Showered among the stars.
Showered among the stars,
Like brilliant diamonds in the sky.
I hold your heart ever so tight,
I caress it with the gentlest of hands.
I wont break this precious gift,
A gift I've freely been given.
Was it Holy angels that gave you to me?
On that bright sun shiny day?
Did the Almighty know I would fall so hard?
Did He know that you were my other half?
The half I was missing without even knowing.
And is He glad that you listened to His prodding?
The sun sets to end another day,
Another day He allowed me to live and breathe.
Another day to love you compliantly.
As the golden rays fade away,
I close my eyes to dream of you.
a sister's eyes"a sister's eyes"
I think of them
and recall how wise
are the eyes of
my little sister,
oceans of blue grass
rolling island dunes
and the stalks of
her crowning pale glory,
but her eyes
are the constant
changing of seasons-
the silver grey
of low-lying mists
that roll in at dawn
after the night
gives up its gems,
to reclaim them when
she stirs from sleep
while I keep
clinging to her,
and I let myself
drift in her seasons
with eyes open,
feeling safe a while
in our single bed
Prayer for the young
Come now, let us dance
On firework notes
And ricocheting rhythms
Let us light this world,
Riding tsunami clouds
And tidal shooting stars
Let us never grow weary,
Of blooming colours
And screaming revelations
Let us bliss heavens and earth, alike
With shimmering thunderstorms
And rainfall divers
Please let us be reflected
In pools of childish wishes
And locks of woven hands
And let us illuminate forever,
So the growing embers can learn
How to shine for this world.
the past is more persistent than you'd guess, love, and I don't think I can forget your little star-shaped hands or your tiny constellation fingers splayed against the glass ceilings.
I'm afraid sunrises hold nothing for me now, and you'll find my faerietale sensibilities gravitating inexorably towards the starfall.
lightning is in the blood, dear, filtering down like sunlight through your family tree until it's so pure it burns your eyes and throat and fingertips.
darling, you smell like 6 a.m. rain & the kind of red wine I never drink.
she looks too much like me.
you always did have the sickest sense of humour.
Pseudo-love-- [we are hiding from pain.]
For the first time she notices his hands are covered in scars. He follows her gaze and his eyes grow worried.
"What " she starts to say, but her voice trails off.
Eventually he answers her unspoken question. "When I was three my dad got smashed and gave me a knife to play with.
My mom came home and found me covered in blood and crying."
She's shocked. "Didn't it hurt?"
Graceful is an Adjectivei.
Somewhere between the ravine and the sprawl of convenience stores I left footprints, halting and clumsy, on beaten pathways between bikers and dogs. I traversed slowly between pine trees and brush to the waters edge to catch frogs and skip stones, and dream.
I did not move with grace or any sense of proportion; I stumbled, tripped, and beat my way through the low lying undercoat of nettles and rose bushes to look into the swirling depths of the creek and wish, dream, hope for my prince. I am a princess and I need somebody with a strong shoulder and good wits to protect me, to make me graceful by proxy. I conjure images of our
Becky's PrayerForgive me if I have failed to align myself to your perfect will God. For allowing any emotional stress and trauma to block out the guidance of your Holy Spirit. I humbly beg for forgiveness if I have taken part in any submissions to ungodly cover, worldly art or music, ownership to unclean, ungodly objects, if I have failed to cleanse property and/or places that have come into contact with me, if I have failed to forgive others, and if I have lied. I ask that you close all doors to Satan, and break all curses that are on myself and my family. I renounce all satanic bondage, cut all evil soul ties, tighten up any loose thoughts, and resto
fireworksThe boy was an artist.
He worked with his eyes and hands in perfect unison. The teachers sighed as he swam through his classes absentmindedly, imagination focused on higher goals. Numbers and report cards were meaningless. Math instructors were more eager to see his artwork, crammed into the margins of his assignments, than to award his effortless high grades.
He didn't think he was special. I don't think he thought of himself at all. The world he had created was one of pure fiction and impossibility, and was as limitless as the heavens. He was not included. Maybe the same way God doesn't participate in the earth he made.
He loved people.
The Calling VoiceThe fog, thick like Death's rattling breath, swirls around my limbs, tugging at my thin cotton dress, and pulling me blindly into the dark clouds' greedy arms. I can hardly see my own feet, padding bare across the sharp gravel, as it digs into my tender arches. Nothing is out here; no one wandering through the debilitating fog but me.
My lungs start to throb, chest heaving, and my throat drying painfully, but I put one foot in front of the other, determined to find my way out. My chest gets tighter, and my lungs are burning, though I'm walking only leisurely. My throat screams, like a fire is burning through its scalding walls, and my lungs
#ShortStackStories is a group for short prose writers to share their stories and get feedback on their work in a critique folder. Here are a few lovely stories from their gallery.
The Cellist's Wife Aubrey is holding her again. As he has held her every day for many weeks. She is his one true love. I watch him from the doorway of his studio, embracing her. I envy the way he lays her body against him, the way his legs fit around her so perfectly, the way they seem made for one another. He told me, when we married, that he would never love another more than me, but I can see it. He adores her. And how can I deny him the beauty and purity of his love? The world is so lacking in a love like theirs. When he slides his bow over her strings, the singing of the vibration, there is nothing like it.
Aubrey's cello is the woman he longs for, the
Skin Deep Vas screamed as he was kicked in the stomach, like every day. The workers laughed. Lunch time was less boring this way.
Vas worked in a tomato factory, peeling skins. Nobody loved him. Everybody hated him.
They hated him because he had a terrible skin condition. His skin fell off and he was deformed.
He never spoke. He was always silent. Everybody thought he was the devil's child.
One day some men had tried to drown him in holy water, but he had bitten them and they ran off.
Vas was very sad. He wanted to look normal. He wanted to be loved.
One day he saw a girl with her mother outside the factory. The mother was hugging the daughter.
The BlindHis art was renowned the world over. His name was on everybody's lips. All the top critics lauded his work to the skies. He was happy. Content. Completely accomplished. Then, gradually, he noticed his sight declining. He would have to squint to read the paper. He would bump into things he didn't notice out of the corner of his now nonexistent peripheral vision. He would work longer and longer on every canvas, each stoke of paint became a superhuman chore. Gradually, the value of his art declined. The critics abandoned him. He was no longer talked about or adored. People saw his messy canvases and the blind man staring blankly into a nonexiste
The Painter : The RedThe Painter: The Red by L. Vera
In a different world and in a different time there was a war. The citizens that survived called it The War of Colors and as the Red Queen took town after town she sent her painter to claim her new land. Her painter was an outcast from her army. He was once a decorated soldier but was no longer any use to the Queen. He now served only one purpose, painting.
"Kids, stay inside," a mother calls to her children.
"Mom, what kind of car is "
#Word-Smiths is a group created a little over a month ago open to sharing your best literary works.
Second SkinSecond Skin:thumb182358921:
Quiffs and petticoats
Styled by careful, constant hands
As obsession moves the bone
That corsets this dress,
Wrapped around like a ten pound note,
It becomes the wind that moves the cloth
Of my forbidden cupboard.
The wind may be my lover,
It cannot yet decide
As it remains a an epitome
Of all I want in a women
But can never find.
It is not a stylist,
It is the opposite
And so it shall always be
Until the gales stop blowing
And time at last stands still.
Oh how it grew
As the mist rolled back in time
And revealed to me this scene.
#Unseen-Writers is a literature group for the lesser known writers of deviantART. Here are a few pieces
Strands of hair
falling like black rain,
leaking down the white curves
until you resurface.
watery through your nostrils,
gagging on your insecurities,
breathing through scotch molecules.
I'm no chemist,
but you're a gas to me,
and I like watching your smoke
lungs evaporate from my lips.
I understand, darling.
I'm holding you,
only so you can whisper to me
secrets to bliss.
"needles without threads" and
"extra sized teaspoon-fulls" and then
"rolled paper with flames".
Happiness...from the kitchen cabinets.
Senile SerpentYour thorny tongue slithers
From your mouth, like a senile
Serpent coiling around its prey.
Your tongue slips over my skin.
Severing meat from bone.
Teeth sinking in with promises
Of fulfillment powerfully seduces
My ears while your dislocated jaw
Welcoming me into its demented twist
On a romantic embrace.
A gaping hole with no escape.
Scars or memories?Her arms were not only covered with scars, but also with memories that would never leave her side.
The knife is her safety blanket without which she is alone in the darkness of this crewel life. Sleep never comes for her. Instead, she is left to waste away in the veil of black left behind when the sun sets behind her too-dusty window.
In darkness, our eyes are not there to distract us from the harsh truth of our lives. No. We are left only with constant thoughts which torture us till we lose ourselves completely. At that very moment, her safety blanket is put to use.
She breathes deep knowing that soon she will find comfort and peace. She
it might be just to starve yourself into a
safer world where you land in someone's arms, and they
will never ever let you fall. because my imperfection is
imperfection to me, while everyone else's
imperfections make them pretty.
and when you love everything and anyone
more than yourself that's when you deteriorate and
start cracking up, so dreams split into nightmares, and
when every silver lining has a dark cloud
hovering close nearby.
so dark thoughts whirl through once-naive
minds and cloud your vision. and when you finally struggle
free and everything becomes real, it's too late and you're
being swallowed up by th
NEWS - BLOGS - ECT.
`LadyLincoln's latest issue of ladies of lit III is out!
The A,B,C's of Literature : B, letter C and letter D are out by ~the-photographicpoet is out.
!Iluvocnj2006's Living Literature: Volume IV and Volume V are both out and full of lovely literature.
#SongofthePoets' 6th news article is out featuring group submissions and information
The On the poet project has become a group #Poet-Article-Project, stop by and check it out.
Here a few of the on the poet articles : ~this-epiphany > [link] | :devnamenotrequred: > [link] | `jade-pandora > [link]
this is a bit late by =DailyLitDeviations has released The LitLight - Issue 9
Tis the season for a useful guide A Simple Guide to Writing Horror to make your Halloween stories a bit more horrifying.
check out #Word-Smiths first edition of Literary Pursuits.
PROJECTS & PROMOTIONS
The third issue of WalkingBlind Magazine is out. This is a lit and art magazine headed up by ~1Walkingblind
#TheAlt-Lit is looking for an administrative assistant
#ProjectComment is always on the lookout for more contributors
#devLIT is looking for critics and commenters
#LITplease is hosting a What's in a name? poetry contest. - DEADLINE : 22.October.2010
`LadyLincoln is hosting the B-movie horror script - DEADLINE: 01.November.2010
~Authors-Ink is hosting a Mosters contest. - DEADLINE : 01.November.2010
`dreamsinstatic is hosting a poetry screams prompt contest. - DEADLINE : 01.November.2010
~xgnyc is holding a Halloween II contest - DEADLINE 02.November.2010
^pullingcandy and ~the-photographicpoet are hosting a show me your phobias contest. - DEADLINE : 06.November.2010
#Writers--club is hosting a one factor contest. - DEADLINE : 10.November.2010
#AuthorsEscape is hosting a 50 word story - DEADLINE : 16.November.2010
`TwiggyTeeluck is hosting an autumn themed contest - DEADLINE : 25.November.2010
#Scribblers-Anonymous is hosting an autumn nightmare contest. - DEADLINE : 30.November.2010
:devgaioumanbatou: is hosing a the flame and ash short story and poetry contest - DEADLINE : 30.November.2010
PROMPTS & CHALLENGES
*#devLIT's weekly prompt is Autumn
*#Wordspill-Central's October prompt is Hunger
*#Live-Love-Write's writing prompt of the week is how to make a monster
*#YouAsTheNarrator has many October Halloween Prompts
*#devLIT's monthly challenge is Halloween
* :devscribbers-anonymous: prompt set 20 is released.
November is National Novel Writing Month; so from now until December, we will keep a section of this article for NaNo related stuff
* ^Beccalicious has written an article summing up some NaNo events and resources in her NaNoWriMo 2010
*#devLIT has an updated journal full of information, resources, projects and participants of NaNoWriMo
*!cinnamon-quill wrote blog Preparing for NaNoWriMo
*participating in NaNo? Have an official profile on the site? Find your fellow deviants in this deviantARTists NaNoWriMo thread
**Lit-Twitter will be following NaNoWriMo; so if you're on twitter be sure to follow @DevLit
*#NaNoWriMo chat room is full of fellow NaNo-ers
*GROUPS for NaNoWriMo >
*dA LIT. COMMUNITY*
aka: the people who feature DD's and help manage the literature community
`GaioumonBatou - DD Suggestion Guidelines
`Memnalar - DD Suggestion Guidelines
`nycterent - DD Suggestion Guidelines
Poetry & Prose
Literature & Writing Resources by ~WorldWar-Tori
Literature Resource Central by !lovetodeviate
Lit. Groups List by `leoraigarath
SUGGEST A WRITER
If you'd like to suggest a writer to be featured in the next issue of LitBits please send a note to ~WorldWar-Tori with their name and the piece you'd like featured.
SUGGEST A GROUP
Suggesting a group is like suggesting a deviant.
Send ~WorldWar-Tori a note with a bit about the group and a little bit about them. Also send a few pieces from the group that stood out to you.
NOTE : When a group or deviant you suggested is featuerd, you will be listed as a suggester and will also be notified about the feature as well.
If you know of any happenings within the literature community, please feel free to send a note to ~WorldWar-Tori with a link to the information of the projects/contest/news/ect. so we can feature it, also include.
Contests & Projects : include theme, deadline and link.
News & Blogs : please include link and brief description
Other : include whatever you feel necessary and a link.
volume I | volume II
LitBits is a weekly news article featuring writers, groups, contests, projects, news articles, blogs, resources and other things you might find interesting, useful or otherwise floating around and involving the literature community of deviantART.