Lit of the Week Winners:
Aconitum-Napellus adalaine almcdermid andrewpom angeljunkie Avallynh AzizrianDaoXrak backbones vellusz beeinthebottle BeyondJen Blacksand459 bowie-loon123 brassteeth colbalt-rain CrumpetsHarvey CupofCharlie DearPoetry disrhythmic doughboycafe Drunken-Splice emilyericson EternalSunday Fleeting-Epiphany FuzzyHoser glossolalias gogocherryrose GothKoala439 gummyrabbit ingle-nook intricately-ordinary iPawed IyraEMM jade-pandora jswebb Judah-Leonardo QuiEstInLiteris KaitForest KeanuWantRoomService LaBruyere LiliWrites lizilicious lluviosa MattVoscinar momo-madness mystichuntress nawkaman neuroticmnemonic NicBelroque Obsidian-Nightfall ohmistermagazine oracle-of-nonsense orphicfiddler NicBelroque Phu-Phu-Hugs-Me pomohippie7 pseudometry Psyghostis QuiEstInLiteris Raaawrli Rainyhawaii reflectionsinwater RestlessSands riparii RiseandBe rlkirkland RosaryOfSighsx RussianTim ryante devsaartha: saevusWinds Sammur-amat Scarlettletters SilverInkblot ssolaris starell That-Writer-Kid TheGlassIris TheGreatSpyExperim Tigris42 tonepainter toxic-nebulae travelgirlxx trembling-knees TristanCody Venry VicariouSoul Vigilo WetKakashi whatpumpkins winterkate witwitch your-methamphetamine ingle-nook zebrazebrazebra
Let's Never Meet Featured Writers:
EruptionsDangerous, delicateEruptions by nawkaman
balanced on heels; heart under breast
like Saint Helen (when the book said
she'd never lift a finger).
And into you again
sudden, full as old good days;
cinnamon and clove
and lavender notes hung dormant
on the neck of the solstice.
Toy Soldiers When Chester was a boy, he and Will O’Leary next door used to play with toy soldiers. Some were standing with bayonets poised, others lying down, others throwing something that the boys had, at one point or another, accidentally broken off and lost. They were little and made of lead, and Chester loved to paint them far more than he liked to play with them. But he did, with William O’Leary, because that is what little boys do.Toy Soldiers by doughboycafe
They came in wooden boxes, though Chester’s came in a paper bag when we rescued them from the charity faire on his sixth Christmas. I remember that there were only soldiers, not a complete set; no machines, no cook’s cart, nor medical tents. I suppose he didn’t think of those things as part of the army, or didn’t know what an army really was, because it didn’t bother him to only have soldiers. He painted them in rebel gray and dress blues, and made sure every stripe and symbol was
re: chromesthesiaon the body and proprioceptionre: chromesthesia by disrhythmic
as subjected to
upon inspection of varying souls
and sounds, this
that at a certain frequency
the ribs expand to make
more room for reverberations--
that the sternum shakes
as pillars do--
that the chest lifts in an attitude
of breathless expectation--
and that at a particular, powerful wavelength,
all subjects reported that they had never felt more impaled
upon their own spines.
post-apocalipsticki.post-apocalipstick by gliitchlord
red as the noon sun
and all men's shade
when she walks by
the dull stains
of the masses pined
like the fire's died
hips in motion
from tense to open
she's slicing a throat
when she lingers
and the hopeless
while she picks
from the fray
A Daughter Now BegottenIf reason could challenge the knowledge of infinity,A Daughter Now Begotten by NathanielFlyingOwl
the blindness of justice;
should we not call ourselves Gods...
And Gods are we not, for if justice were truly blind,
it would hold the same fate for rich and poor alike...
Under the celestial heaven that shines above,
the beggar's crying face and the rich man's arrogant gaze...
So of The Creation we are, living in throngs of solitudes....
Each solitude made torturous by the lust for more money,
yet eased by the kindness of strangers and the love of God...
Which power of change is made,
unto glory from a prisoner down trod,
to a man of faith, who helped a dying woman in need till loving eclipse.
A daughter now begotten, of starry eyes and golden sun ray locks...
Cherished by God and adored by both parents,
though mother soon to be with the Creator Almighty,
this daughter grows up knowing the brittleness of mortality...
...As her lips of red rose blossoms,
her heart aches as the mourning moon that hides behind the bosom of clouds...
In MorningThrough a wintry window laced with ice, lieIn Morning by BlakeCurran
petrified panes of frosted grass beckoning,
languorously outstretched. A shivering bird’s cry
reaches horizon’s edge—that razor reckoning,
those impossible dimensions—hung like a kite
on a cloud, precipitously balanced between a dull
existence with poking pinpricks the only light,
and the embers of potential, slowly stoking. A lull
unfurls, a quiet eternity uncurling in that predawn
chill, everything faded to silent sepia, frozen
as though this instant is more important, torn
from time and left right where it was chosen
to be. Light spills over and creeps through
fractured, flinty sky turned a clear, unbroken blue.
crooked kissesAn old man sits at a bus stop,crooked kisses by DrippingWords
his ragged clothes soaked
through to his creaky bones.
He grips his beggars cup
tightly, but instead of coins it
overflows with rain water.
Passersby pass by without
giving a second glance, brief
cases clenched in swinging
hands, Bluetooth plugged into
their ears. A little girl dressed
in pink polka dots prances
to his side. Her mouth moves
quickly and his takes time to
form words. She giggles,
drops coins into his cup, and
gives him a kiss on the cheek.
He laughs a crooked grin.
Ode To A Moonlit ZephyrLight of a waning moon, a silent melodyOde To A Moonlit Zephyr by NathanielFlyingOwl
A moon more lustrous tonight than I remember
Reaching through the midnight black to captivate me
Gentle motions of a zephyr always dancing
In charming whispers intertwining with my hair
Serenades the dark as it is bathed in moonlight
Darkened heavens holding fast to my attention
Zephyr's melody is the only sound I hear
Articulating a peace not found among men
For a single moment all pain is forgotten
This zephyr embracing my body, mind and soul
Speaking of things I am too cautious to explore
Moonlight and whispering wind weaving around me
My eyes slowly shift among the faint distant stars
Observing them through the branches of conifers
Listening to this zephyr, a breath of mountains
A breath that gives life to each verse I choose to write
A soul-searching breath I am still learning to share
Are anointed revelations being whispered
On each dancing movements of the moonlight zephyr
A prolonged and sacred poetry recited
With a natural, eloquent ease
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter side shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch wide gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood twisted crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.The Coffee God by anapests-and-ink
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
ReticenceSpringtime. In my inbox is an invitation to join a honor society for English majors and minors. I idly wonder if they clear their mailing list.Reticence by Falareste
Gray, who does not enjoy being inside, spends his time standing at the window, watching people come and go. It is warm enough to walk outside without wearing two layers of sweaters, but there is always work to do inside.
I wake one night to Gray shaking my shoulder. I’d dreamt again about my mother dying. Sometimes I dream those dreams with horror, sometimes with relief, always with guilt.
This time, it had been horror. Gray sits at the foot of my bed while I hug my blankets and remember that my mother is not dead yet. When we talk, our voices carry softly through the darkness.
Everything you want is on the other side of fear.
What would you do if you weren’t afraid?
A respected author said she’d written those two quotes on yellow Post-Its and tacked them above her desk, to read every morning before she started
Something awful. (Part 3)I'm so very, very sorry that this part has taken so long for me to put up. I know there are only a very few people who are following this story, but I love you all.Something awful. (Part 3) by Kurt-Jarram
I've recently been doing a lot of non-DeviantArt work including working on scripts for a friend's comedy sketch show. I've been writing my own short comedy pieces as-well as editing other people's scripts and it's been really time consuming.
But here we go, here's the 3rd part of 'Something Awful'. I really am falling so much more and more in love with this story as I write it.
The Character of Milo started off as just some kid who I could do horrible stuff to, but I have come to cherish him so much.
I don't know if you saw my last journal post, but I'm planning on putting a lot of these novellas together and then sending them out on Lulu to hopefully earn some money. Therefore any feedback will be much appreciated.
My good Mate Lethus1 has given me some awesome feedback on the first part, as-well as the prequel 'Number 93'
When Love Breaks Down‘Sometimes my heart hurts to watch you’When Love Breaks Down by CupofCharlie
- Wild Beasts.
‘Now you’re just somebody that I used to know’
I walk along the muddy path adjacent to the football field. With each step the thick layer of mud underneath my feet squelches satisfyingly and further encrusts itself onto my black boots. This late autumnal weather is beginning to turn bitter and unpleasant. Even my thick black winter coat cannot stop my skin from forming goosebumps or prevent my lips from shaking. The strong and violent wind collides against my face; my ears begin to ache and my head begins to hurt from the sheer force of it. The wind flirtatiously plays with my long blonde hair, throwing it around my face and deeply entangling it, whistling happily as it does so. Resentfully, I pull my coat tighter around me.
I look up at the overcast sky, dark clouds looming above and threatening to rain down on me. The wind chivvies them along and the
never mindI guess it’s kind of funny, if you think about it. You always see in the movies – in the TV shows – people running and screaming and praying and stuff. That’s what Hollywood always thought it would be like. Some sort of ‘death cloud’ or something – or like an asteroid or something like that – that just happened: that just totally hit everybody by surprise.never mind by andrewpom
People have known about it for months. It’s not like in the movies. The word ‘inevitability’ comes to mind: and hey, guess what? Nobody cares to run from the inevitable. It’s pretty stupid – isn’t it, if you think about it – how people, in the movies, try to run from inevitable death. Everybody has decided what they were gonna do today weeks ago, maybe even months ago. Say goodbye to family, spend time with girlfriend, et cetera et cetera. As with the Kubler-Ross effect – or whatever it's called – p
painkiller.you show me a bottle of advil. you say to me, “if i swallow all these pain pills at once, do you think i’ll finally stop hurting?”painkiller. by colbalt-rain
“you shouldn’t joke about that,” i say.
in retrospect, i should have been grateful.
it was the only joke you’d ever told where i wasn’t the punchline.
i’d like to write your name in a bathroom stall. i’d like to come back every day, checking for tears in sharpie’d letters. for a “he’s such a scumbag.” for a “you’re not alone.”
i guess i want to think that you’re a criminal mastermind. i want to think that you’re a serial heartbreaker. i want to think out there, somewhere, is somebody else like me, who you’ve hurt.
(i know you’re none of those things. i know that you’re just a boy – and, really.
that's the saddest part of all.)
i taught you how to stargaze, and how to uncross your arms and let people in
Sonnet XXIIBut give me leave to love in silence thatSonnet XXII by toxic-nebulae
which I cannot possess— and give me such
inspired defiance of the urges at
my breast— and give me strength to never touch
my lips to hers, my soul to her soul— give
me heart and hale to weather every storm
that may unfold: But tell me how to live
without my hand in hers, its honest form—
and tell me how to wake each morn if not
to wake within her arms— and tell me how
I am to carry on, and how I ought
to act and speak and be, around her, now,
and ever: tell me, and I'll on my way
as still and quiet as the passing day.
Two Years After That Night In NasiriyahAfter I came back from my second tour of duty, that’s when things fell apart with her. She left. Or I left. It doesn’t really matter which.Two Years After That Night In Nasiriyah by doughboycafe
It was because I couldn’t explain. Even in therapy, even recounting, writing journals, writing fiction, writing speeches, I could not explain. Or no one else could understand, not through listening, or tv spots, or reading newspaper clippings. You had to have been there, or you just couldn’t understand. Some things you can know, but never Know until you’ve been there.
The desert is like that. You can’t know the actual weight of a rifle or the feel of sweat soaking the canvas uniform under the straps of your pack, of how heavy that rifle is, but isn’t, because you are used to it now, like your own limbs, looking over the sandy flats while the heat makes waves in the cloudless, pale sky. You can’t know that. You can see it, and you can imagine it, but you don’t know it, because you don’t kno
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The UniverseFrom your lips
A quick quirk and quiver
Gliding into a smile
‒ the dimple spotting grin
The torch in your eyes
I saw the universe
From your lips
‒ to elephant’s ears
Old FriendsThe visit happened suddenly, and to her complete nonsurprise.
She had been typing up a report on various South Asian butterflies when he had simply appeared in her room, as casually as if they had agreed beforehand to meet there. “Hello,” he said calmly from the doorway. “Don’t mind me.”
“Hello there,” she replied, just as casually. “You’re always welcome here.” She didn’t bother turning around, knowing that, at her age, she would no longer be able to see him. She was aware that she was far beyond the age where visitations by imaginary friends, however beloved when younger, were considered acceptable. But she was about as bothered as she was surprised.
“It’s been a while since I last visited,” she heard him say mildly as he walked around the room, just out of her sight.
“It has,” she agreed. “Sorry, I don’t think there’s another chair here.”
“It’s all righ
in the land of 'villesI remember The South
as a fat cat's lazy stretch.
hard work makes thick fingers,
and the love they give taut strings
is slow - heavy like a thumb of thunder
rolling in to smother us.
under a hazy orange sky
an old man on Hay Street sang
in a language I've always known,
but can't settle on a name for. . .
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