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About Literature / Student M. Bird28/Female/United Kingdom Recent Activity
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Literature
Beyond the Mist
Beyond the windows, tendrils of mist coiled, clinging to the still air. For the first time in weeks, she was glad of it. Glad of the mist that surrounded the house, surrounded her. She could not see beyond the mist.
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Literature
Moonlight
I did not expect to find you here, beneath the women blooming in the moonlight - breathing in the story of their scars.
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Literature
Published Fiction
Here is what I disliked about the place: it was efficient. Efficiency hung in the air and clung to the ties and blouses and pressed skirts and trousers of those around me. Clung like the scent of disinfectant; like industrial bleach, bleeding out the money in my words. I twisted, inwardly. This was not the place to bring my prose.
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Literature
T936126/JR
We're laid out on the porch, breathing in cool air and watching the sky slowly drown in its own fire. There's a silence between us, but somehow it feels different: sticky and caught up, like the words in her throat. She's been running over the creases of the paper in her hands as though in prayer, folding and unfolding, but never quite finding the courage to lay the whole thing bare between us. It ain't like one of those trashy bits of paper spiralling on the breath of the wind. No. This one's different. I get the sense that even if we tossed it, it'd be way too heavy to travel further than the spaces between our ribs.
"Dear Mrs. [surname],"
Ain't even kidding. That's how this chapter of her life begun. No Mrs. Scott, No Mrs. This-or-that. Simply, Mrs. [surname]. She bore the law her memories, her heart: heck, a truckload of courage, at that. The system took it in, chewed it up, and decided from hence onwards, she was Mrs. [surname]. Risk versus reward. Money in, m
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Literature
No Words
We felt our way through the darkness and let the silence breathe between us.
There were no words for what we had done.
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Literature
Icarus
I honestly thought you were going to kiss me, as we nestled together: the fire of building 32 engulfing the brickwork across the street - black smoke billowing into the empty sky. It was November, and there was a harsh chill to the air, despite the brightness and clarity of the day. The flames had blossomed during lunchtime, flourishing like the deadly, exotic bloom of a foreign flower. Winter had settled into the bones of the street long ago; all the other greenery falling into quiet senescence. The naked flames drew us to the window where we huddled together, entranced by the undulating striptease before us.
You were six years younger than me, though there was a seriousness and maturity in you that levelled the ground beneath us, our words and thoughts drawing us together near-seamlessly. We answered each other's questions with natural ease; completed one another's sentences. We hugged, we pecked one another's cheeks, we clutched at each other's arms - but never held hands.
The fire
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Mature content
Speech Marks :iconiridiana:iridiana 5 6
Literature
PT(SD)
Memoirs stir - blossoming
incandescent, beyond the
numbing breath of winter's fall.
Dazzling, darkness cannot hide it:
Tender morsels of atrocity
Held between your fists,
Edging, sideways, into her mind.
Growing high, wild, tangible - nestled
against the expedition of happiness.
Pavlov's broken echo, resounding.
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Literature
The Knowledge of Ignorance
Bent beneath the glow of hollowed lamplight, curled within the belly of science, I ate and slept and lived; roamed pathology books for your monster – pen poised, a sword. Snuck molecular structures, ripe with their knowledge, like thin, fragile veins of fruit from Eden's branches. Reality is difficult to chew and harder still to swallow, but I searched for you – I searched, I searched. Each diagram a struggle to digest, concepts sticking to my teeth.
Pages of medical books peeled into my mind like paper leaves, lining the walls and floors of this labyrinth. Days fell from the calendar and the sky siphoned into memory, unnoticed.
I was looking for the knowledge that would have saved you.
I found only the ignorance that destroyed you.
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Literature
Echoes
Here is what I have learnt:
pressed against the cavern of the right ventricle
and scrawled beneath the pulmonary artery
impressed upon the atria, and
entwined between the chordae tendineae
are imprints of you.
Here is what I have learnt:
buried like treasures, amongst myelinated neurones
flowing like ribbons of sound and colour from the hippocampus
peering just beneath the surface of consciousness, and
into the vast prism of my dreams
are ghosts of you.
Here is what I have learnt:
carved into every muscle and engraved into
every bone, etched below the dermis
into an empty, fingerless hand and
forever to the inside of my eyes
are shades of you.
Here is what I have learnt:
I can trace bones in an anatomy book
and scrutinize every cell of every tissue of every organ
and though in every breath, and every heartbeat, and every moment
you are there
you are gone.
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Literature
Reflections I
Save the expression for a prism,
a lonely, vibrant cage in which
violets bloom but are not seen.
Every touch a mystery, unfelt.
Moonlight, kiss the breast of
empty mirrors. Reflect thyself.
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Mature content
The Night Before Christmas :iconiridiana:iridiana 1 2
Literature
Fiction Saved Her
Folded in that world beneath the
illness of a lightbulb sun, hands
clammy, body blazing, limbs shivering
together in disharmony. No one laughs
in this ward. The medicine is oozing, an
ominous black liquid, sticky and revolting.
Nauseous, she turns, she turns.
Soundlessly, the words take her. Sweet,
alluring songstress of the sea, or cunning
vampire of the night. It doesn't matter.
Every other has a problem, a daunting
dilemma to dissolve. But her?
Here, observer only. Safe and free, and
everlastingly painless. Every page a
Revolution. Panacea, for the soul.
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Mature content
White Christmas :iconiridiana:iridiana 2 8
Literature
No Writer, No
Where do the borders between
your fiction and my reality
meet, end, collide?
I'm not a character,
and this? Not a book you can
label, and chapter, and mark.
If my arms are pages, do you
expect me, truly, to carry the
burden of your bookmark?
What we had is not something
you can return to, when you please.
But I? I am not something you can
simply shut away, imprisoned by your words
and the stack of pages you already
heaped against me.
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Literature
That Girl
You're an exclamation mark.
violet lips, scarlet hair.
Black leather, and ivory lace.
To your skin, ink butterflies
and carved moths, to your flame.
You're an exclamation mark.
words that strike to kill
punctuated by a silence as toxic
as your eyes, so fierce.
What's feeding you?
What's eating you?
You're an exclamation mark,
a question mark.
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Random Favourites

Literature
To Stand in His Shoes
I stood beside him, in his shoes
And saw by how much I had to grow
Before I could be as tall as him
Before my tiny feet
Could fill his gigantic shoes
I stand in them again now
Still they are far too big for me
And, as I attempt to get a sense
of their space, I know
I still have a fair way ahead.
I hold out my hands, and see
his fingers, stretched out
in front of me;
My face,
my reflection is that
of his–
and, all at once,
with a calming sense of finality,
it hits me–
I feel the familiar tug
of that invisible strand
from my ribcage–
and I know the way ahead
for the path has been trodden
by someone to have come before...
He is who I am.
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Literature
Bonfire Spirit
By the fireflies,
We light the sky.
With broken constelations,
We drown out the cold night.
On their tiny fire wings
They dance.
(Not as well as you and I
But they still try.)
And we sit,
Because as a family,
We always stand,
By warm firelight,
Made by dancing fireflies.
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Literature
our hands
As I take your hand in mine for perhaps the last time, we begin a journey. A journey not forward, but a journey back, back in time, back in us.  I close my eyes and flutter my fingers, your hands can tell our story, word by word, moment by moment.
I brush my fingers along your bruised knuckles hoping to soothe the pain I have caused.  I remember that night when you kept banging on my door, all recorded in tender purple and aged yellow. We have come so far down this road, only to hit yet another wall. Your fists battered it down once again but this isn't the last.  How many more can your hands withstand?
Your nails are bitten to the point where they can't grow anymore; every new millimeter is attacked by your anxious teeth, desperate for all these attempts to end. Is that us? The ragged edges remind me of all the things we have gone through, each time getting back on our feet. With my hands shaking cold, I trace the uneven bumps. Of course this has been a r
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Literature
Identity problem.
I'm a girl, an average girl.
I look at other girls, analyze their potential, whether they are cute or not and I sometimes wonder if their boobs are natural or man-made. But that's what girls do, right? We criticize each other.
I'm just another girl.
I sometimes have problems with my body and how I look, problems with my reflection in the mirror. So I seek baggy clothes, to hide myself. Yet in this culture only guys are allowed to use baggy clothes, so I have to buy in the man's section, because their clothes are cuter and softer and I feel more comfortable in them. But that's something I can't help, right?
I'm… what am I?
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:iconflorchys103:florchys103 134 349
Literature
Adele
i.
I sat in the back yard on my 13th birthday and stared off in to the distance. For some reason, my mother got me a clown even though I had received my first period three days before; how childish, I thought, as I tried to hold my lemonade in the same manner somebody from New York would hold their iced tea. I wanted to feel sophisticated, though I still broke the pinata with everybody else, scrambling to pick up the candy which fell from the boughs of the apple tree, wishing I had tape on my hands so I would get the most with the least effort. A metaphor for life.
ii.
When I hit thirty, my lower back would ache from the pressure of work and I would resort to sipping wine at various small town tasting sessions, even though I hated the taste. I would mingle, hob-knob, whatever it took to get that last decisive drop from the glass on to my tongue. My cats would wait for me at home, curled up around the radiator with fuzzy stomachs waiting to be rubbed (or fed). No children, no com
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Literature
Inanimate objects
There was a time,
that I wished that I could touch you
if only I could reach out
across the void of time and space
and embrace you
or just look into your eyes
then I could survive the torture
of our love
the torture of loving
one so far away
yet still so close
that I could feel your presence
as the warmth of the sun
I could smell you
as each breath was drawn into my lungs
I could taste you
as the air moved across my tongue.
You were with me in spirit
As I also stood by you
our hearts touching
our souls uniting
how I longed for you
as I cried silent tears
wondering if I will ever quench my desire
my desire to see you, touch you, feel you...
I thought I would die from the torture of our love
How envious I was of the towel
that you reached for after your shower.
How tormented I was,
wishing I were
the inanimate objects of your daily life...
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Literature
For Lucy
who says dirty can't be beautiful
who says steel toes
and coveralls
dust for mascara
ringed fingernails
should be scrubbed off in full
who says lovely can't be strong
and thongs and smokey eyes
and heels to the sky
and skirts just shy
of the top of my thigh
mean that I belong to you
I dare you to find something
I can't do in my short little skirt
some days I am spattered in mud
and my face is red
from the wind and
some days I am polished up
like a lacquered painting
and some days I just am
I dare you to find something
I can't do in my short little skirt
I don't care if my boots smell like ----
'cause this ---- is what I love
and if you don't love me when I'm dirty
you don't know me when I'm beautiful
I dare you to find something
I can't do in my short little skirt
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Literature
Dialogue With The Stars
I open the conversation by introducing black holes.
It's a dark appetizer; as appealing to the stomach
as cold soup or three-day old stale garlic bread
offered alongside lukewarm butter that no longer
melts at the touch of a hot knife.
But I asked about vortexes; the insurmountable
fortitude of an all-consuming behemoth.
The stars blinked back at me; mischievous in
their midnight black canopy, glitteringly cheery
and always ambiguous.
I moved past the starters and entered the salads;
discussed the chilly prospect of an inevitable
Armageddon ending all life on the blue planet.
Ravenous firestorms eating away the mountains
- vaporizing every droplet of water
- chewing away each tree of every forest
and I asked why employ such devastation on
something that has required the precision
that mathematics cannot prove
that statistics cannot consider
that science can only acknowledge.
The stars made no detectable movement.
Then the gentle clatter of knife and fork
and the watery crisp of freshly
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Literature
So We Can Be Children
Come sit, talk for a while
We can tell stories, share jokes
Just to see you smile
Take my hand and I'll lead you away
So we can be children
And play all the day
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Literature
Wrapping in China Town
Smearing a filthy pleasure
with duck sauce
you apologise for
the presentation shows
the lack of   change
in your pocket
I've added some jingle
to your wrap, sir
You're Mr synical, but
I don't want to forget you
We'll busk the duck rap
in central china town
the coins will roll in
like you on Sunday mornin'
Don't spend them
      all at once
they'll become like me,
a memory in your pocket.
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Literature
Something Broke
Something broke
in the kitchen
and all we could do
was stand
and take in the silence
as the pieces lay strewn
scattered
across the kitchen tiles
for all to see.
And so we set about
sweeping up the pieces
removing them from sight
carrying on
as though
it'd never happened,
that nothing had broken
though the fact remained-
there were the pieces;
no amount of glue
could ever
piece them together.
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Literature
Espaciate
Test tubes of You
swilling in pottery barn,
texture of processed ewe
a barbed gungy yarn
In a queue of bleeting cusions
prancing with the plushies
Every thought detrimental
between bricks, a grappling paste
all the condiments experimental
wretching at the caking taste
As thin through as moonshine
steaks grinding your cracked spine
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Literature
Weathered Phoenix
Sweet, sweet songbird,
Sing to me your winter's song;
Though your soul may be freezing,
Do not give in to the cruel frost.
Allow the music to fill you up,
Warming your feather tips,
So you may fly free again
With spring's step in your wings.
All through summer, soar and sing,
Bear no shame in your identity
Or your free, natural, wild call;
Songbird, soar among summer's trees.
And once autumn returns,
With dying leaves and colder skies,
Hold fast to the warm summer breeze
That whispers songs in your ear.
Sweet, sweet songbird,
Sing the song unashamed.
Though your soul may be freezing,
You are a phoenix, warm and strong.
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Mature content
Devotion :icondarknessinromance:DarknessInRomance 2 14

Activity


Beyond the windows, tendrils of mist coiled, clinging to the still air. For the first time in weeks, she was glad of it. Glad of the mist that surrounded the house, surrounded her. She could not see beyond the mist.

deviantID

iridiana
M. Bird
Artist | Student | Literature
United Kingdom
I sometimes have the urge to just write, and write, and write. No promises on it being good writing, but hey.

I welcome all forms of critique. Whatever you feel, I'd love to hear your comments.

Comments


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:iconpoesdaughter:
PoesDaughter Featured By Owner Apr 25, 2015  Professional Writer
Thank you for the :+fav: :D I appreciate it! 
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:iconpoesdaughter:
PoesDaughter Featured By Owner Apr 28, 2015  Professional Writer
Also, thank you for the :+devwatch: I appreciate it! :hug:
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:iconoviedomedina:
oviedomedina Featured By Owner Sep 23, 2014
Happy birthday!
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:iconcality:
cality Featured By Owner Sep 23, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday! I hope you're doing well. :aww: :hug:
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:iconiridiana:
iridiana Featured By Owner Apr 21, 2015  Student Writer
Rather late, but thank you! How are you doing? :)
Reply
:iconcality:
cality Featured By Owner Apr 26, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Haha, you're welcome!

I'm good, thanks. How are you? :la:
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:iconpoetshand:
PoetsHand Featured By Owner Sep 23, 2013
Happy birthday!
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:iconcality:
cality Featured By Owner Sep 23, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday! :glomp:
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:icon0hgravity:
0hgravity Featured By Owner Apr 13, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
thank you for the fav on "Charlie" ^^

(sorry for the late reply!)
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:iconiridiana:
iridiana Featured By Owner Apr 14, 2013  Student Writer
You're most welcome! I really enjoyed the story! You've got a way with words :)
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