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#CRLiterature is a hub for all things Literature on DeviantArt. Run by the Literature Community Volunteers and community members, you should watch us to keep track of goings-on throughout the Literature community, or join us to submit community news to the group journal and participate in group-sponsored activities.

We post monthly news updates from the Community Volunteers, as well as contests, prompts, and chat events from throughout the community!

Stop by and say hello!

Know Your CVs Chat Event

Tue Sep 1, 2015, 7:34 PM
It is sort of a Lit tradition to unleash the masses have deviants get to know and interact with our newest CVs. Ever wanted to have a live-chat with TheMaidenInBlack and LiliWrites? Of course you do, so here is your chance! This is the perfect time for you to get involved if you were unsure how to approach them as both new(ish) CVs will be in attendance! They'll be there to answer questions, talk about bunnies, general things, and most importantly learn about YOU! ♥

I know CVs can seem intimidating or Super Cool, but they're deviants doing what they love to do--helping the community.

When: Sunday, September 6th


Where: CRLiterature Chatroom

Now I'm sure you're curious about these ladies, so I've compiled some questionable facts for you.

Little Pixel Heart Collects pennies that Moonbeam13 has touched in order to make a life-size replica of her. She's half-way done.

Little Pixel Heart Has a pet moose named "Donkey".

Little Pixel Heart  She invented the first remote-controlled car, but couldn't make it look enough like a chipmunk and scraped the idea.

Little Pixel Heart Lead an expedition to the South Pole to find her piano, but found a snow petrel playing the most heartbreaking number and left it there.

Little Pixel Heart Makes her own candy from accordions.

Little Pixel Heart Believes pillows are made of clouds and will challenge you to a sing-off if you say otherwise.

September 2015 Literature News

Tue Sep 1, 2015, 3:07 AM by HugQueen:iconhugqueen:


Such news, very Literature, much 2015. :shibe: August is behind us and even in the summer heat, or winter's cold, we managed to power through and get things done! Way to go Lit Community! You're all great, you deserve some baked goods or something. Anyways, here's the jist of what went down in August:

News Articles, Interviews, & Features

Contests, Prompts, & Challenges

Literature Forum

Official hq News

Hey, the Literature CVs are pretty cool folk so you should get in touch with them, say hi, tell them about your day, give them some lit-related news, suggest a DD to them, you know the usual things you do.

:iconhugqueen: :iconsingingflames: :iconthemaideninblack: :iconliliwrites:




The Community hub group for the Literature gallery on DA.
Daily Deviations, Articles, Contests & Challenges.

Community Groups

:iconcommunityrelations: :iconcrliterature:

August 2015 Literature DD Roundup

Mon Aug 31, 2015, 12:51 AM
:iconthemaideninblack: Features by TheMaidenInBlack

The Trial of Private Bauer            The kid on the ground howled sharp and high as the heel of Chadwick’s boot came down squarely on his ribs.
            “Not so tough now, are you, pal?”
            Chadwick kicked him viciously again. The kid cried, shivering and shaking, his face pressed into the snow.
            “Enough,” Heathrow said. “Leave off him.”
            The snow made no sound beneath his boots as Heathrow got up off the stump and strode to the center of the clearing. Hogtied and bound tight with a dirty bandage for a gag that cut into the corners of his mouth, the German soldier looked up at him. He did not yell this time, or writhe. He watched.
FFM Day 29- What's Left BehindIn a dim parlor, the men sat in clusters, some chatting with ghosts, others staring mutely. Men muttered and cried, gritting teeth in agony- they reached for limbs that weren’t there anymore.
Someone slammed a door, distant, but cacophonous. Someone coughed, loud as a landslide. Charles flinched. His eyes flitted from body to body, looking for a distraction. The room was stifling, smelling of old blood and myriad maladies.
A boy across from Charles whispered to himself, eyes vacant, face cheerful. In a voice like bullets, sharp and quick, “I’m gonna drop it, I’m a coward, don’t let me drop it, just please take it away from me.”
Charles saw what the nurses and doctors couldn’t, but it never passed his lips. The sunlight spilled across the floor in gashes, rending the boards, blood swirling in the grain of the wood.
The men weren’t trapped in their heads; they were falling out of them. Their skulls were cracked open, many literally. They sw
bloodlines by toxic-nebulae What We Eat to SurviveAlone, the air starts smelling like
scrambled eggs and a rat that
died in the wall.  Mayflower sons,
Puritan daughters, that kind of lineage.
Alone, their thoughts detach from mildewed
ceilings. Crashed and peering under doors
with lurching frames, someone speaks.
Until.    But nothing ever opens.
Alone, one voice in particular, and the train
across town interrupts it.  One in particular,
murmurs an old song about the leagues of
suffering that half a century can bring.  
Alone, and the first thing he sees are his father’s bones.  
What we eat to survive. Cast iron shadows,
a fishing rod in the corner, sister’s torn prom dress.
What we eat to survive.
progress reportthe astronauts never returned and neither did the news
in my hands i fold a megalithic pigeon
the take-home message is: the cosmos is a cold dead bitch
as you sleep under magazines, waiting for nothing.
in the shackles of a sterilized den, there's an actual
mastodon heart, pale and glassy pink, icy film
tightened like a fist;  - and the scientists despair:
   it's the morning of the opening,
then the few slashes of paralyzing waves.
like a sign we'd make when we were younger, a way to disarm
a bandit, or a preacher
                or the oncoming horde of space invaders.
but the drawings you sent to venus never returned,
 and now the crack,
          and the scientists at a loss before the angered public.
they release a report that states that the floodgates opened
        by themselves, that the valves erode
like the chalky sand that will swirl and hiss
Just Pay for the Donuts, Heracles    The register rang out at four ninety-five. Heracles took out his phone and stared at the icons. One of them had his money in it. If it could be called money. It seemed more to him like arbitrary numbers assigned for people to shuffle around. How he longed for the days when he could just pay in good, solid coin. A man knew where it was and how much he had at all times back then.
    “Do you need some help?”
    Jason was peering over his shoulder, finger outstretched to tap one of the icons. Heracles snatched the phone away. “The Lion of Olympus does not need help ordering donuts!”
    “Well, order already. There’s a line forming.”
    “I’ve already ordered. I just need to pay.”
    “Hurry up. I’m starving.”
    Heracles tapped a likely-looking icon and treated the entire shop to the sounds of smooth jazz. He mashed several icons until i
presages de printempsin the sparkle-sound of rain
I hear your voice
as the day-crows return
to tangled nests
Make It CountIt’s fourteen steps from the door to the wall. I’ve been counting for an hour. The guard goes to the door, turns on his heel, then I count:
One. Two. Three.
I can’t hide forever. Either he will divert from his path and discover us or the others he’s with will come back. Regardless, anything changes in this situation and we're done.
Four. Five. Six.
His footfalls are sharp; precise. He’s wearing boots and khaki pants and a black shirt, like he’s trying to be military but not quite making it.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
There’s a whimper and I try not to make a sound of my own. The baby I came to rescue is stirring in the carrier on my lap. I can see his lips twitching, his head beginning to shift. I find the pacifier in the seat and hold it up to his lips. He opens his mouth automatically and takes the offering.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
My heart thuds in my chest. Fourteen is the scariest number, because at step number fourteen,
look at the mirror and fall in love at first sightgive yourself a flower
and wear your favorite
sit in a nice, quiet
little coffee shop
and meet yourself
with that first sip
of warmth
and a smile.
in the afternoon,
walk to the nearest park
and hold your hands
as if in a prayer
like a lover's dream,
be sweet to yourself
for once.
let the kid with the waffle cone
and his mother
stare at you for 45 seconds
while you feed the birds
hang those insecurities
by the door
or tuck them away
in your cabinets
or drawers-
just take them off
pick a hot red dress
and buy yourself
a drink for two
mirror at one end
of the table
and your love
at the other.
Master Clock         Tick. Tick. Tick.
        June stared at the alarm clock. She didn’t know where it came from, how it got there. All she knew was that it looked almost exactly like her father’s old one, with a yellowed face and bold, old style numbering.
        It sat on the shelf in the antique shop, and while a thin layer of dust coated everything else, it looked newly cleaned. It seemed out of place in general, she thought, still staring. It was the only mechanical thing in the shop; there were mostly just carvings and furniture.
        Tick. Tick. Tick.
        Maybe it was the owner’s alarm clock, and for some reason they’d forgotten it there, though the yellow sticker with the price—ten dollars and seventy five cents—said otherwise.
A Story of How a Horde of Elephants Saved My ButtThe problem about wearing a dress is that it gets in the way of everything. The problem about wearing pants is that people yell at you claiming you’re a disgusting witch and should be burned to death before men walk up to you and just shrivel up and die from the sight.
Okay, so the witch thing wasn’t completely wrong. I mean, it’s not even my fault. It’s not like I wanted to have magic powers that just randomly conjure up a hoard of elephants. I mean, having magic powers is cool and all, but not when you live in the late 1600’s and everyone wants to kill you because you’re wearing pants.
And like the worst part about having powers is I literally cannot tell anyone otherwise these brilliant town folk will surely want me burned at the stake. And it’s ridiculous because they’re just shooting people down every hour, claiming “she’s a witch!” just because they don’t know how to take care of their cows and literally they

:iconhugqueen: Features by HugQueen

RainShe was bloated, swollen in her
Own melancholy moisture
Threadbare at her contours
Unravelled into gray woolen
Strings, too loose for her skin
And they drained off her shoulders
To pool in a waxy heap by her
Ivory heel-bones.
She was rounded by opaque
Moons, liquid apricity. The life
In her womb churned, awakening
From quiescence. Her being
Shuddered from the maelstrom within
And in a great wailing cry of woe
Her waters burst in a ferocious
Deluge, catharsis.
She roiled under each contraction
As unearthly poetry thundered from her
Throat, emblazoned with lightning. Her
Child is birthed, swaddled in her failing
Body, decrescendo heartbeat.
And as the babe breathed, the wind
Abandoned her shallow lungs,
Cadaver cumulus.
A Sinister Love: The Temptation“Come along, Mud-Face,” the serpentine lizard said as it crawled along the verdant floor of Paradise.  
“It’s Brown-Noser, sir,” replied the smaller lizard that skittered along beside him.
“That’ssss a terrible name.  You should get a proper name, a good name, a name like, ‘Rotworm.’  Now there’s a good name!”
Brown-Noser rolled his yellow eyes.  “Sir, that’s your name.  I’m not going-”
“Then Rotworm Junior.  I don’t know.  Shut up!  Do you remember the plan?”
“Not really, sir.  The last seventeen plans didn’t exactly work out.”  Brown-Noser began to run to keep pace with Rotworm.  It seemed the underbrush in Paradise was no hindrance to the larger lizard’s stride.
“What do you mean?  I nearly had her with the Forbidden Fruit Salad.”
Brown-Noser let out a cute little sigh. “Until
lunacy.what the moon teaches us is
no one exists as a constant.
some days you will orbit elsewhere.
the angles of light that
make up the shadows of you
will keep moving.
it is the same with the ocean
and how it does not meet
the shore the same each time:
some days it will come crashing,
eroding: or it comes back to kiss
its edges over and over
there are some days i am more
of a tsunami. there will be days
you will be eclipsed.
and i don't mind this. the moon is
up in the sky but the ocean still feels
the weight of its pull, always.
i want to drown in the
push and pull of your gravity
in all the ways that's possible.
i could get used to the
different phases of this:
i could get used to our lunacy.
she achesyou offered her your rib. broken and
grateful, she accepted, muddy
fingers pressing
argent bone to tattered flesh. whole,
whole. she aches to be whole.
you offered her your body, diligent with want.
her hands became your religion, her mouth
your heaven. her name is an orison, the sound
honeyed to her ears
she is on her knees but you are the one praying.
god, god. she aches to be god.
he offered her the world, power ripe and
waiting in his hands. hungry and
lustful, she accepted, eager
lips spilling sweet, swallowing seed as
though she's done it
she's done it before.
      ( she needs your rib no longer, don't you see? she licks the meat
        off of her collection of bones, throws them in a pile
        to her left; you had left her to rot under the eye of your
        god, but she flourished.
Tables Turn"Jesus Christ, Dawn, what the fuck is this?" Chris said as he shot up from his chair, knife in hand.
I stopped scrubbing the dishes and wiped my wet hands on the front of my jeans. I knew it was going to bleach my new denim, but I didn’t care.
He stomped into the kitchen, his work boots slamming against the tile. He never took his shoes off, almost as if he was always ready to leave. He had bathed in cologne, and it’s all I could smell – spicy earth musk as he intruded my personal space.
His jaw flexed as he slowly chewed the London broil I made for dinner. His hot breath licked the side of my face, hands flexing in agitation. For a moment, I didn’t see him angry. There was a slight smirk of his lips, weather-cracked and swollen. The craziness of his strawberry blond hair encircled him like a halo, not a satanic crown. The growth of his beard extended long enough for me to run my fingers through and grip as I kissed his lips.
Then my illusion shattered.
"This me
The Sea's LamentI sit at the hearth, in some rat filled tavern. I drown my sorrows in the vinegar that the man behind the bar dares to call wine. I am numb to the world. The tides sings in my veins but I ignore it. Another night passes and I have not moved from my seat. People in the room stare furtively through the hearth smoke, and whisper that I am not of this world. The barman keeps them from me for the moment, for he is well paid in forgotten coins. My reverie is interrupted by a sailor, the wine heavy on his breath. He suggests obscenity and I ignore him. He reaches for my arm and I flee the tavern, his face a picture of shock at my dissolution. I seek a place of deeper solitude, far from all sailors.
I find myself growing fond of being incarnate, the simplicity of finite vision. I settle in a port that hadn't felt my steps before. I know the language without speaking it before. A room which faces the land lets me forget. I wander the streets, the bustle soothing. The market I learn has it's own
Revel11 pm and I’m in the back kitchen
hands hot and raw on plastic
and soap,
and tender,
and tired.
And the restaurant shares an alleyway
with the pub, so of course as I stand there
in a brief fluorescent moment of alone,
these two girls, right, they come running,
swaying, past the sharp cold
square of fly-screen door
between me
and the knife-dark night.
Oh Christ,
and my fingers slip, no
purchase. A sliding
friction, and my hands
all thick and unsure.
I can’t see them, their flight
through blackly starred con-crete,
these shitfaced nymphs
in their bluemetal Bacchanal dream,
but I can imagine the spit and the glitter;
they are laughing and it sounds like it hurts,
one is shouting something, a sound, a word,
I think it’s ‘sex’,
just that,
over and over.
She’s screaming sex into the night,
and sober, slick to my elbows,
I think
I know how she feels.
honeysucklei cant discard those sunsoaked flower petal days
the fragrance of the warmed rough sidewalk
and the air slipping past as soft as forgetting
honeysuckle bloom yields a small kiss of nectar
one that rolls and sings across the tongue in f major
and you would yield small kisses
and i would yield also
unthey call me tide-breaker.
my name frequents
whores' mouths,
and they speak of me
between the sailors' maps.
I am salt and brine
beneath fingernails,
the oncoming threat
of dark clouds that hang
their gallows above the ocean.
I'm the enigma,
the split-second
flash of light
on the sea's cusp;
they only ever think
they see me,
but I am always there.
oh yes,
I've seen their
dirtied skin,
their weathered faces,
that lustful thirst
in the eyes of men surrounded by water.
it is only natural, I suppose,
for those bound in chains
to grow fond of the metallic clacking.
it becomes all they have.
and I, well,
I am only here
to watch and play my part.
their wives at home
will look seaward
and sigh
and wonder
but it is I
who will have someone to hold.
they say mermaids
drown unworthy sailors,
but they never acknowledge
that most men simply
throw themselves overboard
at the temptation of something beautiful.
Skip This One if You Have a Dick“Skip This One if You Have a Dick”
I’m not sorry that I bled on the sheets again.
I’m not. There are other things keeping me up
tonight—the Bermuda Triangle has found a way
to hover over Texas and I look up at the sky
and watch Cassiopeia sit rigid in her chair. 
Girl, I think, get the fuck down. Bleed with the rest of us
and curse the bleeding because it feels like poison
inside you.  Here is how we are the same: Stuck. 
Stuck in that is this real? feeling of overdue bills,
broken dishwashers and hotdogs for dinner. Stuck,
watching the same goddamned satellites gaze upon you
and whisper to cable TV and NASA and that jackass Putin.
(Put on a shirt. We don’t bleed for you.) 
Cass, you bled for children and I bleed for hope.
I bleed for my own personal Bermuda curse. 
My belly swells  with imagined rot and so I imagine
arms around me, soothing the ache, reaching
for the tears and say
Our Last AzaanOur Last Azaan
I. The Streets of Our City are Lined with Synapses
Islamabad's silent streets are filled with phantoms. Tongueless ghosts raising their haunted eyes to the night sky. The stars fall, one by one. There are no screams in our city tonight. No mother weeps for a son who will never return home. Our city is a tomb, echoing with the tinnitus of oblivion.
The steps of Faisal Masjid are cold beneath our feet. The bone-white shards of the mosque's four towers outline the invisible square of the Kaabah around us. We walk hand in hand to the heart of the mosque. The lights of the central chandelier grow dim, flickering like synapses in a dying brain. Then go out. The mosque becomes a shadowland of ancestral voices, some weeping quietly, some haranguing against the inevitable.
Azrail takes us each by the hand. His hand is warm. His face is the face of a childhood friend, someone you thought you'd forgotten. His eyes are kind. When he speaks your name you hear the sound

Fukushima FlowersYou think of Salvador Dali
and melting clocks,
chronology broken
and mirrored versions
stuck in themselves.
Forms blurred under
the origin of life,
car crash nature,
a star bursting
into petals.
An exploding reaction
taking lost millennia.
You think of broken nuclei
stuck in meiosis.
elemental"Never anything to do in this town. It's absolutely dead." Christina thought to herself as she absently played pool. It was a slow day. The thunderstorm raging outside seemed to have chased her customers away. There was no one in the building other than her. Even her boss hadn't shown up. He'd called saying that when the weather eased up he'd come. Without anyone to keep her company, Christina was bored out of her mind.
She heard the bell on the door as a handsome stranger came inside, bringing the storm with him. She didn't mind. He had a day or two's worth of stubble and the smoke from his cigarette followed him as did the smell of rain. It came through an old, rusted screen door, bringing just enough humidity to make her shirt stick, even though the breeze was blessedly cool for the first time in weeks. His voice sounded rough and commanding when he ordered a beer, but he had nice manners so she overlooked that.
She served him and resumed her one-woman game of pool. She felt his eye

:iconliliwrites: Features by LiliWrites

nonbinarys(p/qu)eak out
against aggression
agender androgyne
soft oppression
ruby rose leaving
rows of sexual tension
but that's no pension
against what
we're fighting for
still called a whore
because of bodily appearance
still called a slut
because of sexual interference 
still called a butch
because of clothing expression
still called
gender identity disorder
despite our failed
therapy session
psychological disease
itching my skin like fleas
my identity 
is not an illness
stillness in the room
we'll retire until
we expire on our
assassination date
rate our lives by
how much cash we've made
raid our bodies of
our humanity
seep our sanity from
the blood in our soul
bell tolls in the church
of my funeral
but they'll still call me
The Very Best Roast Beast RecipeFirst, peel the carrot and cut it into half-moon slices. Toss it into a saute pan with the butter and garlic and keep it on a low heat, stirring occasionally to keep it all moist and prevent any of it from burning. If the carrot reaches a chiaroscuro color, it's starting to burn. Allow it to simmer.
In a medium mixing bowl, combine the vinegar, red wine, and spices. Pour into a saucepan and put it on a medium-high heat until the ethanol has cooked off, then add the herbs and beef stock to act as a catalyst. If the beef stock congeals and starts to cicatrize as a reanimated cow, then you may have begun the ritual circle too soon. You can keep the sauce on a low heat, or allow it to cool at room temperature for up to two hours if stove space is an issue.
Draw out the ritual circle shown on page 93 and invoke the barbarian acts of Eran'tul, dread butcher of legend. If an amorphous blob of acid driven by spite emerges, you may be using the wrong salt in the sauce. After about half an hour
On losing a friend(it did not end in tears.)
I could give you armfuls of oceans, great
mountain ranges wrapped in silver bows,
a coral reef gleaming like a sapphire chain
but you will always ask for a dormant volcano
and a star you can hold in your palm.
And I have tried to be that star, have tried to
combust bright enough, shrink small enough
but it is never enough for you. You kiss my
mouth with those carmine lips and swallow my
heartbeat with your gentle laugh and I glow
I glow and you go you go you go on stringing
me along a trail of crumbs, making me forget
that I am starving myself for your table scraps.
I could press the slats of pre-dawn light into your
answering machine, could fold dust columns that
fall between venetian archways into your bedsheets,
could hang the lost jewels of jaguar fangs clattering
above your dreamcatcher and you would only ask for
a dormant volcano and a brittle sea-salt glass wave.
And I have tried to capture the tides and I have tried
to blow glass but my hands are clum
Disaster films are more honest than you realize.It was a few years ago; I was eating in a Chinese restaurant with my parents. The place was built with a ton on windows going around the perimeter - you could see out three of four walls.
The entrance was set up oddly - the register cut off the corner where the door was to make a triangular lobby of sorts. Behind the register was a large aquarium. The fish could be seen from nearly anywhere in the restaurant; a few large goldfish, what I assume was a grouper of some kind, and even a black  eel, amongst an assortment of smaller fish happily living together in the fake seaweed and castle.
My family and I were sitting towards the back of the place, more or less by ourselves, roughly diagonal from the aquarium. There were some other patrons, but it wasn't a full house; just enough to create a pleasantly subdued background chatter. The TV was on, but I don't remember what channel. I think it was the news, some local channel. I didn’t pay much attention, instead fixating on the wi
Come to Mama“Stop fussing, Jenna. Sit next to your mother.”
The bench was ancient but sturdy. The paint had long since chipped away, leaving only a brown weathered surface. A dying sapling threaded its leaves through spaces between the wooden slats. This was where I first met Mama. At twelve, I was mesmerized by her wraith-like beauty. She sat on the bench every Halloween, waiting for something, for someone. She had let me sit beside her while I ate my candy and she watched the other children in their costumes. If I could have stayed with her, I would have, but I was much too old by then. Jenna was a lucky little girl.
“She doesn't know me yet. It's fine. She needs a moment to collect herself.”
Mama's smile was warm, inviting, but I could tell she was hurt by Jenna's reluctance. Her lips were so dry they cracked and peeled. She was so pale she was almost colorless. Still, she possessed an ethereal beauty that left me breathless every time I looked at her.
“Jenna's a b
How to Pocket a Man's HumanityFirst, convince him to adopt
a rescue cat, fat, days away
from slaughter. Find one mis-
sing half his tail. The pair
will purr in tune; this step
is important. Next, rush him,
him and his rescue, to their
home, and then keep them dry
and healthy. Move deliberate-
ly, with articulation. Shape
the sound. Watch cat and man
sup together, sleep together.
Spring happens upon them, as
it does, and the man and his
rescue walk along the bridge-
less route to the forest and
grove without wind. Convince
him to let rescue race aloft,
to the distant hill-top. And
he will, and he does, and he
is gone. The man screams out-
ward into the meadow, scream
after scream weaving through
stalks of wheat, but nothing.
No clicks or mews. A nothing
against the rust of night on
the horizon. Help the man to-
ward his doorstep. Help keep
him apprised of the treeline
and its shadows. Finally, he,
rescue, appears, and the man
grabs your collar and shouts
and walks and runs and stops.
Rescue has brought home life
  days I
   watch you
 rise and rage
with a new year
firework fervour–
untamed and glorious,
pulling the years together
with  a snap of  your fingers.
but some days you are languid,
stretching like the summer dusting
of freckles along your forearms, the
slumberous strands of hair shuttering
your sky-eyes from the morning light.
on these days, I think the earth spins
slower and the birds sing a little
quieter. on these days, I look
at you and I think:
The Death that is Left BehindI.
Somewhere beneath
the layers laid,
alone is a man who scrapes
outward.  He is
like the child fallen
down a deep well, who
sees the way is up and yet
scratches stone walls
instead--the flesh of
fingers giving way, symbolizing
a waning vivacity sealed
in the center of his diamond-hard
Sound is a physic;  music, a friction--
white hot motion to motionless 
souls.  It is pain and heat, terrible
and beautiful, healing, and the death
that is left behind.  
It's GourmetThe squid writhed in my hands, its skin flashing from white to violent red.  It choked its tentacles up my forearms, its beak gaping open and closed.  I slid my thumbs to either side of its voiceless screaming and cracked the thing’s cartilage skull.  The squid’s skin faded from red to pink and finally to a lifeless white.  I removed my arms from the mess, now just a stack of tentacles on my cutting board, and wiped my bloody arms on my apron.  “There’s got to be an easier way.”
“There is.” Yur said beside me.  He could have passed for a human—but who really wanted to? 
I threw the squid’s body into a bubbling chili that could have stood in for any number of species’ excrements.  The fact that I could spot floating artifacts of the previous week’s meals didn’t help the comparison.  I snatched a lid and capped off the pot before the squid’s gelatinous body began to
I'll Wait by the WaterThis is the place where our memories began.
A creek at the bottom of a canyon,
red cliffs on either side and a giant
pond dam to the north that wildflowers grow on.
Paths that we created through the woods
and up and down those copper canyon walls
while we pretended to be wild Injuns
or wanted outlaws being hunted by a posse.
You were on your knees,
in the middle of the creek,
when I found you.
A neighbor girl, trespassing.
I had a mind to chase you off
until I asked what you were doing.
You looked at me, smiled, and said,
"Catching crawdads. Come help!"
After that day, we spent Springs and Summers
building fort walls and chasing frogs,
skipping stones and arguing baseball,
sharing comic books and trading punches.
You could hit as hard as any boy I knew.
We had our own bridge to Terabithia,
our own kingdoms of knights and castles,
won the World Series with back to back homeruns,
settled the Wild West and discovered gold in the mountains.
My parents thought you were imaginary
until I bro
i promise it wasn't youone:
that boy taught me that girls who speak up
are not fit for loving.
that bastard taught me that girls who say no
are not fit for loving;
it was my voice or my heart,
and i chose love.
(after all,
isn't that the greatest thing?)
when the pain weighted my
body to the floor,
when the carpet covered me with dust
and claimed my bones,
my friends called me lazy.
"where are your wounds?"
i cupped my glued-up heart in my hands.
they rolled their eyes
and turned away,
asked me why i'd turn myself
into some craft project
for a hopeless, wandering boy
and night after night i cried
"i don't know, i don't know,
i don't know."
when the hurt made food
stick like paper maché
in the back of my throat,
they called me sick-
when i bent
they said
"i can see your bones,
oh god how i'd like to stick my fingers inside you
and split you down your middle,
right in fucking two."
the sorrow settled in for good.
it was a little like drowning-
they told me,
"well, i knew someone else who
Fairground Attraction (Harlem's Deck 1)Fairground Attraction (Harlem's Deck 1).
The police officer eyed the youth in front of her dubiously. He didn't look like much, your typical disaffected teen passing through that awkward phase where his body's growth needs were far outstripping his diet, leaving him looking more like a scarecrow than a real live boy.
The impression wasn't helped by the mass of hair sprouting from his head; he was sporting one of those lank Mohawks that were in vogue at the moment, the fringe forming a curtain that fell down across the left side of his face, leaving that eye in shadow.
Only the signet ring on his left pinkie, and the small gaggle of nervous looking rich kids at his back, implied he was anything more than the nihilistic punk he looked like.
For his part, the young man had given up long ago being bothered by what other people thought of him. A lesson most people learnt much later in life, he'd had it force fed down his throat at the hands of the older boys at the orphanage.
In the cold ho
Polaris is Dead.windbound,
we were caught and cornered,
keelsons crushed
underneath the weight
of rocks and hard places
and hurricanes
that tore us all but
    apart -
in this and every maelstrom
we were just waiting
to crumble,
holding hands like they were
and locking palms in prayer ;
we knew an introduction
to the edge of our little world was
and said our goodbyes
every time the ocean's belly
swelled with Neptune's angry squall,
our mouths filled with salt and
all the breathlessness that came
with keeping a weather eye
on that horizon.
you were the light of my life -
every smile a star
and every star a sentinel,
keeping us from keeling over
or charting courses
hellward bound ;
that angel stern,
casting starshine
on every map and
on every midnight journey,
and making sure
we always knew
which way was north,
or a new world,
or danger,
or home.
but darling,
the storms got the best of us,
our little ship stricken
from bow to stern,
from mizzenmast to bowline,
Eira, now that I live in a country without SummerAnd you are gone.
And the people here
would not recognise you.
You, who simply stood up from the winter ground
and existed.
You, who lived too long
in the countryside
of your body.
One night, you loved me
and your mouth burst like a fruit,
too soon, too soon.
You are gone, but still
deliver the same madness to me
that Spring brings for flowers.
I think about where
you put away your sadness:
a country of snow.
I want to lie down
there, like an animal.
I could live for days
beneath your frozen body
of water.

Want to suggest a Daily Deviation?

Send a link or thumbcode of the deviation you want to suggest via note to the appropriate CV. There is a "6-month rule" which means an artist cannot receive another DD if they have had one in the last 6 months.

FAQ #18: Who selects Daily Deviations and how are they chosen?
FAQ #313: How can I find out if someone already has a Daily Deviation?

More Journal Entries

Daily Deviations

Suggest a literature Daily Deviation today!

Our lovely Community Volunteers collectively feature a few pieces of literature every day, many from suggestions by the community. Each CV likes to feature certain things more than others, and you can find their suggestion guidelines below!

Please send fanfiction suggestions to SingingFlames.

For more information about Daily Deviations including what they are, how to (and how not to) suggest them, and more, see these helpful articles.

Participated in Flash Fiction Month in previous years? 

17 deviants said I'm scared, what is this? Who am I?
10 deviants said Share your experience in the comments!
9 deviants said I've not done it before but am up to the challenge this year!
2 deviants said Share some advice!

New to Literature on DA?

Expose-Lit: Your Literature LifelineWelcome to Expose-Lit, your group home on the web for a variety of tips on how to make the most of your DeviantART Literature experience. We hope to provide everyone with a fresh perspective and to assist wonderful deviants just like you in finding your way within our community. And, we all realize that every writer has their own personality, interests, strengths and weaknesses, so we aim to provide unique pathways into the community for everyone. We are here to help!
Welcome Wagon: Getting to Know You
If you are a new writer to DeviantART, or perhaps trying to discover what the general Literature community has to offer, you find out quickly how vast this community is and can be outright confused by everything that this diverse website offers. With the creation of Expose-Lit, it is our hope to merge together the wonderful Writers Welcome Wagon R
Breaking in to Lit!Introduction
Literature has long been considered one of the closest knit communities on deviantART. As a result, some people find it difficult to "break in" to the Lit crowd. There are rumors of elitism, difficulty in getting exposure, and lack-luster appreciation for the incredible work that goes into writing a good piece of prose or a well structured poem.
If you look at a painting you can see amazing detail, great use of color, and the importance of the subject immediately. You know it came from the artist's imagination and that he or she had to spend hours translating that to a canvas. The tangibility of the work is right in front of you. With writing, it is not quite the same. The effort the author puts into the work can only be appreciated if readers put in their own effort to read the work. The gratification is not instant, which is one reason the lit community is so close knit.
Those who do have large followings often also comment and read quite a lot of work h


This is the team of crazies trying to run this show!

Hug Queen

Temporary Admins


Affiliation Policy

If you would like your group to affiliate with CRLiterature, please inform us WHY you want to affiliate with us, otherwise we will reject your request. We only affiliate with the following:

:bulletgreen: Official deviantART groups
:bulletgreen: Established groups for the literature community.
:bulletgreen: Groups that encourage critique sharing
:bulletgreen: Groups that share news

We will not accept the following:

:bulletred: New groups with no information what the group is about
:bulletred: Groups for other art forms

Newest Members



Add a Comment:
psychout10 Featured By Owner Edited Aug 24, 2015  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Hello! I was just browsing and I found this group :D I was scrolling down in the comments section and your replies are very nice, you seem very polite :) For that, I'm going to watch you, I know its not that much but your very kind.
Elmara Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2015  Student Writer
Hello! Terribly sorry about being away from dA for so long (illness), just saw your invitation to add Our Last Azaan to your gallery. Unfortunately, it's expired from my side. Would it be very inconvenient to resend me the invitation? I am, of course, honoured to be given this oppurtunity!

Much love and regards,
HugQueen Featured By Owner Aug 24, 2015   Writer
:hug: I hope that you're recovering. ♥ For the DD Gallery folders they aren't open to anyone but current Lit Volunteers. However, I will be happy to send another request for you!

Elmara Featured By Owner Aug 27, 2015  Student Writer
Thanks so much! Highly obliged :heart:
HugQueen Featured By Owner Aug 27, 2015   Writer
No problem at all. <3
Meggie272 Featured By Owner Aug 17, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the request! :rose:
brennenxr Featured By Owner Aug 15, 2015
FieryDownpour479 Featured By Owner Aug 3, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
Hey! Just wanted to say thanks for requesting to feature one of my pieces of literature here!
Also, I'm actually very interested in possibly joining this group because I've heard very good things about it. Is there a specific place where you have information listed about what all this group does?
Thanks again!
HugQueen Featured By Owner Aug 5, 2015   Writer
Hello! :D

Yes, if you look atCRLiterature's About Us Page we have a little blurb. There is also this: New Group Features! As well as a list of "Important Literature Links" which can be found on the front page of the group. As it stands we are not an open submission group, so our gallery is only for collecting Literature Daily Deviations(such as your recent DD) and relevant Literature News.
FieryDownpour479 Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for letting me know! I definitely think I'd like to try this group out!
Thanks again! :D
FriendlyFlame Featured By Owner Jul 28, 2015  New Deviant Hobbyist Writer
What gallery would I put my short stories into??
HugQueen Featured By Owner Jul 29, 2015   Writer
Hello! We are not an open submission group, so our gallery is only for collecting Literature Daily Deviations and relevant Literature News. If you're looking for places to submit your work please check out our affiliates or the Groups' pages Literature category.
QuiEstInLiteris Featured By Owner Jul 23, 2015  Professional Writer
:la: Thanks for adding Last Call for Tanner Lee!
Hidden by Commenter
HugQueen Featured By Owner Jul 13, 2015   Writer
Hello! Here at CRLiterature we don't offer reviews or critiques. You are welcome to use the Monthly Literature Critique Thread if you are looking for possible critiques or use the Groups search function to find a relevant group that allows open submissions in order to share your work. :)
Centurion030 Featured By Owner Jul 13, 2015
BATTLEFAIRIES Featured By Owner Jun 16, 2015
So honoured Tears of joy 2 
cristinewakesuphappy Featured By Owner Jun 16, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
 thank you for including a little poem called grandmother. i sincerely appreciate it.
BlackBowfin Featured By Owner Jun 11, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Hey there.  Thank you for requesting.  :)
Neo128 Featured By Owner Jun 10, 2015
Thanks for accepting my membership request. :meow:
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