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.
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.
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],"
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
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.
The Knowledge of Ignorance by iridiana, literature
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
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
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.
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.
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],"
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
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
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.
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.
The Problem With Mary Sue by PoesDaughter, literature
Literature
The Problem With Mary Sue
I think with any characterization there’s a point where you empathize, no matter how much of a deviance his or her actions may be from your understanding of humanity.
~Benedict Cumberbatch
Today, sports fans, I’d like to talk about a subject that is long overdue: the Mary Sue (or the male equivalent, Gary Stu). But before I can talk about her, I think I should define what I think she is. This is important because the webs are teeming with varying definitions, and my idea of what she is may not jive with other people’s; the definition I see most often calls to mind Mary Poppins – practically perfect in
I had a stalker.
I didn't know his name but I'm sure he knew mine.
I called him Charlie.
He always had a camera hanging from his twig thick neck and he cradled it in his hands; a wispy finger stroking the shutter release. His dark brown hair was a curly mess and his shirts wrinkly and thin. He had the most perfect eyebrows, sweeping and gentle. He must have the most captivating eyes, I thought every time he'd glance my way. We'd never made eye contact. Charlie preferred it that way.
He came into the bookstore once a week, not to watch me leaf through the used books or reach high to shelve the approved ones, but to actually browse them. He
The wet roads are my urban ocean.
Some men see God in the break of foam--
I see God in the freeway.
I see God in the spray off the backs of eighteen-wheelers hauling consumer garbage to southern Maine
as I walk along the side with my boots soaked from puddles.
The sea reflects the sky and Route 2 reflects the sky
and the waves go shush, shush, and the cars go shush, shush
and the clouds roll over,
the clouds roll over.
The wet roads are my urban ocean.
Fantastic Feature Tuesday #21 by forestmeetwildfire, journal
Fantastic Feature Tuesday #21
This is a weekly feature of amazing literature that I come by during my
travels across deviantART. This is only a small sample of a vast amount
of wonderful pieces of literature written by absolutely fantastic
writers. Each deviation was carefully selected from a writer's gallery
based on structure, impact and word usage. I will never feature the
same person twice, so check out these wonderful writers now while you can!
Please :+fav: this news article so it will reach a larger audience!
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:thumb315162883: :thumb262550607: :thumb329110813:
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Daily Literature Deviations for October 2nd, 2012 by DailyLitDeviations, journal
Daily Literature Deviations for October 2nd, 2012
Guidelines | How to Suggest a DLD | Group Administrators | Affiliation | Chatroom | Current Staff Openings
Daily Lit Deviations for October 2nd, 2012
We are proud to feature today's Daily Literature Deviations!
You can show your support by :+favlove:ing this News Article.
Please comment and :+fav: the features and congratulate the artists!
:pointr: For all of the featured artists: If you receive a DD for one
of your pieces featured by DLD please note LiliWrites (https://www.deviantart.com/liliwrites).
We will include you and your piece in a special recognition news article. :pointl:
Poetry
Featured by LiliWrites (https://www.deviantart.com/liliwrites)
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an orbit of sorts by :devin