Ode to Coffee


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Oh, delectable nectar
poured forth from the gods
of mechanical interest
on laminate mods

You eliminate languid
pain and frustration
and manipulate outlook
for the day’s estimation

As linoleum creaking
I move to dispense
that recovery method
for last night’s unrest

In supplication I come
my knees bending deep
while declarations intoned
devotions most steep

I administer liquid
my cup overfilled
that invisible tugging
for now to be quelled

My anxiety wafting
far from the night’s storm
Our reality shaking
I conquer the morn

© EMMI LAWRENCE (1.25.2018)

~ ~ ~

The addiction is real :)

Is this the same as when rock stars sing about drugs? XD


Festival of Fools


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You stand on the shore of the defenders, the sand coarse against your feet and the summer air heated despite the sun still deep beneath the horizon. With your friends you paint green stripes upon your arms and tie green cloth about your swim-ready shorts. The air is filled with quiet laughter, eager anticipation and yarns spun by older defenders who had played within the holiday for many, many years.

A sense of calm wraps about your heart as the barest hint of light begins to creep over the world. You can sense him, standing there, on the opposite shore. Out of sight, but never out of mind.

Slim shadows mark where small schooners and dinghies and even non-wind-catching craft dot the bay, but the largest of all, that Barge of Delights, seems an ominous presence in the predawn hour. Port controllers drift further off, toward the entrance to the bay where the ocean currents ran rougher.

In front of you, just past the lapping waves, sways a platform, bending and dipping and every so often disappearing completely: the first stop along the Broken Pier. The true entrance into the Festival of Fools.

You’ve never stepped foot on it before, that platform, or any of the ones bobbing in the waves after it, a trail, like breadcrumbs, that cross the bay, connecting the defenders along this shore to the invaders on the other.

They would wear red and gray. Headbands about their foreheads, ends hanging down bare backs or braided or folded in new-fangled designs. You’d braided one, the red strip down the center, the gray to either side. You’d given it to him, your heart hammering in your chest.

He’d taken that band. He’d be here today. You are sure of it. Continue reading

Micro Poem Collection #2


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Thunder carved
And lightning born
Steel sharp
With perfect form

Oceans part
The waters shorn
Wild heart
Gives chase to storms


What rage he feigned, to hold his reign
Feats of glory, swollen stories
So legends claim a perfect name


At the base of my spine
I trap a shiver
As the glint in your eyes
no longer glitters

On the curve of my cheek
the tears turn silver
For the want of your touch
you don’t deliver


Though damp lines down his face are creeping
I see a strength in his gentle weeping
A steady heart, his head high keeping


She’s starlit pure and angel kissed
Where checkered halls in time persist
Her pearl bloom in earthly hearts
Tears fervent men of sense apart


The Immortal Lover of Lake Phanta


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In the soft soil along the banks of the jungle-hidden Lake Phanta, just past the curve where the Creeping Falls gurgled, lay an aged bottle. Stoppered with browned wax and coated with a mottled decor of muck and algae, the bottle sat lodged, its squat bottom stuck between the twisted roots of an ancient willow.

The narrow neck popped free when yanked, leaving behind a perfect ring of thick glass. Just inside, kept clean and supple for centuries, a note unfurled.

With the rush of the falls echoing across the lake, a young man plucked the note free with two fingers and unrolled it, the broken bottle quickly forgotten at his feet.

It read:

To my first love,

We’d met in the morn hours, before the sun awoke, while the birds cooed their greetings. The falls drowned out our voices, claiming our lusty sounds as its own. The jungle paths remembered our footsteps, echoed them through the trees. The moss-lined curves between the roots cradled us as we slept in each other’s arms, the scent of our lust embracing us just as surely.

No one ever found us, not in all the times we’d discovered ourselves over and over again. At the time, I’d been thankful for that privacy, you my hidden secret that kept me running wild rather than taking up the burden of responsibility. Continue reading

Sunday Stories Update


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Most of February was spent in short story mode, which made me do a lot of reflective thinking for the coming years. While I love writing short stories, love how some of the ideas I get for them end up within my novel-length projects, I don’t like how much time they take away from me completing longer projects.

During times when I’m working on shorts, I’m heavily distracted from those longer projects I need to be finishing. Jumping back and forth ruins productivity because then I’m not steeped in just one project and must constantly be looking things up and re-acquainting myself with plot lines and character developments.

I thought I could solve this problem my merely limiting my blog post stories to only flash pieces I could knock out quickly. Unfortunately, after striving to do this in the past month, I’ve come to the conclusion that a story’s length is just whatever it wants to be.

So I’m making the announcement now that come 2019 I shall not be publishing short stories every month on my blog anymore.

This does not affect this year’s plans, as I already have a number written or in stages of being written, so 2018 there will still be a short story published the first Sunday of every month. Including tomorrow! (I’m excited about tomorrow’s because the picture for the prompt was sooo pretty and it’s one of my favorites that I’ve finished so far this year!) :)

I’m toying with a few other ideas, but I really want to focus on novel-length output, so I’m not announcing anything just yet. I want to have time to consider different options because while I like giving free words, I also know most of you are generally more interested in reading extra bits about characters you already know and love rather than newbie characters introduced and forgotten about within the space of a few short words.

So there’re possibilities, but I can’t promise anything just yet because I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

If you’ve stayed with me during this long post, I’d like to add that Pup Games is on sale for this weekend only for .99$! There are a lot of other Fantasy and Sci-fi titles also available for .99$ a piece, so if you’re a fantasy lover with or without romance, you can check out the promo here:


He watched the wretched


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He watched the wretched
Through a dirty pane of glass
Thinking himself blessed
Above the lower streets of crass

He thought his insight
Beyond their moaning plights of pain
Some heraldry of light
Rather than wishful grasps for fame

No boots of leather
Within those alleys black did stride
Only stormy weather
Could he see while locked inside

Gifts of gold and silver
he did bless with a scrawled line
an altruistic giver
who never met those he defined

That day a cleansing rain
exposed missed truth, the unseen whole
Dirt spots upon the pane
Could never mar such lovely souls

© EMMI LAWRENCE (1.22.2018)

Lines to Read By (Jan)


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Continue reading

Loud & Clear


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I did not mean for him to read my mind but sometimes there are just people you look at and wonder…why has no one hit you over the head yet? The fact he heard me as if I’d spoke out loud was regrettable.

“I can explain.”

“Explain that you want to murder me?” Eyebrows up and if I wasn’t mistaken…was that a possibility of an HR complaint glittering in his gaze?

Oh, I hoped not. I certainly didn’t want to murder anyone. Though now if someone else were to have done it, I wouldn’t have been averse.

“As if that makes it any better?” His expression became even more consternated.

“Stop reading my thoughts!”

“I’m not. You’re practically screaming them. As if you wanted to make damn sure I heard how much you despise me.”

“I don’t despise you. Hell, I don’t even think—” No, I couldn’t say that. It would be a lie.

He shook his head and backed up, waving a hand dismissively. “Forget it. I don’t need your help. Get back to whatever important report you were working on. I’m going to fill this out myself. Try to keep your thoughts a tad quieter please.” He started to turn, then added, “Or at least less murderous.”

He strode off, papers still in hand, slacks tight around his ass. A very nice— Continue reading

January ’18, Briefly


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A Couple of Announcements

— I’ve recently finished a poem called ‘Ode to Coffee’ to give you an idea where my brain’s been recently —

— The publisher for my DaSunder Chronicles, Loose Id, has announced they are shutting their doors come May of this year. This means that at that point both Shatter by Glass and Murder in Color will have a short period where they will no longer be available. I have begun work to make sure to keep this time frame as short as possible and plan to have paperback versions also available upon republication —

— Paperbacks of Those Bloody Christmas Elves, Haunt of the Wilds and Song for the Wilds are now available. I’m in proofing stage for two more. This was one of those projects that kept seeming more and more impossible until I actually did it. And then, it was super easy, especially now that I have a template created for the formatting. –

–I’ve been in blog-prep mode lately. Scheduling out posts ahead of time so I can focus on my longer projects. Still knee-deep in this mode with about half a dozen shorts in some sort of progress from outline to editing —

Hope your resolutions are still going strong!

World shaper


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These stairs we climb
their metal aging
beyond the clouds
we walk forlorn
In our own world
our trust is fading
yet hope still lives
we might return

One day we’ll find
the road leads nowhere
the steps below
overgrown and worn
Temptation calls
and if we answer
no hope’ll remain
of our return

Tear down the rose
the petals shower
on years gone past
to dull the thorns
We reach the edge
of the endless tower
so hope breathes for
our safe return

There worlds unfold
each one created
by whom came first
who’d then discerned
to shape the world
of their desires
If hope holds true
we won’t return

~ ~ ~

I originally wrote this from a picture prompt while using the song Fare Thee Well, Northumberland as the rhythm, so maybe this is more of a song than a poem.