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Literature DD Roundup: October 2012

Wed Oct 31, 2012, 11:12 AM
Greetings everyone!

As October has come to an end with spooky delight and tasty treats, it's clear we've had another month of wonderful literature features! Since the team has doubled in size we have consistently brought forth the two literature DD's a day, plus a contribution from staff member Moonbeam13 made for a special Spirit Day with 3 Lit DD's!

Before I skip to the roundup, I would like to note that the team is very busy at the moment: neurotype is in India, Nichrysalis and thorns are both sorting out family issues, and BeccaJS had her baby! Because of this, our time on deviantART is limited and suggestions for DD's are extremely valued.

But on to the main event: ladies and gentlemen, here are your October Literature DDs!

Features by BeccaJS

JayAcorn wedged between bone feet,
In awkward rhythm of white-tipped
Blue tail, there, he precisely
Brings his point of beak, and again,
Again, piercing down;  now,
Meat the color of old mustard shows,
And the big head tilts, the crest
Lays flat, the slick throat shuttles.
His bright eyes dart quickly about.
If he had hands he'd rub his belly.
:thumb321906436: JuliaMetMichaelSamaraSawTheStarsGenevieveFoundFeari.
                               Tonight is different.
Genevieve pauses, watching layers of fog ascend forward from the darkness.  The ominous mist slinks onward as it settles against her taunt muscles.  Vapor coils along her skin like venom; tangible and prickling.
She allows herself timid inhales of February.  Every breath sparks arctic shockwaves through her nervous system.  Glacial streaks echo between her tissues; ever-so-silent, sickening her.  Genevieve then slows, listening to iced-oxygen as it hardens between blood cells.
                     The cold feels like boulders in my lungs.
She begins to feel so unexpectedly heavy in her skin.  Slu

Mature Content

Justifications and Salted Smiles"I don't think I'm holding on any longer
I'm diving in.
I wish that you would see,
there's a magical land at the bottom of the ocean
where waterproof lungs let you be
everything you've dreamed.
You can bury underneath the sand
and not be found-
it's the land that's been promised to me
in late night whispers
and burnt tears
wasted on things that don't matter.
I know it's real,
broken minds can't lie
and I can feel it in my bones-
there's something more.
What other reasons would we live for?
They say you inhale saltwater
and exhale enlightenment.
The waves pour over you
and finally make you clean (pure)
No one knows where you are
so your problems don't follow
and neither does time.
It all fades away
until you disintegrate
like your worries.
You can only get there
with a heart that doesn't beat
because humans' empty brains
retain buoyancy.
You need to be all the way gone
to go-
to sink.
To ascend.
I want to go and find myself
and live the dreams I never had.
I swear, it's not that bad-
Tallmy words are green tonight
written in the air in a neon glow
standing on the corner in the snow
reciting poetry from memory
i feel very tall
there is power in words
and tonight i'm in control
looming large and strong and
razor sharp
and feeling very tall
have i had too much? no,
just enough to clearly see
my shoulders are straight, my
head held high
speaking green words
and very, very tall
earth circuitAnd when the sun sinks, the earth's skin crawls:
I wonder if this awkward creature would notice me the way I notice him.
He's so tragic at his throne
I stare after him longingly.
And yet,
He never realizes that I'm the one
Who forever basks in his brilliant beams.
If only he knew how much brighter he could burn
[with me]
He'd light up the universe.
I heard him speak of thirst, once.
The quenching lust of the stars had run dry.
So that night, I brought along a jar of acid.
(And how it gleamed in his glow).
I handed it to him, wrapped in taffeta ribbons,
I wish curdling joy
On my gurgling boy

   I love his eyes, now
   Clouded white like milk from a poisoned tree  
   And his throat,
   Swollen and clotted
   And his lips blue as the
   faded heavens
   I try to get him to laugh but
   His body is stuck and

Triptych Sixes by silvernium Souls and SparklesTo write something that is meaningful to someone else, you must first write something that is meaningful to yourself.
There are a thousand rooms in each person's mind, and each mind is a maze because it has been tangled. The hallways are criss-crossing and clumping, like long hair in the wind. Society has made it so.
We all have impure thoughts. Things that would make us "bad", unequal, or imperfect. Thoughts that make us different in gloriously unusual ways. We are born into the world unashamed, but then we are taught the unspoken words. Words that are rules. Words like normal, like good and bad, ugly and pretty. We are taught that if we do not fit the rule of "good", we are bad. We are evil, we are tainted, and so we are unwanted.
So, each of us hides our failures; our shortcomings, even though they are exactly the opposite of such. They are a representation of the uniqueness of each human soul, but unique is "bad", and so we hide. And those impure thoughts are hidden in darke
grassy field with rustgrassy field with rust
I'd heard about the old car, three miles out of town and all alone. I just had to see it. It was time. School was over for the summer, my friends were at camp, and I was bored. I set out Thursday morning for a hike, following directions that Uncle Will had given me. As the heat was still growing with the climb of the sun, I found the field and wandered around looking, and looking some more, trying not to be distracted by bees buzzing in the flowers, and butterflies and baby mice. Then it was there,  just a bit upslope from the bottom of a natural swale, and just below the sky at the top of the bank. A 1959 Cadillac convertible, but not like the old music videos showed.
This one was part buried in grass gone to seed and turned almost white golden with the dry heat. The tires were collapsed cracked pieces and there wasn't a trace of pink paint anywhere. Rust owned it, and it held on so tight that holes were showing in what used

A Pocket Full of SkyWhen I was young, my father would take me to the highest tower of Notre Dame precisely once a year. It would be cold. Freezing. But we'd stand there, and take deep breaths of air, and peer down, towards the tiny ants of people below. Down, towards the sprawling city beneath us. It was always winter, when we'd go. Always cold. Freezing, freezing. But however cold it was, and however dull and bleary the weather, my father would ask one thing, and one thing only: that we adhered to tradition.
"Lucie," he would say, with the fond smile and kind eyes I always remember. "Lucie, my peach. Whatever you become, and wherever your heart and mind leads you, you must always do for me one small, beautiful thing – take a handful of the sky, and place it in your pocket. Take a handful of the sky, and remember, always, that your feet need not always be imprisoned to the ground. Anything you could ever wish for, Lucie, can be yours – but only if you study hard, and always feel the freedom of t
Under DreadThe winter, the whole winter
is sitting on my head, nesting its fingers
in the little hairs over my ears.
Its friend, the great and unnamed doubt,
is leaning against my collarbone
in a most familiar fashion,
and I fall in and out of balance
irregularly irregularly.
I have a beauty waiting, warm, willing
on speed dial, but the phone--
where did I leave the phone again?
Beauty is as elusive as
the car keys, which, I swear,
were just in that pocket. I
had my hand on them. The whole winter
keeps coursing its little nails
up and down my neck and taking
all my breath away.
There was a dream I had that
I almost remember, almost remember better
than living yesterday, a dream
of gooey loss, a taffy sorrow that loomed,
loomed, loomed, you see? It was so real,
I just had it.
:thumb297394217: Noticed in CommittingI started committing suicides.  They were small at first, but more grandiose as the months passed.
At first, I came up with basics: wrist slashing, hanging, overdose, jumping off a building, and stepping off in front of bus.  They were all very mundane, really, and if not done properly you just end up living very, very painfully.  It was after those routine ways to snuff oneself that I began to get creative.
There was going into a biker bar nude and starting fights with drunk bikers.  And when I say "fights", I mean with a knife in my hand.  That was a fun night.  Everyone was freaked out and angry at the same time.  They all wanted to kill me, but they didn't want to touch me either.  Eventually, though, they did.
Oh, another good one was sneaking into one of those giant dump trucks at a quarry and letting them dump tons of excavated rocks on me.  The driver of the loader always sees you just as it's too late and tries to stop the load.

Mature Content

Features by neurotype

Mature Content

of the ground-
It was Sunday night when Geo climbed into my room from the fire escape. I was painting my toenails and listening to the sounds of the city: police sirens, pulsating bass, the kids in my tenement running guitar riffs back and forth with the street musicians on the sidewalk. That was the year I turned sixteen and took a two-month vow of silence to honor the death of autumn. A premature snow had robbed the season of its delicate warmth and color, forcing the maples to weep their leaves into the gutters. All that rainwater, all that decay. How could anyone create when October was dying outside their windows? Pete and Jake practiced acoustic that entire month. The rest of us were too fragile to play in suicide weather, when the right chords might move us to open our veins.
Geo sat down next to me, examining my bottle of red lacquer. "'To Eros is Human,'" he read, and rolled his eyes. "I'll keep that in mind."
I offered him my shoebox of nail polish. He selected a purple the color of opium

The Order of Sublime SimulacraKamon woke to the sound of bells and saws. The ceremony must have started hours ago; there was invigorating yellow sunlight outside the gauzy curtains. Kamon's Self was intoning eight o'clock, eight o'clock with all the insistence of a song looping in his head.
Flesh brain, he thought, you should have caught that alarm. Sometimes the flesh was louder than the devices supposed to make it properly quiet. The flesh insisted on the persistence of the Real. This was exactly the type of lesson that the brothers were supposed to learn, and Kamon hoped that relaying to the abbot how thoroughly he had learned it might lighten the inevitable punishment that came from reminding himself of himself. (Of course, that punishment would still be severe. He was going to arrive at the ceremony so late--)
On the orders of his Self, Kamon moved blearily out of bed and into the shower. (Rules For The Sanctum Three and Four, said his Self. Wear a clean robe. Wear a clean body.) Li
Critic vs Writer: A Conversation of ReconciliationI am a book blogger.
Since not everyone is familiar with the term, I'll go ahead and lay it out for you. I read, analyze, and write about books. I give my opinion on characters, setting, genre, style, and sometimes even covers. I say what works, what doesn't, and what I'd like to see.
In short, I criticize.
Back - back foul demon! Burn the witch! Don't come anywhere near me!
Yeah, I know you're all thinking it. What gives me the right to rifle through someone's hard work and put its flaws on display? Who do I think I am, slandering authors with false interpretations and quotes made out of context?
I'm a writer.
Yeah, of nothing but muck and lies.
No, no, I mean I write my own fiction. Or at least I did.
What, couldn't take some of your own medicine?
Yes and no.
Like most writers, I crave exposure. I want my work out there, read by the masses and enjoyed. DeviantArt, my blog, they're both small outlets where my writing can be seen.
But, as most writers

Russian RouletteThey take her on her honeymoon.
The wedding was lovely, or as lovely as it could have been with a couple that were more polite acquaintances than anything else and two sets of in-laws as stuffy as a dusty pile of money. They grab her when she sneaks out for a walk one night, two men, beefy, not even bothered to arm themselves. Her last thought before the bag is shoved over her eyes is to wonder how much this would ruin her parents' plans.
She comes to in a small brick room on a sallow mattress, windowless and lit by a cool yellow lamp. There's a man there, standing just outside the barred door.
"Kelly Shale," he says, voice nasally, greasy greying hair half-covering his forehead. She's not sure if it's a question or a statement.
She counts the days by watching the guards—one on day shift, one on night. They're probably the same men who took her, but they stay too much out of her field of vision to really tell. It takes until the third day for the woman to come.
'Meil,' they call h
Premonition Blues
The snow was heavy
under midnight's guise.
The white ground reflected
city lights into the clouds:
it was as bright as the half light
that bled over the mountains
and flowed into the valleys
just hours before (the sun
died peacefully).
The air was silent:
a powder keg soundtrack
sitting on a camel's back.
There were dead flags
on poles or lying in ashes.
Smoke seeped through the earth
on every horizon
like the breath
of a dragon slumbering
after a fierce campaign.
No one was left
to inhale the dust and ash.
Their bodies were dormant
and they dreamed their faith.
And a Dandelion stood stout
in a field of grey and soot.
FFM 2012, July 23 - Maslow's Androids"Whose goddamned idea was it to combine Asimov with Maslow?" The Virginian panted. His hands were bound in front of him, and around his neck a leather cord leashed him to the back of the android's horse.
"Presumably whoever made them?" The Doctor was allowed to ride the donkey, as the androids deemed him more important. More important and more squishy. "Don't complain. Without the one, you'd be dead!"
"And without the other, I'd be free." The Virginian stopped for a second, which only made the cord snap him half-off his feet. "Hey, watch it oilbucket!"
The android ignored him. They were a party of five, plus the two humans. The Arizona desert had never been more arid; every day it was closer to the Sahara, which people said now covered all of central Africa.
In the evening, the Virginian was set to gather kindling and wood, start the fire, tend to the horses and set up the tent. The Doctor, in the meantime, saw to the androids. One had been stung by a horsefly and the venom was not agr

Mature Content

Mr. Abbine Speaks
Mr. Abbine, I'm going to show you a few pictures. I want you to identify the people for me.
"I'll do what I can."
Can you tell me who this is?
"That's my good for nothing neighbor. He sits around his deck and smokes all day. Then he goes inside and probably gets high from pot or something stupid like that. I'll bet that guy is living off Welfare, the scumbag. Don't even get me started on the whore he keeps around-"
Mr. Abbine, please try to keep your answers focused on the subject. Can you identify this woman for me?
"That's my mother. She calls me three times a day to complain about how something 'isn't as great as it used to be.' I once told her she sounded old, and she started crying. Then she started calling me more often. Even though I've moved out twenty years ago, that woman continues to be a drain on my life."
Very good. This younger gentleman, tell me about him.
"That's Gary. He's a needy pain-in-the-ass. I swear, he follows me around work all day. Every day, with this guy. I
the Chandler's Around the WayThe hose slipped out again. Chan cursed, and shoved it back into the incision he'd made, adjusted his mask, and bent over the pump. He yanked the cord, and the pump started to life with a cough of biodiesel. It bounced on the sand as it grumbled away. Chan kept one hand on it and held the hose in place with the other.
If fucking Fathers would spend the bone on a new one, I wouldn't be all night at this, Chan grumbled. He ached for a smoke, but didn't have the hands to spare. Plenty of hands here, he thought as he glanced at the riverbank. Some of them even had a pulse.
"Hey," he said to whoever was closest.
It was a sunbather. A walker who drew enough bone to slot time on the beach without having to fight for it. She had each arm draped around a man, both of them tattooed in the same place with the same sigil. Chan was jealous. Someday he'd have his own numbers, but they'd be women. All of them. He was old-fashioned like that.
The walker answered without raising her sungl

Features by Nichrysalis

I Mean to Get You AloneYou have sharp
pulse-elevating teeth
the stuff I imagine heart attacks
are made of
I'm bent on selling you a handful of smiles
specifically crafted
to distract you from the fact that
I have almost nothing to say
and now you're steering this conversation
in a direction that suggests you've
forgotten that I
don't watch movies or do much of
anything but work which maybe
explains why one glass of wine gets me
wrapped around you
car to streetlight
crash style
mangled limbs
breeding curious onlookers and my insurance has
you're leaning in and all I can think is
I don't have insurance
Argus ApocraphexOf the many tiny beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead, two fell down, further soaking his already dampened brow.  Suspended, he floated upside-down in a padded room, dreaming without consciousness of his body or its position in space.
His mind reeled from slide to slide—images of adolescence pooling together and then streaming into an old time film: The Life and Times of Donald A. Silver.  The yellowed silent movie showed a young man smiling and leaning against an old Chevrolet sedan.  Cigarettes burnt the corner, and he was dancing with the woman he'd asked to marry him.  But in the center of the shot, a blur grew from the inside of the lilies on her wrist.  A quick rewind to remove the obstruction, but instead it continued to grow across the bare chest of a flexing boy at the public pool.  And finally, it consumed the picture and gnawed it to the pit, leaving behind a carcass to rot in its old age.
The man awo
The ElementsI.
Wine as red as stained glass
is lifted up & tilted back
Empty cups
touch wood like thunder
having given up grace
Blue veins
thread across wrists & palms
spent vessels returning to the heart
Fingertips suffused with pulse
lift to lightning's loveliness

night writing by nattrozanska Va'eiraThis was a lesson in just how quiet it can be
when you don't make enough noise.
Me, holding a toy gun to a stranger's head
"Remember when things stopped being ridiculous?"
You, eating dandelions in a midnight field
"About the same time things stopped making sense."
A boy in church camp carved a small crucifix
for his arts and crafts project. He won the blue
ribbon and a brand new Bible.  The next morning
I found it hanging over our cabin door.
A toad was nailed to the cross.
Still breathing.
Still breathing.
Sometimes we wake up early enough to hide the evil from our world.
Still breathing.
to myself: past/present/future/fourth dimensionto the girl before speech:
you are not a prodigy,
despite talent for taking care of yourself.
understanding politics by grade school isn't worth much
being loved is.
having your hand gripped when stumbling.
playful laugh coaxed from your lungs.
bounce as much as you can.  
cherish your days of knowing how to land.
to the girl with my fingers:
they aren't as beautiful as they are lost.
shaking; nerves over taken by demons
screaming in the night.
struggling to tear needle away from skin
too crooked to be melodic
not articulate enough to move masses
hoping to find north; seeking direction.
to the girl after healing:
body a battlefield with no monuments,
topographical map of travail.
you have scars;
i am sorry for those.
you've stored love in people
just begging to give it back.
open your mouth; souls speak
yours needs to learn to light up mountains again
to you over there:
i miss you
the way I miss a forgotten memory.
existence is more than physical space.
here i assemble words
The Origin of the InternetThis is the story of Compudites and Internedes – great gods of knowledge and communication. It is a story of their love for each other. It is a story of their betrayal at the hands of Hermes the messenger. It is a story of Internedes' destruction at the hands of Zeus. And it is a story of how, with the help of Athena, Compudites was able to be together with Internedes once more. It is the story of how and why humanity got one of the greatest resources ever known – the internet.
Compudites was a kind and gentle god, frail and limited in power, but boundless in intellect – a patron of sciences, mathematics, and technology. He was the guiding hand behind many of humanity's technological breakthroughs throughout the millennia. But just as technology and discoveries in the maths and sciences depend on others to spread them, Compudites was forever dependent on others to spread his knowledge. Hermes the messenger was one, swift like the wind, he helped carry messages between th

Why Spirit Day Is Not EnoughPreface
This essay was written in October of 2010 after DeviantART released this article supporting the Spirit Day movement to bring awareness to LGBT bullying.
I wrote it because there were so many comments on the official article that were defaming to one group or another that I felt the true issue had been lost in the rhetoric. The point of Spirit Day is to show solidarity and compassion for your fellow human beings. Not gay or straight or ill or handicapped - those categories don't matter. We're just humans, each flawed and each perfect. Spirit Day was an attempt to remind us of that.
I was confronted with two major arguments to this editorial in the original posting. One was that singling out LGBT suicides meant that I was putting more importance on that group than any other. For the purpose of the article, I suppose that's true. Spirit Day focused on LGBT issues, so the article (
if she were any more tomato she'd be blueberryxvii.
i want to write about how this world of
absolute truth, knowledge, and solid food—
that which we hold high between two fingers is always
full of watery applesauce and little white half-truths.
and about how utterly strange
it is that all the simple things that people
write about on pages are, in reality,
very few and far between.
and i want to write about how there is
peace and war and
poverty and treasure and
cruelty and sometimes,
small and
of grace.
i want to write a poem about why the hell i'm wasting
my time writing poems when i could maybe
actually be doing something productive
or contributing to society or
something like
and i want to write about why there aren't
nearly enough apple trees that grow—
in dark moldy closets or underwater
or on the sun or inside craters of the moon
or in the desert or in the deep winter.

because god knows those places
need them now mor

Mature Content

free agentwell she
told me
that she'd vanish
into the forest
for four years
to be-
come some secret dream
a si-
lent specter who'd
to collect
all conscious thought
wanted or not
in the solitude
that shadows
but still
burned bright
this tiny light
who taught my
about her
and so I
made her name
the only
whispered word
our time would hear
and I dis-
only privately
the images
between my ears
yet the moon
often makes possible
one who
for two
proper principle
the way
lovers sometimes do
and we do
and we do
(we doot-doot-do)
oh! and dreams
can too
oh! what dreams
can do
to who dreams
for two
who dreams dreams
of you

Features by thorns

You Can Say That Again*Flash fiction Island style
Jesus saves!  I cast you out in the name of Jesus!  So screams the preacher man slamming his palm against foreheads to drive out demons.  Not more than a few feet away from the pulpit, an eighteen year-old member of his congregation claps her hands and shouts hallelujah!  
Jesus' name is again invoked a few days later as they lay sweating and groaning in the back seat of a rented car.
-See me and come live with me is two different ting
The girl is pretty in an unrefined way, brash and loud and totally unselfconscious.
Baby powder coats her neck, chest and back, visible in her low cut top.  
Her rival, five years her senior, cuts her eye in contempt. 'Country booboo,' she thinks. 'She look like fish ready to fry.  Plus she skin ashy and she look like she doan know how to use hot-comb.'  
Despite her belief in her superiority, her man doesn't come back.
-Puss and dog no have d
How To Ask Someone To Let You Love ThemI think you keep secrets under your skin
like trees keep rings and do not know it,
like the sea teems,
like dark and quiet space
keeps every ray of light
the stars whispered to one another
when they were still young
and dying to make love.
I think you keep secrets in you
like the desert keeps sands,
like sleep keeps dreams,
like cities keep sleepless people
and people looking for sleepless people
to fall asleep with.
I think you keep secrets
like secrets like to be kept,
and I want to learn them all.
Whiskey Laden DreamsBitter eyes and tears might taint a drink, but sitting in this bar alone with your stool pulled out next to me, and the Martini poured regardless of your presence still brings a smile to my face; despite the taste. I'm having a whiskey myself; dry. Yes, I know I don't drink, but every once in a while you need whiskey to solve an intricate problem, and mine is the distinct lack of alcohol in my life.
There are people everywhere and it amazes me how none of them are you, from the woman in the black dress coming down the stairs to the signing couple in the corner, laughing silently. They're not you at all, and that's what's amazing – in an ocean of coal you're a marble pebble, smooth to the touch and pleasant to the eye, and you don't leave me scarred.
I'll kick back the tumbler for now, refilling your drink when necessary, despite you never having it. The waitress will look at me with tired eyes and concerned words, but I'll insist I'm drinking with a friend, whilst that sad g

Conscious Stream From The Chemical PlantThe following is a non-fictional account of a conscious stream that took place during my exploration of a water treatment plant.
I was at the office, looking at the wall-sized whiteboard.  Around 200 buildings stared back at me, numbered and color-coded.  I've been to pretty much all of them, but one unfamiliar number stuck out to me.  #41.  What a boring number.  MUD Platte West, that's a Metropolitain Utilities District.  I look up the address and drive.  Just to go see it.  And by the way, this isn't even a slow day for me, this is mostly what I do.
I drive West for 35 minutes, which is forever in Omaha time.  One road, Q St, hills, meadows, an elementary school, more hills.  41 is easy to spot, it's a huge concrete thing in the middle of nowhere.  I take the access road to the guard shack, he smiles, lifts the arm and I'm in.  the tile is obnoxiously clean. &
Pausing By The WineMarriage is
the frustration of reality
when the man who works the wine section
pauses in his tracks to make sure
you've found everything you "really need...are you sure?"
With a look that tells you
he finds you sort of beautiful
and you wonder how your life
might be different,
if any man other than this one
had ever looked at you like that.
To Write of HorrorTo paint a scene of mythic horrors
Take dim lit room and darkest corners
Find a child huddled there, cradled tight in his despair
Silent here for not his murmurs,
murmuring out a prayer
He asks the keeper keep to keeping
While all his guardians tucked in sleeping
Ignorant of the shadows creeping
Slow across the hallway floor, standing now outside his door
Somewhere near the sound of breathing,
breaths too heavy to ignore
Then just outside there raised a howl
A distant boom and monstrous growl
Envisions he a ghostly cowl
Afloat across the yard in prowl
Come to steal his soul away, curtains hold the fiend at bay
With scrapes across the window scowls,
scowling out in its dismay
The shutters joined the fray with flapping
Hard against the walls their rapping
While all around began a tapping
With no relent unceasing clapping
the pitter-patter's endless lapping
Solace to the boy then came, raptured from this fearful bane
Slowly drifts his mind towards napping,
napping through a night of rain

:thumb307828254: MaggieCh. 1
In the morning, the postman comes around seven. Maggie would give her usual warning gruff from her spot on the rug, her head raised, her ears perked. When the mail car sputtered away, Maggie would bring herself to rise slowly and pad to the window where she'd probe the glass curiously with her nose. Seeing nothing, she would return to her well-worn spot and drop like a sack of mail.
Every day, a little death
Every death, a little day

Ch. 2
There came a time where I realized I couldn't see the curiosity in Maggie's eyes. Sure, she'd sniff around the yard excitedly, or wag her tail when we went to the park, but the way she looked at things—like the way she slowly moved her head to watch me cook—is like she looked through them. When I dropped something, she'd follow it lazily with her eyes and then lay her had comfortably on her paws, unaffected. Even when I called her over, she rose with effort, and sniffed the food briefly before gently lapping it up. She looked a

Mature Content

Harvest MoonThree a.m. moonlight
across lazy dust motes; a
tree scrapes the window.
Your arm weighs on my hip like
whispered promises of love.

Features by Moonbeam13

Add a Comment:
Anovoca Featured By Owner Nov 8, 2012   Writer
Another month chalked full of features, It will take me half of November just to read all the way through October ^.^

I would like to offer one suggestion to how you feature these, take it or leave it. I think it would just make more sense to categorize these by literature type rather than by who featured it. I just think as a reader it would be nice to see all the poetry together, all the flash fic together and etc.....

I am glad I read through the comments on here as well. I was making an effort recently to try and suggest 1-2 a month but maybe I will up that number to 1-2 a week. Anything I can do to make Neuro read more poetry :p
Nichrysalis Featured By Owner Nov 8, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I'm not sure arranging the DD's by type of literature may be possible/feasible, simply for the fact that it took over an hour to compose this roundup as it is. This journal skin is also set up to show who the volunteers are so people are aware of how these pieces are getting featured.

And don't neglect the November DD's while reading October's! :noes: We have some awesome literature lined up.
Anovoca Featured By Owner Nov 8, 2012   Writer
October dd's.... November dd's.... reading through new posts to suggest dd's, writing my own dd's ..........

(somewhere in the distance Nic hears the faint sound of something exploding)
Nichrysalis Featured By Owner Nov 9, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
It's maddening isn't it?
Anovoca Featured By Owner Nov 9, 2012   Writer
Meh, I bring it on myself.
HugQueen Featured By Owner Nov 4, 2012   Writer
monstroooo Featured By Owner Nov 1, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Congratulations everyone! :iconbwavoplz:

It interests me that the list of suggesters is so small. Is that because not many suggestions are coming from the wider community? Or is it more that only a small number of suggesters know what makes a piece DD-worthy?

Either way, perhaps we should start a PR wave to try and encourage quality suggestions from more members :) I'm sure I could find a group or two who could help out with that...
neurotype Featured By Owner Nov 2, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
I see a lot of repeat names among suggesters, not enough newbs :( I worry that they suggest once, are rejected, and then don't do it again.
monstroooo Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Yes, I think this is a legitimate concern.

I think a lot of people get put off by the lack of any feedback - suggestions tend to just vanish into a black hole after they're made. I understand why this is the case, but that doesn't really diminish the problem :(

I think even replying to suggestions with a stock messages along the lines of "thanks, we'll look into it - but no promises!" would help the problem. I also think that a bit of press from the bigger groups to encourage better quality suggestions would help. The more people understand how DD's work, maybe the more new faces we'll start seeing in the suggesters list!
neurotype Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
:la: People also need to realize that their suggestions won't be read immediately--you should check and see if it actually got opened before wondering why you didn't get a response.

Ooh, group press would be helpful. I'll think about what I can do there, thanks for the idea ;p
monstroooo Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2012  Hobbyist Writer

We're going to see if we can't roll out a little press over at #WritersInk :) Hopefully I'll send some ideas your way next week!
neurotype Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Awesome :eager: ^NicSwaner does groups way more than I do, so it might also be worth asking him.
monstroooo Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Already in contact with him :) But thanks! :giggle:
neurotype Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Good call ;p
Nichrysalis Featured By Owner Nov 1, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
It's a mix of both, but it is more only the latter; a small number of suggesters are aware of our very high standards. Out of the notes I receive about 1 in 15-20 are up there quality-wise. A lot of times a perusal of the suggested deviant's gallery reveals an even more deserving piece in terms of technical skill, message or concept and the merit of it, how it is written stylistically, presentation, and how well all those things fit together to be consistent. The main reason I may browse a gallery from a suggested deviant is because an older work was suggested and I'll look for a more recent piece (I always let the suggester know of my decision) unless the suggested piece is particularly outstanding. Also, of the suggesters from the community I can tell you that about four of them listed had two or three suggestions accepted because they are active and aware of our standards. And part of that is on us as CV's reaching out to get to know the community, but I can't help but feel some people don't leave their circle of deviants they watch and expand their views on literature.

A PR wave would be great, I would definitely help with that. I've been meaning to write an article that breaks down poetry and prose (what works and whatnot) and have been planning it, it could easily be made into what we do and do not accept (I've been planning too many articles lately). :facepalm:

I got your note by the way, I didn't miss it. I've been busy and meant to thank you for letting me know, but good intentions go awry sometimes. =)

Tip (for PR wave): One of the things I look for in a piece to feature is a great opening line/sentence(s). That's not a universal rule, but it definitely helps. Sentences that start out with long descriptions and abstraction will not necessarily stand out in our eyes or those who would see it in the footer if it were to be featured, and I have to take how the rest of deviantART might view the first few words of the deviation into consideration so that the writer may have responses to their work from people besides writers, which I find are usually some of the most thoughtful comments.

Feel free to note me about your PR wave. Again, I'd be happy to help. =D
monstroooo Featured By Owner Nov 1, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks Nic - that's a really interesting insight!

I'll make a note of getting our admin team to put our heads together and try and drum up a higher degree of quality suggestions. We'll see if we can't do anything to get more stuff your way. It concerns me that so few people get in that "suggester" list :nod:

I'll get in touch with you privately to vet your thoughts before we actually do anything :)
Nichrysalis Featured By Owner Nov 1, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
If you do contact me very soon, I might not respond until sometime late tomorrow.
monstroooo Featured By Owner Nov 2, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
No worries - I expect it'll be a few days at the earliest :)
BeccaJS Featured By Owner Nov 1, 2012   Writer
Thank you for posting this! Another good month, lots for me to read and catch up on when I can finally get a pattern together again! :D
Nichrysalis Featured By Owner Nov 1, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
No problem! =D I only had one setback when posting, and that was that it wouldn't let me post to #communityrelations ( said 'null' over the group's name when I did so). I don't know if it's a permissions issue, but I've posted through the group before. :(
BeccaJS Featured By Owner Nov 1, 2012   Writer
You don't need to post it on the com rel group page as there is a roundup on all of them so don't worry about it! :heart:
Nichrysalis Featured By Owner Nov 1, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Oh. ~But ^Thiefoworld did it~ (in whiny, accusatory tone of voice)
neurotype Featured By Owner Oct 31, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Nichrysalis Featured By Owner Nov 1, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
LadyofGaerdon Featured By Owner Oct 31, 2012  Professional Writer
This month's features were phenomenal, guys. :heart:
Nichrysalis Featured By Owner Oct 31, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Says the person among them. :giggle:

In all seriousness, I felt there were some really strong choices for DD's this month, but of course, it can always become better!
LadyofGaerdon Featured By Owner Oct 31, 2012  Professional Writer
...actually didn't think about that. I was happy to see two I suggested though! ^^;

But really, the picks were great.
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