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April Literature DD Round Up

Wed Apr 30, 2014, 8:49 PM
Features by neurotype

Mature Content

Mature Content

Eden's AngelI knew the old stories. The first man and woman had disobeyed, and so they had been driven out of paradise. An angel had been placed in paradise to guard the tree.
I never heard any stories saying he left the garden.
I went to find the tree, to see if it really was worth getting kicked out of paradise. I’d seen the Fountain of Youth, Atlantis, and the Holy Grail. This was the next big thing. It was the edge of the Earth and beyond. It was further than Davy Jones’ Locker. It was paradise.
Some people told me the Holy Grail and the Fountain of Youth were the same thing. If you drank from the Holy Grail, you wouldn’t die. If you drank from the Fountain of Youth, you wouldn’t die. But I’ve seen them before. The Holy Grail is an ugly brown wooden cup. The Fountain of Youth isn’t more than a pool of stale water in the middle of a cave in South America. Atlantis was less of a disappointment, but it wanted to remain hidden. So I ventured out for the Garden o

Mature Content


Mature Content

Painting NightsDear Emma,
The truth is I'm not a painter.
The truth is I followed you here from that flower shop on Whitmore Street, two and a half months ago. Please, keep reading.
You actually took my breath away when I glimpsed you holding a bunch of lilies in your slender hands at the flower shop counter.  You stunned me. That's never happened to me before. I was watching you turning the bouquet left to right, you seemed in awe of the flowers' beauty.  Your eyes, your perfect smile, the way you held yourself. It was not a conscious decision to follow you here. I think I was in a trance. I know how it looks; I know it sounds like a movie.
When Miss Vale said it was only the beginning of the painting course, lesson two, I signed up, paid my money on the spot, just to follow you into the room.
Just to keep seeing you.  Just to be near you. I know it's crazy.
I stared at the back of your bobbed hair for that entire lesson. In my mind I was shouting for you to turn around
Wild Vampire Chase   I was twenty-two when I started chasing her. I'm thirty-two now, but still a few days shy of the ten year anniversary. She was my friend, the only one I had. She begged, pleaded to become one of them only to turn on the one who made her, killing him with one swift blow that tore his head from his neck. I, by her, was offered the gift of immortality, but saw that it might corrupt the mind, and tried to kill her, much as I didn't want to. She gave me something to remember her by before escaping. A small, curved scar on the side of my neck that was not intended to kill. A souvenir to always have with me. In the back of my mind, I'm glad she got away. I'm glad I didn't have to kill my friend.
   Throughout the years, I followed her narrow path of blood. She was careful, but left me clues. On purpose, it turns out. She left me some friends to play with sometimes. They weren't nearly as strong as her, so my playmates easily became fertilizer. At least they decay fast e
The Key That Changed The World
Deeply regret to advise you Titanic sank this morning, the fifteenth, after a collision with an iceberg resulting in serious loss of life. Further particulars later.

Bruce Ismay

At 2:20 AM Atlantic Standard Time on the morning of April 15, 1912, the largest and most luxurious man-made object that had ever been moved, the Royal Mail Steamer (RMS) Titanic, disappeared beneath the calm waters of the North Atlantic about 370 miles or 600 kilometers south-southeast of the coast of Newfoundland, leaving behind her the majority of 2,208 living, breathing human beings— people with families, dreams, hopes, ambitions, and plans— struggling to stay afloat in the frigid ocean water. Among them were the world's richest and most famous and influential individ
Blue Eyes in FlamesWhen the prince sees the flower bloom from the palm of her hand, he orders her arrest.
She is only seven years old.
He takes the flower from her and keeps it, even though he knows he shouldn't. He puts it a vase, or, rather, his servant does that for him. The flower doesn't ever die, even years later.
It's dawn of a December morning, and he's cold. But still, he stands next to his father dutifully and looks at the little girl with blue eyes that are now black from seven nights sleeping on a cold, dungeon floor behind bars. They cut off her dark brown hair during that time. She's tied to the pyre, and there are seven guards around her, holding sharper swords than normal, not that she could get away. There's one man dressed in black holding an unlit torch, with a mask over his face to prevent his death. His father raises his arm, and the torch is lit.
She locks her gaze to his, and he blinks at her. It's like she expects him to prevent it. He couldn't, though, he can't. She scares him, w
Stranger LoveI am not the sunlit wing-print
splayed out on the bedroom wall.
I am not the dark mass forming
in a  corner of an airless hall.
I am not the viscous vengeance
where you sink your spinning wheels.
I am not the leaky bucket
hung up on your wishing well.
You are not my soul mate missing
wandering a winter's night.
You are not the sound of angels
singing by a candle's light.
You are not the rasp of fingers
fumbling with  a hasp of steel.
You are not the tattered towel
soaking up the things I feel.
I am the oblivious child,
dancing where the wildflowers are.
You are my unwitting captive
lighting up a jelly jar.
SweepAs soon as he stepped into the open field, he slung the minesweeper from his shoulder and pointed its nose to the ground.  It was old, worn and heavy, and old and rough, calloused and breaking, and old.  The metal between his hands was cold and chilled his fingers.  If he was not careful he could step on the very mines he was trying to find.  They would have to pick up the pieces of his body and to send the tags home where his wife would cry and hold his son and daughter close with nothing to show them of their father but a piece of metal engraved with "Ajeet Singh".
One sweep, than another.
This war had taught him to never trust open spaces.  Open spaces were where the mines were planted, where Prets lay in wait.  France was green and damp just like the uniform he wore.  It had been days since he was separated from his unit, and now the Allies were breathing on his neck, searching for POW’s, searching for the enemy of which he was one. &
On preparing to never let goWalking slowly down the hall, arms filled with the day's mail, we spoke of morbid things.
She wants to be reduced to ash and I want to know if I can keep her on my mantle.
She looks at me sideways with a curious face and forgets her footsteps.
It's a little bit morbid, she tells me, deciding it's time to continue shuffling along,
but I think the way I'm trying to picture her perfect urn is probably worse.
There's nothing that I can think of that suits her, though,
and I wonder if I even know her.
Do I scatter you somewhere? You can't visit scatter.
(I think good daughters plant guilt in the carpet pile to trip upon.)
But she doesn't trip, instead she ruminates on how appalling it'd be to divide her in fourths:
she laughs as she's divvying up her body parts for our mantles.
I tell her we'll set up a custody schedule, but only between my closest sister and me;
we're the ones that take care of her. But in reality, I'm not planning on sharing.
She tells me she wants to be in the n
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone.  Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges.  The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.  
So much rubble.  So little outcry.  The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize.  The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast?  When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
They haven't.
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her.  This all
Blood From a Far Off PlaceQuiver full of bullet tipped arrows.
The bow of aluminum my dad made in high school.
I step into the sunlight on the south side of the house.
I'm 12.
I don't know why I pull the bowstring
back to my eye, aim upward, and loose.
Straight above my head.
And the voice said,
    "You are a most common creature,
though of a peculiar people."
The Sun glints off the arrow's shaft.
I shade my eyes and wonder how long
before the arrow hits me. How long before
I step aside. How long to decipher a riddle
from a lipless voice.
Now I'm 16.
These days, I fire two arrows above my head.
Wondering. Hoping.
Bring back that voice.
One arrow. Two seconds later, another.
But the voice is silent.
Those stone breasted marble men
who plunge deep the trident and
lightning bolts heave, those armless maidens
with hoary teeth and frog's feet,
the top-heavy eagle with a monkey's face,
the knowers of vast things,
the grayness of the vicious mountain crossing,
the jury-blanketed understanding of
the staff o
:thumb419412472: Haiku 42frozen pond-
by the raccoon tracks
a web of cracks

Features by inknalcohol

Imaginary LoveHer eyes were glazed over and I could see the universe reflected in them as she stared up at the sky in its darkest hour. Her dark blue eyes looked almost black in the near pitch darkness and the pattern of her dress was getting lost in the grass. I could just make out the pearly shine of drying tears on her face as I tried to think back to the moment when they first fell. There was no change in her heart beat, I know because I almost fell asleep to the rhythmic beating nor did her breathing change as I felt every inhale and exhale as I rested my head on her chest.
As if reading my mind her soft voice broke through the silence that was steadily growing louder as morning approached. "I'm happy," she said "so happy that all I can do is cry." I didn't know what to say so I said nothing as I could feel my heart swell with love and pride. The shy, lonely girl I met 2 years ago was now a strong independent young lady.
I heard her take a deep breath as we watched the first layer of the night
When Worlds Collide - Chapter 1 - Arrival
  A strong wind blew in from the north. The Black Torrent shivered and pulled his cape around himself. For a late May evening, it was unseasonably cold. The change of weather had come on quite suddenly and it almost seemed there was something more in the air than a mere chill. Breaking into a run, he hoped the movement would warm him. He darted to the edge of the building and leapt over to the next rooftop. As his feet hit the slate, a buzzing came from his belt. He pulled out the small communicator, recognizing the code for Officer Derek Blake. He switched on the device.
 "Torrent here."
 "Hey, we were wondering if you could come down to Fifth and Clark. We have a kid here and we're not sure what to do with her."
 Glancing at his watch, he grimaced. It was nearly 2 a.m. "I'm not covering that area tonight," he said, even though he was already heading to the location.
 "I know. But...well, you'll see when you get here."
 It took Torrent twenty minutes to m
An artist (revised)
Staring blankly at a white sheet of paper
Can truly be an artist’s worst nightmare
An artist’s duty as its shaper
Their thoughts up in the clouds somewhere
Looking for bits of inspiration
Their eyes searching the skies
Nothing can break their concentration
Nothing can blow out the passion in their eyes
Being an artist does not always mean you are skilled
You do not need to be Picasso or Bach
It means you want to see your dream fulfilled
And that you will never give in to an art block
Circlebound - Blessed Be The Queen - prologue    It is said that memories are what make us who we are.  Personal, private, intimate— small fragments of the life that we have lived.  Memories are precious gems to remind us of times when we were happy, or they are weights that burden and callous our souls.  Without our memories we are nothing but a living shell that is empty, with no past or origin, existing simply to exist.
That is what I am.
    I have no recollections of my past that are my own, knowing only what is recounted to me.   Within my mind's eye are no faces of any beings that I recognise as mother or father.  There are no friends or siblings whose names I recall fondly, nor are there any happy memories, or moments that have shaped and moulded the entity that I am.
     Each night I sleep as though it is my last. Each day I have lived feeling long and ageing, filled with the brief memories I have collected within that too-short span of
Death to the Poet"Death to the Oracles, Gypsies of Light
Who see through blindness of man and his infinite night
Through the lies of the Fates and their wriggling tales
And hear oncoming days through time's shrieks and wails
Death to the Sorcerers, Gypsies of Force
Who weave fire from breath and sing winds off their course
Who lift Earth from it's patterns and craft boisterous rain
And trap stars in their palms, and suck suns in their veins
Death to the Mothers, the Gypsies of Life
Child's Deus Ex Machina, the hunting man's wife
The bearer of Futures, the giver of Souls
Who find shadows of crisis and swallow them whole
Death to the monsters shrieking in the mind
Of the man with whom tragedy and God are entwined,
Manipulating old words to invigorate youth
Death to the Poet, The Gypsy of Truth"
Balthazar's SongBalthazar's Song
I shall not trouble you
though your eyes have burned through mine,
turned through mine to your moon;
the fickle moon that changes constantly.
The love I felt compelled me to lie,
compelled me to stay and guard.
The sting I feel and the sword at my throat;
double shadowed in the tomb.
I shall not trouble you
though the words we said
now rhyme painfully on other ears.
Rest, gentle, on my shoulder.
These words were not put in my mouth to rhyme.
Rest still, lie gentle, no more fooled by the lark.
Lie, I will carry you.
Then rest.
I weep.
Writer's Tip: Writing Effective SentencesSentences—if the plot is the backbone of a story, then sentences are the muscles and tendons keeping it glued together. Unfortunately, writing solid sentences isn’t easy for everyone. As Human beings, we don’t speak the same way we write. Unless you do a lot of writing, you may have trouble putting together even the simplest of sentences. The last time you took a good look at a sentence and broke it down into its individual parts was probably around 3rd grade. Don’t worry—I’m here to help.
There’s More Than One Type of Sentence
There are (roughly) four different types of sentences, and we’re going to get into each of the different types (with examples!).
Simple Sentences – This is a sentence in its truest form. A simple sentence is the statement of a single idea in a direct, clear way. Most simple sentences contain less than 20 words, but it is best if you keep your word count aver
I have a bouquet of light
of shattered sunrays
that shun those
whose rose is not as rubicund
or whose cerulean is only slightly sea-green-stained.
Slice up the white
and imprison it in sardine cans
and push the plungers home.
But no matter how much you may try
the result is death;
for you've frayed the perfect threads
beyond repair
And only dried minerals and plasma
some darker version of the cosmic latte concentrated.
My heart is a prism.
All that's around me
is cold
and bleak
some hibernating humming
frozen beneath the winter's coat.
And inside,
I must be a time machine,
because I cannot abide this monochrome much longer.
And I've sprung forward to spring.
I'm seizing the icicles
that drip from the pallid clouds
and stripping them
and cutting them
and setting them
and in my heart they are transcribed
and flowers bloom
in the rumination of the sunlight.
I'm bursting;
a host to the aquatic fermentation
and I sip this bouquet
an imitation of the future,
Old HandsGrandpa was always the one to do things
-with his own hands.
He built his house,
our playhouses, tepees and dream castles
with his own hands.
Age 70 he was still climbing our roof,
(the one of the real house)
repairing it,
with his own hands.
So the worst thing
     the worst thing
     the worst thing was
when he had to watch our hands
-we all had come to help-
tend to his beloved garden
while his hands could do
The worst thing was
when he died
-on the inside-
'I am so useless.'
And I wished,
               and I wished,

Mature Content

Chapel WindowThe parish waits now,
the loneliness of corners
crawling outward on walls;
cobwebs align them
like the membranes of memories,
the cut of a jewel in a broken window,
rain beads
gather in a mesh of strands
a new Mosaic.
There is a cemetery,
my eyes seek out the sermon,
paint no distance
between headstone and cloud;
elegies topple each other
in their climb to heaven
as rays shear the shade,
heave a new glow in the candle box,
pool in spots like emerging ghosts
as if heaven were simply a dimension
where life goes on.
A Week Of KissesA Week Of Kisses
The first day I told you I loved you,
I imagined kissing your shoulder,
Well before I thought about your lips.
Because I don’t know what I am doing, firstly,
But more importantly,
It’s because I know things can spiral quickly,
If things start shifting
After we lay down the concrete.
So I kiss the foundation,
Before we reach the soil.
The second day I told you I loved you,
I imagined kissing your elbow,
Because it holds together the touch
And the flex.
But truly,
To exhibit it,
I must kiss the joint that bends
And combines us together.
The third day I told you I loved you,
I lay my lips to your temples,
As I learned about the temple of reform,
For the Youth in North America.
Kissing you there signifying I will protect you,
As well as your temple,
As we re-form, into something more.
The fourth day I told you I loved you,
I’d kiss you softly on your forehead.
Because that’s what holds your brillian
EasterRemember what you love,
you with sand in your teeth
and the feral burn of hunger
in your eyes.
God sends his regrets.
He made you grasping and slow,
in a late hour
when the wine washed low.
Remember what you love.
Fall to your knees in the toss
and the swell, quell
the appetite of the cold black sea.
Beg blessings for your home
and the salt-sick trees.
Reach what lies near:
the fat-faced child, the sweet-soft lamb;
tether the tantrum, trickle the blood.
Offer psalms to what is holy,
whisper the name of what you love
as it bobs in the bleak mad sea.
mechanicI want to kiss every aching wound you have,
bandage your heart every time it bleeds,
and patch up your mind over and over
because not a single tear deserves to fall
from your brandy-drenched eyes;
This dripping heart of mine can only feel,
and the healing honey words it flames get caught
in the back of my throat and on the roof of my mouth,
so I only have these passionate guttural cries
to tell you that I care all too much.
In order to fix you up again,
I would need to tear myself to tatters
and trade all of my working parts
for your leftover, fading pieces
but I just haven’t figured out how.
Let the Sparrows InI.
Blackbirds rest on the power lines,
their silhouettes form the notation
to a dawn song set on the sheet music
of telephone poles contrasted by the sun.
Curled leaves are land mines littered
on the lawn where imprints of twigs
and a nurturing robin's tracks collect.
Branchlets and leaflets stem from
porch step railings and mailboxes;
the numbers read odd on the east,
even on the west side of the asphalt:
The engraved letters on
the siding reads, "Davis."
This house is home to family
so let the sparrows in.
The house,
with its branching hallways
overhanging décor
furniture rooted to the floor
is home
family, friends, the occasional
neighbor's kid
out from home.
Let the sparrows in; let
the finches
Let the door's
loosen—let the door stand ajar
be let open
the night owls and
let the doves
to pirouette
in pairs in the iridescent
Let the sparrows in.
Framed on either side
Forgive This Grief (Miscarriage)My arms are weighted with her space,
a heaviness that won't compare--
her toes, her smile, her tiny face,
and the imagined white-blonde hair;
forgive this mother's grief for stolen dreams
and let alone these tears that stream.
Forgive this mother's grief,
forgive this mother's grief,
remember things aren't always what they seem.
I know it's wrong to yearn for them,
but those moments when you despair
would give to me what was unsent--
a life of burdens I wish I could wear.
Forgive this jealous heart that wants to share
the grumpy shouts, the unmade beds you bear.
Forgive this jealous heart,
forgive this jealous heart,
remember it's 'bout her, my sweet butterfly of air.
This heart still aches for my baby's weight,
and the screaming absence of her cry
opens anew an unhealed space
where all that lives is the question-- "why?"
Let this heart heal as we grow old
and if an outburst leaves you cold,
let this heart heal.
Let this heart heal,
butterfly babies are heavy to hold.
handmade lovewrite me a letter,
not emails or tweets.
blue pen scribblings
on sheets of paper crisp.
in five hundred words,
two pages and a half -
tell me you thought of me
on cigarette breaks.
go on foot to a post office,
paste the stamp yourself.
i shall be clouds away
expecting the mail truck.
february 28, 2012 :house:
Weasel Skeet: PrologueWeasel Skeet
Prologue: In Which Mr Lobby Confesses Things About His Life
"Hello. My name is Vane Lobby. I am a 37 year-old male. I—"
"Hold on a moment; only your surname, Mr Lobby."
"I apologise, sir… Hello. My name is Lobby. I am a 37 year-old male. I attended nine years of technical school on a scholarship. My parents divorced after I was already twenty years old. I no longer have any contact with them."
"And your relationship status?"
"I am single, sir. I have never been married."
"Now, Mr Lobby, we know that you're lying to us."
"I apologise, sir… I was married once, but it ended in her tragic death."
"Mr Lobby, almost every case that enters through those doors over there tells us the exact same story that you have, lying to make it seem as though you were a victim of some fictional fairytale that you weaved on your way to our

Keep making awesome art, everyone...and keep finding it, too!

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cristinewakesuphappy Featured By Owner May 3, 2014  Hobbyist Writer

:iconthankyouscript1::iconthankyouscript2::iconthankyouscript3: for including my little poem. totally unexpected, a pleasant surprise.
xtcgm Featured By Owner May 1, 2014
Thanks for the feature.  I seem to be in some intimidating company.
chromeantennae Featured By Owner May 1, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Such an honor to have another one of these. Thank you to GrimFace242, once again. :iconbowplz: It's an honor to be featured among some truely incredible artists.
inknalcohol Featured By Owner May 1, 2014   Writer
Would you stop it already!  Sheesh!

It's an awesome poem and deserves ALL the attentions!
chromeantennae Featured By Owner May 1, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
:lmao: Sorrryyyyyyyyyy. I'm just really appreciative of it. :meow:
inknalcohol Featured By Owner May 1, 2014   Writer

Congrats, again, to everyone up there!
Koratoshisfriend Featured By Owner May 1, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the feature and of course a thank you again to GrimFace242 :D
inknalcohol Featured By Owner May 1, 2014   Writer

You're very welcome.
Nichrysalis Featured By Owner May 1, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Endorell-Taelos Featured By Owner Apr 30, 2014   General Artist
:love: Thank you so much for the feature and to GrimFace242 for the DD again. :love: 
inknalcohol Featured By Owner May 1, 2014   Writer

You're very welcome!
Sleyf Featured By Owner Apr 30, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thanks for the mention again! Look at all those features!
SavageFrog Featured By Owner Apr 30, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Emerald-Alexandria Featured By Owner Apr 30, 2014  Student Writer
Thank you for the feature! And I'm gonna go check out all of these pieces!  
Add a Comment:

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