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 the lovely ErinM31 (thank you!). If you have a deviation that you love and want to share, feel free to send me a note entitled "Lit. Daily Pick Suggestion". I'd be happy to read and consider it. Note: A deviant may only be featured once a month to make it fair and give others a chance to be featured.
And now, here is my collection of literature picks from this month in order of their date of feature. Be sure to check them out:
January 2013 Lit. Daily Picks The Doctors In"He's probably dead," Roger exclaimed as the two kittens giggled mischievously behind him.:thumb344916029:
Krystal and Amanda had arrived at Coleman Park appropriately attired for the evening. Their previously decided-upon costumes seemed much sexier in person than when Roger was helping them choose outfits at Wal-Mart. Being the edgy person that he was, he had politely declined their offer of buying a disguise for him. He had never celebrated the holiday, and instead purchased a t-shirt that furthered his rebelliousness with bright yellow text that read, 'I don't do costumes.'
His head down and his hands in his pockets, he paced himself up the paved hill that lead to the local, haunted legend. Krystal swung her faux tail playfully and adjusted the large black ears that wouldn't stay in her curly hair despite the obscene amounts of hairspray she had employed. Amanda clicked her heels across the ground. She sprinted in front of Roger and slowed to a smooth strut seemingly fo
The Page of Promise: A Winter Solstice TaleIn the depths of a night that's about to begin
with the feeling of snow as it melts on your skin
and it covers the land with a dream so intense
that it returns us all to a child's innocence
And then what you'd thought lost and could never retrieve
is suddenly there to be found on Christmas Eve
-Trans-Siberian Orchestra
The sound of her boots breaking the snow is delicate and light, like meditated, unhurried piano notes. She walks gracefully between the pine trunks, their needles making a cover for falling snow above her head. Her face, a frozen petal of porcelain, eyes of crystalline frost, is framed by the hood of her white, fur-lined mantle. The air is still, the cold a pleasant hindrance, as Lumi is able to wander gloveless, touching each gigantic pine in thought. Each tree speaks to her in a unique way, telling of the earth and the sky, of what speaks the wind, what whisper the animals nuzzled against their roots, or perched among their branches. She hangs, on all of them a
A Victorian ThrillerAnne and Mary were adopted by Mr Wilder shortly after he had fallen under the horse of a beauteous lady and lost his eyesight. Mary did not suit his crumbling old mansion. Slim, white-skinned and fair-haired, she looked like a frightened ghost standing against the black stone walls. Anne, on the other hand, seemed to fit in with the bricks themselves, being so small and square and dark.
'I shall go mad here!' said Mary, across the rickety oak table at which she and Anne ate their supper. 'I preferred the orphanage.'
'Mary,' said Anne, 'the orphanage was terrible. You can't want to go back to the gruel, and the cold, and that Mr Ebenezer taking away everything to pay for the rent.'
'Well.' Mary looked at the window, staring out over the dense canopy of trees that disappeared into the distance. 'Perhaps I don't, but I know there are better places than this.'
The girls heard whinnying and clattering hooves in the
...The moon paints a picture of a world fast asleep,:thumb330368151:
Where all actions lack reason for this reason does keep
A great deal of secrecy…
Now why, you might ask me, is this world such a mess?
Is it floating or lurking in the thoughts I supress,
Thoughts that no one here should know?
And I think of it all as I roam through the night
For the moon shines upon me with a taunting red light
That only few can see…
And this light is the symbol of enigmas forgotten
By those that now live here, whose hearts are now rotten
To the very core…
But this light, oh, this light, it still burns in my eye
And I wish I could take it down from the sky
With a most daring plan…
I shall climb upon mountains that rise to the moon,
And bring down that light, I shall bring it down soon
For sooner is better…
Now I climb to the top with the skills that I've mastered
And I soon shall release myself from this bastard
With it's most taunting light…
But now, as I'm climbing, that red light is blinding
And the paths keep on wi
The PoetThe Poet:
He smiles as he sees her sleeping
& gently covers her with a blanket.
He goes to the window and looks out
watching snow fall, ever so slowly...
He sees people in the streets,
Chatting, walking. Some happy,
Others sad. Hearts beating,
Hearts broken; some warm, some cold.
He looks back at her, as she stirs in bed.
A yawn from her, brings another smile to him:
"How cute," he chuckles as he strokes her head.
He runs his fingers through her hair and is content.
Yet, even if he is happy here, again -
He is drawn to that window and finds himself
Staring out at the street and watching;
Marveling at the disparity and wondering -
Isn't there something that I can do?
Isn't there a better way for us all?
He looks back at her, sleeping peacefully;
He thinks about the future and sighs.
He wants a better world for her,
One where she would always be safe,
But unfortunately, he has no power.
He is just one man with little to his name.
He picks up a piece of paper, one found lyin
Mature Content
A Sea of Memories and DeathHis pale tender flesh
Was salted by the ocean waves
That thrashed and beat the whispering sands
Along the shore of a memory
Erasing the footprints in the moist ground
The evidence of a childhood
Damned and broken the childhood was
Like his soul a stained-glass blue
The sky was wounded, pierced and scarred
Similar to a soldier that marched on and on
For decades, dedicated yet stubborn
And the yellow sand seemed to darken
Whispers echoed into screams
He pulled on his hair and screeched
In pain of the tears like acid
Scorching his eyes and mask
With that it cracked
The facade he held up with his broken bones
And trembling limbs
The sign that screamed: "I am normal!"
With that he broke and choked and drowned
Under the muddy water of the past
The things that once were concrete
Moments away from his grasp
Like an infant he grabs at it
Opening his hands in rhythm with the rain beating down
Closing them with disappointment
Crying out with his own curiosity
Yearning
NativesDozens of pairs of eyes peered through the thick vegetation.
He couldn’t see them, but he knew they were there. They were always there, one step ahead. No matter what the military did, no matter how secretive their plans, no matter how sophisticated their maneuvers, no matter how hard they fought, the natives were always there. Always there with their guerilla warfare in the form of machetes and arrows and bombs made with all-natural ingredients. Always watching, always ready.
He glanced away from the bushes at the edge of the clearing and tried to focus on the plan his commanding officer was outlining to his squad. But just as in real life, the natives were always there, in the back of his mind, ready to give him a mental working over. They were like bloody ghosts sometimes, ambushing the military camps in the middle of the night, screeching and howling like wild banshees. No matter what precautions the officers took, they lost men in every encounter with the natives. Some soldi
To Paint the MoonAnd now the days all stand still,
like trees after the wind of a violent storm
falls and dies.
A silent prayer hangs in the air
waiting
to be snatched up by some forgiving god.
Under the dark of the night sky,
no one is able to hear the strangled cry
of the unwilling sacrifice.
Her blood became
the color of your ink.
FictionToxic droplets of poison fall
Upon the torn and bloodstained pages
Into his dreamworld he'll slowly crawl
Where sickness fails and no one ages.
A prince of his pride and fiction
He longs to find her there
A victim of his long addiction
He sees in time that none are spared.
Sweet Helena hear his song
In reality or dream
Wake him from the sleep so long
And show him what love really means.
A HauntingSeveral years ago,
I held you close, protected
but you were so forbidden
and my actions were expected
I told you many things,
I should not have told,
and now years later, you return
and those feelings are not cold
I know that it is foolish,
and that we could never be
but please, just hear me out
you could have fun with me.
Your insanity,
your madness,
your SCREAMING,
your gladness
I share it all,
and I am surprised
But I know it could never work
so I shall remember the night
I held you tight
and wished away your pain,
on the highway,
as the world screamed by.
Daffodils
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils.
A solitary path I claimed
In seeking shelter from the crowd;
And lo, when all deserted me,
I wandered lonely as a cloud
I sought the green and grassy knolls
Between the rustic barns and mills,
And spied the new winged, dappled lark
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
The silent majesty of thoughts
Was broken as I dreamed aloud.
I was wrested from my reverie
When all at once I saw a crowd
This treasure grows and rests upon
the fertile soil where river spills
I'll rest my weary bones within
A host of golden daffodils.
relearning i. stardust scatters with the:thumb333525751:
direction of my pupils –
maybe secretly i am an
astrology teacher, waiting
for a sign to wink
happily at me.
ii. excuse the rambling
nature of forgotten question
marks, but tell me:
would you like to be the
object of handwritten clichés
would you like to whisper
secrets in my palm
and would you
like to be the possibility
iii. air brushes against my
skin like the torn petals
of a flower still standing.
[ hold your head up high, honey,
and tell tomorrow to wait just
a while,
iv. so you can figure out
the difference between
patience and having all the
time in the world. ]
v. stardust glitters from the
creases of my hands.
perhaps i am not the teacher
but the pupil,
relearning how brilliant
stars can shine.
Fractured FairytaleOnce upon a time there was a girl that had it all
With eyes like shining beacons and her body mystical
She walked along a sacred path devoted to the light
Her spoken words and actions served a purely humble plight
But hunger came and wrecked her soul, it disemboweled her
A hunger so relentless that the path became a blur
Her body craving power while her soul still struggled back
Alas, it lost the fight and now her heart was turning black
Day by day and night by night the girl was further gone
Malicious hands and viscious tongue, her morals long foregone
She now had fame and power, so why would she want more?
With record deals and perfect hair, fans knocking down her door
But one day she awoke and heard a whisper in her ear
“This isn't you, you aren't like this, come back to me my dear”
She sat upright and clutched her heart, her mind was turning now
This wasn't her, she hated this, she wanted change but how?
She slowly came to realise that fame destroyed her soul
Humility w
A Poet's RomanceShe was the quiet sort,:thumb350260160:
tsunamis tucked
within her eyes,
anxieties pinned
to pottery skin;
she would mold herself
into moonlight butterflies
and glist'ning calla lilies,
pure and white and
beautiful.
and when night cast
itself upon her in
heated, hard'ning flames,
she’d smash herself
upon the rocks
and in morning start
again.
Rest, NowI.
The mist of the mountains
Like the breath of a giant
Soft, as if sleeping
Cool this time of year
Settles in around me
Damp and grey
The air is murky
I begin to feel alone.
II.
Darkness comes quickly
The sun is saying goodnight
Over the tops of the peaks
And leaving in a hurry
He is my friend, the sun
Stretching his arms out to warm me
But betraying me at last
Leaving me to the murky gloom.
III.
It is midnight when I hear it
Quiet, at first
Almost like a secret
Then louder, forgetting stillness
Beautiful, like a hundred harps
And wretched, like a dying thing
The sweet melody shatters my soul
And I know it is for me.
IV.
Walking outside
The stars lighting my way
I see her there
Black hair, blacker than the night
Pale dress, paler than the moon
Blood stains on her hands
Her task, I see, is washing
Cleansing my garments of life.
V.
Her reflection
Translucent, in the water
Transparent
Like the ghost of an angel
Her voice sings of
Words never spoken
Love never shared
Ways never parted
VI.
My Darkest Hour
My Darkest Hour
I've become lost
In my sundered reflection
I've finally crossed
The line of desperation
I sense something sinister
Something that is beyond cruel
My tears seem to hinder
Ready to break down soon
-
The darkness is always waiting
To rule / To conquer
To swallow / To devour
To return / To overpower
The shadows are always lurking
As I cry / As I weep
As I beg / As I plead
As I fall / As I grieve
The blinding fear is consuming
-
My anxiety-infected veins pour
I'm beyond weak
I don't want to be afraid anymore
Let me bleed
This is the only way out
A perfect exit for a coward
No longer am I bound
I couldn't survive my darkest hour
the rainfall kidshe always loved the sting of grapefruit
and the way the winter air kissed her skin,
leaving it pink and raw and sensitive to the touch
like the heart she tried so hard to hide.
but she never grew up, not really.
she always belonged to the rain
and never stayed in one place for too long.
she was afraid her stupid heart might dig in,
leave its roots in the people and then
it would rip and tear when she up and left.
and she never accepted the fact that
she did indeed have a heart.
she tried so hard to be hollow and
let the winter rain chill her skin and
soak into her bones so that she, too,
might be just as cold.
so she stopped believing in sunshine.
she accepted the title of rainfall kid,
and lived with thunder in her chest.
DreamwalkerDreamwalker--
lurking at the seams
watching her eyes flicker,
sleep making reality blur.
He creeps along,
weaving his song
exposing subconscious secrets
sewn in her hidden regrets.
Dreamwalker--
his eyes meet with hers,
only to slowly fade away.
For she wakes to light of day.
Lovebirds' Sorrowshe was the girl with cat:thumb351151450:
eyes: broad and judging and
carnal; he was the doe
with a broken collarbone,
yet she found herself lost in
the warmth of his sighs and
asked simply for a set
of sweeter lies
[because it's only after you
sell yourself to the earth that
you learn love is not a
chemical reaction anticipating
every ignited glance and soured
word; no, it is a thing
of obligation that sleeps upon
your doorstep, knowing you
will always come back,
knowing you could never forget
its name]
he called to her on hollow
nights, and she found his
voice when she had nowhere
left to go
he was the cereal box savior;
she only needed a place
to bury her bones
[it was never sparks but
instead a dull roar that
filled their ears until
life was a blur of static
commitment]
when she whispered I love
you, he really believed it.
RainwaterHer hand pulled from mine –
slipped, like rainwater,
drifting through night;
her voice, confessed soft
sorrows as I dreamt.
"I no longer
believe
in storms like you."
Congratulations again to all these wonderful writers for their contributions to the literature community. I look forward to reading and featuring next month's batch of Lit. Daily Picks!
