Thomas Hawkins
Bio
Stories (10/0)
The Lost Children: Homecoming
Amidst an ocean of fallow hay fields sits an old farmhouse, mostly unoccupied. Years of neglect have taken their toll on the old structure and left a mark on the surrounding grasslands. From the only window of the sole occupied room, an elderly woman sits to a warm glass of tea, memories for comfort and company.
By Thomas Hawkins3 years ago in Fiction
The Lost Children: Summer Storms
Away in the distance and across a vastness of untouched snow, two children cavorted upon the thick ice of a small frozen pond. One child, the younger of the two boys, laughed as he trotted towards the edge of the pond under the skeletal shadow of an old elm tree long dormant from the freeze of winter. The older boy reeled in the drunkenness of spinning around and around, oblivious to the actions of his smaller counterpart. The sound of a harsh winter wind gusted through, then there was silence; the laughter was gone completely and only the spinning world remained.
By Thomas Hawkins3 years ago in Fiction
The Lost Children: Homestead
Overgrown fields of green tipped with gold stood stock still, scorching under the late June sun perching high in the center of the sky as three children made their way across, miles from civilization. The children trudged through the harsh thicket underfoot moving ever closer to an unknown destination. It mattered not where they where going, only where and what they were getting away from. For miles around the trio nothing but overgrown and untended hay fields mimicked their immediate surroundings; the area filled with nothing but derelict reminders of the war effort in Europe and the demands it placed on the citizenry of the midwestern United States.
By Thomas Hawkins3 years ago in Fiction
The Advent
“Man, it really is dark out here…” I spoke to no one in particular, there was no one there to talk to anyway. Just the small locket I’d retrieved from Emily’s… from Emily, hanging from the rear-view mirror of my car. The small heart-shaped trinket swayed slightly with the motion of the vehicle as the three of us careened down the empty desert highway in the middle of the night. I guess it’s four if you count the dog in the back seat, but he’s dead so I don’t normally count him. Actually, I only keep him because his meat isn’t half bad and I somewhat liked the dog when he was alive. “Good boy Leroy.”
By Thomas Hawkins3 years ago in Fiction