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Graduation: A Walk to RememberA platform scaling to new heights.
Waiting an eternity for a beginning.
Her nervous hands grasped white parchment.
My future begins in this moment.
Time is frozen at high speed.
Fin revamped: Once Upon a Time.
Then what is there?Happy. There is happy.
But what is happy?
Happy is all the simple acts we take for granted. Happy is sharing space without the worry or need to fill it with some nonsense noise or action. It's handing over the TV remote because, ugh, they're gonna whine until you do anyway. But you really don't mind because sometimes it's nice not have to think about the TV.
It's going to bed at different times, but no matter what, whoever goes in last checks on the other; just to make sure they're still breathing. It's goofing around and throwing snow balls inside because who in their right mind would go out in the cold to do that.
It's stealing each others' hair products because you're too lazy to run to the store after work, but it's also changing the sheets on the bed and doing the laundry (even though you hate it) because they pulled an all nighter at work and fresh sheets make everyone feel better.
It's a snuggle on the couch after a horrible date and knowing that n
Last WordThe little girl couldn't have been more than six years old when she ran through the old dusty house. It was no longer a home. It's owner deemed incompetent and placed with a relative. Following her mother, the little girl looked around at all the boxes and furniture. Where was it all going to go? Surely there wasn't enough room to move it all to their home. "Momma, where will all of Auntie's things go now?"
A soft smile and caressing hand reached out to stroke the little girl's round face. "I told you. We'll take some and grandma will take some, Anna."
"All of it?"
"No." The sadness was evident in her voice, but the child didn't understand the strain it held. For this wasn't just Auntie's belongings that needed to be packed, but Momma's memories. Memories of summers spent running through the house while being chased by Unca. Memories of card games at the dining table. Horrible stories her brother made u
The Library - Take TwoGreyson's heavy boots echoed as he circled around the room. Aside from his footfalls, the rest of the extravagant home was silent. “This has always been my favorite room.” Sticking out his index finger, he hooked the bindings so carefully placed on the ancient bookcases. “Even as a young child, I loved this room. Uncle Damascus would tell Lydia and I the most adventurous stories in here. Father assured us it wasn't his real name, but still, the only one we ever had for him.”
His grey-blue eyes flickered around the room and took in all the décor. The house had been in the family for centuries. All of the rooms had been redone at some point. Either by a new Mistress that wanted her own tastes instead of the mother before her, or greedy young Masters that needed to show off their money and power. All the rooms but the library. Somehow it always remained safe from the demolition teams. Lu
The Story of Alice - 2Letting the conversation drop, Alice sat in the back of the car quietly watching her parents. It was obvious they were talking about Paddy's death, but they were trying to hide it behind a hypothetical situation. Alice wanted to shout at them. She wanted to tell them to shut up and just stop talking. But she couldn't. It would hurt her father's feelings and that was something she avoided at all costs. Instead, she stared out the window and watched the passing trees, cars and anything else that took her mind away from thoughts of Paddy.
She fought back the tears that had been threatening to fall down her cheeks since she woke at the hospital. There was no way she was going to break down in front of her mother. It just wasn't an option. Alice focused harder on the world outside the window. The world that was torn to shreds and ruined in a single phone call.
“We're almost there.” The voice didn't pu
The Library“This has always been my favorite room.” Greyson's heavy boots echoed as he circled around the room. Aside from his footfalls, the rest of the extravagant home was silent. He gingerly hooked his finger into the bindings on the old books that were so carefully placed on the ancient bookcases, caressing the spine on each one. “Even as a young child, I loved this room. Uncle Damascus would tell Lydia and I the most adventurous stories in here. Father told us not to listen to his tall tales and that Damascus wasn't his real name, but it's the only one we ever had for him. I'm not even sure how he got the nickname.”
His eyes flickered around the room. The dark wood paneling and floor to ceiling bookcases weren't the only attraction. The second floor of the library had ornate stained-glass windows. Each depicting a different vision. Uncle Damascus once told Greyson that each Master of the house designed
edgea bundle of nerves and feelings
a complicated mess you can't help
but want to fix and make beautiful again
heartache surrounds her unfairly
circles her mind and claims her soul
she deserves special attention
a strong spirit, unparalleled
unmatched in beauty or ink
if she only knew how wonderful she is.
Earth Shatteringa cold November day
wind whipping against glass
fire roared, nipped and sparked
friends sitting 'round a table
conversation flitting from one topic to the next
casual glances and friendly touches
laughter fills the vaulted ceilings
in a single moment everything changes
suddenly the fire is too hot
the wind outside is deafening
conversation feels forced and a struggle
laughter isn't easy
eyes avoid each other
hands no longer a casual brush against thigh
in that moment they fell in love with their friendship
and the world will never be the same
SlowSo little left to hold on to
I'm falling deep
But it's calming
And my heart beats slow
I feel my eyes slide shut
And my vision goes black
My senses fade
And I become empty
:: More Than You'll Ever Know ::Does it make you proud
When you're the cause of someone's tears?
Does it bring you joy
Every time you insult the innocent?
Do you know what you do
When you speak with your vicious tongue?
Do you realize what happens
Every time you laugh at another's sorrow?
You see a woman with male friends
And you accuse her of craving sexual attention.
You notice a boy wearing glasses
And you tease him with the name "four-eyes."
There's a group of peace lovers;
You proclaim they're annoying hipsters.
The teenage boys who love each other;
You tear them asunder by calling them abominations.
Do you find pleasure
In being the source of a poor soul's agony?
Do you even think
Of what the consequences could be?
Does it satisfy you
To make someone feel inferior to you?
Does it quench your thirst
Whenever you rule over the oppressed?
If a young man loves writing poetry,
Immediately you dismiss him as a lonely loser.
Rose Scented Ashes III - SchoolFast forward a few years...
Daniel was now about four, five years old, and getting ready for his first day of school, of Kindergarten. His mother had recently suffered another bout of infuriation toward Valance, who had made one remark about "What happens if the other children find out Daniel's partly plant?" Apparently, she had assumed he meant to reveal it to the other kids, and instantly snapped, chucking a vase at his head, and - thankfully - missing.
Suppose she really didn't want me to have any part in his life, Valance thought as he leaned back in the chair at his desk, reading by the sunlight, slate-violet eyes not really seeing the words on the page in front of him. Not beyond giving him a name - which she has probably already claimed as something she thought of anyway. No, not probably, he already knew as much from the whisperings he tuned in on.
As he listened to the tumult outside of his door, of the babysitter attempting to get the rowdy young c
Lit. Daily Pick Volume 2: February 2013At the start of the new year, I promised myself that I would be giving back to the literature community here on deviantArt again like I used to. Before I began university, I was able to help admin groups that featured deviants on a daily or weekly basis, and I missed having the time and opportunity. Now that I've finally graduated, I decided upon a small project that I hope to be able to keep up with: My Lit. Daily Pick Project.
What is my Lit. Daily Pick Project?
Every day, I choose one literature deviation that I had come across in the last day that I found to exceptionally stand out to me. That deviation remains featured on my page for 24 hours in my daily pick folder for any watcher or visitor to see and hopefully view, comment, or fave. At the end of the month, all of the deviations that I chose to feature will then be featured in an art news journal together.
* I do take suggestions for deviations to feature, as well! This month, I had one suggestion from th
Literary Compass - Vol. 13Welcome
If one is looking for Literature, you don't need to go far on deviantART. There is a large community of writers and a plethora of work to peruse. Featuring genres such as fantasy, mystery, horror, and romance, one would be hard-pressed to find an area not covered. However, due to the nature of the site, shorter works tend to get more focus. It's easier to quickly read a poem or a short story, and thus many of the feature articles on dA showcase those works. However, there are many novelists and serial writers among the mix, oftentimes fighting an uphill battle to have their works seen and appreciated.
With that in mind, I have started an article to spotlight some of those artists and their literary-worlds. The works covered in this feature will exclusively be long-form fiction such as novels, trilogies, etc., or fiction serials.
Current Stop - 1866 London
The next stop on our Literary journey is the Victorian-era London and featured in the nove
Light in the Darkness
The books were piled high on the desk, tucked deep in the recesses of the Archive's library. There were no candles allowed this close to such precious works, so the words had to be revealed with a special light. It was a small glass ball, emanating a honeyed glow like that of a candle. Muted, small, and unobtrusive. This light didn't flicker.
One of the students, an Apprentice, dropped another arm-load of books on his desk. The impact sent up a plume of dust that had settled on the shelf nearby. He destroyed the sanctum silence with a fit of coughing. A murmured curse and he claimed a seat, pulling open a weathered book. Strangely, the cover retained some of its former glory. White leather, as supple as the day it was made, had been torn and stained in some places. Still soft but tarnished. Bruised and abused. Like many old tomes, this one had made quite a journey until it was in the care of the Archivists.
This student eyed the cover, then the spine. Another curse. There wa
It had to be real. Had to be. Those awful visions and dreams could never have come from my own imagination. Only a mangled and twisted psychopath could create something so terrible. Yet, there I was, awoken in a sheen of terrified sweat. Alone yet surrounded in my own bedroom. What am I saying? There are no such things as monsters hiding under your bed, I'd been taught that since I was a child. Why was I thinking like a toddler, scared of the boogeyman coming and taking me away? I heard it again. That scratching on the walls, the floor, the ceiling, everywhere. Yes, it was real, I had no doubt. No one believed me. I tried to tell my parents, but they just shook their heads like they always did. No help there. These dreams had haunted me for months, filled with scenes of fire, gore, and torture. Sometimes me and sometimes others, unnamed sinners whose screams were heard only by me and their tormentors. When it was me, the pain was real, unimaginable and maddening. But sometimes, watchin
Never Going Back.Little boy, little boy.
Won't you come here.
Little boy, little boy.
Won't you stay here.
He cries in the dark.
Stands strong in the world.
Fears that old monster.
Slowly learns to push back.
Young man, young man.
Won't you come back.
Young man, young man.
Won't you ever return.
He catches the strap.
Shatters the firewater.
Sheds not a tear.
Old man, old man.
Won't you help them.
Old man, old man.
Will you ever go back?
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
Keep in Touch!
Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More