30 Writers You Should Discover: Volume XI

Aug 15, 201248 min read

Deviation Actions

Published: Aug 15, 2012

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What's This?

Below you will find a new assortment of various writers on DeviantART who are worth getting to know. All of their respective galleries are packed full of tremendous works that I enjoy and hope that you will too. And, if there is a writer that may not be listed in this edition, you may wish to read the first ten articles in this series.

Let’s Meet A Few More of Them:

Aconitum-Napellus

Mature Content

Nano Day 011.
His birth was one of the first things that Anwen remembered. The beginning of her life in memory began with the beginning of his. Idwal was her anchor.
Truth be told, she did not remember his actual birth. She had no real memory of him slipping into the world, inevitable and streaked with blood. She recalled the long, slow months of her mother's pregnancy. She remembered the growing, physical thing that held her separate from her mother, that pushed her away, an anthill growing day by day beneath her mother's clothes. As ominous as an anthill. As unwanted.
She remembered the careful explanations, the clearing out of the small room at the back of the house, the re-construction of the cot and the re-painting of each cylindrical dowel that made up the bars in white, gloss paint. She remembered thinking, what kind of creature has to be kept in a wooden cage?
And then that day… That day when her mother became preoccupied, and poured out tea onto the breakfast cereal. A Of Virginia WoolfYou filled your pockets with stones,
a seed-sower sowing nothing,
nothing to cast away.
It must have been cold as you went down.
The bite of March water
must have brought blood
rushing in panic to your skin.
A gasp, perhaps,
as your chest submerged.
(Were you beyond gasping?
Were you so far behind the veil?)
And then the silence.
The hiss of water against the ears,
the stirred up mud against your startled eyes.
The water cold in your palms
and cold in your unravelling hair
and cold through your clothes
to your naked skin. And
the weight inside would hold you,
stronger than stones.
You stood, perhaps, for a time,
a naiad in the depths,
hair taken with the flow
until you sank full-faced and weary
into the soft silt bed.

ArthurCrow
:thumb309910240::thumb304382119::thumb306609154:

AzizrianDaoXrak
A Brief History of TimeI.
We live again
and must learn the names we have been given.
And oh, the caged bird carries the wind in her lungs.
She is a body of calm thunder.
II.
Beloved, Beloved…
I am born
with the sweet clay of Virginia in my eyes,
the bones of old Ireland in my flesh.
I am myself incarnate.
Opening a new mouth I
speak.
III.
Solomon's wife
catches the birds in flight.
Oh, that man carries the wind in his lungs,
she says,
in his lungs and under his wings.
Our drums are our thighs,
the soles of our feet against the earth,
the thick pounding rivers that rush through our veins.
IV.
We are
ripe
apples.
Motherfather Time sits back
and watches us learn our own letters,
choose our own names and learn to paint them.
Babel stretches high over our heads,
built with these hands, these lips.
V.
It All begins with fire—
the breath of stars.
Motherfather Time
wakes to brilliant light,
opening a new mouth—
silence.
VI.
The dark is rich and clean,
a body of calm thunder,
sweet as Virginia clay. Meditation on ThoughtBegin the quiet storm of fidgeting,
metronome-pen beating—
a drum, a drum:
Tempestuous—tearing
fingers through hair,
black eyes
crawling along
the insides of my lids.
My mind grows scrublands.
"What do you mean?" and,
"What do I mean?"
I tend slowly toward the abstract.
Pine trees sprout from my hair,
a forest of church steeples.
Whippoorwill am I,
chestnut-child Evangeline,
and my fingers stretch
architectonic
to build me bridges of stone,
a whole cathedral of bone archways.
My Michelangelo eyes sit restless
in a face of white and green marble.
The smallest drop of rain
against the window
and my thoughts collapse—
I must begin again.
There is a secret
fingernail-screeching
as the drops of water
roll down the glass. Raising GirlsThere is nothing in the world but hope
that our children will grow up to better us all.
Little girls are a force unto themselves;
in groups they generate their own universal laws,
demonstrate hitherto unknown patterns of gravitation.
We must grow them properly, create their
simply darling little angelfish dresses and teach them
to flee,
   daintily, without running and creasing
      their starched skirts,
from the cloying, pink jellyfish tentacles:
   their barbs are black and purple, spells
      bursting open like hydrogen bombs over
      the Pacific islands,
   black magic, sea ink,
   a body shape too thick to be proper,
   mouths painted red and wide with too much laughter.
"One musn't—," and
   "it is rude to—"


Bark
Notes To SelfItchy grindy nervewracked jitter
Blinds closed against the July sun
Awake, alive, annoyed with the world
Note: need beer, now, later might be
too late
Show me something good in the world
Something not monstrous and vile
Awake, drained, attuned to the noise
Note: see shrink Tuesday, call doc
re pain
River monsters deliver yesterday's news
I can't help but read again anyway
Over and over in a circle of sorrow
Note: hear the river's secrets, discuss
next class
Why's the day so bright and warm
Without you in it, should be dark and cold
Coming apart at the seams, twittering gibberish
Note: stay out of the river, causes
insanity Another Glimpse of the Madman Across the WaterCracked summer sidewalk, potholed city streets
Ice cream, balloons, cotton candy, dust, heat
Fast food and playgrounds, creaky old swings
Ghost of summers past in the shadows of tall trees
Churchsteeple, radio tower, pop tunes, melted wax
The green of grass that'll die, sandman, starman, slacks
Gypsy sunlight glare in the faded glass storefront
Childhood's end awaits at the end of the jumprope
Tar smell of the boardwalk, sand grit of the beach
Every sunset takes summer farther out of reach
Circling gulls and jumping fish, shells glisten in the sun
Neon lights up the night once the long day's done Soul JuiceSqueeze out the last drops in glorious color
The rind is mashed, rotten, ruined
But the juice is beautiful
When I dream of myself, or others, we're
always in our prime
and beautiful.

BeyondJen
No Longer AnonymousNo longer can I remain anonymous, just another girl checking in for her doctor's appointment.  The moment I tell them the visit is to be billed to the state, and present this voucher, which might as well be painted in bright red blood, dripping and leaving a breadcrumb trail for all, with a neon sign that reads "sexual assault," I become that girl.
I see the way their eyes change.  I see how they look at me.  The hardness of the day, painted in the lines on their face, softens, just a bit.  Their eyes, normally cold and focused, now try to melt my heart with their temporary concern.
I sit in the waiting room amongst the anonymous people.  There's the elderly couple across from me; the Hispanic family: three kids occupied by the mom while the dad talks loudly on the phone, his bulbous body exceeding the chair he sits on; the blonde woman with her adorable blonde-headed daughter in the white linen dress; and all the other an ConfessionLips met in clumsy haiku,
against each other, pressed,
the way the earth touches the sky,
soft and whimsy as the dusk.
Tongues painted passion-
          sunset colors,
          halcyon atmosphere, infused,
-upon every awaiting space offered.
Metaphors dotted the hallows of limbs and tasted like the seasons-
          a bursting and vibrant spring,
          a hot and passionate summer,
          an adventurous and teasing autumn,
          a cozy and comfortable winter,
-all at once.
Skin smelled like Frangipani, an offering-
          blossoming with intensity as the sun draped itself in twilight's shawl,
-and felt like a brick wall crumbl MuseLilting words descend me into solace,
held within flares of sanguine walls and
grey matter couches where I escape,
while graphite fires ignite, and discourse
finds life on paper.
--
5/8/2012
Copyright © 2012 Jen Fowler
All Rights Reserved.

ChloroformBoy
fresh baguettes and used cigarettes ~a sestina~Scene setting: the Paris Hotel, as I fold
the corner of a page from my Brit Lit
textbook -- story of a boy with French
lips & a Japanese heart.  god, how I miss
his Spanish smile; each dimple, a match-
ing tattoo.   Twice,  he touched my hand
with his heaven-sewn skin.  On the other hand,
my bare body lay on a hotel bed.  Alone.  I fold
my mannequin skeleton like origami   to match
the paper cranes swimming in his Neon eyes, lit
like European stars—Oh, Nostalgia.  how I miss
getting Lost in those foreign eyes during French
class.  Lust in translation.  Lost in a faux-French
Fantasyland.  I want to hold his shivering hand.
Kiss him atop this Eiffel replica.  Alas!  I missed
my chance for our Souls to tango—crashing into the fold
of his hips.  I'm not fluent in body language or candlelit
cuisines or Romance. I can't even strike a the clock struck ten so i struck it back ten timesI murdered your great grandfather
clock because I wanted to kill time.
Waving a cigar in its minute-hand,
the antique bled kerosene.  I set it
to military time then on fire. I saw
the secondhand smoke; ironically,
the hour-hand burnt the quickest.
The napalm timebomb reached 0.
"How does the defendant plead?"
"Guilty of all charges."
This is a confession: I am the arsonist.
I also raped a Rolex who cried "STOP!"
So now I'm doing time for doing Time
while the year-hand on my pendulum
prison sentence slowly ticks me off &
tocks about me behind my back & to
be imperfectly honest, there really is
nothing wise
about clocks. anthem for the damned and losti'll settle for the outliers
in their imperfect homes
and assume them Gods
and Kings and paragons
of what-i-wish-i-was.
i'll ignore the fire
surrounding the
castle and focus
on the gold.
i'll realise Time is jealous
of Infinity for never
worrying about ending,
yet Infinity is jealous
of Time for never
handling the thought
of eternal Eternity.
mirror, mirror, on the wall.
who's the most fucked-up
of all?
we all are we all are we all are we all are
we all are each other's untold secrets;
we all are each other's forgotten past;
we all are each other's invisible eraser;
we all are each other's inabilities to be
loved, to love, to even care,
to realise the difference between
Beauty and Weight and Numbers
and Sex and Trust and Empathy.
we all are Together in this,
united in the controversies
between our hollow bones
and never-enough,
never-good-enough
smiles
(that we fake anyway)
we are all tangled in cobwebs of sorrow.
poisoned by problems we can only fix by
tattooing their names into our s

ClioStorm

disrhythmic

EmaciatedandEpitaphs
maybe she's too youngAstrid smelled of plums.  It was a gentle scent, emanating wisps of invigorating pleasure.
She smelled glorious, mouthwatering, delicate.  I couldn't resist such an aroma.
She looked so frail.  She had skin stretched across her limbs in flimsy, translucent layers.
I was terrified of touching her, afraid she'd crumple beneath my fingers.
Her lithe, bird bone fingers caressed my blistered calluses.  Astrid then pressed her icy
palms to my aching flesh.  Silly girl, she was trying to comfort me.
It was wrong.  I felt bloated, my chest inflated with conflict.  Better judgment swelled
against my callous ribcage, uncaring and simply unconcerned.
-
And yeah it was wrong, but she was delicious. O' SisterStart with something, whether it be words or thought or action.  Just do something, anything to avoid this dissipating grey matter, neurotic erosion.
"I don't exactly remember everything."  My words are timid, pensive.
The moments revolve, coil and ignite; flashing images with no particular order.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
i.
I scrunch my iceman toes, attempting to conserve heat, but the cold still surpasses the fabric of my Converse.  My muscles tense against abrasive arctic gusts.  The bitter wind raises bristled hair above goose bumped flesh.
These pink fingers quiver in the grasp of an 'I heart New York" shot glass.  I guzzle down Stolichnaya.  The vodka is dry-ice against my tongue; molten silver.
Blurred peripherals detect a lone ember drowning in the ashtray, a Marlboro Smooth choking beneath garish glares of moonlight.
ii
"And this kinda s You Look Like I Need A DrinkStatic verses quaking through crippled fingers, lisps written into inebriated meaning.  And I tried with fervent failure to pronounce the sarcasm spewing from my palms, but they were naughty syllables, practicing cohesion without permission, and heaving disjointed language from my rotten, rotten teeth.
She straggles with boulder bones sinking through infectious flesh, frantic slurs bleeding from her throat.  And I stumble for words, endeavoring to compose rainbows of smeared thought, but my vocal chords stutter unintelligible sympathy, incoherent accents and forced definition.
So I draw this poetic slop from corroded neurons, eager to drain the deformity from metaphors, the dialects distorted by ancient tongues.  But my every opinion staggers through intoxication, trying to find a stable image in visions of jittery focus.
Alcohol insinuating rough apologies.
-
Static verses quaked through your crippled fingertips, lisps I had written with poor intent.

FuzzyHoser

Gricken
FlutteringsIt hurted.
My stomach was hurting for days. Mama said it was probably ulcer or maybe my drinking of so much Coke. But I ate and I ate and never drank Coke, and still my stomach hurted. Even if Mama went to the place where herbal plants grow to get a bunch of leaves so that she could squish them and put them in my drink, my stomach didn't stop hurting.
Papa said it was time to call the doctor, so he put on his funny straw hat and went to call the doctor. And when he came back, there was a funny-looking man that followed him into our little house. He had long kinky hair with white stuff in it and when he smiled he had very few teeth. His skin was brown, and his clothes was brown, and his hair was brown. He looked like mud.
Papa said, This is Pachiko.
And I said, Hello Pachiko.
And Pachiko smiled with the very few teeth that he had. Then he touched my stomach. He touched it for a long time, long enough for me to ask why he was touching it.
Then he took his hand off my stomach and looked a

forestmeetwildfire
things that happen in bedthere is you and me and our eyes,
yours open and mine closed but
occasionally i am sneaking a peek
at your baby blues before you kiss
them closed again. and i can feel
the warmth of your smile against
my cheek and our eyelashes fluttering
in unison like the beats of a butterfly's
wings;
there is your scent hovering
heavy in the room and i know that
you know that later i will be wrapped
in my bedsheets sniffing and smiling
(and we both know that's why you wear it)
(and correct me if i'm wrong but) there is
something wonderfully fragile about this
moment of you and me and our eyes,
because they are crinkling at the corners
and i am only hoping we can learn to
grow crow's feet together, if we don't
get cold feet, but we needn't worry
about that because in your presence
i grow fur, thick, magnificent fur
to keep us and our feet warm at night.
there is a real, solid person under the
bedsheets with me, and every contour
of his body is pressed against mine as
we hide from the rest of the worl cwe're traveling
at the speed of light
and we won't stop for nothing
           (there are no br(e)akes
           in this vehicle called life)
so let's keep going until we can
     reach the far edges of the universe
     where the blackness seeps into your skin and
     you passed the last star a couple thousand
                                          light years ago;
and return home to each other as
old folks who've aged nothing but
   gained knowledge of all the
            mousetraps of the cosmos
   & starvationas dearest emily once said,
hope is the thing with feathers.
well, darling? aren't you ready to
start your new life out your bedroom window?
(i think if i whittle out my insides
i can make myself hollow as birdbones
and i can leave behind the loneliness
of the ground and live in a castle in
the sky)
and you'll stare up at the sky at me
and cup your tiny hands around your tiny
mouth and yell, haven't you found
paradise yet?
and my grandmother will say, she
was a smart girl with no intuition.
if only, oh, if only.
people in the street will point at me
in awe and gossip about the girl
who fancied herself a bird and
carved her way to flight.
no, dear, i haven't quite.

HippieHebe
space junkone moment I was talking
to the man on the moon, and
then I was falling
through stars;
down
down
down.
i was surrounded by
clouds, a wispy layer as
my body started to burn up from breaking
the atmosphere.
and then, cool solace
as the ocean devoured me,
and I
sank
sank
sank
blowing silvery bubbles
as I floated like
rogue space debris -
nomadic to time and space. stefanshe stood on your dock
in black pearls,
and nothing more -
wet feet
and the asian dream.
you loved her
but
when the snow fell
on the dock,
the following winter
you couldn't
remember why. InamoratoHis lips were untried
in translating her breath, touch and
those stumbled syllables
fell onto the earth;
taking root they sprouted
tall,
high
and toward the stars -
branches
of unspoken love
stretching across the misty skyline,
and
between those skeletal arms
the moon breathed in ancient tongue
holding memories of
early lovers and primitive lullabies;
old hearts now fossilized in
stone and dust.

InoccuousPseudonym
This body knows me betterThese toes, that know my every step
Skip, run, since I've begun
But my head's forgotten.
These arms that know my gestures
(Whom at, what for)
Who they've held, how they've felt,
Against people chill, sweet and warm.
These thighs, that know who had me
Truly, and wholly besotten.
These lips, that pout, pucker in fret
At times I just recall recalling
And didn't know I did regret. the aromatic Miss MirandaA blouse turmeric yellow
On a youth, terminally mellow
Lined, crumpled, irregulous
(the blouse)
Silk, a fabric to be ironed
She a girl not bothered
By a few creases in her fleeces.
Paprika red tresses, cropped close for convenience
Bristling with potential for lyrical length
Averted intentionally
By a girl bored of boring.
Lemongrass legs
(lemongrass leggings)
A herby heathen vegan
The incredible, edible
aromatic Ms. Miranda.:thumb288009890:

Judah-Leonardo
Seeing, Feeling, ThinkingCassandra left me, all twisted metal;
a rime-rimmed touch, to shear the prints off fingers or
swell my eyes. I almost miss, these days, the way
she held my knees,
slid icicles down my throat, caressed my lungs. With careful sutures,
she has made her face
my own—a stitch
for every year.
Listen: the sea returned our footprints once, back when the sun was gray.
In a dream, I wander; in a lightless day,
ailing. Her sickness rattles my bones. Many years ago she'd
thrust herself into my pulse like shrapnel, and with every
gentle twist and slow evisceration, every day I'd choke
and forget, she
isn't me.
And I waited for rain. Hush, I am
invalid, she said, and her hairline whispers crack my mirror like
cobwebs. I touch my splintered lips and think of seatbelts
and how many times you've seen her cry.
Dear, you've never believed in my refraction. Like some tapeworm
she's burrowed herself, laddered between my highest vertebrae. True,
yes. But you've not noticed when I retch her up, and do yo Andra and the Plague DoctorThe air was wet and heavy and it stuck in her throat; she thought of the smell of rotting gardens and coughed until scarlet blood hung from her lips and stained the moss beneath her cheek. She couldn't groan, couldn't even voice the pain. And her body was too dry for crying. All Andra could do was lay crumpled, her very self fighting her with the sickness that tore through her insides like a lash, the last vestiges of her strength being fed to her twitching limbs for shaking and spasming.
There were ants crawling over her fingertips. Flies at her mouth, the corners of her eyes. She shifted her head, weakly, desperate to drive them off while she still had life in her, but the creatures were impatient. They swarmed back again. It wouldn't be long, now.
Andra thought of her mother, who wept as she pushed her out the door. Her father, gray and still on the bed and set to be burned. Master Thomas was dead in his home. Father Calton, huddled in his church and praying for mercy. The bells wer Never ToldHe thinks it's odd, sometimes, though he's not certain why.
A sense of dislocation, perhaps. Like cutting yourself on an unsharpened blade. He walks the immense aisles of the cathedral, footsteps echoing hollowly into the blue shadows of high vaulted ceilings and arches, stone figures watching him from above as he, in turn, watches dawn play across their carved and weathered faces. The grandeur of this place is oddly soothing in the solitude it affords him. A holy place, just hushed, here suspended in the silence after Mattins when most have shuffled out. It's a favorite moment of his, a favorite service to attend, and today it gives him pause—there is training, and paperwork, and a squire for him to wake and a council meeting and a king, but he lets himself linger nonetheless. Just for a heartbeat, just for a heartbeat.
Hal smoothes his fingers over the well-worn coolness of a granite pillar, and he passes it by for the window beyond it, so familiar. He tilts his head back to

KtheCard
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LlyrentheShrew
New York City, Summer 1988The sun is a strange acidic-shade-of-pink
and metallic waves of shimmering heat obscure the asphalt –
     all I can do is sleep.
Scorched air – from the concrete sidewalks below, floats –
through the open window.
A constant-thump-of-rap vibrates the floor
     and filters into my dreams.
Garam masala and saffron rice –
fresh falafel and Hare Krishna beans –
escape street vendors
     to invade my afternoon nap.
The rosemary, basil, sage, mint,
coaxed into existence on the kitchen ledge
may fight this battle bravely –
     but they will lose the war. Morning - for Carl SandburgThe morning erupts
          on little cat feet
A flick of the tail
          a breath exhaled
               too fast at the end of a leap
and then
A paw,
     placed on lid's soft fan of lash
breath whirring, throaty, warm
          nose
             to
          nose
eyes still closed
Then          open
Thwack –
A stunning velvet attack
     innocent lids           unwarned
     warm sheets      no safe haven
The morning erupts
SummersBorn with charcoal hair,
Now blond
     bleached by sun, salt, sweat and tears
     to a fine white streaked mass of
     curls.
Remembered fondly are sweltering summer days
     in bluegrass country.
Overripe plums and sun-touched berries in a tangle of thorns
     spice the hot breeze
Mingling with the warm weather smell of
     tall dry weeds,
     wild mint cultivated to flower beds.
The hot smooth heat of summer drenched hair, now golden brown,
     is almost overwhelming
And the sharp, bitter tang of bluegrass,
     warmly alive, puckering your mouth
Just to the edge of your tongue –
     only a little bit green.
The scent of hot metal slides from an old
     red and green swingset,
Rusting in the salt-tw

Mrs-Freestar-Bul
Under The Murky WatersChildren of the first sinner,
Dragging his filthy soul at his tail.
He does not dare to look up
Where God's face resides.
Walking the earth; a pack of wild dogs
Scavenging the last pride,
Snatching what is left of mercy.
Down creatures, leeches in the murky waters.
Always on the move to a new pure land,
Hunting down every butterfly wing,
Slaughtering every young green bud.
Children of the massacre, slaves of the cannon
You have your hands down my throat,
Your knife sliding down my spine,
You say: "Keep your smile and greet Humanity"
I swallow the rocks; I wave for my brothers
I fell, I died , they walked  over me,
Forever forgotten Soak My Feet In WineWhen the sun and the earth were in love, ever young
I was born on a full moon with silver clarity
I'm that woman who sleeps on olive groves
Who makes angels fall in love with men's daughters
And lets herself be tricked by your sweet spells
Who obeys the very impulse of her  heart
Do you know who I am, where I came from ?
I live where stars grow bigger on a light breeze
Where butterflies were once flowers
Where God blessed my garden in Eden with peace
There, I lay on a cloud softer than foam
When the day splits into two halves, you see me
My steps are as light as those of a chamois
My hair running wild; wings of an evil crow
My mouth has the roundness of a precious ring
Cheeks, two fields of roses blooming again
Under my feet grow trees, and remain ever green
You need my palms, you seek my blood and fear
Before you crave for more, grant me what I wish for
Kiss the ground before me, show me your loyalty
Borrow the devil's wings, bring me bouquets of stars
I want that purple flo I am a PoetYou ask me who I am , where did I come from
I say:  I am a poet, I was born out of the blazing silk of my words
My heart is an eternal rebel, since the dawn of creation
I'm the master of my own words, the keeper of God's secret
I'm the story of that rose shivering on the freezing hill
I live in that oasis of light, in a world beyond your world
The stars stare at my hopes, and hell trembles between my fingers
The night dreads my pain, the morning sleeps on my pillow
I create my words from the tissue of my veins
I weave the images from the feather of my eyelids
I wash my sins away, when I repent between the lines
My words move slowly between your palms, climb to your soul
To hug that poet, who sleeps between the chambers of your heart
When the world is mud, thorns and empty substance
I create my own, where the ground is basil and the walls are none

MsStarryDuck
Can't Go Home Again    My name is Jacob Mullins. I just turned 24 last week and got a phone call from my father telling me to come home. Now, as I get out of my car and head up the walkway, I'm not too jazzed to be walking back into the house that reminds me of my childhood. It took me a year and a half to move into an apartment and get a decent job and now I have to take a leave of absence to take care of the old codger before he croaks. If I lose my job over this there better be something phenomenal in that will of his to make up for it.
    As soon as I open the door the smell of dust and sickness reaches my nostrils and my lip curls. I make my way down the hallway and into the old man's bedroom and don't bother to knock before I step in. He's hooked up to a oxygen tank and his eyes look glazed over as he fixes them on me. I lean against the dresser and fold my arms across my chest.
"So I'm here."
"And insolent as ever, I see." His voice is raspy and there's a t

ninjababy
When I Think of TeaShe often invited me for tea. I remember muddy tennis shoes or bright pink jellies left at her front step as she opened the world to me behind her faded red door. Her house fascinated me with its intricate paintings and macabre souvenirs stuck in every available space.
She was amazing, too; of course. Mrs. Pratchett carried a rumor mill around her wherever she walked, leaving bits of herself behind in tantalizing flakes eager tongues lapped up and dished back out to anyone with ears. The town knew her as everything from a rich widow to a voodoo priestess, but I knew her as my neighbor.
She sent out her invitation to tea in autumn more than any other season. Most days I bounded down the bus steps to find her sitting on her porch with a book. A nod and a wink, and we rushed inside for tea. The kettle always whistled just as I set my backpack by the door and slid into my spot at her kitchen table.
There we drank tea and talked about life. Her tea tasted like the autumn days she loved: gol Caught DrowningFirst I notice her hair: dark and longer than any girl I've met, pulled back in a high ponytail and still past her waist. Since I'm following the line of her hair, I see her hips next, round and smooth like a bright red apple, picked fresh and rubbed against t-shirts, ready for biting. Attached there and growing like slender trunks from her hemline are two long, smooth legs. She smells like green grass and old wood.
We exchange the normal pleasantries. She is subtle and graceful; demure and polite. She speaks like an orchestra, her tones long and smooth, but there's a hiss there, like steam from a radiator. It works for her, and I've never done this before.
She laughs at that, a sound like a sour note that tugs somewhere at my stomach. "Exotic," I say; and she laughs at that too.
I realize she's waiting for a sign, so I imagine a flare between my lips and blow it out, a slow exhale. I wobble in the breath, but she catches me with her eyes. Black eyes, I notice, all the way through, but WashedButterfly woman:
caterpillar soul,
gorged on sorrow
lies herself down
in a cover of bubbles
and closes her eyes.
Flower-petal freshness
creeps up her skin
and wraps her. Enveloped,
she prays. Her lips
twitch like antennae
seeking nectar.
She exhales slowly,Amen.
Soap-bubble wings
unfurl:
She is clean.

Obsidian-Nightfall
:thumb317664119::thumb153594723::thumb307904435:

poetic
everyone is a sociopath with a vitamin deficiencymy parents never beat me
and look how I turned out: cracked ribs
fractured pelvis
blood in my urine
finally lost my baby teeth
but there's no love without blood and you
do not dream in hourglasses
rusty wind and
ferris wheel cages
to watch the gauze fall untaped
on the kitchen floor and
I am itchingscratchingbleeding time
profusely and it falls off me like sawdust with every
turnaround or
shakemyheadno but
I still stand still with knees dovetailed and
head cocked down
to watch the wood shavings
pile at my shins like suitcases
you always want more
so when I felt the fault lines in your wrists
start to tremble
I took that revolver in your chest
spun the cylinders and heard
the familiar empty click
echo through your ribcage
and now I find you
underground like rainwater
and I tried
this time restless life syndromeyou were a carrier pigeon with a ten pound package
on the third floor balcony of our apartment complex
and I watched you perched on the railing with eyes
like new jersey when you said you
had to go
and I told you
the pavement won't remember your name
and I'll wipe that stupid smirk off your floor
with battery acid deluge in my abdomen
and pulse in my eardrums like cavalry of birds and raindocument 1.
may 17th.
"if this is how it starts
how hard is the rest going to be?"
may 18th passes.  so does june 22nd.
in the time between and
after, I am left only with my birds
and the rain
and it rains all the time.
august 7th.  I can no longer hear
the geiger-counter clicking of the gutters
over the echoes of crows and
car horns, though the mud that
devours my shoelaces each morning
tells me the storm still hits while
I'm asleep.
november 24th and even the pigeons
have gone.  buildings boarded up,
graffiti
all over my car.
nothing shiny left for them
to shit on.
january 6th now--
eight months and several
thousand
broken metaphors later,
the words still flutter cold in
my hands, my fingers
pressing snow angels
into the wings nestled in my
palms.  I caught them
staring at me
with the same wrinkled face the moon wears
at six-thirty in the morning, knowing
that the sun
is coming.

proudeyesneverlie
:thumb292277801::thumb279641022::thumb188280194:

rainonwednesday
fitFit
It was alone—a bird, flashing by the window,
Caught by my eye
Not even a breathe of a second of time.
Was it my miracle?
What a laughable trickle of glory—
As if a great, white bird, barely glimpsed,
Could open up my eyes
Or raise my prone form from my bed
In revelation.
It will take a stronger impetus, I fear, than one single paced piece of winged flurry
To crack my shell and smile
Melt the icy insides.
It's pitiable, I know. But this is post-traumatic stress
And there is no cure—not even the sight of a beautiful, wild bird—
Feral, unfettered—with real wings. Not my miracle, but one unto itself.
He won't cry out for me. That is someone else's job.
As I walk,
Alone in the nighttime, in rain, in wind on my face, in cold,
With wet feet, wet face refusing to look up for a white bird
Flashing against the hazy moon--
I look down.
Don't send me a miracle, and I won't create my own.
I am content in this discontent, taking pleasure in pleasure's absence
Alone at ni For A Genius Dying YoungFor A Genius Dying Young
I have always pointed out
That stars are brightest when they've died
And that the miracle, that we can still see their light
Is precious. A treasure.
You burn, not like a candle, not like a comet,
You burn like a star.
And when your fire ceases
Your light will still go on
Blessing all of us still under the same night sky—
You will be beaming down at us even after we say goodbye.
I will take the end of you
The flutter that will close your eyes
Knowing that everything bright like you
Too quickly and too unfairly
Departs from us and
Dies.
Shining, showing, growing soft
Dimming, but bright enough a torch
To Illume still the glory in the heart of you
And leave a small speck of something
Smoldering, but true—
The incidental fact
That I know
You loved me too.
Blaze, young genius, burn and bedazzle
Burnish brilliance from afar—
Bless us with your radiant star!
Resplendent, you will shame the moon,
And I will grieve you, genius boy—
Wasted
Wrested
Fa Wedding RingWedding Ring
This ring I wear—
On hand, once bare
This symbol that I bear—
Beautiful, like you.
I never wanted diamonds
Eschewing that cold rainbow
I wanted something blue
Sapphires…something that I knew
Diamonds were truly new.
I met you.
Someone stronger,
Sober, loving, true—
There are so few
So few like you.
And what did you think of when you met
And set your eyes on me?
Sharing another drink
Stronger than your tea
And a bond
Breathed in, then yawned
As you brought it from the sink…
We knew we were in sync
I accrued you from beyond—
You, so eager to respond.
This ring I wear
Your ring, there
Upon the hands
Both bare—
Will shine, will gleam
And we will see them and will beam
These rings
This thing
The love of diamonds,
A better dream
So much to us they mean
So much to me you mean
Such power
Such fervor
In such a little thing….
Let the bells of our love ring
Let the gold and diamonds sing
Let the sun glint and bring
So much love
Wrapped up tight

silvicultrix
:thumb306728888::thumb272531606::thumb310424015:

SkysongMA
BraveryOn Saturday the twenty-first of January, Elliot took a gun, pressed it to the strip of bone between his eyes, and shot himself. The bullet shattered the frontal bone of his skull, warping his features past recognition, and burrowed through his pre-frontal cortex into the midbrain. He died before the sound stopped echoing through his empty apartment.
This story isn't about that.
I worked with Elliot for only a little while—less than six months. Most of what I knew about him came from his desk. Unlike the smaller ones the secretaries and other reporters had, it was a stately, imposing thing. It would've been terrifying, especially to a mousy little girl like me, but it was covered in paperweights and spare pens and pictures of people hunting ducks. Anyway, Elliot himself denied fear: he was middle-aged, poised on the cusp between forty and fifty. His hair had already turned grey, but he didn't dye it, like he hadn't noticed he was getting older or just didn't care. He smiled more t What Need Have I of a Husband?The first son of the king was born when the king's three daughters were twelve, eighteen, and twenty, after a long string of miscarriages, childhood illnesses, and general bad luck. He was healthy and smiling, and no one doubted that the king finally had his heir.
The king's first daughter, Penelope, was already married to a leader of an island nation. The king's third daughter, Sibylla, was too young to marry. The middle daughter, Chloe, was just old enough for men to come calling, and call they had, but after a year of her brother's life, she came to her parents with a request.
"Don't make me marry," she said to her father and her mother. "You have my sisters to give you alliances and my brother to take your throne. Don't make me marry."
The king leaned forward in his throne. "Don't you wish to be married, daughter? Who will be by your side when you die?"
Chloe laughed at that, like she laughed at everything. "I'm awfully young to think of dying, Father," she said, bowing her head in

DorianHarper

tonepainter

Mature Content

WhoKilledKirov
good weather for fishing.
He thinks it is good weather for fishing.
The second woman
with old hair and powder made from crushed seashells
sips swamp water from the mouth of the man with a flat Crow nose
                 and he culls her hair with hands, not his alone,
                 turning her neck into a cornstalk leaning,
                 whispering "Bia, Bia".
He tells the other one, in stockings rolled to her ankles,
that the Whip-poor-will was out last night halving babies
from moonstones, into the dirt they come from.
                 And yes, he saw the fox swallowing
                 up the road with scatterpaws,
                 a fishing rod tucked behind his terracotta fur.
A tick to tell time by; that water must be teaming.
The second woman hangs her body in the air
long enough to say "I never trust a man whose mama
didn't teach him the piano."
And what kind of fool, with the pockmark face,
lopes in a room beneath the kitchen floor
building trains no man can sit in,
building engines to run on mice and men.
beyond the wave-break days
I could not stand the pyramid of shoes,
and treated key holes in locked doors
as bone keys on an upright:
       a frantic surprise, a brave horn,
       the whip snap of a mouse trap
when the brass knob turns
my face unfolds.
when they bent my father's head back,
I still remember the laughter as his own,
caught in the air before the spine
struck lightning on sky flesh.
he had held my ear the way they peeled
back his lips to unearth gold,
he had held my ear and spoke
in oily slips of smoke:
"be smaller than dust,
expand in sun, divide self
in cold night,
hold your mother where the breath
passes in chimneys by the heart,
and run within the walls-
they want men, not mice." Love Poem..
last night I made a man
out of pillows and forgotten
fragments of clothes
we'd pushed into my drawers.
I held my pillow-man's hand
and made sure he wasn't too warm
because it is summer;
I'm on the second floor;
and that was always your
biggest complaint.
this morning I tried to shower
but would turn off the water and run
like a soapy dog, complete with
loyal tail wagging, to the door
thinking you'd come knocking.
You hadn't.
tomorrow will taste like
the food of a week ago
and I'll wear sunglasses,
which, if you know me,
(and you do)
will seem out of context
and like a little girl
playing dress up.
I know there are supposed to be
thunderstorms, perfect
radio love songs, movies with Meg
Ryan and wondering when we'll meet
again,
but God
doesn't budge on the details.

worldsendinwhispers

Mature Content

This Article Series Is Inspired By…

An undiscovered gem I found while browsing DeviantART. I took intrigued notice of MonsterBrand’s 25 Deviants You Should Know and thought that would be a brilliant chance to spotlight writers I adore in proper fashion. Of course, I had difficulties keeping the feature limited to only twenty-five writers. I realize there are still a great many deviants who are not on this list, but it is far from complete! I do urge you to take a look and get to know some of these writers listed – as they help to make DeviantART the wonderful literary community that it is – but your journey is far from over.

Yours,
LadyLincoln