Deviant Login Shop
 Join deviantART for FREE Take the Tour
×

:iconbeccalicious: More from Beccalicious


More from deviantART



Details

Submitted on
January 31, 2012
Submitted with
Sta.sh Writer
Link
Thumb

Stats

Views
3,019 (1 today)
Favourites
32 (who?)
Comments
15
×

Literature DD Round-up: January

Tue Jan 31, 2012, 12:20 PM

January Literature Daily Deviations

Hello Everyone!

Firstly, before we show off the roundup, can we give a HUGE thank you to the recent influx of suggestions! It really goes to show that the phrase “Many hands make light work” is so very true and we appreciate every suggestion that is made. Please keep up the momentum- search your favourites, your groups, and your inboxes and find those pieces that appeal to you. It doesn’t matter who you are or even how many years you have been here, we want to see your suggestions!

Featured by Halatia

Mirror ImagesI was the first person in my family, outside of my parents, to hold my sister. I had only just turned five at the time, and did not quite understand the logistics of adoption, the figurative birth of a child into a family. All I knew was that here was this small, scrunched up little thing and that she was mine to keep. I held my arms out, and she was settled in them, her pink newborn face wrinkling as she was jostled. My sister, in her infant sleep, looked either deep in thought or constipated, her little brow furrowed, her small cherry mouth pursed in concentration. Dreams played out on the movie screen of her face, small fingers flexing and toes curling. My mother tells me I was much the same, my face an open book, my heart begging to be written upon.
She is eleven now and I am sixteen. We are more different than alike, separated by more than uncommon backgrounds. She is stretching tall, her shoulders broadening, and her feet are that of a puppy – they showcase what she is yet t
LossIt is more than death: a loved one
vanishes into a gathering of ashes,
and still they are not immortalized
by that lump in the throat, that sense
of wrong, that homesickness, that love-
sickness--the unnameable, named. Baudelaire,
I am an unhealthy man now--
this is past forgetting, past frailty.
Age has whitened the crass lines
of my hair; apathy has sewn through
my thinning lips, has stilled each finger
from touching keys, or ink to paper.
Although I've shown the eye of each grape,
how they watch from a neighbor's unkept yard--
I care no longer about the sweetness
of their juice, or the miracle of finding
sense and hope in language--workhouse
of our tongue, long-suffering in our ineptitude.
I have long walked past that dreaded block:
can see it in the deep distance, in the dark.
Those others! Their arms stretch: their new
birthing, discovery of another light--glimmer
of each experience that seeps and sparks
as if tiny breaths. But, here, I turn--
hold my own breath. Discover the hard
:thumb277155101: ArchetypeThe man holds a grimy hand to her mouth and whispers something I can't hear. She squirms against the alley wall, and she shrieks, muffled through fingers. I pull out my gun.
"Stop! Police!"
The man's face jerks my way, and I look to his forehead. In the late evening darkness, glowing from his bald scalp is a violet tattoo: an X overlying a large circle. He's a Delinquent Archetype. A Thief.  
"Step away from the woman!" I walk closer.
The Thief's eyes widen at my gun, but without missing a beat, he puts the girl between us and pulls her close. He has a knife pressed against her breast, where the tip pierces her blouse.
"You aren't going to do anything to this girl, are you Thief?" I say. "That wouldn't make your handlers too happy, you know." I press a button near the back of my gun, and the small, mounted screen blinks to life, displaying an ID number and a series of readings. One registers fear. It pulses. The Thief pales, almost to the girl's chalky degree.
This close, I can see pas
:thumb272894465: A Textual AnnealingA thousand thousand generations
misinterpreting the lightning,
A tumult of attempts, many
mumblings while we burn - each time
most is lost, some survives.
At the whistle of illusion that awakens,
day drops dream on me. I am
thick with swerve: If there are giants
there is a world they walk on.

And for the final faith
to be an inversion: We are
the electricity lunging toward the sky.
without glass slippersCarson knew too well that when Vee stepped in and out of depression, she stumbled. Prozac alone could not break her fall. It put her in a delirium that left her groggy-eyed, yawning. When she went to nap it off, her sadness seeped through her dreams in whimpers and tearless crying. He had to dance her through it. The record player was always prepared, needle set to skip to songs that coughed up attic dust as they whined. Both of them wore their pajamas; they drew the curtains to a slight part and let the sun or the darkness stand witness, which ever was out there when their feet began. He took her hand and told her to watch her step, not for the sake of elegance but for what the waltz represented as a remedy. Although Vee frequently went barefoot or in sole-worn socks, Carson feared that he would look down at her feet and find glass slippers with fault lines etched across her toes. Their embrace would loosen, each step growing more reluctant than the last. Finally, the music would stop My Mother and the BoyWhen that boy left, he left Mama a wreck. She sat in that creaky old kitchen rocker, her thin hair disheveled above  clammy, transluscent skin, her black, birdlike eyes glittering like beetles, sunken and strange in her pale face.  She moaned whenever anyone passed, but without looking at them, her hands in frantic and mechanical motion knitting row after row of snarled thread. "I let that boy into my house!" she muttered. Occasionally she would get up and pace back and forth across the kitchen, restlessly wiping at various surfaces with a greying little dish towel clutched in her bony fingers.
Then Joey and I  went off to school, and she was alone in the big house, filling the silence only with her own mutterings and the anxious clicking of her knitting needles. The neighbors would grab our sleeve on our way out sometimes, and ask if she was still alive in there, because she never showed her face.
One day, when I drove down to visit Mama, I found her stan
The SiegeThe first mile is always the easiest.
         —Kyle Lynn to me, circa 2006

Tell that to the ghosts,
men soaked in sand and blood spray,
storming the shores of Normandy.
First Infantry's sprint through coastal
trenches, up bluffs, under ruptured drays.
Tell that to the ghosts
huddled in half-channeled holes,
a captain's dash through shrapnel, gray
storm on the shores of Normandy.
A German boy adrift in the compost
of his legs, his elbows' grand flail.
Tell that to the ghosts
ripped in four by mortars posted
over Omaha. Dawn's evenly keeled decay
storming the shores of Normandy.
How quickly the lung forgets to oust
its breath. Be wary of the sea's affray.
Tell that to the ghosts
storming the shores of Normandy.


Featured by Beccalicious

A little bitter, aren't we?A: Over here.
B: Ah, there you are. Stunning as ever, I see. {He sits down.} You -
A: Shut up.
A WAITER appears, seemingly out of thin air.
A: Black coffee, milk and two sugars.
B: Coke, thanks.
He nods, and vanishes.
A: So what took you so long to show?
B: School. Well, you know how it is; not all of us are completely adept at playing truant whenever we feel like it, you know.
A: It's a waste of fucking time. No-one bothers.
B: No-one you know. And so says the boy sitting sulky in a dark corner with a - frankly dazzling - shiner.
A does not respond, and avoids eye contact, scowling down at the gleaming tabletop. B gives up on waiting for an answer, and continues. Faux-coaxing and unashamedly curious.
B: Who was it this time? I didn't give you that one, I'm sure of it.
A: Oh, it wasn't you. May come as a little shock to you, but I do see other people, you know.
B: Can't think why. Luckily, I've never been the jealous type.
A: Yeah, you're far too ugly
hypergraphiashe writes in the empty spaces between the words
between the world,
world-weary fingers and toes and pengrips, knives
letter-opener swords, typewriter machetes
arm-wrestling with fate and the universe on a piece of paper,
computer screens painting faces with colors
stained-glass hyphenated hue-tint-shade glory
she waits.
she is patient.
she's their patient, doctors and nurses
emergency room, operating room, clinical study
stethoscope children
they wish fervently to cut her open.
her insides will be beautiful, they say,
beautiful and pink and full of words.
unwords, she says.
she writes on her skin, on napkins and paper bags
inscribing fate and the universe in ink and pencil lead
sharpened down to stubs, nails bitten short
pens running out, she is falling
stable decline, not irreversable
your insides will be beautiful, they say,
let us cut you open with ornate scalpels
ritual sacrificial tools from a dead religion
and she makes mouse scratchings, cuneiform
hieroglyphics, kanji, cyrillic
:thumb153594723: The Knife's SpeechIn the early eighteen hundreds, a sixteen year old girl decides to leave her hard home life and go out to seek her fortune. She takes with her a blanket, some food and her father's old knife. On the road to London, the knife speaks to her.
I left the forge in years long gone by,
with blades of great renown and greater strength,
but none of them has done so much as I,
though they may be recalled whilst I am not.
It was with them that men waged cruel war,
displaying awesome power before the world.
I'm agent of small deeds which no one saw,
but which will have effect until Earth's end.
There's little in those youths who name me beautiful,
run fingers down my spine to test me,
feel my balance, call me graceful
and having paid that tribute soon abandon me.
To them I'm but a toy that men outgrow
and leave behind with boyhood.
My subtler power's a power they'll never know
in heat of war and sound of soldiers' feet.
Yet gentle women know my power well;
and quiet girls unleash my strengt
:thumb203328933: The Business of Murder"Well, now that we're through with the pleasantries, Mr. Daniels, I must ask: Why is it that you want to die?"
Joseph Daniels sighed and slumped down in his seat, the picture of unkemptness. His face looked tired, with large bags underneath his eyes and at least three days' worth of stubble. His hair was a mess, his clothes were disheveled. He seemed to exude an aura of despair.
He surveyed the room he was in, which was quite his opposite: neat, orderly, unremarkable. Blank, white walls, some filing cabinents, three windows looking out on downtown. He was sitting in a plain, wooden chair in front of a plain, wooden desk with merely a fake houseplant and laptop on top.
The woman behind the desk, typing notes on the laptop, was similarly forgettable. She was dressed in a black pantsuit, her dark brown hair in a bun. Her eyes were blue, but otherwise ordinary. She wore little makeup on her plain face. She was as unremarkable as the room, which was how she liked it.
She had introduced hers
Critique: A BreakdowndeviantArt is a website focusing on art.  Wherever there is art, there is bound to be critique- no exceptions.  While this fact may be aggravating and/or intimidating to younger, more inexperienced artists, they should learn and heed some basic advice on how to respond appropriately to receiving a critique.
This is a little bit of information about critiques- who critiques, what a critique encompasses, the different "styles" or approaches people take when offering critique, and appropriate ways to respond to all kinds of critiques.
• • •
What is Critique
critique
Noun: A detailed analysis and assessment of something; a critical review or commentary, especially one dealing with works of art or literature.
Verb: Evaluate (a theory or practice) in a detailed and analytical way
In a nutshell, a critique (or to critique) is to approach something and analyze something in a critical manner.  The key words here are analyze and criti
ConfessionLips met in clumsy haiku,
against each other, pressed,
the way the earth touches the sky,
soft and whimsy as the dusk.
Tongues painted passion-
          sunset colors,
          halcyon atmosphere, infused,
-upon every awaiting space offered.
Metaphors dotted the hallows of limbs and tasted like the seasons-
          a bursting and vibrant spring,
          a hot and passionate summer,
          an adventurous and teasing autumn,
          a cozy and comfortable winter,
-all at once.
Skin smelled like Frangipani, an offering-
          blossoming with intensity as the sun draped itself in twilight's shawl,
-and felt like a brick wall crumbl
Let's Talk RefrigeratorsStew stood in front of the refrigerator.
"So… how much are you being paid?" he inquired, attempting a small talk.
"Excuse me?" the refrigerator replied, opening two cup slots that functioned as his eyes.
"Money. How much do you get?" Stew simplified.
"Sir, you do know I'm a refrigerator, correct?"
"Of course, it's plainly obvious." Stew rolled his eyes. "The question still stands." He continued. "I've been wondering lately, how much such a fine gentlemen as yourself and your fellow refrigerators get."
"How about – We don't?"
"You're kidding! Nothing? You don't get to see a single penny for your hard work? That is ridiculous! The law clearly states every man working should receive pay for it, unless it's volunteering." Stew called outrageously. The refrigerator let out a long, heavy sigh.
"And say I did get money, what would I do with it?" it wondered dryly, agreeing to entertain Stew a while longer.
"Well, you can buy things – like food, and a computer!" Stew listed exci
The Stepmother's TaleI found a man in my garden bed,
Picking herbs for his wife, he said,
For she was hungry and heavy with child.
"For greens, your daughter is mine," I smiled.
So after the birth, I took her away
To a tall, doorless tower where she would stay.
I was her mother, she my one care--
"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your fair hair!"
But then a prince came and stole her young heart,
So I cut her long locks and let her depart.
I took her tresses for my own
And saw how beautiful I had grown.
Then I wondered: could I, too,
Find a prince so valiant and true?
I married a king, to my delight,
With one daughter named Snow White.
Though his age was quite obscene,
I was his happily cherished queen.
Until -- "Mirror, on the wall,
Who is the fairest of them all?"
Was my stepdaughter fairer than I?
Jealousy declared that she must die!
I followed her deep into the forest
To where dwarves mined; "Hi ho," they chorused.
Disguised, I fed her an apple so red
That after one bite she was thoroughly dead.
That mirror
Single LadiesI want to spend a summer fortnight in the Everglades with LynnMarie.
I want to sleep all day and stay up all night, learning just one dance.
I want to dance like Kurt Hummel in the Glee "Single Ladies" video.
I want to learn every hair flip, finger waggle, hip thrust, every move.
I want to keep this incredible talent a tiny secret in my heart of hearts.
I want to keep it for a day when I have a true heart great-granddaughter.
I want to see the gleam in her eye when I invite her to share my secret.
I want to dance, dance for her, until we both cry gasping tears of laughter.
Blanched by SaViNgGrAcEs A Rose by Any Other Name
In a white hospital bed, pale as the lifeless bones of a decaying skeleton, with my flesh exposed through the backless dress of my hospital gown, I listen to nurses discuss my mental health. I can taste the quiet tap of a pen on paper and their tiny smiles of contempt.
Shame comes in waves. It’s not like a scalpel or the cold touch of a surgeon’s hand. They never tell you that it can eat away at your insides like a virus. (That it eats you alive). Shame is not a symptom of the mentally ill. It’s just a side effect.
In my creased hospital dress, I wish for death. The sweetest sleep away from detached, gloved hands and dissociative expressions. The never-ending hostile questions and the silent blame and accusations lying unspoken on dry lips.
“You did this. You’re not sick. You’re just a twisted, manipulative lunatic.”
Under medication and the slow Novocain drip of sedation, I wish for another disease. I want a tumor in my head – something t
Among undertakersAmong undertakers
(act 1:
a graveyard, a tombstone, a hat
three undertakers: Victor, Markus & Willem)
Willem: "There were less heavy exemplars."
Victor (mockingly): "Our youngster."
Markus (more mockingly): "Bury the grudge."
[passes the hat to Willem, who puts one coin in it and takes two coins.]
Willem: "The old age is none of my business." [pokes Victor in his side.]
Victor: "Distillate the potatoes of life well, son."
Willem (realises his comment was not very polite; humble): "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it in that way."
[Victor taps Willem on his shoulder."
Victor: "There is no country for old men."
Markus: "That's why we are sailing the seas of gin." [laughs]
Willem (relieved): "Well, that's fixed then, I guess."
Victor: "It's only fixed when ye're dead."
Markus: "The undertaker degenerates to a corpse, in the end, just like the carpenter will become a wooden coffin."
Victor (gets the hang of it): "Or the butcher who will become a piece of cold meat!"
Willem: "Lord Byron became a po
Artistic SolipsismThe world has ended.  Maybe it was an alien invasion, an astronomical catastrophe, the ever-popular zombie apocalypse, or some ironic twist involving irresponsible science and man's own hubris.  It doesn't really matter.  Perhaps it was a grinding decline like a torch starving in the night, or a fleeting blaze of cinematic glory.  That doesn't matter either.  All that matters is that somehow, I ended up being the last person on Earth.
I learned a lot – mostly about survival, but I'll leave that for a later monologue.  I found that in a strange way, I had never really existed.  No, I haven't gone mad.  At least, I don't think I have.  Allow me to explain…
My first move, reasonably enough, was to find a dwelling close to clean water and nonperishable food, which would buy me time before I had to venture out for more supplies.  Soon after I settled, I found myself doing the oddest
Wasteland
Eliot hunched his shoulders against the wind, the relentless sand picking at the seals of his gloves and headgear trying to find a way inside. He watched the glow of the sun disappear beyond the horizon, his waking period now fully begun.
It had been weeks since he'd seen another soul, perhaps years. Who kept count of such things anymore anyways?
The last city he'd abandoned to the ravages of this dust bowl planet had been a graveyard, he'd taken what he could carry, what little food and fresh water remained before the decay and vermin forced him back into the desert, back to his search for living humans.
There had to be more, they were so prolific on this rock before the coming, had spread so far, achieved so much. He'd visited countless monuments to the species' achievement here, each sprawling steel and glass expanse a testament to human drive and ambition, each barren, vacant ghost-town a reminder that the planet doesn't welcome strangers, doesn't tolerate intrusion.
Midway through
Blue BloodAt the Comte de Guise's chateau, his wife turned forty,
yet again, ape masks are all the rage, frocks hand-
stitched in Paris, linen collars which pinch the throat.
On iron gates the Comte's coat-of-arms bears the rumour:
Il faut circuler. I've just drained a cup of Methuselah,
spot Dominique, circulating, ever with a different party,
and a little further off. The chef cuts a crenellated
pie from which doves scatter. How swish! a jewelled
gorilla sighs through yellow teeth. There are benches
of fried oysters, treacle tart, porridge spooned up
by a proud garçon who'll answer only Oui or Non.
Now Dominique, glowing, embraces another, looks
my way. The mad acts we perform to balance ourselves.
God knows what it costs to smile, about-turn. I subside
on a stool set back amongst elms, black leaves aquiver,
when Dominique passes, am mute. The bare sky yawns.
So rise, circulate, admire the chamber of clockwork
dolls, each has a name. At the first blush of dawn,
as one, their pain


Featured by wreckling

to Yellow Plumto Yellow Plum (in blue
china bowl):
      
     afternoon's slit of sun slips
     between thick curtains
     & woos you to ripeness.
    
     it chooses you
     not for flecks of honey-russet
     held low in your seam of shadows,
     nor your symmetry & swell;
     but because
     
     you slink in shade, sink
     behind green pear & clementine
     & cannot hide
     from each spear of light
     that ricochets
     through--
     even now
     nested warm
     against these lips
     even now:
     a tea-stain stone
     hugging close
     the trashbin floor.
Lover on top of a mountainThey who scale mountains
content themselves with the feeling
of love, not confirmed
with action. They can fly the arrow- never mistake- truer
than any romantic. But
height is a lofty mistress, and the
keenness of the wind is
ever seductive, because it whistles
the story clearly that gets
mangled below.
Who -wants- to get mangled?
We are not beasts of burden, even if
we've worn this fur for thousands of years.
To dive from the clean, clean edge into
chaos is unthinkable.
To frolic among the tumbling bodies
and risk trampling and being trampled
is enough to curl back and reach
for the highminded pleasures
of love
Oh, but such a dream
veiling a cliff's face
eventually reveals itself to
appear only to those who
fall from the sky. So the lover
spends all her time devising paths
of climbing
to those below. She braids the ropes
and drops the chains, even taking a sledgehammer
to the rocks for a perilous winding road
but the danger she
undermines, and it is
few who exceed the intimacy of
faraw
The Broken WallMilo woke up one morning in a different bed than the one he had gone to sleep in. Even so, the bed he was in now was still his own. He looked up at the ceiling and saw patterns there that he had never seen before and yet he knew they would be there. Sunlight slanted through the window in a line different from what he had expected.
He spent the rest of the late morning wandering through the house. It was full of knick-knacks from places he was sure he had been. Every thing that he found there was his. Every thing that he found there was new to him.
In a daze, he sat down at the kitchen table. His mind was running, but it was buzzing, too. He couldn't keep his thoughts straight or even pick them out of the eternal hum. It was as if his mind was deliberately keeping him from thinking too much.
Outside he found a garden, full of plants he loved. Down a path he found a bench around a huge oak tree. He suddenly had a vague memory of having planted it, but that could not be possible. He sat d
The Clocksmith Chapter OneThe sun was not yet up, though the sky had turned the colorless hue that heralds sunrise.  The tops of trees still budding could be seen as stark shadows against the sky, a testament to the light that would soon return to the world.  From somewhere in the predawn fog, the forlorn sound of a train echoed into the dark station.  Gradually, the rhythmic chugging of the engine's wheels became more audible, and the large iron beast came into view.  The train came to rest in the station, steam blowing out of its smokestack.
"Pine Harbor!" the conductor shouted drearily, half-expecting no one to get off.  Peter stepped alone off the passenger car and looked around.  Home at last, he thought wryly.  Not that there was anything in particular to look forward to.  Swinging his father's battered top hat onto his head, he walked out of the station and into the road.
At this hour, Pine Harbor lay in the midst of the fore
Inferno's Touch -0-Prologue
"You are putting yourself in danger."
A metal door screeched in strain as a slim-fingered hand pushed it open. Sunlight streamed through the fluffy white clouds as a human form stepped onto the roof. The young woman walked forward, remnants of snowy patches crunching beneath her grey and purple sneakers. Squinting at the light, she moved to a nearby ladder and clung to it. Chills raked her body, igniting where her skin met the frosty metal.
Arriving at the top of the small overhang, the woman kneeled at the edge; the undisturbed snow clung to her jeans. Crisp winter air nipped at her cheeks and fingertips, furthering the cold that plagued her. Her soft breaths became water particles in the air and her thin spring jacket did little to protect her from winter's remnants.
"Ann, you know what will happen if you continue."
Ann unfurled her fingers from the large bag she held in her left hand and set it on the cement platform. She unzipped it and pulled the contents ou
:thumb277325397: Wild Hunt :: LongmaLike any good story, this one does not begin where it began. It does, however, begin where it ends—at a funeral.
The village was not particularly big. Rather, it was frightfully small, and just as frightfully remote. That said, it was little surprise that every denizen turned out for something so important as the funeral of a good man.
—and it truly was each and every one: every man, woman, and child; every son, brother, and father; every maiden, mother, and crone. It was said even the dogs followed at the heels of their masters, even the songbirds gathered in the trees, and the livestock unable to free themselves from their pens bowed their heads in respect. But the story that is still told to this day was how the most notable guest at the funeral of Bai Huan was his finest (and only) stallion.
*     *     *     *     *
A long way from the village (but not nearly far enough) a
Minotaur 1.1Death's acrid stench clung to the air around Varan. The sickly rot of infection bubbled up, oozing from his shoulder. There was nothing he could do chained to the stone wall with a guard at the door. Arrow splinters trapped in his flesh were killing him slowly.
His death should have been swift on the battlefield, but instead he was ambushed while he bathed. He'd cut down seven men before the poisoned arrow made him too weak to lift his ax. The poison wasn't lethal, unfortunately. Its purpose was to render him unconscious for interrogation.
His sire, the famous Conqueror of Brundan, must be laughing from the afterlife. Even shame failed to give Varan the strength to rise or curse his luck aloud.
Infection ravaged his mind and body. Time blurred and he no longer knew how long he'd been held prisoner. He was a minotaur. A Bullman. He was stronger than any human could hope to become, but the illness made his limbs too heavy to lift rendering the chains moot. He was the Joranaham Chieftain
i hope to see you by YouInventedMe The Courier     Eirik surveyed the impressive façade of the Temple of Myralo with concern, brow furrowed, fingers worrying the loose leather strap that kept his dagger in its sheath.  It was certainly a pretty building.  Everywhere he looked there was beauty to behold – from the intricately detailed vine-and-leaf patterns carved into the cloud-white exterior, to the elaborate mosaic of Prismeryl, Twin Deity of Beauty dominating the archway above the temple’s entrance.
     Hanging next to the ornately wrought gate into the temple’s courtyard was a “Help Wanted” sign.  It, too, was beautiful, written in a light script by a steady hand, and assuring any applicants that the pay would be more than sufficient.  Eirik didn’t doubt it.  If there was one thing the Prismeryllian priests and priestesses were known for (and there were many things they were known for) it was being as free with their pocketbo
husk.Tully and I each slump into a wooden rocker and kick off our muddy boots.  I flick my glowing plait over my shoulder, sigh at the task at hand.  Aunt Mona had, moments before, wrangled us inside only to send us to the front porch to shuck dinner's corn.
"'s'lot of corn," I say, gazing beyond the bucket to the open fields, and then further, to the trees at the start of the thicket.  I think of the watermelon, half carved in the kitchen, wipe the sweat from my brow, "'s'lot of sun."
Tully picks up a piece of corn, runs one finger along the corn silk sticking out of the top, then rubs it under her chin.  She lowers it, yanks the green husk away to reveal the soft yellow glow below.  
"Looks like gold," she says, twisting the freshly peeled ear before my eyes.
"Or dandelion seeds," I say.  She tosses the corn into the empty bucket, picks up another piece from the porch, hands it to me.
"Think we'll ever get to leave?" she asks.
We
The Cartographer's DaughterEvery night, he would fold her into his arms before she slept. Creases grew into her, turning brown with wear, and she loved them. When she woke up in the night, dreaming of darkness, he would take her to his desk and draw for her a map of her face, turning it into another world. Tracing the contours of her smile, he would scrawl a warning, "Here be monsters", whispering to her that she was a dragon when angry.
As she grew older, she populated his maps with creatures and peoples from the books she read, or her own creations. He taught her to draw, and to write with an old inkpen, in a cursive script her teacher could make neither head nor tail of. She made him angry once, drawing in the drying sand with her finger, and smudging the ink. When he was angry, mountain ranges grew across his forehead and caverns opened in his cheeks. Here be lions.
Walking home from school, she knew the local area inside out; from the maps he had drawn and taught her. He would copy them onto o
7.34mmA simple measurement
can make a man
lose himself; a blurring, no more
than a grainy smudge
a scant 7.34mm long
this rice-grain, seven weeks old
with one hundred and twenty nine
heartbeats per minute
—all this, from a mere sesame-seed of a heart
Old hauntsNumb fingers fumble at coppers
and a dodgy purple lighter which is unfit for purpose.
Giant splodges of stars
as if God - in a frolic of youthful exuberance –
went wild with a paintbrush.
Granite delicately held by shape and contour alone.
Slotted together: a melee of ankles, hips, spontaneous larynx.
Careless hopes, dreams wide, menthol cigarettes.
Thoughts all quiet.
The Death of VenusIf there lived in the world a man
as rugged and as strong as I,
who could forbear with me yet go against,
who took to the black woods and the silver hills
mostly unafraid--
who savored salt and the lay of fur
with fingertips of dirt and weather,
whose lips rolled words like smoke, like fog-
I would creep into his arms in the prologue of the night,
air sweet with the scent of new-cut hay,
alive with the nightjar's call.
: Joel is Having a Bad Day(And He Really Needs A Smoke)
CHARACTERS:

JOEL, male, mid-twenties
BILLY, female, late teens to early twenties
Lights up on JOEL and BILLY, who are sitting outside on the back porch.  The three or four chairs are mismatched and seem to have been salvaged from the reject pile of a Salvation Army store.  A wooden coffee table hails from an indiscernible decade and holds a glass ashtray with dozens of cigarette butts sticking out of it. JOEL is smoking, trying to ignore BILLY.BILLY
You know, you really shouldn't; I heard somewhere that those things can make your teeth turn to mush and your fingers grow all bendy and twisted. One of my "friends"—she used to smoke a lot, too, and now her voice is so raspy and gritty we call her "Louie."  As in Armstrong.  The "Beautiful World" guy?  Hello, earth to Joel.  Come in, Joel.  Your lungs are…
JOEL
Shove off!
BILLY
Excuse me?
JOEL
I said, shove off. 
Desolateif you are parched tonight,
the pale of your lips cracked
with thirst for that which
will not claim you;
if you hunger -
the deep and shallow collapsing
into slivered vibrations;
if blindness rejects you, says
no, watch now.
this is the way of it
;
if you are breathing the world
into cinders, inhaling each poison
on purpose, striving
toward an apocalypse
because that is chaos
we can categorize,
then you may understand.

Our wonderful suggestors!

Again many thanks to EVERYONE who suggested DDs, but here are those whose suggested pieces were featured this month!

:heart: TheDarkenedBride LiliWrites Amberlouie xthumbtakx xlntwtch LadyofGaerdon GrimFace242 neurotype SilverInkblot LadyofGaerdon EmmyIsAZebra BlaireAllegriozebrazebrazebra leyghan futilitarian CrumpetsHarvey doughboycafe Halatia sunshinegypsy DeviBrigard jswebb:heart:


If you wish to suggest a DD

Here are each CV’s guidelines:

wreckling: lightningmonkey.deviantart.com…;

Beccalicious beccalicious.deviantart.com/jo…

Thank you!

:iconbeccalicious: & :iconwreckling:

 



Add a Comment:
 
:iconpoisonedrose:
poisonedrose Featured By Owner Feb 1, 2012
You forgot mine ;)
Reply
:iconlit-twitter:
Lit-Twitter Featured By Owner Feb 1, 2012
Chirp, it's been twittered. :)
Reply
:iconangelstained:
angelStained Featured By Owner Feb 1, 2012   Writer
:happybounce:
Reply
:iconbatmanwithbunnyears:
BatmanWithBunnyEars Featured By Owner Feb 1, 2012   General Artist
It's an honor to be featured! :iconhonoredddplz::iconhonoredddplz2:

Thanks again! :iconfingerdanceplz::iconthanksddplz1::iconthanksddplz2:
Reply
:iconladyofgaerdon:
LadyofGaerdon Featured By Owner Jan 31, 2012  Professional Writer
:la:
Reply
:iconneurotype:
neurotype Featured By Owner Jan 31, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
:clap:
Reply
:icontouchedvenus:
TouchedVenus Featured By Owner Jan 31, 2012  Professional Digital Artist
Congrats to everyone who received DDs in January! Awesome pieces. :D
Reply
:iconliliwrites:
LiliWrites Featured By Owner Jan 31, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
You didn't put mine in there! :cries:

[link]

:giggle: :heart:
Reply
:iconbeccalicious:
Beccalicious Featured By Owner Jan 31, 2012   Writer
Added :)
Reply
:icontariencole:
TarienCole Featured By Owner Jan 31, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I wouldn't want the kindness of =oblivion00 and ^lightningmonkey forgotten for January 7th either. :thumb262323943:
Reply
Add a Comment: