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! 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:
December 2013 Lit. Daily Picks <da:thumb id="416728403"/><da:thumb id="405911712"/>
necrosistake a step into this deadly wonderland,
be greeted by what was once merely sweet snowflakes in your auburn hair.
innocence is for the weak-hearted and i am no more
a child seeing dreams in the first snow of the season called tragedy.
winter is a term weaved off of festivities and holiday lights
but this season is not only hot chocolate on snowy nights - not anymore.
we watch as the sky darkens and freezes the words we never got to say,
see the beating hearts - heavy with sorrow -
and we know that the seasons have changed: no more is the warmth of autumn.
we're wrapped up in the timeless hope that we don't stare out the window
only to watch the end of the living as the landscape is blanketed with our eventual doom;
but as the hollow shock of another death too young settles onto the town,
we cannot help but see now that winter
is simply another word for grief.
pollenwasp-waisted beauty
pray into my collarbone
let your snake tongue slither
with the syllables.
i wish for soft-chested nights,
and the trickle of champagne down crystal glass.
poppy-lips, lull me to sleep,
nurse my coiling tongue with yours;
tap my scalp like a silent drum,
and wind my hair in between your fingers
like broken guitar strings.
(serenade me with the buzz of pollen in your kiss.)
Laudanum and the Moonlit NightFlattered by the gossamer glow of a blushing moon,
I scour the poppy-fields for the opiates of inspiration,
the petals brushing against my bare thighs; easing
the tense creases in my neck into shivers down my back.
What wanton joy, as I wander and wade in this sea of red,
the waves of flowers parting before me, waltzing with
the silent wake of my footsteps. I could saunter on forever,
holding nightfall by the waist; nature at my beck and call.
Why do you blush, moon? Is it because of how stark naked
I appear before you, disrobed by your own coaxing caress?
All cares do I brush aside, when on the night you do preside,
and aloft the cloudless sky, gild gleaming eyes with wonder.
Why does Dorian linger in that gray opium den for a whiff
of oblivion, when you could soothe him to sleep with but a blink
of your lidless eye? In a dream would we saunter on forever,
watching nightfall go to waste; nightly would we call out to you,
but you would never answer...
Our DutyWe swallowed the path home
Because we were hungry,
Though starving is an ongoing
Story, an empty bag
Dancing in the streets,
Full of an unfastened voice
Walking through the house,
Wind unchained, heart admonished.
Heaven fills its eyes, crawls away,
That sleeping boat content to follow
The vacant waves, intervals
Of dying that we dare not interrupt,
And we watch the kind ear shrinking
From our charcoal docks; heaven
With a full stomach crawls away.
This is what we were put here for.
Daric - KalachIt was called Kalach.
Some admiring souls had another name for it: the City of Dreams. In actual fact, Kalach was so much better than that. It was a dream made reality. It had been built in Eastern Europe as a joint effort between Men and Dwarves, the former's ambitious vision fantasically realised by the latter's architectural ingenuity. Sloping, elegant structures shone in the sun, the light refracting and bouncing off the previous metals. Doors slid open with barely a noise, and rounded windows were carved delicately into the walls. The sunlight pervaded everywhere - every street, every alley, every house. In the day, the city lit up like a beacon, the streets milling with denizens of all species and colours: Men, Elves, Dwarves and Orcs among them. Even a few Goblins could be seen, furtively selling their wares on the busy markets under the shade of the thin spires. At night, the bars and restaurants would open, and the stars and moonlight would hang in the sky, drifting past the o
Vanguard, Chapter 1: DuncanDuncan's Journal: Day 1288
I consider myself a good man. I respect women, elders, my equals, and the dead. I say a morning prayer, and an evening one. Hell, I even thank the gods for a meal, instead of immediately chowing down in the voracious manner as the other soldiers here do. By all logical means, I should be in paradise. No really, not just because I'm a good man, but also because I should be dead by now. So I ask myself: why, oh gods up there, have I ended up in hell?
1288 days. 1288 days of my life have been spent in this misery, and I'm beginning to lose faith in the glory I was promised. Some of the rookies still live in their ignorant bliss, but I've lived long enough to realize that there's not much glory to find here. “Sing the songs of glory and march into battle—-join The Crusade today!”. Such were the words of the posters The Crusade has spread all over The Mortal Realm. Gullible fools practically stand in line for these songs of glory that th
Stuck The car sputtered and shook as it came to an almost silent stop. The engine had gone silent as the horn beeped loudly through the dark night. The orange gas light blinked mockingly at the woman behind the wheel. It was making fun of her; she knew it was making fun of her. Grabbing the black cellular phone on the passenger seat, she looked at it with full intention of calling somebody to come help her.
“Oh, what the hell?!”
The “no service” sign was mocking her at the same exact time. The horn beeped loudly as she slammed her head against it once again. The day was out to get her in general. She had arrived at all her classes late, and her son was sick with the flu. The babysitter was able to watch him as she went to her late night classes. Giving a heavy sigh, she lifted her head off the wheel to look out the window. Drops of water pooled on the windshield as rain started to fall in a pitter-patter pattern. She didn’t quite understand the message th
The Pet Clause ch1This is what most people would call an adorable street adorned with little doll houses, completely furnished and filled with such realism that it brings warmth to those around it in such a blissful appreciation for the craftsmanship. It’s a good few blocks on a wide-spread grid containing at least fifty miniature, fully functional houses. Complete with its own set of living, breathing tiny humans to inhabit its beauty.
Or you’d be better off calling it hell, if you were the human stuck inside it. I haven’t even been here long and the area already gives me the creeps. There is no way anyone can get used to the giants wandering around a store, staring into your world, and judging every aspect about you. There’s nothing to do, either. It’s maybe my second week here. I live in a small pink house between an orange one and a baby blue one. I’m pretty sure, though I could be wrong, a twenty one year old girl lives in the orange house, and a twelve-ye
Wistful"I am the boy who wants to love<da:thumb id="420134811"/>
your misshapen words,
your broken hearted pieces,
and
your ink split fingers.
I am the boy who wants to kiss
those scar tattooed arms,
that tear stained face
and
mend what has been broken.
I am the boy who can
and will
make your heart
sing poetry again."
If only he would say it
now
like he had
then.
i don't think im alive enough to die yet.we used to play russian roulette on dingy street corners,<da:thumb id="420134541"/>
cigarettes hanging from soot-blackened lips
and morphine running rampant through our drugged up systems.
i remember how i was always shot.
you ran away when i didn't die
and left me to bleed out
onto the cold concrete.
but you don't understand-
dolls and wallflowers are empty inside,
and hearts constructed hastily with broken matchsticks
don't beat true. it's just dull thumping
in a hollow chest cavity.
(and even the best dentists can't fill this one up.)
CrossroadsShe's at a crossroad again.
If she recalled correctly, then this was the fourth time in her entire life. She tentatively places a foot forward, on to the cool glass. Decisions were never my strong point, she thinks. Knowing that this could take anywhere between an hour to a few days, she takes off the bulky coat, spreading it out before taking a seat in the middle of the cross-section. There weren't going to be any passers-by after all.
Wait. I've...I've never looked back.
The thought crosses her mind for less than a second, but it clutches onto the messy vines inside her head and before she can stop herself, she's turning her head around looking over her shoulder and gazing into the mist-filled street. It's murky, grey, dark, and filled with heavy rain.
Why have I never looked back?
She doesn't know if that's really a question, or if it's something she's asking herself, but she definitely finds the confusion that comes with the thought loathsome, at best. Deciding
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Snake SkinHe has a shattered soul and see-through smile
Leading to the blue bridges around
His heart; He's someone who knows
What pain is.
He cannot shed his scars like snake skin,
So instead he bares his neck
And shows them to the world;
A gallery of pain and sorrow,
He lets the devil see
What your haphazard ways have done.
The NecklaceCliché Hallmark cards
Always start the waterworks.
Even at crowded restaurants.
To know.... it's a piece,
Of my Mommy Jean
Shaking, beaming, crying
As that slim white gold clasp
click... for the first time.
A feather's weight
Instantly at home on my collarbone.
***Fast-forward***
Hiccup-sobbing
Slit-eyes red and swollen
That pendant-spot between my breasts
Scratched and red
From shaking hands,
Grasping for anything to ground me.
Tremblingly closing that slim white gold clasp
click echoing with tears
***Fast-forward***
Heaving my duffel up my steps
And down the hallway,
To my last door on the right
Dropping it and a gasp
Hands immediately undoing
the circular clasp at my neck
Frantically grabbing the chain on my dresser
Breathing slowing as the heavier chain,
But lighter pendant comes to a rest
click and my breathing becomes regular
Sighing as I flop into bed. Home.
***Fast-forward***
Sighing nervously,
Self-co
Elf on a Shelf Thomas’ hat jingled as he climbed from the stocking with the Santa face; the elf had a big job to do, and he had to do it quietly. His child couldn’t know that he moved around at night to tell Santa of all the things that he had seen. It’s his job to tell the Big Man if she had been naughty or nice. He tiptoed around to not make a sound. No need to wake anybody sleeping within the house. Thomas paused for a moment when he went past the cream-colored tom cat. The cat, Murphy, slept on the window seal. Murphy rolled before placing his tail over his snout. Thomas grinned as he stepped over the cat before phasing through the window; he is an elf on a shelf. Elves needed to leave houses without making much of a creak.
The wind called to him as he flew through the sky with its help. Jack Frost was good for many things, but helping elves get to North Pole was def
White Christmas Love LetterI'm writing to you from underneath a streetlight, watching the black curve of the asphalt road lead away. Soft whispers of wind passing dark and silent while the rain falls, white music over the rooftop of the world like silk and dust and static in the dusk. I look for the light flooding across the open sky, a red blush that makes me think of you, the rosy hues of your cheeks underneath the soft hush of snow on a Winter's day in Florence. The white blanket's tread covering you like a child with a cloak.<da:thumb id="369590724"/><da:thumb id="420373977"/>
I want to lay you at my feet with that white Christmas, the soft flight of your heart beating with mine, your chest pressed to me and our hands entwined under the pale oblique fall of rain and ice in the dark. Flowers bloom here for Christmas, but not for me without you. Across the world, the blossoms fade and die with cold, their loveliness more beautiful for that fragile flame, extinguished under a damp, light cloud. A moment lost is precious simply for being a memory.
Here, the air s
Train Station LoveThe thing about unrequited love is that it isn't happy.
Nor is it romantic.
It's stupid.
It's mentally deteriorating.
It's like waiting for a train that never even existed in the first place.
You're waiting like some mad person at a station that's never been built in the first place.
You're relying on a watch that permanently says the time for love is now.
It's not now or ever.
If you're waiting for that train, I recommend you jump in front of it instead.
It might shock you when those headlights coming your way was just the rising sun.
Might even shake you from this delirium called unrequited love.
victorianthe old house where your heart resides is falling down around me. crystal chandeliers no longer are prisms of light and colour as the sun sets but mere reminders of what i once felt; beautiful and radiating from within. mirrors shatter when i catch my reflection in the corners. a pert nose here, a tangled lock there, and hollow envy eyes in the fragments that remain. because when you told my eyes were the most beautiful shade of green i knew you couldn't really see.
when the man in the moon looks down on the wreckage that was once me he sheds no tears, just looks down in pity. it makes my stomach turn, bile rising in my throat. will you still call me beautiful when my stomach bloats and my cheekbones cradle tears and blood and my dreams of you?
AstroYou are a trajectory from which I have fallen, Moon-bound
Earth-boy. With height and speed your molecules shifted;
I dropped away by degrees — further, then further.
There must be all the sky between us now,
but I taste your dust with my fingertips,
follow afterglows.
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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 Volume 3: March 2013 Volume 4: April 2013 Volume 5: May 2013 Volume 6: June 2013 Volume 7: July 2013 Volume 8: August 2013 Volume 9: September 2013 Volume 10: October 2013 Volume 11: November 2013
