Kris Hawkins

“fugue” by Kris Hawkins

Submitted to Contest #274

On the evening of Halloween, Jason held hands with a ghoul beside a pond. Their inverted, elongated reflections walked together upon the water’s placid surface. In the distance, somewhere near the pond’s center, far beyond where their stretched bodies could reach, a fish splashed lightly, flashing its tender white belly. Along the shore, reeds whistled gently as cool fall air nudged them to and fro. No one else walked beside the pond this evening. Award-winning neurobiologist; groundbreaking research; and of course, Nobel Prize Winner — thes...

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“Echelon” by Kris Hawkins

🏆 Winner of Contest #203

Leaning against a tarnished railing aboard a ferry, Katherine watched ocean waves curl into themselves. Close to her chest, she held a pewter urn containing her mother’s cremated remains. She breathed deeply, the taste of brine caking her tongue like damp ash. The midday sun reflected in droplets that quavered on the balusters, then trickled down like little rivulets, only to reappear from the periodic spray of waves breaking against the prow. Other ferry goers chattered around her, though Katherine was only vaguely aware of them. Her though...

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“Marble and Verve” by Kris Hawkins

Submitted to Contest #155

“Let’s get married.” The statement rolled off his tongue like a marble. Miranda lay beside him, languid strands of hair trailing across one cheek, their tips pinned to the wet crease of her lips. Bed springs creaked as she sat upright to look into his eyes: lids lowered, pure as opals, resolute.  A dark heaviness slithered into Miranda’s chest. She half-smiled and said, “Okay, but are you sure? You really mean it?” “More than anything I’ve ever meant in my entire life,” he promised. He popped his eyebrows as though surprised, and his ...

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“With Us, Always” by Kris Hawkins

Submitted to Contest #151

“What do you think, monks? Which is greater, the blood you have shed from having your heads cut off while transmigrating & wandering this long, long time, or the water in the four great oceans?” - Timsa SuttaA gong rang. Bodies slid against saffron fabric as the monks lining the perimeter of the meditation room began to rise. They straightened cushions and folded blankets before turning to face the center of the room with squared shoulders. Yeshua was seated at the end of the row in the furthest corner from the door. He inhaled, taking i...

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“Chrysalis” by Kris Hawkins

Submitted to Contest #149

Freya winced as she sat down. She set an overfilled glass of merlot onto her windowsill, and looked out at the moonlit courtyard of the Berkshire Apartments. Wine glasses clinked behind her. As they rang out, darkened light posts constellated throughout the courtyard flickered on then off in unison, revealing a glimpse of a well-manicured landscape covered in hundreds of monarch butterflies.  Strange, she thought. Not about the butterflies, or even the lights; in fact, she hardly noticed them. She was transfixed on the motions of her ...

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“Hesitate” by Kris Hawkins

Submitted to Contest #147

The pair shifted in their auditorium seats as credits began to roll. The man uncrossed his legs; the woman smoothed her hair. Before them, each lead actor’s name faded into and out of the darkness of the vast movie screen in succession, shedding a steady pulse of hesitant light through the unlit auditorium every few seconds. From the corner of her eye, the woman pieced together the man as a series of still frames. Straight-backed; ridge-nosed; slender, delicate even, she could tell from the sharpness of his knees. From his peripherals the ma...

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“Dayspring” by Kris Hawkins

Submitted to Contest #146

As I rattled my truck down the ill-maintained roads of rural Oklahoma, I couldn’t deny the deep sense of dread I carried about the visit. I had somehow drummed up the courage to visit my Grandpa in that tired nursing home, swallowed up in the bowels of a rickety small town called Engle. Dayspring, the home was called. I never liked the place, but Engle was home for him, and my mom thought it was good for Grandpa to be as close to the familiar as possible. I left work later than expected, so by the time I crunched to a stop in the unmarked gr...

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“Emerald” by Kris Hawkins

It isn’t so much what I find in the photo, as it is what I don’t. My wife is gone.  Everything else was exactly as I remembered it: in the background was that limestone fountain, carved into the shape of a lion, bellowing out a plumage of glistening droplets drenched in golden streaks of light from above; the clouded sky stretched over us like a worn canvas, one where light filters through thin layers in meek, irregular bars; around us was no one. Just my wife and I. We were, after all, at a neighborhood pond on a Tuesday afternoon. W...

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