|Works that I've featured as Daily Deviations, both as a volunteer and deviantART staff.|
A New CatOur neighborhood stray is dead. I know thisA New Cat by wreckling
because there is a black cat here I've never seen.
This cat is not the black splotch covered canvas stray
that clawed up and down my arm last winter
when I mistakenly tried to wrap it in a blanket
for warmth. This cat does not have the matted
fur that the stray did, does not deliberately stretch
out in front of my car tires the way the stray did
right before I had to leave for work, does not
chase lizards in the grass like the stray. This is not
the stray that aggressively meowed at me
when he wanted affection, nor is it the stray
that climbed our fence to try catching birds.
I'm certain this new cat must be lost, or else
looking for that same blotched canvas stray
that had become part of his family, too.
Lightbringer“We’ve got about half an hour until daybreak. The light panel is up and running, so you can begin, lightbringer!”Lightbringer by wreckling
Kenta closed his eyes to the stars and breathed in through his nose before exhaling sharply out of his mouth. His hands were trembling. When he breathed in next, the stars came with it, pinpricks of light jumping to his fingers, toes, arms, legs, and even his face and hair. Every part of his body seemed to be engulfed in blue light, except his closed eyes. Once the light had gathered, he exhaled through his mouth once again, and the light throughout his body shifted to his left arm until it was contained between his fingertips and his elbow. When he opened his eyes, the sky was only slightly darker than it had been. He did not look at his left arm.
Turning away from the stars, he faced a small white pedestal that came up to his waist. On the top of the pedestal was a small black panel, and he placed his left hand on it, closing his eyes and breathing ou
BarristerHe'd been in town three weeks, on the case for two, and still only had a single lead. No one in Los Diablos was talking, outside of formalities. He was an outsider, and he knew they considered him as such, but for as much frustration as the town was causing him by not talking, there was one person in the town causing him even more trouble, the one he needed to meet, the one he couldn't even seem to find.Barrister by wreckling
Franky Barrister never answered his door. Franky Barrister didn't have a phone. Franky Barrister always seemed to be on a bathroom break during school hours, but was never in the bathroom. On Fridays, Franky Barrister wasn't at school at all. The trouble was that the investigation the detective was working on was regarding the death of Alan BarristerFranky's father. Everyone in town pointed the finger at Franky, and with his constant absence, the detective could see why. Franky was not doing anything at all to prove himself innocent, and if not for a complete lack of evidence, th
Torumaru and the Bullies Somewhere outside the window, the ocean rushed along the coast, waves breaking as fishing boats cut between them, creating new crests on the water in the push to reach the fish. Seafoam scattered in the air, a flash of white among the marine layer, before dissolving in the in between, not quite water, not quite sky. On the other side of the window, in a small room of a small home in Urayasu, Torumaru rolled over and fell out of his bed. Stunned into awareness, he stood up and jerked his head about, blearily taking in his room. His gray eyes rested on his own reflection, and he noticed his black hair hanging in a mess just above his eyebrows as he tried to make sense of the gold tint his face seemed to have. He squinted and frowned until he registered his own name; the wall he stared at held a small, engraved golden plaque which read: “Congratulations to the new Judo Club Captain, Torumaru Kamimura”. On reading tTorumaru and the Bullies by wreckling
AdamI, first feeling this sunken heat, firstAdam by wreckling
scraping this grain desert, first
sitting under verdant walls, I
first touching these rooted crags, first
tripping in the mountain's gloam, first
reaching this brackish fountain, I
first holding the ocean, first
drinking its salt poison, first
sinking to my knees, I
first trying to understand, I
first trying to speak
Les Petits PrincesLes Petits Princes by BeaBae
"James is dying," Nefertiti said, her voice a whisper and barely audible from the balcony. The gray stone was cool beneath her hands, smooth from generations before her, and comforting to support herself on as she stared down to the gardens and gates of their palace below.
Queen Nefertiti was dark haired and tan, with wide eyes and a thin smile. It was her husband their children took after. Both young men with blond hair and blue eyes, both growing tall and strong and moving towards becoming the rulers of their odd-named nation.
Her husband's, Arthur's, breath caught. A short little gasp and snarl as his fists clenched by his side. His curses were so soft that it was difficult to catch them between the night-things and lazy breeze.
"Oswald cannot lead."
"He will have to."
Footsteps, and Arthur was pacing. "Could we find an excuse to appoint a Regent?"
"He is already seventeen," Nefertiti said. "When you die, he will be king."
Arthur cursed again, louder, as Nefertiti left her perch at
on 'the Father'mr parker lined upon 'the Father' by diddlyhohum
his children with an ax,
lined up twelve small
disciples of hard work
and the Depression,
twelve small chickens
hollering with tremors,
twelve disciples hungry
for the Fruits of the
previously to this,
he severed many of
mrs parker's tendons and sculpted
her face with a frying pan.
she bled on the floor and
crawled somewhere, the lioness
in her made the unseen more
powerful than science
and far more previous to this,
mr parker sent mrs parker to my
great grandmother's childhood home
with a basket of vegetables and pork
and bread. my great grandmother says
that whenever her family couldn't eat,
mr parker made sure that they could
and so mr parker has lined up
his children, and mrs parker has
miraculously sent for the sheriff
and mr parker has run behind the barn.
the sheriff, thumbs tucked in the
waist of his breeches, walks
quietly in the dewy fields leading
to mr parker. mr parker has tied himself a
noose from the rafters and is standing
calmly on a stool. he
HubrisThe world is not a skeleton. It does not ache bone-deep with our atrocities, nor is it fragile and ready for the breaking. It knows nothing so human, except perhaps to forgive our pride. Let me explain:Hubris by Solarune
Young, I am a bright star with small, pudgy hands for guiltless flower-crushing. Before even that, I am a wispy squall for food, unused to knowing anything but myself, and warmth, and hunger.
The concept of a hero is a natural progression from understanding speech. I am Me. I am the one all the stories talk about, born special, to whom both innocence and wisdom are possible. I am so great a part of my own self that I do not know it can be detached.
I am eleven, narrow-boned and alone in the red earth, when I first feel it.
A seagull slews out of the bright sky and pegs its beak to the stones, draws it up wriggling. I watch its gullet bob. My hand floats up to mirror the lines of its head against the air. There is a cry, and its eye is a pond of yellow fire staring at me, the air a storm
31:12N, 121:30Emy Dear i just noticed31:12N, 121:30E by Vigilo
my balcony is shaped
and the wind is billowing
the moon up, up to-night
in her dusty purple garb
and i think
no Dear i do not want
to leave here: where men
build bridges over oceans
and live inside of mountains
like river dragons
where the sun shines
not at all at noon but gleams
like an orange at sundown
where the moon walks home
surefooted to where my neck
In summer we all burnThe summer is coming,In summer we all burn by Limbs-of-Osiris
I hear the beach roaring from here,
can see shirts hung over shoulders,
sunglasses, arms round waists,
can feel the earth's purrs,
pollens tossed up at us in fanfare.
Ants are walking over me
because we're sharing a tree together.
Back to back, we're trying to
make our winter's pallour a warmer shade.
Is it some sort of personal sign
when you let your shoe-tongues fill with tan bark,
when it's driven you mad your whole life?
Or when you eat ice-cream in public (the sticky
fingers a mere afterthought)?
These trees though, they're not changing.
I can't help thinking they're
often doing better than we are.
Summer is coming; they sit still and burn.
Some go out with a bang!
Others fall to dust.
But us, we fuss and flail.
Still we burn.
Summer is for beaches and getting laid.
Summer is for stretching,
for sticking your proboscis into
the rivers and guzzling.
No, I can't help thinking about
the skeletons at the waterholes in the Mallee.
city drowned cleanbirds fly bluer before a hurricane,city drowned clean by anyimacielgray
wings sharper, the bricks neater.
one train is always longer than the
other. i cried about it. the saturated
city, droplets of colour caught on
tape & rewinding, cups me in its
palms, i am a bug on its window,
imagining all of it underwater &
people clapping in a silent film,
the last dying bubbles curtsying
on their lips, for their marble town
the white skied & terrible atlantis.
Tea for TwoI observed her fragile corpse upon the cemetery seat, looking to and fro like a lost pigeon. She blinked her watery green eyes at me just once as I approached, then let them oggle wide.Tea for Two by orphicfiddler
"Madam," said I, "have you any need of assistance?"
A soft moan echoed back across the dying rhododendrons.
"Are you tired? Lost?" A quick glance at her spittle-slathered chops. "Hungry?"
She nodded vigorously and a bit of froth flew loose to stick upon a nearby leaf. I watched as it slowly slid its way to the very tip and plopped with a light "thwack" upon the freshly upturned soil.
"Er, there ought to be a dead squirrel or two out back by the fence. I imagine Mortimer left something, he's always forgetting what he's doing and scampering off, you know how those crazy groundskeepers can be . . ."
She made a sound a bit like the braying of a hound.
"Perhaps you don't. Anyhow, come along."
When dealing with the dead, it's best to be polite. I suppose I would be anyhow, though, I can't help it. It's simply
To shoreI think back to pulling your hairTo shore by ejectionletter
from your face,
sticky strands in nut brown,
your lips like the frothy head
in a pint glass,
You cried in bed, neck twisted
like a giraffe looking
for the opposite side of a baobab tree,
and I told you that you were beautiful
even though no one
thought so, anymore.
It didn't matter then whether
I was holding your
greasy heart in my hands,
or my own,
they were the same fragments,
wracked with guilt and
weak sutures in their stems.
We lay in your bed for five minutes
before you choked
on your own salt water seasoning,
blew your nose into the white
like it was tissue and you
really couldn't be bothered to care.
And I remember thinking that
my whole world was a sea,
and I, a boat,
MemoryI stand and stare in awe.Memory by tigertailzlc
'It was quite damaged after the accident, so we couldn't save it,' the woman is saying. She is dressed smartly, with her hair scraped back into a high ponytail, and she looks a bit like a headmistress, but she speaks quite kindly. 'Most of the contents were unharmed, though, and so we've put them in boxes for you to look through it's a fairly long drive from here to our destination.'
There is a brief silence, during which she gets into the car and puts on her seat belt, and then she seems to finally notice that I am gaping. 'Ah,' she says. 'We did tell you that your mother was a photographer, but I think we may have forgotten to mention her voluminous archives. Impressive, isn't it?'
I nod as I seat myself beside the boxes of photo albums and shut the car door. 'Very.'
I watch the world slowly become a blur through the car window as we accelerate, and then I turn to the boxes. Carefully, and somehow hungrily at the same time, I reach for an album.
I Guess We'll Live To See ItYou should start lookingI Guess We'll Live To See It by completeaccident
for a place we can make our last stand.
The dawn is breaking:
Every morning, a little less light,
and the end
is not as close as you think.
Love is not enough,
is not enough.
The desert is coming.
The sea is coming.
they find us holding our thirst
in both hands.
There is no
You should start looking for a place
we can make our last
Take my frenzy for resignation, put your boots
on. I have a lantern. I have a little
knife. We have so much still
to survive. Open
and let the thirst out.
Build. We will stand
until the dawn breaks- and you do not believe
in ecstasy, so we will know,
at the end.
how lilies weepobstacleshow lilies weep by silklilies
are a kind of faith,
as if through some
a bruised clock
veins and cloaked
timed to burst.
i am nothing
if i am not a dream
of yours, waking
from the geometric light
of my window
into a shimmering cup,
poured full of your words
my hips dripping
their tiny mechanisms,
swirling in incense,
growing new teeth,
to bleed through.
i drip and cough
and sleep and bleed
that i am strong enough
for someone like you.
i am taped
and covered up
but you can still see
the endless flaws.
i watch the trees break,
the elastic stretch between moments as
one thing lives and another dies,
as each day i create my chances,
i hold my deck of cards and slice two in half,
i eat one, i rip another,
and i still win the game.
you are the card i never play,
the one i hold on to,
the lucky coin
A Flowerwould I, I wouldA Flower by silvernium
walk in Hiroshima, a flower
cannot say much
underneath cypress trees
we can believe
pyramid builders used stars
to map something there
sand in my hand, sand
back to where I gathered it
the cypress branches at
night canvas us like a pyramid
as it should be, with light
coming down in shafts
I'd have a flower for every
thing we ever did that needs one
that is an uncountable amount
of flowers and we
cannot count the stars
in a universe we do not understand
for a friendThe sky is captured in his eyes, clear and blue.for a friend by 135711cal
The weather etched smile is honest.
The slender face says sixty; it lies.
It is that and half again.
Knobby hands sun baked and brown
peek out from ragged gloves.
They seem part of the old split locust post
where they are resting;
one of the row of soldiers
that keep watch on their field and its occupants.
The smile broadens as I approach.
I help stretch the wire.
His archaic dialect fills the road
with cows and snow and the yankees
that his grandparents saw marching.
The hours pass pulled by the mule
he plowed with as a boy.
He mentions his wife
they'd been married almost 60 years.
She "took sick" and died (at her own hand)
some 15 years ago.
(it is sad what people must do to escape pain)
But he only remembers the little things
she did so often to help him
they are bittersweet candy.
I know he misses her.
I smile as we finish.
He offers to pay me,
but I refuse it.
Convenience Ducky Short usually avoided using 'convenience' stores. The floors were always grimy, the lighting was too dim for his tired veiny eyes, and the cashiers never spoke more than five words of English. But the thing that irked him most was how every one of them put the Ho-Hos on the very bottom shelf, and every time he would have to find a way to maneuver his long body and old rusty joints into a crouch just so he could reach them.Convenience by cemetarypolka
He had been struck with a Ho-Ho craving as he was walking by, and since the only store nearby was a tiny convience store, he had no choice but to go in and claim his cakes. There was no controlling this sort of thing. 'Happy Ho Ho emergencies', his mother used to call them, God rest her soul.
But Ducky hadn't expected a different kind of emergency.
The bell on the door barely had time to jingle before it was drowned out by a frantic holler.
"Freeze, everybody! I've got a gun, so no messing around!"
i have you bookmarked -vii. Sometimes breakfast, lunch and dinner were like art; food was flung from each corner, creating a futile canvas on every wall. I played a scale of musical doors as they slammed one by one. I'm sure I broke a fewi have you bookmarked - by bowie-loon123
vocalchords too. He was always right beside me, yet so far.
But we mingled together. When his hand gripped mine with his feathery touch, it seemed okay to pretend. Maybe my mind still needed to develop, needed watering. Or maybe together we just made feelings obsolete.
iv. And we did.
We sat on park benches blowing smoke kisses and watched movies, that only seemed good because everything else on TV was crap.
Bubblegum. Pot. Gallons of ice-cream. We fed two pigeons and named them Ben and Jerry. We danced to Genesis, even though we both knew that they were possibly the most overplayed band in the world-universe-all-shopping-centers-in-London-ever.
At night we slipped between the park gates and sat by the lake. It felt like the moon was right ne
orthography and the right to remain silenti know just how i left you,orthography and the right to remain silent by ohsostarryeyed
and i pray to god,
the same one you do each day,
that you're still as
as you were
when you fled
the pile of unread books
still sit on the righthand side
of the coffee table.
but i can't be sure.
maybe they're on the left;
or even worse,
maybe they're on the shelf
over your television.
i don't know how fast
you've been sitting here
or how long you've been moving,
but i have places to go
and people to be,
warming the ache
in my stomach.
it's times like these
i pray to the god,
the same one you do each day,
that i can forget you
and your unread literature
and unwritten poems
and scrapped promises,
for just long enough
that i can
|Works that I've featured as Daily Deviations, both as a volunteer and deviantART staff.|
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