Submerged in Swan Lake
Swans and wings are floating by
on a breeze imbued with jasmine and
willows outstretching their arms in welcome.
Through deep breaths he arrives
plunged in murky, pungent water.
A quiet whisper, and he prays -
"Please... may I linger here?"
Willows lower their arms
and jasmine falls to the Earth
where the wind dies and finally rests.
The crows are cawing hymns,
begging to be swans.
But only the duck submerged in Swan Lake
has delved the desired shore.
Its waters dangerous and plagued
by monsters baring their teeth;
most ghastly and putrid they are
that no crow may ripple its surface
nor any songbird seeking beauty fair.
The Swan Maidens bare their chests
and open their wings in veneration -
for the duck has sought beauty through courage
and earned his guise of grace and virtue.
"You girls need a ride?"
October looked up, letting her eyes stray from the gravel beneath her feet. She had been walking along the highway for so long she had started counting her steps to pass the time, hoping that when she finally looked up she would see civilization. Abigail ran to the truck driver's passenger door, haphazardly pushing past October as if she had never ridden in a vehicle before.
October glared at the driver's soiled clothes, greasy hair, and crooked teeth. She imagined his smell which made her gag uncontrollably. It was as if his unkemptness was setting off red flags in her head: "Never talk to strangers. And never accept rides from hillbilly truck drivers in the middle of nowhere."
"Where are you headed?" Abigail questioned playfully. Even though she was a few years older than October, it seemed to make her more reckless than wise. Before the driver had the chance to wheeze whatever location in Kansas he was headed to, October yanked the sultry temptress to
What sort of pieces of your work can someone expect to find in your Gallery?
I have an unusual fascination that borders on obsession for horror & mythology. These two topics often times find themselves blending into the best sorts of stories in my gallery called THRILLERS. From a dark romance about a cat who isn't what he appears to be in Love Me Dead, to a gruesome slasher about a murderous doctor who does the wrong thing for the right reasons in The Doctor's In; my writing is normally chalk FULL of surprises.
How long have you been writing? Have you always known you’d like to be a writer?
I have no idea how old I was when I realized I wanted to write. If that tells you anything... I was too young to remember. I fragmentally recall having a strange dream about a male deer looking for his sister in a forest full of dragons & other mythical creatures. The next day I wrote a "book" called Woodland about the same dream. I was young.
Almost nine years later my subject matter has matured and my vocabulary has grown tremendously. I wouldn't say I'm any more creative; but consider my newest rendition of that 9 year-old story, Woodland... & see what you think of the changes.
I will say this of that story; ever since that fateful morning when I should have been sleeping for school... & I put pen to paper with the intent of writing a "book" for the first time...
- I haven't been able to stop.
Where do you find your inspiration to write? Are there any deviants in particular who you find inspiring?
This might be... unusual... but you asked!
The way I find inspiration? Through research. When I get really into an idea... whether I'm inspired by a contest, or NaNoWriMo... or both together! For instance: during NaNoWriMo I decided to write a novel called Drowning Sirens about... you guessed it! A siren.
While I was researching the mythology behind sirens, I discovered many fascinating races related to mer-culture. Harpies, fae, nymphs, etc. But there was a certain race that stuck in my mind; the HULDRA. I could not get their tales out of my head. When it came time to write an autumn-themed poem for one of my group's contests... I took the oppurtunity to nurse that fascination. Thus, The Mating Season was born. And the best part was? I didn't have to research it to get the mythology right.
I will say that there are TWO visual artists here on DA who have inspired me to write on several occassions. One is an amazing digital artist who impressed me with her own research into mythology; PiccolaRia. And the other blew me away with traditional pieces featuring her rendition of mythology; SylwiaTelari. Here are my favorite pieces from their galleries:
What do you find difficult about being a writer? What do you find rewarding about being a writer?
Being a writer only becomes difficult when I CAN'T WRITE! When I can't sit down and put ideas to paper... and/or computer screen. When I suffer from that horrible condition called HeWhoShallNotBeNamed. <s>Writer's block</s>. It is at times like these when I fear I'll never be successful in writing.
... but it's always darkest before the dawn.
All of these negative thoughts are instantly cured when someone takes the time to not only read my work but point out my strong points. I'll admit that negative critiscm doesn't exactly cheer me up, but even just one little compliment laced with critique will remind me that... "Hey, you were the English teacher's pet for a reason!"
What are some of your favorite pieces done by other artists here on deviantArt?
A few of my favorites from my Inspiring Collection:Broken in the Snow"I'm gonna go home before it gets dark," Liboria said.
"Lib, you promised," he whined.
"Yeah, whatever. Just wait a sec," she said, grasping for a good place to pull herself up.
The barren branches clawed at her as she climbed to the top of the tree. Liboria's heavy boots made the bark crumble, revealing a cream color wood that was smooth and slick. Crows cawed out to the gray sky, which only replied with their echo. It was getting late.
There was a boy sitting in the snow below. His blue lips quivered. He stuffed his pink, frigid fingers into his coat pocket and winced in pain. His nose was redder than his cheeks.
"My hands hurt." Amos shivered.
"I don't see you helping," she snapped.
"But you did it!" Amos yelled.
Liboria growled as she lifted her body to the next branch. Her orange hair whipped around in wind like active flames. Her eyes, like a hawk's, fixed on the lime color kite as if it were her prey. She straddled the branch and stretched her arms as far as possible. The kite wA Sonnet for the AgesNow here's a tale of a man named Macbeth
A man who fell as he rose to his goal
Listened to prophecy's laden with death
His mind twisted; thoughts not his to control.
Who killed his friend and king without regret
Playing the fool amongst the fools with fear
Letting noble brothers worry and fret
Crowning himself to start his new career.
A man afraid of those who could contest
His closest friend he did kill with stained men
A new prophecy held him high with zest
Leaving himself open in his own den.
Fighting the man forgotten without dread
Only to end up without his dear head.
The WizardFace hidden by his cowl,
An aged wizard shuts his book,
Watched only by his owl.
A tall, grey, wizened fowl,
He's caught in her unblinking look,
Face hidden by his cowl.
His bones creak, groan and growl,
As up he stands, with hand on crook,
Watched only by his owl.
He hears the cold wind's howl,
The squawks of the portending rook,
Face hidden by his cowl.
That hood conceals a scowl.
He lifts a locket from its hook,
Watched only by his owl.
Through dark night he does prowl,
A spell locked in that charm he took,
Face hidden by his cowl,
Watched only by his owl.
RemnantWashed up a remnant,
a relic of abandoned epochs,
she inhales her first breath in an aeon.
Air thick with soot,
pungent with poison,
sinuous hands fly to her throat
as she sputters a curse
in a language long forgotten.
Beneath the slick surface of her murky realm
lost, she wandered on,
searched through centuries for a land
half-remembered in dreams.
Time and toxins took their toll
and when she arose from the depths
her scales shone bright with mercury,
glinting silver in the moonlight.
With trembling fingers
she combs starlight from her tresses,
brushes moonbeams from her curves,
counting lesions to her body,
carved by knowledge, knives
or nothing. She no longer knows.
She shivers in the shadow of
their quivering reflections rippling
across the magic mirror
from which she surfaced.
In the dark their glass eyes gleam,
a thousand starry-eyed monstrosities,
rake their gaze across her form.
She clings to the shoreline,
jagged rocks and filthy sand.
AnotheThe Phantom TrainMartha stands nervously among the throng of onlookers, and does her best to keep her eyes pointed at her feet. Everyone is there for the same reason, but she doesn't want to have a feeling of comradeship, and she doesn't want to see anyone she knows. She comes to this place every year for one reason, much the same reason as the crowd around her, but it's not these kind of moments that make people bond. There is only a sadness here, and try as she might she can't become excited. No one has forced her to stand at the edge of the tracks, but she does it anyway. It's a sort of perverse will, she knows she couldn't stop coming even if she wanted to.
While fidgeting nervously with the frayed straps of her handbag, she overhears two men next to her speaking in low tones. Stealing a nervous glance at them, she sees that they are two of the porters, speaking to each other about the coming train. One of them is platinum-haired and wise, the other has the face of a child.
"Why do you keep looking
What do you like to read? Do you enjoy reading the same type of work as you write or different types of literature?
I have an eclectic taste - but mostly I read young adult fiction and classics. Unusually enough, I write mostly horror - but read a lot of fantasy and some thrillers. For instance my favorite book of all time is And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie. Favorite writer? Vivian Vande Velde of Heir Apparant, Dragon's Bait, etc. I wouldn't relate any of my work to theirs.
What made you wish to join Love-Literature? What aspects of the group do you enjoy the most?
When I browse through DeviantArt I am seeking support and critiscm on my work. I come to this site every day because I want a little feedback and sometimes a little inspiration. If any group provides that, it's Love-Literature and it's founder, AimeeRaindrop. I mean... look what's happening right now! You're learning information about writing because they took the time to set up an interview!
Bunch of badasses.