What is my Lit. Daily Pick Project?
Every day, I choose one literature deviation that I have recently come across that I found to exceptionally stand out to me. That deviation remains featured on my page for 24 hours in my daily pick folder for any watcher or visitor to see and hopefully view, comment, or fave. At the end of the month, all of the deviations that I chose to feature are then featured in an art news journal together. The purpose of this daily feature is to help lesser known writers on the site get exposure for their well-written work, as well as promoting community spirit.
* I do take suggestions for deviations to feature, as well! This month, I had one suggestion from the lovely VFreie (thank you!). If you know of a deviation or writer that you love and want to share, feel free to send me a note entitled "Lit. Daily Pick Suggestion". I'd be happy to read and consider it. Please Note: A deviant may only be featured once a month to make it fair and give others a chance to be featured.
And now, here is my collection of literature picks from this month in order of their date of feature. Be sure to check them out:
March 2013 Lit. Daily Picks
Framed[ I met him at the county fair.:thumb279284157:
It wasn't like the songs predicted;
I had mud up my shins and he
had grass in his hair. What a mess. ]
[ I kissed him at my grandma's house.
He swallowed me and digested me;
I became a part of his simmering self.
We fused together, and I died. ]
[ I married him in a triangular church,
When I turned up in white he grinned
and whispered "what, no muddy knees?".
I put a leaf from my bouquet in his hair. ]
[ He kissed her at my grandma's house.
She had left it to us when she passed.
In the house where I'd learned about love
he taught me all I know about betrayal. ]
[ He left me at the train station.
I'd helped him with his leather suitcase,
struggling to get a grip of the situation
I gave a habitual kiss goodbye. Awkward. ]
[ He met another girl in group therapy.
They had a mad, passionate affair for a year
then, it expired. Shortly after, she did too.
He came to me, life turning to sand. ]
[ I forgave him at my birthday party
surrounded by friends wh
A lion among sheep.There are ghosts in my bloodstream
kissing concrete cells &
the bedroom eyes of nerve endings.
( foreign words
engraved into my marrow, birds in my chest
& wars not yet fought between my hips. )
I've taken myself apart every night
since I learned how to swallow a pen
limb by steady limb.
Passed around by grabby hands,
a sold, & borrowed daughter;
I am a lion among sheep,
drunk on life & ink.
The Alchemist: Chapter oneHe sat alone in the dark, his face half hidden by his clammy, clasped hands. The gold wedding band on his ring finger gleaming in the flickering light of the candle beside him. The clouds below him roiled with rage, as the storm dragged ever on. They passed quickly as the thunder rolled, the mountains cutting through them like so many jagged knives. Were he not flying above them, he would have been even more on edge then he already was at this ungodly time of night. With his eyes closed against the terror in his heart, he did not see the stars as they twinkled merrily over the endless clouds. It would be quite a few hours before they landed in London. His task was a heavy one, and quite frankly, he didn't want to be burdened with it. But never the less it was his task, he made the mistake, and now he had to live with the choices he had made.
The candle beside him offered little comfort in the still all encompassing darkness of the room. The light seemed to flicker in time with the fran
Autumn AutopsyAs lovers,
we were reckless;
in a field of mines.
We traded kisses
and carefree caresses
and blackened skin.
at the cost
of darker afternoons,
of the dying season;
We didn't ask,
we never questioned
of our expenditures.
I shed my skin
in the Autumn of youth,
the viscera and
bared the bone --
a scarecrow of worms
and raw meat,
amongst the stalks
of reddened corn.
to dusty artifacts,
laden with memories
of decaying potency;
rising from the cooling wick
will never be
as sweet as
when the flame
The Divine InheritanceOver the years many a Divine girl had spent her time scrunched up in a corner, watching an older sister get all the attention. Claire knew that she was no different to her aunts, her great-aunts, her great-great-aunts, and well, on it went.
'You don't have to watch, dear,' Mother said, as she held another length of ribbon against Sally's face.
'If you must look on like that, Claire, do come and be useful,' said Grandmother. 'Which one of these ribbons best brings out Sally's eyes?'
'What does it matter about Sally's eyes?' said Claire. 'Even I've got eyes on the outside.'
'You're silly,' said Mother, 'being miserable on purpose.'
'I'm not miserable on purpose!'
'My sisters were the same,' said Grandmother. 'Silly, jealous little girls.'
'If this always happens,' said Claire, 'then why have more than one daughter?'
'To love them, silly. Stop, Mother.' Sally brushed away the length of ribbon, crossed the room and crouched down in front of Claire. 'The Sight may
Dear Boyfriend, In TheoryI would be such a good
love letter writer.
I would take each part of your body
like your eyes and lips, yes,
like the hard vertebrae of your spine,
like the soft curve from the crook of your knee
to your ankle,
apart one by one
color it with paint and crayons
I would stitch it up
pin it down
with words you didn't know you wanted.
I would seal the envelope with a kiss and I
would make an honest metaphor out of you.
Submerge, Emerge.All my life, wading, wading.
Shallow water spreads
Warmth between my toes.
Current sensed within.
All my life, waiting, waiting,
Waiting to go in.
All these years trying, trying
To show what flows through me.
All these years, dying, dying,
Dying to create.
All this time, filling, filling..
No way to release.
Skin cracks from tension
Of everything unshown.
All this time, feeling, feeling,
Collect my thoughts.
Take steady steps.
Down down, until I am submerged.
What I see here,
Is crystal clear:
A way to let myself emerge.
What I see here,
Is crystal clear:
A way to let myself emerge.
All over, pouring, pouring.
Rain has set me free.
Finally I can share
What this world is to me.
All around, finding, finding
What this world is to me.
Part-Time HookerI inhale smoke and dirty thoughts
(sleeping with a waste-of-calories
with no sex appeal. her heart
the volume of
smell increases as it's
getting hotter than a
I don't mind her
cold hands around my --
burned out lights form a
silhouette; film this on
screen like a dream
you can watch or hear.
but she doesn't scream;
her bones suffocate me
as she's wrapped around
my body -
she's stiff, cold, dry.
sleeping with a waste-of-calories
with no sex appeal. her heart
doesn't beat. )
Until I can't breathe.
The Ballad For Those Still MournedSail to seam, my apocalyptic dream.
Move onward to the dilated opium, breathe
in and taste hope in homeland heir.
Be bold - dare to defy finite odes.
Become the soldier, the suit - the armor;
garner of humanity and desolate earth.
Turn tidal-swells of warfare, silently
reprobate the crown, sing of homage, bring
peace with the sound of war burned down.
Sheath the slaying shore,
boast the bounding door.
Articulate the arts of war
and decimate the depths-adore.
Finish the dream, the ode, the chord
of men still mourned.
saltwater lullabyi am beside myself
and you are inside me -
water boarding my heart
and seeping into my lungs.
exit, please, with haste
before i'm laid to waste.
i'm already nothing at all,
a melody comes choking out of my
salt ridden throat
invoking fear in each ear
it falls deafly on.
they never remember me,
until i'm gone,
and neither will you.
on these verses, these words,
these curses -
they vex me
and i have foretold them all.
perhaps, i am a fatalist
The Best Part Of YouOur Memories could never be replaced
Pictures still hang above the fire place
Your warm heart always made each day worthwhile
The best part of you was always your smile
You never failed to lend us a shoulder
Or listening ears as we grew older
And you were always there right from the start
The best part of you was your caring heart
Tough situations didn’t keep you down
You faced life without a tear or a frown
No matter how hard things were, you pushed on
The best part of you was what made you strong
Even though you aren’t here, you won’t fade away
I will think of you every single day
We’re alike, Mother, everyone can see
The best part of you always stays with me
A World of WordsThis written word strung together,
Played off in a cacophony of beauty,
Dancing around in a field of verses.
Visible to all with eyes in their heads,
Or ears sensitive and perked,
But only known to those who watch.
Those chosen few who sit in silence,
Listening to a mute orchestra,
Or watching an invisible ballet.
The truth behind what is visible,
Is seen and created by their worn minds,
Lips upturned with furrowed brows.
Broken hands feeling no pain when creating,
Their minds, hearts and souls filling the page,
In a cacophony of beauty, spilling across the world.
The Butterfly BoyI saw a boy playing in the dark.
He was small and frail, but his eyes had a spark.
In the hands of the child was a shimmer of light,
Matching that of a star in the night.
The shimmer glowed vivid and pink,
Rather cute, someone might think,
And a smile rose on my face,
As I watched his moves, full of grace.
As the shine grew bigger, it split,
Making shadows dance as it did.
Repeating his motions several times,
The boy was now swarmed with pink butterflies!
The boy stood and raised his hands,
Allowing me to see him entranced,
With a gaze in his eyes bright enough
To cover all in his days, that was rough.
I found myself watching for hours,
Wishing I had such magical powers...
So I let my eyes rest,
Letting darkness fill my chest...
Many years passed since then,
The boy's now a handsome young man.
And the spark in his eye
The Virgin and the BullThe lions are holding you back, but you want to run with the bull.
Mercury rules your sky and you're swifted by every astrological pull.
The Sun is setting on the number eight,
Hurry now, before it becomes too late;
Venus is here, to take your breath away,
To save you from being the catch of the day.
You're going in opposite directions, and now may be your chance,
To give that Virgin of yours, a second glance.
FallingLight is deceiving,
Its trickery fooling the weak.
Darkness is honest.
We know what lies there hidden,
The soft voices feeding us
Sweet nectar laced with poison.
Demons and monsters...
At least they tell us they're there.
At least we know their intentions.
We assume light is pure.
Light allows these assumptions
And they hide their true evil.
Souls contain light.
That is why we humans are truly cruel.
Why we can fall into the dark sea.
Without that light...
Perhaps we would be pure.
Perhaps we wouldn't feel so much.
Here I speak
And here you listen,
Servant of darkness and mine own light.
What laughter at my words ring through your foul mind?
What ridicules do you keep from me?
But...why should I care?
The light cares.
My personal monster can hear that laughter.
It knows you're its death.
It accepts that you're our damnation.
But unholy pride...
We hold that far too dear for insults.
I'm losing myself...
Darkness is honest.
Light is deceiving.
Demons have unveiled the trut
Clockwork WhoreA gentle ticking was the only sound that night.
Paris is not as beautiful as they say – for the most part the city is dirty, dishevelled and infected. The tourists are constricted to the beautiful sections, the sections where the rich and powerful live and the money gets spent. Walk less than a mile from this small circle of wealth and you encounter the forgotten Parisians – the prostitutes and the beggars, the hungry and the homeless, the true citizens of Paris.
But on that night, it is through these back streets and alleyways that we must venture. Walking between two dilapidated buildings that sag dangerously is the Vicomte de Chagny - a gentleman well known to those in the backstreets, especially by the working girls. His presence here is not unusual, though many of the girls would agree that he is several hours past his time of usual visitation. But tonight he is not looking for a girl – if anything, he aims to be rid of one.
The Vicomte de Chagny walks slowly, an
Rose Scented Ashes III - SchoolFast forward a few years...
Daniel was now about four, five years old, and getting ready for his first day of school, of Kindergarten. His mother had recently suffered another bout of infuriation toward Valance, who had made one remark about "What happens if the other children find out Daniel's partly plant?" Apparently, she had assumed he meant to reveal it to the other kids, and instantly snapped, chucking a vase at his head, and - thankfully - missing.
Suppose she really didn't want me to have any part in his life, Valance thought as he leaned back in the chair at his desk, reading by the sunlight, slate-violet eyes not really seeing the words on the page in front of him. Not beyond giving him a name - which she has probably already claimed as something she thought of anyway. No, not probably, he already knew as much from the whisperings he tuned in on.
As he listened to the tumult outside of his door, of the babysitter attempting to get the rowdy young c
:: More Than You'll Ever Know ::Does it make you proud
When you're the cause of someone's tears?
Does it bring you joy
Every time you insult the innocent?
Do you know what you do
When you speak with your vicious tongue?
Do you realize what happens
Every time you laugh at another's sorrow?
You see a woman with male friends
And you accuse her of craving sexual attention.
You notice a boy wearing glasses
And you tease him with the name "four-eyes."
There's a group of peace lovers;
You proclaim they're annoying hipsters.
The teenage boys who love each other;
You tear them asunder by calling them abominations.
Do you find pleasure
In being the source of a poor soul's agony?
Do you even think
Of what the consequences could be?
Does it satisfy you
To make someone feel inferior to you?
Does it quench your thirst
Whenever you rule over the oppressed?
If a young man loves writing poetry,
Immediately you dismiss him as a lonely loser.
OsteoperosisWords and bones
are sticks and stones
and they will surely kill me
Congratulations again to all these wonderful writers for their contributions to the literature community. I look forward to reading and featuring next month's batch of Lit. Daily Picks!
Previous Lit. Daily Pick Articles:
Volume 1: January 2013
Volume 2: February 2013