[x]

The Literature Community ExperimentThis is a typical example of a ^Beccalicious shower pondering! The idea of this is to try and bring together as many people as possible all in one journal, but not for the sake of making a big number, but to encourage interaction and share useful tidbits. We often say the "literature community" has drifted apart over the past few years and this is just one attempt to try get people to come back together. It's a little hippy, perhaps a far-fetched idea, which is why I am calling it an "experiment". This could be successful and could be a complete fail- only you guys and your efforts can decide its fate!

Wow! The response for this has been HUGE!!! Thank you so much all of you who have participated! Don't forget to add #CRLiterature to your watch as well as replying to all these wonderful comments!

The Experiment
So you may be new to the literature side of deviantART, or you may be one of those long

Project Educate: Free Verse`KathrynODriscoll's interview of `thetaoofchaos and =AzizrianDaoXrak in regards to Free Verse Poetry. Held on March 6th at 8:28 at Project Educate Studios, L.A.
[ begin transmission ]
`KathrynODriscoll: *taps the microphone* is this thing on?
`thetaoofchaos: I can hear you, loud and clear!
=AzizrianDaoXrak:

`KathrynODriscoll: Oh. We’re on. Okay. Hello and welcome to Project Educate’s exclusive interview with Free-Verse brainiacs `thetaoofchaos and =AzizrianDaoXrak! Today we are going to discuss free verse poetry, what that means and some great examples of it, and some of the issues it creates. We are also going to finally hear the latest news on Shane’s upcoming album “I never touched her” and talk about what it’s like backstage with One Direction and find out the exclusive gossip on Azi’s infamous Vegas wedding to Richard Armitage!
=AzizrianDaoXrak

Literature DD Roundup- December 2012Greetings everyone!
Today is New Years Eve, so before we share the roundup for December, on behalf of the Lit CVs, I wish you all a fantastic 2013!
It’s been a year of progression for the literature community, one I hope you will all join us on the continued journey for 2013. The community isn’t just 4 volunteers, it is ALL OF YOU, and I hope you share your ideas and get involved.
December has showcased some fantastic pieces of writing, and because of this we have actually snuck in a few bonus features. On Christmas day, we had 4 Literature DDs and from mid-December onwards we added some extra DDs over the weekend- something which we will now be doing every weekend!

(ps. Did anyone notice we’d snuck in some extra DDs lately?)
Here is the roundup for December:
:iconbeccalicious:
Features by ^Beccalicious

:thu

Summer ContestUPDATE: Submissions to the contest are now closed. Watch for an announcement on the results.
The Prompt
Use an object to connect the lives of two or more otherwise unrelated characters.

Contest Begins on June 1st, 2012.

Contest Ends on August 1st, 2012 at 11:59pm Pacific Time
The Rules

All entries must be Literature. Prose, Poetry, and Scripts are accepted. No visual poetry; concrete is allowed.

All entries must be written specifically for this contest, uploaded to dA on or after June 1st, 2012.

All entries must include a link to this contest journal in the artist's comment of the deviation.

All entries must adhere to deviantART's Submissions Policy and Etiquette Policy.

Anyone who is not judging may enter the contest, including DLD st

Publication Opportunity!#EliteLiterature's

Publication Opportunity

We, the staff at #EliteLiterature, are excited to announce that the debut of Let's Never Meet – the group's very own first ever anthology – is now accepting submissions!
Let's Never Meet will be released as an ebook through smashwords, and once available will be sold for 99¢ a copy. As our aim is to make the anthology absolutely, utterly affordable, we hope that, even if your work should not be selected, you will support your fellow #EliteLiterature members and buy a copy for everyone you know. (Especiallly as all proceeds from the sales of the book will be put toward future publication costs and contributor payment.)
Ah, yes! lovely members, I did mention the magic word "payment!" Writing is hard work, and as such, deserves reimbursement. At this time we are able to offer those selected for the anthology the token sum of $15 (

Grammar PoliceA touch of humor to kick off the summer!
The contents of this post are an alphabetical arrangement of two lists that have been circulating among writers and editors for many years. In case you have missed out all this time, I'm sharing here the wit and wisdom of the late New York Times language maven William Safire (Rules for Writers) and advertising executive and copywriter Frank LaPosta Visco (How to Write Good).
1. A writer must not shift your point of view.
2. Always pick on the correct idiom.
3. Analogies in writing are like feathers on a snake.
4. Always be sure to finish what
5. Avoid alliteration. Always.
6. Avoid archaeic spellings.
7. Avoid clichés like the plague. (They're old hat.)
8. Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
9. Be more or less specific.
10. Comparisons are as bad as clichés.
11. Contractions aren't necessary.
12. Do not use hyperbole; not one in a million can do it effectively.
13. Don't indulge in sesquipedalian lexicological construc

Communal Karma #1Communal Karma
Hello there and welcome to the first ever Communal Karma. This will (hopefully) be a new monthly feature I will do.
In the Communal Karma series I will highlight the devious little squirrels who have suggested DD's in the past month. To do this I will collect the names of the suggesters from the past months DD's. I am aware, of course, that many other deviations are being suggested to our lovely and all powerful overlords but I don't have access to those!
The point of this feature is to make those who support the literature community get seen themselves, a karmic reward for doing good and expecting nothing in return. It might also encourage more people to suggest incredible literature for the site-wide feature, which is also great because it means that the CV's will have eyes and ears all over the site finding amazing unseen gems to share with the rest of us.
Suggesting a Daily Deviation is a very kind thing to do. It doesn't happen at the click of a but

The Unexpected Love ContestHas someone special that you love surprised, delighted, or changed your life in an unexpected, but joyful way? I want to hear your stories.
So Unexpected…
One of the best things about finding new love is the excitement and anticipation of the unknown. All of us at one time have felt that exhilarating feeling of unforeseen passion. I want for you to express to me in a poem or short story this unexpected feeling, and what it ultimately means to you. Be as vividly original as you can to make your deviation stand out, but do keep our key elements of what you feel the aspects of “unexpected love” entails as your primary motivation while writing.
Your Submission Guidelines:

Your submissions must be new deviations entered after today. Please <a wytiwyg="1" href="http://my.deviantart.com/notes/#tk=dgUMWxYIWApzVU1cR2h8BFBPfAwNVFpfXw%3D%3D">

Winter Alliance Contest!

Greetings, fair Allies! It is my pleasure to announce the Winter Alliance Contest!

:iconlit-visual-alliance:
What is the Alliance, you ask?
The Alliance is a project group intended to encourage visual and literary artists to work together. I've felt for some time that the dA Literature Community can at times be somewhat insular - to its detriment. We in the Lit Community are also sometimes prone to griping about the lack of exposure our work receives when compared to that of visual artists. So in the spirit of ^thorns brilliant Complaint Challenge I thought I would try to do something about that. And so the Alliance was born!
Because I, your founder, have a deep and abiding love for the seasons, this group will now host seasonal contests, and as the Autumn Contest is now over, it is time for Winter to reig

March Feature

Gotta love it.

Winners Of The "Self Portrait" Contest!I want to thank all of the members who participated in the contest. We had so many entries that it was very difficult for the judges to decide each place winner, but they have. Below are the six winners and three deviations from their personal gallery that I chose as my favorites
Congratulations To All Of Our Visual Winners In The "Self-Portrait" Contest

"Earth Angel" by ~Arinda-Foxglove

"One man's perception" by *DanNeamu

Third Place:wnner:

"Self Portrait" by *bbyoung1971

Congratulations To Our "Self-Portrait" Contest Literature Winners

"Wednesdays" by *Judah-Leonardo
:thumb306453

Untitled is just a synonym for lazy.Well, the color poem form I introduced to dA was a rousing success, but interest of late seems to have died down. So I'm back with a new form for you all, something exciting and new, something different, something that I will probably make into a contest once I get some points in the bank. You ready?
EDIT
There's a group now - feel free to head over to #TheTitlePage! We're still in set-up mode, so excuse the plainness for now.

Found Poetry Project - Titles as Art

One of my favorite things about the creative process is coming up with a good title. The title can make or break a piece; it can give context not provided in the piece itself, set a tone or mood, or just give that little extra something you can't put a name on.
You know I'm right. How many times have you stumbled into an ordinary piece with a beautifully creative title? And it's not something

Sunday Features - January 20, 2013Hey guys!!! So, I've been sickie, sickie, sickie, thus this features being a day late! Today, I can actually look at a computer screen without my head feeling like it needs to explode! yay!!
Remember: if you have anything you think I might like to feature, please note it to me!!

POETRY -
http://hfeather53.deviantart.com/art/Come-Spring-349195178?q=favby%3Atravelgirl7%2F53462654&qo=1 by :iconhfeather53:
http://alternativemeanings.deviantart.com/art/Uncertainty-348858950?q=favby%3Atravelgirl7%2F53462654&qo=14 by :iconalternativemeanings:
http://mismatched-misfits.deviantart.com/art/exordium-348929963?q=favby%3Atravelgirl7%2F53462654&qo=15 by :iconmismatched-misfits:
http://beyondjen.deviantart.com/art/prey-349003997?q=favby%3Atravelgirl7%2F53462654&qo=26 by :iconbeyondjen:
http://edge-of-psychosis.deviantart.com/art/flame-and-gasoline-prompt-348948751?q=favby%3Atravelgirl7%2F53462654&qo=27 by :iconedge-of-psychosis:
http://yo

Just Tell the Fucking StoryOkay, so I saw this journal that contained a number of tips, including a detailed section on 'show don't tell,' and I had an epiphany. There was an 'Oh' and everything so you know it's legit.
For a while now I have wondered why amateur writers write the most mind-numbingly long descriptions that I could not care about even a little (yes, my attention span is short, why'd you think I put in so many GIFs? but anyway, I'm a bit atypical there). I mean, I don't want the 'flames of burning searing pain of the aching broken heart' all up in my grill. I'd genuinely prefer a 'he hated her after the break up.' That's all I need to know about that? Good. Move on.
And that's the 'oh' moment: when people tell you to show not tell, they always fail to mention 'pacing.'

Look, there are times when it's best to convey a mood. His trembling fingers reach for the full glass, her voice an angry buzz in the back of his mind--I'd consider that a reasonable establishing shot. But if you're halfway t

Friday Feature: Issue 020A Collection of -
Recent Discoveries

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Lit of the Week 50: Feature

Journal Entry: Fri Dec 7, 2012, 10:01 AM

Gallery

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How to Apply

Publications

Hello everyone! Welcome to Lit of the Week 50! We're doing a special journal feature: Every Lit of the Week winner we've had since Lit of the Week started! Get ready for awesomeness!

by *almcdermid

i have you bookmarked -vii. Sometimes breakfast, lunch and dinner were like art; food was flung from each corner, creating a futile canvas on every wall. I played a scale of musical doors as they slammed one by one. I'm sure I broke a few vocal chords too. He was always right beside me, yet so far.

But we mingled together. When his hand gripped mine with his feathery touch, it seemed okay to pretend. Maybe my mind still needed to develop, needed watering. Or maybe together we just made feelings obsolete.

iv. And we did.

We sat on park benches blowing smoke kisses and watched movies, that only seemed good because everything else on TV was crap.

Bubblegum. Pot. G
by =bowie-loon123

SalemI.

the bright scarlet egg of dawn
nests in my head.

when it is time, it will crack my
skull like a shell
and be born.

II.

I have a witch's fingers and a
witch's eyes, rough pewter lenses
through which I see the world.

I have sabotaged their crops,
I have plagued their children,
I have eaten their livestock in the night
(so they say)
and I hear the whispers in the streets.

they will be willing to kill
for their conviction, though
I am not willing to die for it.

III.

I am no longer human.
I've been branded
with an ugly mark
of fear and desperation,

one terse syllable that cuts
like a switch.

IV.

a thin reddish line
by *toxic-nebulae

by *Scarlettletters

fragmentSometimes, she thinks
the angels watch her

and they have hollow eyes.
and their cold fingers fold in a gentle sort of fervor
of reverence;
she never understood it.

and the way they stare towards Heaven
like she still can't fathom

it's the way that light splinters—
like through a prism,
the way colors flit through her fingers.
the way she can't taste the cloying prayers,
not yet, they say,
not yet

it will be fine.
she thumbs her rosary and dreams
of the days she used to dance,
or of a father that held her
on his shoulder

it will be fine

The wine is heady on her tongue
and the hardwood smells of lemon polish
and th
by *Judah-Leonardo

The Old God, Savitrॐ भूर्भुव: स्व: तत्सवितुर्वरेण्यं ।
भर्गो देवस्य धीमहि, धीयो यो न: प्रचोदयात् ।।

I.
The wind blew sand into your nonchalant soul,
and your heart coughed. I entered the circle
at night, and I was consumed by fire. I did not
know of you then. I have fractured
by *Vigilo

turning over bucketsperhaps it isn't beautiful,
lying halfway underwater;

pouring your palladium hopes
down your hands
into buckets
looking full of shale and broken glass
        half lighting whiskey-paper on fire
with that sun tossing in your chest

and all of you rattling
in this thin-skinned pineapple percussion,
        the things you're so very sure of, sweltering under
callouses, under sea-
        a kaleidoscopic mass of stinging cider-riviera
twisting into your human frame;

but when i say something of protests
you break in,
        with too many pinecones waking in your chest, saying,
how lucky how
lucky we are
to be alive
by ~RestlessSands

Epistles of A Rising SunTo Nihon,

A crane silhouetted—
Wings against a rising sun
Samurai spirit

.:::*:::*:::.

To Jishin,

Birth to Tsunami
Wooden frames buckled and swept—
My kin, I carry

.:::*:::*:::.

To Tsunami,

Mountainous waves stretched—
Extirpating the people,
The veteran land still stands

.:::*:::*:::.

To Tochi,

Fault lines cut through—deep—
Dismantling, deforming—
You are still our land

.:::*:::*:::.

To Umi,

Our homeland submerged—
Sakura blossoms scattered
I will gather them

.:::*:::*:::.

To Tsuchi,

Our photos buried,
One day, it will sprout again–
Softening our fall

.:::*:::*:::.

To Mizu
by ~WetKakashi

paradoxwhite after white, dash, dash, dashing along,
over top black pathways that burn under the midday sun,
pulling me towards the opposite effect
where four walls haven't contained still images needing motion,
until now.

puzzle pieces curve into each other,
matching in ways the makers never told,
forming perfect fits of emotions gone awry.

i won't exist in solidarity, nor you.
and we'll not be a single thing, nor two.

--
9/19/2011
by *BeyondJen

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
by ~pseudometry

by =iPawed

ersatzyour wake is the warm
languid whorl of a sachet-latté
morning after,
gone when six a.m. rain swirls
pavement scents of whiskeysmoke
& a careless caress away
under cinnamon-sugar grace --
and it was only ever this:
you were lovely
by trembled halflight, when you almost had
my summer-boy's eyes.
by ~Avallynh

Becoming BrianBecoming Brian

The soldier coming up on him was swaying, limping, climbing wearily up the stony street towards the terrace. He walked like an old man, thought Brian Strong, though he was scarcely older than Brian himself. He dragged himself along, tripping over the cracks in the cobblestones, hauling behind him a filthy rucksack all covered in gray trench clay. Pausing by the café, the old boy took off his garrison cap and worried it between his black-tipped fingers.

"Well, hey," said Brian Strong. "Sit down and have a drink on me."

Regarding him for a moment, the soldier conceded and sat.

Brian Strong ran his hands over a perfec
by =doughboycafe

lost kingswe were all lost kings of the electric
highwire act, tripping like ghosts through boarded
windows and vacant lots that never held
any secret we wouldn’t tear apart
cables stretched over the place we used to live
drooping tightropes for worn-weary dancers
that pirouetted from house to house while
we just paced the streets of glass and concrete
our mothers worried on their rosaries
and poured their fears into party-line chats
father just poured another scotch and said
boys will be boys so let them have their fun
and us out in the night between the tracks
and the towers willing our years into
smoke and bottles and dolled up girls that just
laughed like juice joint sirens calling us home
by ~angeljunkie

by ~Phu-Phu-Hugs-Me

by `FuzzyHoser

Drowning in Reverse x. I still have your phone.

ix. The boardwalk carnival was shut down a few months later, roped off and boarded up like a condemnation of joy. The ferris wheel still rose high above the skyline, towering in silent reminder.

viii. The funeral was on a beautiful, balmy, sunny day and somehow that made it all the worse. The wind would pick up a little and ruffle your goldspun hair and I could hope, just for a moment, that you were still here.

vii. It was a cold, white room. I don't know why hospitals are so cold. Or maybe it was just me - maybe it was just me trying to siphon out all of my warmth and channel it into you.

vi. I didn't see the
by =SilverInkblot

SynesthesiaI fell in love with a pianist's hands.

They danced across my skin in minuets, his fingers tripping cadenzas up and down my spine. He brushed sonatas through my hair and across my shoulders, pianissimo. I trembled beneath his trills. The primal, earnest rage of Bach swelled in hot crescendos along my throat, beneath my ribs, guided by his hands --- Mozart, coolly logical, raised goosebumps down my arms --- Chopin soothed the fire and finally calmed my hammering heart.

I fell in love with a pianist's hands, listening from the back of the coffee shop while my lungs fought for breath, making wishes until he was gone.
by =QuiEstInLiteris

by `CrumpetsHarvey

To Darwin, on Hearing of the 22 ChronometersDid the ticking drive you mad?
Twenty two clocks to tie you
to Greenwich, to the damp land,
to the paved streets and spires
and the blank glazed windows
of progress and age? Did time
become fathoms deep, and the
dwindling abyss transform to
thoughts of deep, deep time?
The blind eyes of bottom dwellers,
the feelers of those that survived,
the wellings of primordial soup
perhaps flavoured your thoughts.

(you never saw them. We know
you never saw the elemental broth,
the creatures like to dinosaurs
in a Blackpool of phosphorescence.
But the mystery, perhaps. The thought
that things exist beyond your imagining.
The thought t
by =Aconitum-Napellus

Space CampHe found himself standing in their daughter's room, staring at the dusty mobile of the planets, unsure of how he's come to be there. He looked at her bed, her desk, the unfinished homework. He considered opening the window, but the thought slipped away before he could act on it.

He wandered into the living room, looked out the window. The grass needed cutting. Did it? He wasn't sure. His wife would know, but she'd already left for work. Seems she left earlier every morning and came home later each night. Another thought occurred to him, something about each in their own way, but he couldn't hold it. Perhaps she was having an affair. He wonde
by *almcdermid

me, missing you, stillOn certain nights, sleep comes to me in drifts -
collecting like snow against our bedroom walls;
and I shiver into it gradually, hypothermic,
with hallucinations blooming on the edges of my vision;
deserts thick with blood-choked dunes
and the screams, your screams,
drifting into a dust-hazed sky.
(In my head, they sound hoarsely from your smokers throat,
the sort of death throes that could drop dimes
from the hands of children.)

I'd poured myself a glass of red wine that night;
thinking of you as I sipped it,
wondering if you had water, food.
The wine tasted too sweet going down –
and I should have known it then; should
by ~ingle-nook

MeanderingHardly a mountain, though on lowering days its head sits wreathed
By the mists of a passing front, aged and befogged as bygone elders
Doddering about – before there were names for the malaise
That hazed their thinking
And from this modest crown there slouched and sloped
A long shoulder, meandering down to meadows below
Pausing now and again to coddle a pleasant hollow
Casting a sloping pitch – enough to rush a torrent
After a sudden shower
Seldom pooling
Its glint and glimmer burble among the stones
To join a rill and plash and swirl and putter about a root
It's there I'm apt to wander

Not much of a path, hard passed a
by *rlkirkland

To the Ghosts of Glen CoeSleep, you brave, you innocent,
you warriors and women strong.
Dread William's days are now all spent,
and memory is long.

On the glen, the snow lies deep,
as once it lay those years ago,
the night it witnessed traitors creep
on sleeping Invercoe.

Great MacIain ope'd his doors
to Campbells shiv'ring in the night.
He had grown tired of English wars
and looked not for a fight.

Sleep, you brave, you innocent,
you warriors and women strong.
Dread William's days are now all spent,
and memory is long.

Screams of children drowned the storm
when Campbell blades came slicing down
on bloody tartan, rent and torn,
all for a foreign cr
by =QuiEstInLiteris

Witch TrialI believe I was a ginger headed poet in a past life,
who wrote love through magik spells—
burning candle wax, whispering incantations
under a full moon and painting pale,
naked flesh with dirt and ash.
Dancing with ghostly ravens through flames,
to the thumpthumpthump of my storm heart,
as it became one with the earth.
I roared my passions and my glory
to the heavens above, laughing
like a crazy eyed crone for the sake
of those who feared me.
My witches tongue, hissing, 'Come hither!'
as heat licked my shoulders like an old lover,
come home.
by *DearPoetry

Let the Sparrows InI.

Blackbirds are resting on the power lines,
Their silhouettes form the notation to
A dawn song set on the sheet music of
Telephone poles contrasted by the sun.

Curled leaves are land mines littered
On the lawn where imprints of twigs
And a nurturing robin's tracks collect.

Branchlets and leaflets stem from
Porch step railings and mailboxes;
The numbers read even on the
East side of the asphalt:

Seven-seven-thirty-six.
The engraved letters on
The siding reads, "Davis."
This house is home to family

So let the sparrows in.

The house,
With its branching hallways
And
Overhanging décor
And
Furniture rooted to the floor

by ^NicSwaner

locks of galehair was never really my thing.

I imagine all the women of the world with long fur trailing down their spine, wrapping their bodies like meat packaging. hitting ranges of deep reds, alabaster blondes, mysterious and intriguing blacks and browns. all twined up in some little design, forcing you to look scientifically at their construction.

my hair was short with lackluster shades of dirt (a little tint of pink from previous summers). not that I minded its missing length, it was just that I could never figure out how beauty and hair entwined.

I once had a forest of dirty blonde lines. I was about eight. it was beautiful, my mom would say. yo
by *KaitForest

blue lighti want to
live in your
fluorescent fixtures.

i want to
breathe
your mercury

& kiss
your filaments
burning.

i want to
taste your
broken glass
lunates,

your pale
moon concavity.

(the cathodes
deep beneath
your skin

transverse
& splintering.)
by ~KeanuWantRoomService

Astronauti.238,900 miles away
the Earth gleams in the darkness.
A cat's eye, opalescent blue
flecked with terra verdant,
fifty-two cream colors
of cloud.

Under a heavy lid of night,
it glares. Angry.
Baleful.

As if to say to the Sun:
I was dreaming
of all the fish
in my seas.
As if to ask why
it had to be woken.

ii.
Thoughts are protozoan here;
with glass-thin skin
transparent as the first lie
he ever told as a child.
No,

I didn't steal that candy bar.

He can see the mechanics,
the workings,
the insides.
They divide like dreams,
impossibly smoothly,
Whole and unbroken
as they tear apart. If
he could stretch far e
by ~winterkate

Loving AustraliaYears like bilbies--
days like kangaroos.

Want lives in a pocket womb
(salt suckle; scrape
of your grey-brown curls.)

Heart-split
by hemispheres
(birdsong way
you shape your words.)

Sleep
dredged in red dust,
sprawled across half a world,
night-lit
by wrong stars.
by *riparii

by `Drunken-Splice

The Fox BrideThe sky is a kind of periwinkle; dusky and undecided if it is lavender or blue, and the full leaves of the chestnut trees are black against the sodium backlight from the streetlamps. Ethereal is the word for them, as within the wrought iron casings are nothing more than softly glowing orange globes. They may as well be faery lanterns.

But that is my imagination running away with me again, so I bring my attention back down from the sky and the leaves and the imaginary world that lies in the space between them, back to the quiet pleasure of my company. She's done up in scarlet tonight, which is my favorite color on her, and one she so rarely w
by =doughboycafe

21.30They're old.
She's losing an inch a year,
and the square of his pacemaker
is visible under his shirt.
The house is small,
and square,
and white.

Every summer I make the trip.
I drive north several hours
to the Chesapeake Bay,
and then south,
nearly to the ocean,
before I reach the
house, which is small,
and square,
and white.

I am greeted there with open arms.
She remarks to me how tall I've grown
(I haven't grown an inch,
as said before,
she's shorter)
and he wants me to look
at the contraption upstairs--
the frog's stopped working,
it ran out of batteries.
(he means the computer mouse,
which is not plugged in.)

by ~That-Writer-Kid

Spray Your Sins Away!It was a scene of utmost suspense, the cliché that often made its way into romantic comedies and commercials. Inside Dick's We-Carry-Every-Item-Imaginable-for-the-Filthy-Rich, two different people reached for the last can of Sins-B-Gone in cinematic slow motion. One hand was French-manicured and wore an ostentatious diamond ring (inscribed "Love forever, to my Richard"); the other had "Vermilion Vixen" nails and was likely to never wear such a wedding ring. Fingers from both hands closed in on the blue spray can like eager vultures, plucking it off the shelf in synch. Both ladies blinked in confusion before they realized the other was th
by =Venry

if teen dreams were teen novelsthere was once a boy who had all the write words to say
with all those fancy allegories, metaphors and similes
and antonyms of synonyms, like rails and snares and storms
and organs and trains and drums and hurricanes and
hearts,

and she was only a girl with plain words, the kinds of things
that are only found in piles of papers and pens, books
she keeps where she sleeps,

that will only break when he leaves in the morning,
but she shares everything, like a boat shares a bard,
like a cigarette shares a lung, like a mouth shares other mouths,
like an artist shares her heart.

but there is a running in her heart:
not that type of b
by =back-bones

Hunger-Second VersionFire in the wild isn't the color you think it is.

It's all amber and terra cotta,
one  great  roaring  tower  of
orange  like the Wrath of God
in a chestnut tree.

I can't go back again  to
Devil's Hollow, the small
rock - vale,   all   cinnamon
and nutmeg and dried pine
needles, where we used to
dance—-just  like so many
wolves old Nick will wait
for   my   return,   blazing
burnt sienna and shining,
all teeth.

I am not ready to give up
the ghost yet; I am still
waiting    for   an   excuse
to   travel    the    galaxy
empty-handed. I  want to
see those bronze  nebulas
gleamin
by =AzizrianDaoXrak

PilkunnussijaHere's what I think:
There's a certain joy in not doing this face-to-face. For one, I don't have to leave my apartment and I have the quiet company of my goldfish and my goldfish alone. (I don't like people, which is why I love books. You can understand that.) For another, I don't have to see your presumably crestfallen and injured attitude when I tear apart the prose you cried and bled and sweated over for weary nights on end. But really the best parts are those uninterrupted hours alone with your manuscript and the shred of you that lies inside. It's a small shred, but an important one. It's the one that tells me who you are and what you think and how you feel and I never have to look at you and be disappointed when the real thing doesn't come up to scratch. As I sit there, un-tensing and re-tensing and tense-shifting and shift-entering (and damn it, wishing English were like German so I could get rid of those clunky space-wasting n-dashes--oh, damn there they are again) I feel li
by ~disrhythmic

the little things in life.i.
the cemetery architects had never planned to place a bench within the premises. they surmised that those who came to visit would not wish to dwell long in the company of ashes. however, the builders consented to procure one to appease the masses, assuming its only use would be a remedy to tired feet. after the stone slab was put in place in the uppermost corner of the grounds, it never crossed their minds again.
ii.
he came alone, wearing his usual plaid coat and bowler. tipping his hat to his brow, he greeted passersby with a crinkle of his left eye. (most ignored him as they made their way to their next destination.) in fact, few noti
by ~momo-madness

Accidentat the corner of boone trails and owen
she learned the brevity of flight:
glinting bumper for launch pad
trajectory approximately 5 feet
across the median.

she pirouetted
as proud, as swift
as any prima ballerina
but the landing
proved rough.

this I keep for her -
the listless weight of limbs
defying gravity, the beastly beauty
of a body bouyant before
its death.
by `Kneeling-Glory

Copenhageni. Long-Distance

And so we stayed true
to that hormone laced
heart crossed
airport lounge
promise.
Cigarette nervous
yet stifled,
we parted
and vowed to love
the impossible
long-distance.

ii. Landlocked

Whispered words
hummed softly
these lurid tunes
cast vibrato
along the vast slouching wires
of our opposing
xenophobic
church pyre landscapes,
elongated pauses
manifest as false adoration,
loose, lonely,
despite the distance, our words
landlocked.

iii. Chemically enhanced to age

And we loved afar,
not by sky fetched satellites
or whimsical billboard technologies
nor a digital duality soon to cease
stripped
by *brassteeth

IngressThe lustre of exposed low wattage bulbs
misleads a moth into the bathroom,
where dampened wings would keep it
moving in circles on the off-white wall.
The repetition of the circumference
opens the brickwork to the sky.

A truck driver pulls into a service station
after waiting for the mileage to outdo the clock.
While washing his hands
he kills the moth with his thumb,
and with his fist is pulled through;
a feeling similar to the sensation described
in the one book he’s read.

It was always area codes he remembered
that without the sister digits
are worthless, as much use
as the telephone box he stands in.
He has a road map
but not fo
by ~Obsidian-Nightfall

SiblingI can't quote a night's sky
and do justice to its secrets
yet, sibling stars beckon.

They seem so close,
pulling veils of modesty
off each other

while I stand under the
echo of silence,
its light tethering my gaze

even though time had
snuffed them long before
I stood alone in its wake.
by `jade-pandora

SliverThey say that if you stand in front of a wall of glass at exactly four minutes past midnight and tap your fingers on it three times, you can open a door to the void beyond this world. It has to be somewhere you can see your reflection, and see through it, hovering like a ghost over the darkness beyond, somewhere dim enough that you can't quite tell the difference between light and shade. And unless you hit the glass where you touched it, shatter the half-formed image before the fifth minute strikes, that door will never close.

Celia Gray has never been one for urban legends. So much so, that she would never turn down a chance to prove one wr
by ~Treo-LeGigeo

the reasons we should not divorcei.

we have a breakfast of egg whites and turkey sausage (mine); coffee and tomato soup (yours); and discomfort (shared). you are unthinkingly deferential and a touch antipathetic, speaking over your bottom lip to the cherrywood table. i bought this table last week, after you asked me why we didn't have a table. i said it was because we ate at the granite island. you said you would prefer a table, and we are sitting at the table now because it's the small things that make our lives normal, but the table does not make a difference when you will not look at me. you say, "we need to talk."

i say, "about what?"

you say, "about retirement. you'
by *glossolalias

from long poollonely bells
and the twist
of a fairground morning;
you call and I list
towards you,
all warning and frill;
lonely bells
and the twist
of a morning,
Naxi and still.
by `zebrazebrazebra

They Also Serve Who Only Stand and WaitI don't know when we first went underground. I don't even know if it was one mass exodus, a swarm of mankind trickling through the earth's crust so vehement we carved our own caverns by the force of trampling feet, or whether it was a gradual process, perhaps even a repetitive one, a family here, a neighborhood there. For all I know, the echo of the damp subterranean machine has always reverberated off the cave walls, created long past by the Angels, who think of our well-being even while they shake their heads helplessly at our flaws.

They say that those who remained on the surface were raptured away in a great flash of light, like a millio
by ~orphicfiddler

regardless of where and which roads (write)i. so today we get together
   as per your request
   today you (at last) confess to me

   i watch you narrate

   the e.e. cummings you've
   kept chained in your rhythm,
   in your beats and paces and all other nooks
   and crooks
   and hidden places

   i've secretly always known existed

   i want you to start writing today

ii. you tell me you believe
    in your ability
    to write the words i always knew you whispered;
    steaming at the hearts of other girls
    turning them to froth
    while i watch my own heart
    shrivel like dregs
    in the same cup of cappuccino

    i've always been drinking off drought

iii. i am sc
by =Sammur-amat

A Breath of Fresh Air I stretched my hand out of the passenger window, feeling the clear, country air. The wind wrapping around my fingers was fresh and soft, much different than it was back home.

We hardly ever drove with the windows open at home. I remembered grasping the air, but it bit my skin, leaving it burning and itchy. We had the windows tightly shut until we had gotten to the fields of Iowa today, and I could tell why when I saw the beautiful, multicolored sunset when we turned on the highway. The pollution had reached life-threatening levels, the radio had said. I had to wear a gas mask on the way out; since I was younger then twelve,
by ~PetZombieRabbit

In TotalityIn totality I find inebriation-
A snick of latches undone
The stitch-heavy cloth
Sighing, whispering off
And boots dropped like thunder
The lightning dry because
Our skin is sweat-bare
As from an impersonal fever.
Savoring your whiskey breath
That starts in the crux of my shoulder
Rolling up my décolletage
I labor to find your beginning
Wanting to uncoil the storm
by ~pomohippie7

FoldsYou are taking that old Ford to town
to collect some fencing wire
while Martha Reeves sings Jimmy Mack on the radio
and you hold the steering wheel with a single
cocked thumb
and forefinger with dirt under its nail
while
your sun speckled arm
rests almost out the window.

I am in the back seat with an ice-cream cone
and two tissues you made me take
for the mess I would make
and I finger the splits in the Ford's vinyl seats
stretching the cracks with small sticky hands.

I say that I think your skin might need ironing
on account of all its folds and creases

In the rearview mirror
I catch your ventriloquist smile
and you hu
by *brassteeth

Flower FishWritten after Harrison
(George Harrison Ford)

His eyes are like a red ring of tiny blossoms
springing from patterned navy beds.
With a sharp twist through the water he fans out behind him
a bouquet of tall violet fronds,
a forest, a ballooning flamenco skirt
tapering white at the edges.
It is hard to tell where the tail ends and the fish starts,
like an enhancement attached all around his body
crowning him,
he is so much lesser without the tail,
so much smaller, just a blue-black comma.
Motionless, suspended in the water with
tissue-paper fins undulating,
he might as well have earned his place beside the
stolid shot glass
by ~TheGreatSpyExperim

Skin by ^NicSwaner.

Putting lit in elite.
EliteLiterature

4 Comments

Lit of the Week 50: Featureby #EliteLiterature

Journals / Personal

©2012-2013 #EliteLiterature

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*BeyondJen Dec 31, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

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*Judah-Leonardo Dec 7, 2012 Professional Writer

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Mood: Joy

*riparii Dec 7, 2012

Wowsers, that's very cool!

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*rlkirkland Dec 7, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

What splended company to keep.

Thank you!

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