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-on-discord 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,:thumb321906436:
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.
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
RoanokeIf you're reading this, you're fucked.
The words themselves were ominous enough, but the fact that they were carved into the metal bulkhead spoke of how emphatic the writer was on the point. The faded bloodstains underneath hovered on the verge of being overkill.
The wall helped form a small, plain room, comprised of monotonous gray surfaces broken by hints of past violence: the odd bullet hole, strange gouges that were a hair's breadth from shearing through the panels, and the bloodstains that covered most of the floor and an alarming portion of the walls.
Technical Officer Jon Riley pressed his thumb against his envirosuit's collar and keyed his mic. "You guys on my deck yet?" he asked.
"Keep your panties on, tech-o. Jesus. You should love having a valid excuse to sit around with your thumb up your ass for once."
Riley grinned. "Thumb wasn't up my ass before, Luis. Speaking of which, how's your sister doin'?" he asked.
"She's a lesbian now. We burned through t
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-
I
Tallmy words are green tonight:thumb330861112:
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
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:thumb211856189:
--------------------------
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:thumb297394217:
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.
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.
My Brother's BloodI wouldn't let the gentleman take my coat when he seated us in the dining car. Though I knew the stains existed only in my delusional mind, I couldn't help but feel nervous about it. To me, my white shirtsleeves were smeared with the sick, brown color of dried blood—my brother's blood.
The same brother sat across the table, his chin resting on the backs of his folded hands, smiling at me. "What's wrong with you?" he said, as the train lurched forward. "Aren't you hot?"
"I'm fine." I tried to smile back at him, but ended up gritting my teeth instead. I'd always been able to tell my brother everything. He knew about most of my delusions, my weird dreams and the way I couldn't make the dreams end when I woke up in the morning. But how was I supposed to tell him that only a few hours ago, I had watched myself kill him?
"You're hallucinating again, aren't you?" My brother continued to smile. "I can tell by the way your eyes keep darting around."
I fidgeted with my place setting to avoi
Features by neurotype-on-discord
The Virgin and The WhoreOur first kiss- my first kiss - was behind a school dumpster. That really should have told me something.
He liked me. Somehow, despite my less-than-inspired attempts at fashion, despite my pale skin (no one is allowed to be pale in California), my hopeless, boring-brown hair, my never-small-enough waistline, he liked me.
He was all light spiky hair and blue eyes. He was one grade below and that suited me just fine. I'd never liked older guys, especially ones who actually looked older. I was a sucker for baby faces, lanky builds and boyish charm. Perhaps somewhere deep in my subconscious, I'd decided that a boy who was just a boy, and not really a man, couldn't hurt me. My subconscious was wrong.
We dated for two weeks. Then he dumped me through his sister.
I pined for him, all spring and summer and into fall. He was a highschool freshman now, and some part of me hoped that now that I could see him every day, I co
of the ground-:thumb293642427:
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
:thumb202488621:
Critic vs Writer: A Conversation of ReconciliationI am a book blogger.:thumb329105417:
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.
Huh?
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
NecrophiliaShe knows that somewhere along the line something about her changed, but that won't stop her because she is invincible.
But even invincible people can shatter, can't they?
Necrophilia
Au bout du fossé, la culbute.
Pride comes before fall.
x.x.x
It's hard, he would tell her. It's hard to live in a world where society is what it is. She would stare at his eyes as they filled with this sort of emptiness that she knew by heart, the piercing green fading into a dim peridot. He would lightly finger the wide leather bracelets that covered his wrists and it gave it away to her all too soon.
She didn't even need to see the glimpse of puffy and reddening skin around the bright scars because she just knew.
And before she could form some sort of jumbled thought in her head, the bell would ring through her ears and he would be walking, walking, walking away from safety.
Feelings turn into thoughts. Thoughts turn into words.
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
expired
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.:thumb328485399:
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
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
:thumb263150103:
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.
xvi.
and i want to write about how there is
peace and war and
poverty and treasure and
cruelty and sometimes,
sometimes,
small and
important
moments
of grace.
xv.
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
that.
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
punitiveI do not believe you.
it was not the flash of an ankle,
small and white,
or the thin slip of a thigh, or
the crowning arch of a collarbone
which drove you to hunger.
it was all you,
all your own vile initiative
that awakened your greed,
your imagined right
to what was not yours.
but try convincing the court,
try telling the accusing populace
(who think they've a right to decide)
and all I encounter
is a harsh syllable like a popped balloon:
slut.
you are all deathly sick
and determinedly wrong.
the fuse was lit by his hand.
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
someday
reappear
to collect
all conscious thought
wanted or not
in the solitude
that shadows
brought
but still
burned bright
this tiny light
who taught my
dark
about her
night
and so I
made her name
the only
whispered word
our time would hear
and I dis-
played
only privately
the images
between my ears
yet the moon
often makes possible
one who
breathes
for two
or
orphans
proper principle
the way
that
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
I
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
II
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.
Much.
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
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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
Immaculate ConceptionWhy do I wear a corset, you ask
Well, to protect myself!
My corset is my armour.
My maquillage is my mask,
I endeavour to explain
It's a flawless barrier
Between you and me.
My eyes, my lips, are all my weapons
I wear my hair long and curling
To hide the mark
Where the devil placed his lips
Upon my neck.
Or so you would say, I'm sure.
Isn't that why you are here
My young Father.
Do I entice you?
Am I leading you down a path
Of pleasure and evil?
You claim you're here to save my soul
And how will you do that?
Are you offering my absolution whilst
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
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