|DDs that I have had the pleasure of featuring as a Community Volunteer.|
Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.Twenty Ten Four by Beccalicious
Our alarm doesn't ring, it sings
Pharell beating our mornings
till we remove from our snooze. We
forgot the tink-tinker or
and emerge the same.
The same commute to work:
Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk by
thumb movements. Our ears dumb
locked into a Will-I-Am trance. Not
a glance of the changing scenes;
the only birds we see are angry.
The same office echoes with
of emails blaming others and smack-talking.
instead of actual talking. We fall for
the hype of Skype and only Siri’s
voice drones narrow answers
we accept as truth.
The same playground, huddled corners;
Children pick a blackberry instead of
picking blackberries, for their late-night
Facebook fights. Words will always hurt see:
no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unless
there’s an ap for it.
What do we do when stop?
Orwell you're too late
took thirty years to demonstrate your
doublethink and we all cling to
The Beard of intrigueHis beard was fascinating.The Beard of intrigue by Beccalicious
It was a loom, woven with intricate detail and so long it would put any wizard to shame. Each pattern in the coarse mound of hair seemed to share a secret. Perhaps they were memories- I’d heard others collect memories in such ways- etchings on their bodies, collecting objects and even journal writing. Maybe this man was his own journal.
The rest of him seemed positively ordinary. He rested in his chair in a blue business suit- albeit a little outdated for fashion, but suited the character I had begun to form in my head for him. His sorrowful eyes narrowed on a frustrated brow of greying features, illuminating a sense of tiredness. Perhaps the beard in all its might was weighting down. His skin was as rough as sandpaper, blotches and scars etching his hands and face with no revelation to the puzzle of his beard.
I wanted to move closer, debating whether it was rude to ask. The very notion excited me as I built up theories as to why his beard had the
Shopping and Wizards.A thousand bagsShopping and Wizards. by Beccalicious
shuffle down the high street between
clasped hands, scrunched with new purchase.
They’re buggy-dodging the determined mothers,
the rushed businessmen-- a pinball
machine shopping centre.
A green-robed man, tall with wand and hood
must be a wizard. He’s happily
procuring sushi and sparkling water
whilst his companion;
short with her piercings and jeans treats him
as if he wore the same.
Down the high street,
two track-suited parents
zoom past on their children’s scooters—
half-smoked fags between fingers yell
how fucking amazing this is.
spotted teen raps
his love for Jesus on a muffled
He raps for the Father,
He raps for the Son
and Holy Spirit.
He raps for peace, for hope, for you.
In a corner,
Brown eyes, hefty tears,
a snot-ridden face--
four years old.
A train runs through the mall toot-tooting
as grumpy shoppers move out of the way.
Napo 8- SusanWhy did you lock her out of heavenNapo 8- Susan by Beccalicious
and throw the key
into the lions land?
A beautiful girl enjoying
a new fantasy to live.
She'd stopped believing, but
faith stays in a heart longer
than a head.
"She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now,
and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age"
Napo 7- Teen of the 90'sI wanted to be Posh Spice because myNapo 7- Teen of the 90's by Beccalicious
hair was brown bobbed and she dated David
Beckham; I wanted to marry him. I
had no internet and recorded songs
on the radio to tape, daring to
pause and knock out the DJ’s droll. I sang
to S Club and thought I was the coolest
in my smiley faced top and my yingyang
friendship necklaces. You had to know the
Macarena not just for weddings but
school discos too and then every steps routine
to fit in. Slow dances with boys made me
wish again that they were David Beckham
and not greasy teens with bad curtains for
hair. They pressed themselves against you before
travelling to the next girl in leopard
print skirt. Viva forever was merely
a fantasy ; one I’d dream the whole of
the nineties, hoping my teenage self could
find her inner strength, her true girl power.
The Monster of Orange JoylingThe Monster of Orange Joyling by magdalagarza
The children had never seen a monster before.
They'd heard the stories, of course. It was impossible to live in the City of Always Nightfall without having huge, cavernous dreams about the bone-pile it digs its roots into. It was a very big and bloody bone-pile, the one crunching underneath Singing City.
There was Glum Rradung, the bulge-eyed sewer-midget who slithered out of water-closets and gulped down children wandering about in the dark. There was Ingalin, the hungrymind which spontaneously formed out of clutter and garbage. There was the Very Practical Man, whose face was just an enormous nose and an even bigger grin, a demon who, they say, could smell out loneliness and loved to torment the heartbroken and the near-suicides.
And there was the Dark Lord in his pyramid, high up in the inner city where no Squatschild could ever go. The climbing, black stain of Tower Myth and Mastery was a brooding reminder that it was a monster who ruled them all.
Singing City's slum-brats had no l
Pimps & Whoas - July 12, 2011PimpsPimps & Whoas - July 12, 2011 by Moonbeam13
Official dA News
We're Sponsoring Artists' Alley at Comic-Con
Celebrating Deviousness - July 2011
Emoticon Legend Update: The Emoticons Strike Back
All "official" contests will begin at midnight PST on the start date and end at 11:59 PST on the end date. This applies to all Community Relation run contests and all deviantART sponsored contests.
How do you Drink Dr Pepper Contest - Deadline August 22, 2011
Epic Movie Poster Contest - Deadline August 31, 2011
the human syntaxmottledthe human syntax by thesquareroot
there are carbon copies walking the streets
cut/and/paste people who
deracinated from scriptured roots rarely
ever realize that history is always unfolding right before them
or that somewhere in the bubbling
ooze of their jurassic hearts
a pasquinade has sprung
an unintended flood of reasoning
and merry mutants will come out to play
in scorched supernova shadows
while predation in the bio-mass
reached its all-time lowest
as shown in graphs designed to demonstrate
rising from the riverit's one of the drowned days; those that dragrising from the river by i-am-a-bridgewalker
like hooks through a river,
turning dead things
belly-up on your shores. listen.
i am listening. to name it lover,
this ripening ache stretched
between us; to know
what it is you carry. you
are a deep silence gardened
by ghosts; hanging
from the hinges of a sprawled
elsewhere. (they are here
still, pacing the long brim
of your memory around
to the long brim of mine.)
i too have been drowning.
if not by one stone,
then another. the autumn quiet
of the body
in bed. this language named skin,
beast, temple, home. underwater,
you open your mouth; amniotic
void of unspeaking, horizontal
trespass from dark to dark.
lover, i would kiss
your ghosts. the spinning prayer
of my mouth taking their poison
into mine. secrets
blooming there, blooming dark
like strangers. we sleep now. dream
ourselves against them, dancing. promise
the space of your breath worth more
than its abandoning, the static stain
that crawls you out to sea.
A Modern AndromedaShe walks this underpassA Modern Andromeda by thirdim3nsion
embalmed with the graffiti
of the broken, the glass
bottles blue and broke
on cigarette dirt -
where she disinters
glints of rusting rails,
steel line parallels
of a western yesterday
and gold melded dust.
this tunnel's twilight eye,
this lying catacomb echo
of a locomotive ghost,
she must get out, escape,
breathe Georgia magnolias,
and leave her solastalgia ache
to a zephyr wind,
to elysian fields.
But it's all she feels,
this millstone of loneliness
chained to the selfsame shame
that came with breaking
her mother's sidewalk spine,
the crab leg line of bone
beneath her very own skin.
So she tarries in here
with this cemetery sickness
searching for the solace
of a nomadic ballad
that only the broken hear.
Best Served ColdIf there was one thing the children of Lancaster knew for sure it was that where one Allerdice went, another soon followed. So perhaps Bonnie Peterson should have known better than to push Roland Allerdice into the mud one summer afternoon.Best Served Cold by TheMoorMaiden
She smirked at the little boy, hands on her hips, while he glared up at her from the filth. A humiliated blush spread from his cheeks down to his collarbone, and while he didn’t appreciate being embarrassed in front of Bonnie and her entire circle of friends his main worry was the scolding he’d receive from his mother when she saw the state of his clothes.
The laughing ceased with a collective gasp from Bonnie’s friends, as though they were trying to suck the laughter back into their lungs, and Bonnie whirled around. Thora Allerdice stood between them, completely still aside from the curls of her red hair which were caught in the breeze, and stared. There was nothing threatening in either her stance or h
songthe whip-poor-will singing in the bush, luka nuzzles her dark crown into the crook of kottak's neck, says, "I cold." the golden grass sways and kottak's maple eyes meet mine. I nod, stomach suddenly swelling with love like it does often for them; I am already walking to the camper before I realize I have moved, warm, as if the sun has found refuge inside me.song by etre-aime
arrow is still asleep there, freckled fingers in a fierce hold on her rabbit, its pale cotton ears hanging over the edge of the bed in imitation of her bare leg. I watch her breathe obsessively. in sleep, she exudes peace. yin. in waking, she's a wildling. yang. In the golden silence, with the dying light falling like stars across her body and the sweet thought of my two still outside, I capture the moment in the mason jar of my mind, store it there for nourishment in hard times.
I tug from the overhead rack the blanket nana poppy made mama when she was a fledgling, press the fibers to my
Six years ago.I wasn't ready for you. I was readySix years ago. by this-epiphany
for a brawl. I was ready to trade in the hand
I'd been dealt for new cards, all of them
the queen of hearts. I was ready
to fight my mother for the next four years,
to blow so many holes in our relationship that we're
still half-sunk & bailing water out of a boat
we don't recognise anymore.
I was ready for a drink. I was ready
to hit rock bottom & start digging, to put out
my own fire with dirt and a shovel. I was ready
to be the kind of shitty girlfriend that leaves
you hanging on the other end of the line
while I chain smoke cigarettes
in the rain,
to spend six years and counting
waiting for another man to hit me,
to stay up late every night deciding
whether to walk away this time
or close my eyes and take it.
I was a rabid dog in too-small skin, itching
to break everything around me
until I felt whole again.
I wasn't ready to be happy.
I was on hands and skinned knees crawling
towards the day that I would.
|DDs that I have had the pleasure of featuring as a Community Volunteer.|
eclipse.my eyes well-up constellations for you,
they shine bright. though my tears aren't precious anymore,
far too common for the tormenting night.
whoever told you about those squinting stars?
they strain to see those in this world;
gifted yet challenged by the sun and the moon.
and if all of earth's paradoxes were to stand up like soldiers,
we would be out of place.
try not to cry about such trivial matters
and live life as if we will not die.
and if such aspects are set in stone,
why does our molten flow so smoothly as
we seep out venus' volcano of infidelity and trust?
and they tell us that lust leads to consequences.
our brightness attracts those moths who perish in our heat.
we give a warm welcome to everything that we
untitledThat guy thinks he's heartless;
I watch him as he buys coffee
and gives it to everybody he passes
on the street who looks sad, and
his lips curl into a smile because
he made a joke that gave someone a laugh.
He holds his mother's hand on top
of hospital sheets, pressing the button
to pump morphine into her system
before he signals a nurse. Tears cascade
down his face when he watches
his mother take her last breath.
And his lips curl into a sneer as he walks
past a cloud of lung choking smoke,
thinking of the fume filled air
his mother suffocated herself in.
He thinks he's heartless, but
his heart is bigger than anyone's.
| Or just confused?|
If you are new to the Literature community or don't know where to start to get involved, then adding CRLiterature to your watch is a good start! The group is the central cub for the literature community relations team, and we encourage community interaction!
CRLiterature chat room
Lit Community Volunteers
These sexy people are so full of awesome you won't know where to go first!
Ye Pirate Tales (Talk Like a Pirate Day!) 1 week left, don't forget to send me a note with your entry!
Pimps and Whoas - October 22, 2014Moonbeam13
Official dA News
Bringing You Closer to the Community
Celebrating Deviousness - October 2014
Welcome To The Today Page
Secret Origins of The Lord of The Rings
Clive Barker Wants to Read Your Writing
FocusOnLit - What is it?Simply put, FocusOnLit is a group that caters to chaptered prose writers. If you're a poet or only write short prose, this isn't the group for you. But for those of you that write novels, you'll want to keep reading because we're probably exactly what you've been looking for.GrimFace242
The concept of FocusOnLit is basically taking a real world crit group and putting it on the internet. We're not beta readers, mentors or professionals (well, maybe some of us are). We're friends that read each others' work and give feedback.
How does it work?
FocusOnLit admin will create teams of varying sizes (3-4 at most) based on genre. Once a team is created, all team members will be sent a note with instructions on how, when and where to submit their deviations for feedback. The first chapter and blurbs will be requested by FocusOnLit admin into our gallery. In order to submit further chapters, team members will need to include links to their feed
Love dA Lit: Issue 183Welcome to the one-hundred eighty-third issue of Love dA Lit! Every Sunday this article will aim to promote volunteer opportunities, various resources, prompts, challenges, and workshops, as well as highlighting various contests. This is by no means a complete list of all the literature going-ons, merely a tool to help you get involved and stay informed.IrrevocableFate
Note: NaNo Fever strikes again, it's getting closer and closer to November. Are you participating? Not participating? Let me know in the comments. I want to cheer for you whether you do it or not because I like you.
LITplease's Community Portal
A Smattering of Lit News
Horror-Writers-Unite's 2 Sentence Horror Contest! Congratulations!Gingersanps
You have been chosen to participate in this fine competition. It is a fine day indeed. Lots of prizes are involved, and it will be worth your while. Listen to this message carefully ...
You can be hurt. The message will he --
So, keep reading to understand. We will be wat --
The deviation must be uploaded between October 15 and November 25. The piece must be a new piece. The entries must be two sentences -- no more, no less. The genre is horror. [This is a horror group after all.]Link your entry to the official contest journal. Be creative. [It will be judged on its genre.] (1) Entry allowed.
Digital Drawing (courtesy of CrypticGrin) 3 Month Premium Membership (courtesy of Gingersanps)Journal Feature + Interview (co
Ready, Set, NaNo!So it's that time of the year again and we're all racing around trying to get our bits together for NaNoWriMo. OR, we're laughing at the people running around trying to get all their bits together for NaNo. In the past, I've written articles on what NaNo is and how to prepare for it. This isn't one of those articles. Well, not entirely. Let's start with the glaringly obvious.GrimFace242
What's the point of NaNo?
If you answered "To write a 50k Word Count Novel in a month's time," you're wrong. NaNo is about conditioning writers to write regularly, keep those creative juices flowing and to work under pressure. November is a busy month. Students are back in school. Parents are dealing with said students. In the United States, we have Thanksgiving and of course everyone is getting ready for Christmas. Add in clearing 1,667 words a day and we're talking about some major pressure. But that's the poi
Space LootingA high pitched blaring came from the control panel, accompanied by flashing lights on the hologram screen. Half a dozen heads turned toward the commotion before a figure calmly strode toward the panel and pressed a button. The noises ceased, and the lights grew from random specks to a clear formation of merchant ships.d-e-l-e-t-e-d
"Captain Jones," said a man stepping from shadows to light. "I do believe that," he pointed to a certain star-ship lagging behind the others, "is the one we're looking for. What do you think?"
The woman who pressed the button turned around, smiling as she pulled out a sleek mag-gun and checked it for charges. "Sil, I say we give 'em hell."
Commotion overtook the crew deck as humans and aliens alike checked their armor and weapons. Still more sat in chairs facing personal holoscreens, calculating trajectories for mass teleport. Once each member stepped aboard their designated plate a green light flared above their heads.
Jones was the last one to step on her teleport pad,
The Legend of the Haunted LighthouseNot many folk know of the lighthouse on Saber Island. But not many folk know of the island itself, for it's a hidden place, a good distance off the trade routes and surrounded by vicious currents that will smash your ship against the saber-sharp cliffs that have given cause for its name, so that if you get anywhere near enough to find the island, you'll have no way of ever getting back to tell the tale of it. Well, that goes for regular folk, who come across it when they get lost to sea, not for hardened sea dogs who go about looking for trouble. An island that's hard to find and dangerous to approach is a boon to any pirate, and there's never been a time since man sailed these seas that there wasn't a pirate den on Saber Island. And legend has it, some three hundred years ago, the island was home to a pirate known as Captain John Cutlass, the greatest pirate to ever rule over Saber Island.dparparita
Captain Cutlass was a strange man, strange as they come. Some say he was no man at all, b
Trouble on the Dead Strait The sailing master was dreaming of warm, sandy beaches when the cabin boy shook him awake. “What the hell are you doing, boy? It’s not even sunup.” He started to raise his hand to deliver a hard slap to the boy, but his pale face and wide eyes caused him to hesitate. “What is it?”Tobaeus
“It’s the helmsman, sir. He’s taking us into The Strait!”
“What?” He found himself throwing open the door to the deck before the sleep had cleared properly from his eyes. The sky was still pitch dark; sunrise was still hours away. And sure enough, that damned fool helmsman was steering them right toward the Dead Strait. He marched over and sent him sprawling with one punch. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The helmsman rubbed his jaw and glared at the deck. “Shaving two days off our trip, that’s what. Your route takes us right by this strait, a
MajesticSpace travel was old when I was young, yet those were the early days still: when a man could look at the stars and feel their pull as more than mere gravity. We made our living then largely from shipwrecks, a lucrative trade, much more frequent than they are now. Much of the seas were uncharted; navigation systems unreliable across such vast distances; bulky hulls ungainly and difficult to manage - it was not uncommon for vessels in transit to disembowel themselves on a comet or asteroid. Ships failing to arrive were traced back along their route to the point of shipwreck, but this took considerable time. Our business was to be there first, and our ship, the Ulysses, was designed expressly for this purpose. We were rebels and renegades, explorers and adventurers, the archaeologists of the deep waters between the stars...samjo989
Among those of our trade there was one name whispered more often and with more hushed reverence than any other: the Majestic. A luxury starliner, one
Hunting PiratesI witnessed the plundering from my safe vantage point, eyes glued to a fancy telescope and neck screaming mercy.HtBlack
Devotion never stood a chance against them, I have known for a long time: it's the defenses you have that make a difference, not the stubborn utopia that some "god" is going to rise and defend you instead. If I lower the telescope's magnification there they are, weird-shaped ants kicking down doors and putting our livelihood to the torch.
But it doesn't begin like that. It begins on your skin, like when a cool wind blows and you know you'll get goosebumps. Soon enough, the villagers see it for you - "black sails! Black sails coming!" and you choke on your tea. And even if a storm has been gathering in the sea almost like divine protection and a few ships have burst against the rocks like bubbles, you know you are exposed, maybe when those rainclouds will bring an early sunset and a sleepless night, or maybe tomorrow; your heartrate is just a countdown.
And there it is. I've
Not Damsel FodderThere's tales of a woman sailing the seas, they say. Her nails be painted black as night, and quick with a gun she is. She comes from a family of brothers ungrateful, a father with a streak for abandonment. A place where women remain in a stationary spot of the house, over the stove or cleaning the clothes. Good for nothing more than just a housewife -- or even less, with the little ankle biters that may cling to their skirts.BlueBlueFox
She sits in the corner of a bar, or to the side of the deck, a leg crossed over the other. Tap tap tap of the boot on the wooden surface -- be it the boat or a table or hell, even both! Sharp green eyes and a quick wit, but don't call her a wench or you'll make her twitch. Anything but, in spite of the opening tunic, if she catches your eyes wanderin' well... she may just shoot'cha.
"I'm not bossy, I'm the boss."
Those eyes watch the world around her from the mass of brown tumbling about her shoulders and crossed over her face. When not seated, a h
Ye Pirate Tales (Talk Like a Pirate Day!) 1 week left, don't forget to send me a note with your entry!
Entries are starting to come in now and will be stored in the contest folder for all to see! Can't wait to see the entries roll in!
Behold me literary feather-bearers, how fair ye in on a week where we celebrate talking like yon pirate? It's time we took the celebrations to a new level and test ye wits in a tourney!
To pit ye writers against each other, we arr asking for your best pirate legend. Give us a tale of mystery, of cunning and wit- be it stupendous or just plain stupid. We're looking for humour and exaggeration, we want intrigue and excitement- do ye think you can do it? Then lets hear ye!
September 19th is International Talk Like a Pirate Day
I am a 29 year-old mother of one who has been writing since around 9 years old. I have a keen interest in scriptwriting, and write plays for commission for local schools and theatre groups. I have a BA in creative writing and theatre studies and currently studying for a Postgraduate certificate in Business Management. (day job!)|
I love dA because you can see what others on here have to offer. I appreciate any artwork simply because I could never do half of the amazing work I find on here.
As a writer, my main focus is on Scriptwriting and Writing for Performance, most of what I produce doesn’t appear on dA as it is used professionally. I also enjoy writing prose, and poetry and have participated in several “wrimo”s over the past few years.
If you ever want to chat, come find me in #CRLiterature, or any of the chats on the dAmn network. I am also active in the literature forum and don't be afraid send me a note! I am always willing to help answer any questions you may have or say hello.