort to his injuries, his thoughtful expression uninviting conversation. At least conversation from me, I presumed. #SunWip
— Emmi Lawrence (@EmmiLawrence) January 14, 2018
Though the diluted blood upon the creature’s beak no longer smelled of copper and death, the rain had only increased the putrid sense of rot it carried within its pinions. #Btr2sDay
— Emmi Lawrence (@EmmiLawrence) January 16, 2018
The ocean breeze dipped inside the shipwreck tantalizingly, teasing me with fresh hope that I might widen a hole large enough to escape this tomb.#WIPitWed #WineWords #TalesNoir
— Emmi Lawrence (@EmmiLawrence) January 17, 2018
The words turned round and round, spinning us in circles until we settled in the eye of that storm, where came the bittersweet realization that we were opposing currents in life. #WriteThurs #Thurds
— Emmi Lawrence (@EmmiLawrence) January 18, 2018
If the wound didn’t kill him, infection surely would. Problem was, if he woke, was lucid enough to tell them of my presence, it wouldn’t go well for me. I’d never prayed a man’s death before, but here I was. #Fri1st
— Emmi Lawrence (@EmmiLawrence) January 26, 2018
I’d never journeyed past the city, though I’d craved the open waters. Stood at the edge of the docks whenever I’d passed the north port. It’d been bravery I’d been missing then. Yet it took the need to run that finally stole the land from under my feet. #FictFri
— Emmi Lawrence (@EmmiLawrence) January 26, 2018
The button held on by a thread, near breaking, hovering on that edge. He wasn’t any better, dried blood upon his chin, a bruise forming under his eye, and the defeated slump of his shoulders was just one knife flick away from clattering to the tile. #MuseMon
— Emmi Lawrence (@EmmiLawrence) January 29, 2018
He drew me in, not with beautiful, complex words, but with an unmatched passion he possessed for all simple things. #BookishTues
— Emmi Lawrence (@EmmiLawrence) January 30, 2018
Emmi Lawrence 