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I was a literature CV from August 2013 - February 2014.
This is a collection of all the pieces that I had the honour of featuring as DDs during my time serving as a CV.
A Promise She Made With Death by SoImStillUnsure, literature
Literature
A Promise She Made With Death
She was conceived on the edge of a mirror,
lined with pretty white lace,
that burned the inside of her parents' nostrils.
She was born with a hole in her heart,
that the doctor's never noticed,
and no one bothered to fill.
She met Death on the playground,
when kindergarten was bending her bones.
Enticed by the glinting of his scythe,
as it preyed on a malformed baby rabbit.
She made a pinky promise with him,
swearing that she'd never forget his face.
He came and went,
swayed by corpse breaths
and east-coast winds,
but always leaving her alone.
He showed her how to hurt,
in the worst kind of way.
And each time,
he paid her a visit,
he'd ta
With you I always feel like I’m
trying
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
and how
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell yo
afternoon light flickers
through the curtains
like a moth
her fingers brush
the lined edge
of a plate
as the sink fills
with water
the sound of paper, displaced
shifts behind her
she counts
the careful steps
the cat takes
across the table
outside the roses
trace their shadows
across the lawn
1. THE CHILD OF DARKNESS by CristianaLeone, literature
Literature
1. THE CHILD OF DARKNESS
**** READ THE COMMENT FIRST, PLEASE!****
1. THE CHILD OF DARKNESS
You killed me.
You, damned...
You ripped me of the life!
The pale blonde girl was staring at her with her completely white eyes, spewed off by the impenetrable black fog behind her. She stretched out her hand, grabbing her neck in an iron grip. Ria was unable to speak, to move. She could not react. The guilt, heavy like an anvil, was crushing and taking her away the breath, while the little icy hand that was ripping her life was adamant. She felt, like a cold shiver, the touch of death. Her heart was pounding, as if it was trying to blow up: as if it was its only way to esca
Cassandra - Prologue and Part 1 by QuiEstInLiteris, literature
Literature
Cassandra - Prologue and Part 1
Even in death, Cassandra was lovely.
Her hair cascaded over her ivory shoulders in sable cataracts, pooling in the soft hollow between her breast and throat. She was wearing the white nightgown, the one she knew I loved, and the fall had thrown it up, weightless, in gossamer drifts across her legs. Her bare toes were painted salmon-pink, the same colour as the roses in the crystal vase by the door.
So elegant, my Cassandra. I might have expected that she would sprawl, as one imagines that people do when they have died suddenly, but her body refused to surrender its accustomed grace. One hand curled beside her face; the other lay, palm up, ac
I wanted to grow old with you by DanielDGriffiths, literature
Literature
I wanted to grow old with you
I wanted to grow old with you:
turn grey and fade away, subdued.
To walk with you through all the years
and face, as one, our darkest fears.
We'd burn too brightly for this Earth
and share in sorrow and in mirth;
to each the other's soul would bare
and twice the love, at once, declare.
For each would know the other's mind
and there a perfect solace find;
we would be two, though as one known –
discrete though merged & mingled grown.
I wanted to grow old, it's true:
turn grey and fade to dust with you.
I am falling. I have been caught by a monster which cannot be seen, but for the path of destruction it carves through the cosmos. It pulls me in, and as I plummet the universe bends and folds back on itself, and for a brief moment I can see everything that is and ever was.
In the twisted relay of light I see the nebula that was my birthing ground. Its radiance surrounds me with heat and color. Bursting clouds and arching forms in writhing wings of gossamer, painted with hydrogen and illuminated from within by the glow of its children.
Mother nebula had formed me, along with my sisters, from parts of herself. Coaxing and coalescing until we
she found fennel beneath her pillow,
and felt the familiar flutter
of glassfish between her ribs.
to distract herself, she
scattered the reddest petals
in her bathwater.
she braided poppies in her hair
and, gasping,
let regret invade her lungs.
As Are Moth-Eaten Clothes by VolkesWagondaOtaku, literature
Literature
As Are Moth-Eaten Clothes
Jack says I’ve always got to carry around this machine, big as a TV, with loopy wires coming out of it and wriggling around in my stomach. Sometimes if I’m tired he carries it, or sets it on some wheeler, but most days I’ve got it settled in the crook of my arm or against my hip. It’s hard to play football with the other kids when I’ve got to hold it, and can’t drop it neither. Jack says I oughta be grateful I can run around at all.
It’s not too heavy, the machine, it’s just a box with some gooey slush in it and a place on top that flashes numbers in red. Jack checks the numbers every s