|Works that I've featured as Daily Deviations, both as a volunteer and staff member.|
SunburstEight in the morning and my shaved headSunburst by wreckling
burns tan with summer, eighty-five degrees
of heat and separation, and the air
conditioner has conditioned me to roll
the windows down
my hand against my sweat-drenched forehead
and my eyes at the cars around me.
Perspective tells me I should be glad the car works.
The migraine tells me I should murder everyone.
Pigeons on a nearby traffic sign are playing
their usual game of "which car is best
to crap on, and how long will that crap sizzle
before it dries", and I'd feel bad for that Lexus
under them if he hadn't cut me off two miles back.
The pigeons hav
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
the letter that never arrivedas if grief had never hollowed out my heart,the letter that never arrived by sunshinegypsy
caverns echoing with the memory of a laugh,
as if despair had never stolen my voice
until love whispered in my ear
and I knew what mattered,
of knowing: there are things
you will decide to protect yourself from,
you must never relive,
and some you must live
and live again,
no matter the cost
The HologramsBefore Casper we were a quantum band,The Holograms by venturus
an act that only happened when unobserved.
Our drummer maintained we'd split
the world, then took a full-time position
in PR. Auditioning his replacement
round our Crouch End front room,
with his white vest, buffed All-Stars
and holographic principle patter,
Casper shone. 'These,' he said,
nodding at his drumheads,
'are my event horizons;
it's where the beat really happens.'
To prove it, he worked up an almighty storm,
while we puffed on our cigarettes.
Short of a singer, Casper made a call.
Yume Shirakawa, he explained,
would beam in her performance. Jay,
sliding milk down his thin throat,
looked pleased. Dispatched to Budgens,
strangely, no complaints. We jammed.
Matter grew vague, the days came and went.
First gig, a full house, but no sign
of Yume, whom we'd still never seen.
Plugging into our amps, tweaking
Volume, Gain, she appeared, silk-clad,
like a switch had been thrown. Turning
our three dimensional selves to the crowd,
who thought we we
A Letter To Lillith Kellogg.Yes, of course you can borrow my white dressA Letter To Lillith Kellogg. by Self-Intoxication
with the rope straps, and my swirly silver
peace sign necklace. In fact, you can have
them both, because what else can I do? After
all the glorious gifts you have given me, how
could I ever repay you? And of course I will send
your ex-boyfriend Kjel's graffiti guitar, so
perhaps the neon pink and green flower, and
the Milkman Dan comic stained faintly purple
and blue will be the last thing your eyes ever
see. I will give you two hundred dollars for that
beautiful thing, that girl with the blue face covered
in bubbles and stars, such a peaceful expression, such
color, such dimension. I will give you anything you want
for it. When you are sad, don't worry, I will send you a
few grams of pot in the mail, from all the sunshine states,
delivered directly to your cold dark basement. When you
are living in an attic in Louisiana with no money and no
food, I will send you art sup
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.
for her.it's midnight and I'm writing love lettersfor her. by this-epiphany
on my skin to the woman who raised me. it's midnight
and every limb has a story. all
my collarbone remembers is the frantic
hurry of your footsteps when it broke under the weight
of gravity and mistaken desire to fly and my
broken pink umbrella, long-gone, remembers too. my elbows
remember the firm pull of your hands in the grocery
store. my cheeks remember your makeup and
my clumsy fingers dipping in like paint pots and my neck
remembers all your strands of pearls. I remember
when you were young again and wearing
red and holding cups of tea in hands
that didn't shake yet and I remember hands that knew how
to peel apples, curling skins like red ribbons over
the edge of the blade, confident
in motion, and I remember your voice and I remember
your songs and I remember.
it's midnight and the water is cold and I
am somewhere beyond feeling. but
my love letters are only ink and they are washing
away and I watch them swirl at my feet and I
nowhere elseit rains hard enoughnowhere else by antonfrost
that i can finally sit quietly,
as if lighting candles.
maybe there is
nowhere else to be.
a cup of water trembles
on the table as if afraid,
kept too long
from the useful yearning of roots,
from the anonymous way rain falls.
i light one candle
as if lighting candles.
the rain keeps pressing damp invisible flowers
against the window,
reminding me how long the near-dark lasts,
how the woods at the edge of the yard
but thirst enough to catch fire.
each candle moves like the rain,
each quieting life
from lives of their own.
in the half-light coming in,
i can pretend it's morning.
i can sit back,
pool on the chair like water,
the rain will take all night,
outside, the trees seem to look around
through the rain,
as if trying to see around each other.
their lives are as quiet and long
as the beginning of a rain.
this is the way life is,
filling with other lives:
just feeling water
enter the gro
Morning - for Carl SandburgThe morning eruptsMorning - for Carl Sandburg by LlyrentheShrew
on little cat feet
A flick of the tail
a breath exhaled
too fast at the end of a leap
placed on lid's soft fan of lash
breath whirring, throaty, warm
eyes still closed
A stunning velvet attack
innocent lids unwarned
warm sheets no safe haven
The morning erupts
plainlookplain by NukpanaNamid
see how the brittle grass bends
as though bowing at the knee
and the wooden fencepost
with its halo of rusted iron
still longing for the lost days
when it too
could move with the wind
surely our old gods slumber
in the womb of this land
where clouds ceaselessly tumble
toward a stark horizon
and the dirt roads
on an altar of earth
in the distance
a brown sparrow
his tail feathers braced against
the bitter autumn frost
his mirrored eye flashing
with the steady hymn
UntitledWhen we went to Norway we killed slugs.Untitled by Notoday
We ate dinner at midnight as the sun revolved overhead, spinning in slow concentric circles, never dipping beyond the horizon. There was no night.
We looked up at the clouds, and she asked us if we wanted to do her a favor-to justify spending the night in her garage apartment at no cost. We weren't freeloaders, so we said O.K. She told us about the slugs.
There were hundreds of them crawling around the garden area-small families leaving slime trails on rock walls. We collected them one at a time, placing each of them in a huge plastic bag. We saw them pile on top of each other, felt their collective weight tugging on the plastic. Watched them squirm around, looking for any signal of familiarity, their antennae moving this way and that, trying to make sense of their situation.
We went in front of the garage and found some little guys crawling in cracks of asphalt. &
To Dream of FallingI dream of falling.To Dream of Falling by MoreaGaara
It's not a dream common to angels. After all, we have a pair of wings--or two or three--and we can use them. We float upon the air, dance among the stars, shape the clouds with our breath, and so on. All that lovely wordplay to describe an indescribable. A joy, a graceless power. Flight.
Humans dream of it often, I am told. It makes sense. They have no wings save for what they create with their hands. Airplanes, hang gliders, helicopters. Kites. They are obsessed with the sky, more so than the angels themselves, many of whom will fly three thousand miles rather than walk across the street.
And yet I dream of falling.
And in my dreams, I always start out as what I am--a bookish secretary pushed into a role never intended for him--and I always end as a human.
And the first thing I feel is falling.
Sometimes I jump off the edge of one of the Heavens.
The Phillipians to St. PaulWhen light flooded your eyelidsThe Phillipians to St. Paul by ashellessmind
& permanently blinded you
that was Jesus'
love, covering your skin
like the palm of a hand.
It was then you found you were as zealous
in persecuting trash
& the gods we make of our stomachs
as ever you were
in persecuting Christians
with the brand. How they
recoiled from you when you
began effusing to them
in fires & gibberish tongues! For the light
that filled you was eruptive
you speak of your own life
as if it could be a drink offering,
you are a fire work
& we are attending the fuse.
|Works that I've featured as Daily Deviations, both as a volunteer and staff member.|
Time is a human construct ably abetted by the sky, the stars. We looked at the sky and decided to delineate day and night, to make them into two halves, when in fact they were just fine whole.
Prehistory – our prehistory – we were overwhelmed by the sky. Cave paintings and inscriptions are a myriad of hypothetical disasters, stars falling, bursting, chelating. For we saw the Milky Way in all its wonder, all white dust, blue light and rosy curls, a solid mass hanging heavy in the sky.
A girl has prehistory as well. Before she is born, before she is even the star twinkling in her mother’s eye, her parents meet. They fall in love because the stars deem them compatible. The mother, an Aquarius, full of intellect and dreams. The father, a Taurus, rooted so firmly in the ground that he has enough foundation to lift the world. Both are fixed signs, revolving around one another, becoming the binary.
The Kalahari have a myth: deep in the desert, a
(Thiefoworld made that image up there, you should commission him if you'd like one!)|
Hi! My name is Trevor, and I work in the Product Marketing department. If you've got any general site-related things to ask about, fire away! If I can't help you, I'll point you in the direction of someone who can. :]
If you're looking to suggest a Daily Deviation, my guidelines can be found here!