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About Literature / Professional Community Volunteer Jae Waller29/Female/Australia Groups :iconcrliterature: CRLiterature
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Deviant for 11 Years
Core Member 'til Hell freezes over
Statistics 172 Deviations 12,076 Comments 146,908 Pageviews

given DDs

and we are gold again!
so we spin lists
from grit-hinged wrists
and honeyed string —
look, love, here are
our humble fists,
and cold-crushed light 
through everything. 
and that’s the breath we
settle into, because this
is the yellowlit city we are
swimming in. because
we are bound to the
big dance, now, all our
paws in the pack and pulled
out of the pound,
and our soft-mouthed sound
is bled bright
with sighing.
:iconpeaseblossoms:peaseblossoms 50 12
Le vieillard
Le vieillard depuis longtemps sans compagne
à chaque jour, marche combien lentement
sur le large trottoir bondé, jusqu’à ce banc
pour s’asseoir accompagné de sa canne.
C’est sous le soleil de l’après-midi
qu’il contemple un paysage urbain
car elles se baladent dès ce matin
les charmantes femmes de son pays.
Ce sont des rousses ou des brunes
quelques noires, autant les blondes
des minces, également des rondes
que son oeil encore vif ne rate aucune.
Certaines marchent assez rapidement
d’autres ont leur jolie nez pointu en l’air
demoiselles, femmes ou belles-mères
avec leurs cheveux longs dans les vents.
Mais de toutes et chacune, il est ignoré
pendant que le p’tit vieux se souvient bien
de sa mémorable jeunesse pourtant si loin
où elles se retournaient après l’avoir croisé.
Le vieillard n’a désormais grand chose à faire
sauf admirer, apprécier la bea
:icondario-l-art:Dario-L-Art 13 17
we are but remnants
of warmth, imprints
of colors;
time piranhas
to our footpaths,
our blooming forgotten
in the face of a blue moon,
autumnal harvest wreckage,
long-necked and
:iconsoundlesswhispers:SoundlessWhispers 55 23
The Writing Process
    The mountain upon which he sat loomed over the village, its shadow like a tangible malice.  Smoke rolled down its slopes and ascended into the sky, a miasmic odor accompanying it.  A typical day.  The town of Story was waiting for Writer’s next volley of wrath to come tumbling down the mountain.
    The Champion’s Guild had a board full of job listings.  The protagonists, heroes, and motley crews were dispatched to clear the smoke and quell whatever evil had been roused by it.  In their usual fashion, success came moments before failure.  This drew the ire of Writer more than anything else, but despite his best attempts, his own creations always managed to stop his assault.
    The league of antagonists, villains, and monsters was more independently based, only loosely affiliated with one another.  Their worry was not over what Writer wanted to do, because Writer always held a
:iconblizzardblitzer:BlizzardBlitzer 67 40
Something Good to Eat
This news channel
Speaks to me
As a man with a bat would,
Threatening to shatter my windows
When we are all in space.
There has to be bravery
Between rivers of blood,
There has to be pretty blooms
Between the rows of grain.
The red, loathing light of filmed flames
Say no,
There is only pain,
And bread, so plain.
These blazes live to
Not for us
To be alive inside.
:icontrashchameleon:TrashChameleon 54 17
Diary of a social worker
Lately, I have been asking myself the same question over and over, ‘Why do I still want to be a social worker?’
I have seen people suffer.
In schools, where children are meant to learn, grow, and have fun… I see children get badly bullied because of their disabilities. Some of these children should be in specialised schools where they can receive proper support and enjoy school… But no, they are stuck in normal classes where they lose interest in learning, day after day. There are kids who even beg to stay with me, wanting me to take them away from school because they dread it so much.
In homes, where children are supposed to be loved and cared for... there are some who are being raped by their relatives, while others are being beaten up and neglected by their parents. Meanwhile, there are also children who are taken away from their families and children with such low-self esteem that they end up having morbid thoughts. This really isn’t the sort of
:iconjustacapharnaum:JustACapharnaum 67 60
Everything Else
Mozart was crazy. Flat fucking crazy. Batshit, I hear. But his music’s not crazy; it’s balanced, it’s nimble, it’s crystalline clear. There’s harmony, logic. You listen to these, you don’t hear his doubts or his debts or disease. You scan through the score and put fingers on keys and you play. And everything else goes away. Everything else goes away…
— “Everything Else”, Next to Normal
My favorite confessional poet is Anne Sexton, who committed suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning at age 45. A book of her poetry, published posthumously, featured her therapist:
I have words for you, Dr. Y., / words for sale. / Words that have been hoarded up, / waiting for the pleasure act of coming out, / hugger-mugger, higgiliy-piggily / onto the stage.
When I was in kindergarten, a boy hit me in the forehead with a toy truck during playtime because I asked to play with him. I sat in the corner
:iconhoneydewhaiku:honeydewhaiku 34 8
Binary System
When it finally fades
To a scintilla of glow
And the silver unknowingly envelops us,
Would the pressure burst
Into pillars of color
Or would we,
By faint gravity,
Burn brightly and darken
To our cold deaths
Till we build ourselves
From dust once more?
:icondrnnmnr:drnnmnr 42 18
Self love is Bullshit until it isn't
In Berkeley, California, the rain is a downpour.
You shove your pajama pants into your boots to run outside at midnight and
this time only you bring an umbrella and
this time only you smoke a cigarette (the bell of the umbrella: a dingy coronet) and
this time
you don’t want it to kill you.
The rain is driven like the city is making up for
all its months of dryness
like it’s gotta get it all in right now, tonight and so
you’re standing in a river that’s running down your driveway to join all the other rivers and your feet are getting so wet but
you can’t feel it yet and
in the cracked pavement of your shitty rundown street you can see all the intricate channels
filled up by the yellow light of your sodium street lamp and
all of the halls of that lighted maze quiver with the rain still hitting them
with this moment still hitting them.
You’re looking out at it and
all you can do is think
oh my god
because this place is perfect and
so breathtaking that
:iconphilologie:philologie 66 14
Home, sweet Home
“What did you find there, honey?”
“I’m not sure, Greg. Seems like an old diary. Maybe it belonged to the previous owner.”
June 3rd
I’ve just arrived in the new house. It’s nice. Small, and quaint. Just the change of scenery I needed. It’s been about 3 months. Okay, exactly three months and 4 days. I still can’t believe he’s just… gone. My friends all said I was trying to run away from reality. But they don’t understand.
No one does. I just had to get away. From them and from our home.
But all of that doesn’t matter anymore. He’s gone, and I’m gone.
And I think I can make a fresh start here.
I don’t know much about the previous owners, but they’ve planted the most wonderful garden.
I think I will love the garden. I can just sit and remember.
June 12th
Didn’t find any downtime to write until now. I’ve been moving in, lugging furniture around. Arranging and rearr
:iconjenlafayette:JenLaFayette 41 49
The Exposed
I watched them bring him in and place him the cell next to mine. He looked so young, and it'd been an age since I shared my block with anyone else. I tapped the thin wall separating us. “Can you hear me?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, and then added, “Where are we?”
“I actually don't know,” I said. “I'm blindfolded every time I leave and return to this place.” I shrugged. “Sorry I couldn't be more helpful.”
He sighed in frustration. “What is this place, then? Why are we here?”
Those were infinitely more complicated questions. I decided to answer him with another question: “Why do you think you're here?”
He was silent for some time, probably figuring out whether he could trust me. At last, he said, “They couldn't Sort me. They said there was something wrong with me, that they were going to fix it.”
There was nothing wrong with him, of that I was sure. He just didn't fit into our societ
:icondoodlertm:doodlerTM 44 36
Just Right
Something was off about the Woods that morning. Papa Bear couldn’t define it, but the feeling lifted hairs on his back while he suggested the family cut their pre-breakfast walk short. The feeling solidified when they found the front door open. He poked his head inside the cabin and huffed in the intruder’s scent. A human female, young and injured. As he took in the last detail he noticed spots of blood leading to the kitchen.
Mama picked up Baby and held him tight. The scent of her fear pricked those hairs on Papa’s back as high as they could go under his shirt. He knew she was thinking the same thing. An injured human cub, in their house. Were the parents tracking it? Few things were more dangerous than a human who believed you were a threat to its cubs. Even unrelated cubs drew this ferocity from them. It hadn’t been a year passed since Big Bad Wolf found that out the hard way. Mama still made pies for Papa to drop off at the widow’s house on his way to
:iconleonca:Leonca 45 28
pitch black
korean ink decrypted and inflicted
upon my palms pressed down
to calm the repeating refrain,
verses drowned out by the rustle
of my frenzied fingers
crumpling, then uncrumpling
the complexity of your surface.
whatever they say, don't listen.
i crave to be seen as i am,
smothering smiles in this
candlelit silence.
only time may tell, or seal
the secret in such darkness.
:iconpoems-about-hue:poems-about-hue 28 19
where go butterflies
when hurricanes rage?
there I wish to be
:iconarwynrie:ArwynRie 77 31
infinity plus one
regression to etceteras,
the humming of the dead
      the clutched hands
of our only other heart exploded
      like I like,
the room or house where we are
(that's where I thought that).
   incapable of love
or saying hello to who said hello
to who, to the ends of the earth.
at the end of all things.
          to fuck a ghost.
a tangled messy ghost of hands
alive to touch what I said, I said,
too numb to touch nothing else.
a dumb joke that went and told
the absolute truth to her face.
the immanent unstoppable thing
that was smashed up
   in the trash.
it was the end of times,
   it was the only times.
it laid down on the floor/
    was nailed to a cross
through felt contact with its objects
with its unkillable otherworldly friend
who chose with no choice
    and the end.
    began and ended.
and there were no such things.
:iconmuteloop:muteloop 35 8

What can I do for you?


I'm a Literature Community Volunteer. If you have any questions or concerns, or want to get involved in the lit community, send me a note. I'm here to help! :eager:


BibLITothèque: The Writer's Library is my guide series for writing prose fiction.

1: Fiction Diction
2: Scene Charting
3: Stage Cues
4: Writing Visually
5: Plot Structure
6: Conlang for Dummies Part 1


Have some handy plz accounts for indicating whether you want critique or not!


Suggesting Daily Deviations

FAQ #61: What is a Daily Deviation?
FAQ #18: Who selects Daily Deviations and how are they chosen?

You can submit literature to any current lit CV. Please only suggest a work to one CV at a time.

akrasiel's guidelines
doughboycafe's guidelines
BeccaJS' guidelines

How can I suggest a deviation to you?

It's simple! Send me a note with a thumbnail of the piece and the title 'DD suggestion.' One or two lines why you like this piece is helpful, but not necessary.


:bulletblack: Deviants can’t receive a DD if they have had one in the last 6 months.

:bulletblack: Deviants who have been inactive for longer than a month are ineligible.

:bulletblack: Deviations that are part of a current contest are ineligible. You can suggest them after the contest has closed and the winners have been announced.

:bulletblack: If a deviation uses a preview picture (an image above the text), it must be properly credited in the artist’s comments in order to be eligible.

:bulletblack: Self-suggestions are welcome. Promoting your work is a necessary skill for authors!


akrasiel has started a donation pool!
5,127 / 6,000
All contributions go back into the community through contests, charitable projects, donations to artists, etc.

2018 total: 2162
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Recent causes supported:
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Accolades & Kind Things

Daily Deviations

:bulletblack: Lilium (9 Sept 2014)
:bulletblack: The Ozymandias Principle (24 March 2015)
:bulletblack: Nervous System (13 Jan 2016)
:bulletblack: Ars Materia (2 Jan 2017)
:bulletblack: Stonecarver (7 Jul 2017)

Honored 2 Have Gotten DD Stamp by Mirz123

Recent kind things

"You seem like a wonderful person but also down to earth because you're realistic." - WhiskeyDreamer

"Your poetry is disarmingly refreshing and beautiful." - brazenglory

"Always admired your hustle, obvious talent and penchant for dropping encouraging words and thoughts wherever I managed to venture here in dA litland - couldn't have picked a better person to be a CV!" - Carmalain7


Do you consider getting a DD to be an honour? 

85 deviants said yes
21 deviants said it used to be, but not so much now
2 deviants said no
2 deviants said other (comment and explain, plz!)
1 deviant said it didn't used to be, but is now

February 2018 Lit DD Roundup

Thu Mar 1, 2018, 1:29 AM
Congrats to all who got one! Keep reading, suggesting, and supporting each other!

:icondoughboycafe: Features by doughboycafe

Three Million DollarsBy no means was I surprised when the first pop-up appeared on my computer screen. I had been surfing through the internet for about 30 minutes when it happened, and I just assumed it was some sort of stupid virus. Or scam. I mean, it had to be, right?
“Click now to receive three million dollars! Just press “Accept”!”
How wonderful, the sarcastic little voice in my head meeped. No, thank you. I quickly searched for the red “x” button on the top right corner of the message and pressed it, hoping that wouldn’t bring me to another site full of ads and even more misery. Can’t I look through my social media in peace?

“Click now to receive three million dollars! All you have to do is press the button below!”
Another one? Now, this was just getting annoying. I repeated the same step as I did before. Holding
Rainlight    Rain crackled as it hit the ground, scattering sparks in every direction. It was a nostalgic kind of rain, with a warm electric glow and steam that curled upwards as the falling water smashed into the pavement.
    It was a beautiful sight, but a dangerous one.
    A familiar voice startled him from behind. “You actually came.”
    Cathias turned from the window to see the soft glow of Matiah’s eyes blinking from the doorway. Blue eyes, the color of a sparkmoth in flight. “Of course.” 
     “Come then. We need you to see this.”
     “The worms.” Cathias said, keeping pace with her. “You said it was urgent.”
    She sighed as the door slid open.
    Cathias winced as he stepped into a room. Research lights were painfully bright, reflecting off the angular metal walls, and revealin
Jacked UpIt was the sort of underground market the police used as an example when they wanted some more funding from the politicians. The average citizen would have been horrified by what went on there, by the sort of illegal acts and goods that could be gotten with enough credits.
Hookers swarmed you the moment you stepped onto the street. They were like small children begging for coins from the rich tourists. Their words soothed your ego and propped you up so that you'd throw a few credits their way for a moment of warm human contact.
Byron felt like he'd come home. He spent a moment with the first hookers that descended on him. A pretty little redhead with firm breasts and a prosthetic eye that glowed red stuck with him until he finally dumped her. Cost extra to get an eye like that, most people wanted a real looking eye after all, but when you were a hooker having something that made you stand out was worth a few credits.
As tempting as a real female body was to Byron after two years of pri
HallwayI always hated hallways, but now I never want to enter any of them ever again. What happen tonight scared me beyond anything and twisted and disturbed some of my nicest childhood memories.
When I was little I lived in an old farmhouse with the rest of my family. My grandparents had been farmers their whole live, but had already retired when I was little.
The farmhouse was huge, almost a hundred feet in total. I used to sleep in the same room as my mom, but once I was a little older I got my own room. I loved it. It was huge, had a couch, a bed and all my toys were there.
There was one problem with the room: It was located in the middle of the building. To go anywhere I had to follow a long hallway which stretched out through the whole building. This was fine during the daytime, since big windows at both ends would allow the light to enter.
At night though, this hallway was my own personal hell. It was creepy and both sides simply ended in darkness. The worst part was that the only ligh
on the cold, alaska 2016you say there are only two types of cold:
in one a shadow hangs on your bones like an old ghost;
the other is a color, or stillness, or both.
even now,
part of me still melts in the summer months,
part stays green year-round:
come, see the bitter artist at work
say how’s that for a show? look at the sky
bleed into the horizon, how the peaks cry and carve
the earth with their guilt;
say here, we are all running from something,
land of lost boys, gone chasing clouds
only to end up in smoke.
say, how’s that for a show? see how lonely can look
so beautiful with the lights on, when the ice has receded
and the ground has begun to regain its color.
know that even then, the cold remains.
Nuclear WinterThere were only a few signs at first:
Rumors on the streets,
sidelong glances and knowing looks,
specific questions and awkward conversations.
Then it became more obvious:
Outright accusations,
those close to me getting ready,
news from (un)verified sources.
The explosion came long after:
It shook the ground as ire spewed from our mouths,
sending people nearby running for cover.
Smoke billowed out from our ears and noses.
Words, like flaming comets raining to the ground,
littered down and burned both of us.
We hissed and seethed like bubbling water, burning anyone
that was unfortunate enough to be close to us.
The radioactivity alone was the silent killer,
the air too toxic to breathe in.
We were immune to the poison, since we were the source,
so we drank it in as it killed our lungs.
The fallout was shocking; nothing was spared.
Everything that remained was reduced to rubble and ashes.
We sat in silence for a while as we took this in.
There was no hope for an "us" anymore.
What came n
Chronicles: ApathyAgain, upended--suspended,
Seeking resurgence unresisting,
Instead barrier and blockade.
Five months and fourteen nights,
The only yield an indifferent frost.
The landscape, transfigured:
A dismembered ecosystem
Of mud-turned-brick,
Flowers withered corpses in their casket-beds,
A frozen lake of dead grass lined by the
brittle forest's edge;
Resigned, with a melancholic wince;
Trees bare that never bore any leaves.
DAILY DEVIATION: Minding Sutures
If I described
in detail
how thoroughly
you decimated my heart,
could you even
believe me?
I wonder, as I sit with trembling hands
and a cup of coffee,
gently pulling at a thread,
suture to close the gap in my wrist,
strings to make my marionette hands
move through the day
to some other tune.
I am always cold
so I lay in the sun
like the snake I am.
You weren’t the first, no,
but you will be the last.
There is nothing left of this stone
but a handful of sand.
Wistful thinking…
my mind’s eye still sees your smile,
kind; oh the lie!
I recall vows; broken.
Sweet nothings; only a token.
I only dance by necessity,
pulling on chords of bass;
right, left, right, left,
it’s only motion these days,
moved by moons and tides.
I recall the allure
of the night jasmine,
but lips no longer bush my neck;
there… just there…
I cut the thread with my teeth
gnawing at my wrist.
It isn’t pretty,
but necessary.
The cold will bide,
I will go through the motions
of an
They Finally Caught OneMark was bored. He had no idea one could get bored while hanging upside down after getting caught in one’s own trap, but the evidence was hard to deny. He’d exhausted the entertainment value in counting trees, rocks, and tracking the sun. By his reckoning, at least an hour had passed since his party had abandoned him to go chasing that pack of bores. He could still see it in his mind’s eye.
They’d spent an hour or so spent on laying traps all around this area and were just wrapping up. Then those damn pigs came screaming by. Mark thought it suspicious, like they’d been spooked or something, but all Curdly and Na’Sala could see was easy points and meat. They ran and he made to follow, only to get caught in one of their traps. They didn’t see him, too blinded by their prize as they ran off.
“Where the hell are they?” he whined. “I’m getting dizzy.”
There was a rustling in the bushes behind him and he felt his blood r
Choose to Live - The RuinsTick tick tick.
You can hear one of them.
        It won’t be long now before it finds you, you’re sure of that.  You were taught that the tapping is never anything to go by, but you’re sure it can’t be further than the next ruined shell of a room.
  ‘At least it isn’t a Whistler.’
That was the last thing Urqhart said before you lost him in the dark of the Tunnels.
Before you and Race got separated from the others after the cave in.
        The Tapper continues its steady percussions against the wall—or is it the floor—you can’t tell, you can hardly see in the gloom.  You lost your light somewhere in the fall through the flooring—they told you that the ruins were dangerous—but they never really prepared you for this.
        Race hasn’t moved, you’
67P/Churyumov-Gerasimenko's RevengePascale nearly spilled coffee when she hopped into the elevator, but the skip in her step and the breakfast for the crew were warranted – for the past few hours, ESA had been communicating with her darling project again, after three years of radio silence. The Canadians had written the comet lander off, but not Pascale: German efficiency and Swiss precision, and alright, some Hungarian, French, Dutch, Italian... help had to count for something, and so it did. As of three thirty in the morning, Saskatchewan time, the lander had been steadily feeding the ground stations zeros and ones, spelling out the long-awaited 'I AM AWAKE' handshake.
Pascale's mood sobered when she stepped into the radio room, and saw that no-one was celebrating.
     ”Was ist los – is everything alright? Not a false alarm, I take it,” she said.
     ”No, er, we're not sure,” said Eric Love, who looked like he could use some of that coffee s

:iconbeccajs: Features by BeccaJS

QueerWhen I started preschool, I was a loner, because none of the boys wanted to play with me. I only had a few friends, mostly out of the other boys who were loners.
I didn't want to play with the girls. They liked boring games. None of them wanted to play with dinosaurs, and they thought kickball was stupid.
I eventually learned that girls were supposed to like pink, and that boys weren't allowed to. I've hated the color ever since. I don't even know if I genuinely hate it, or if I hate everything society has made it to be. They have become inseparable in my mind.
There was a girl at my elementary school who had short hair. Everyone mistook her for a boy. I tried to hang out with her and acted like we were friends.
We weren't. I was just jealous.
When I started to develop my own clothing preferences, my mom wouldn't let me wear black t-shirts. She said that black wasn't a color for little girls. I was so mad. I didn't see any difference, and decided it was all just unfair.
I'm 22 years ol
Temporal PowerTemporal Power
“Incorrect. You have one chance remaining.”
Vince was so cold he could not remember the sensation of warmth. He could remember feeling it, of course, could remember enjoying sunlight and campfires and a lover's arm across his back, just not what those actually felt like. Only a month ago he had left Mars Colony—only a month since the Benedicts had stormed Mars Control and handed most of the Terran spacefleet over to the jOLeer. Since he'd lost Arjun.
The hologram repeated its message in a few other incomprehensible languages while Vince struggled to think of an answer. Eventually, it cycled back to Old Mammal Standard 3.
“I remind you, supplicant, that should you be unable to answer, the Heavensvault will remain locked for the next--” What followed was an apparently untranslatable word. Sounded like “ghzriet.” Probably some unit of time. Nobody in the damn galaxy seemed to use the same ones. Vince didn't bother looking at
cyclesdeath is a process
to process
it was never
about always staying
I am in mud
sprouting shoots
reaching sunlight
and falling through
and as always
I always do it all again
The Dragon and the Dying StarsOnce upon a time, in a world far distant, the night sky grew dark. Slowly, at first, the stars grew dim. The king’s philosophers at first thought that this was nothing more than the action of passing aeons, and that more would burn anew. But ere long their numbers dwindled, and the naked eye saw plainly what no telescope could: the stars were consumed.
     Troubled, the king sent out his greatest knight upon a steed of chrome. Agravane was that knight’s name, and in his hand he bore a sword born of a dying star. Never would that blade break, and never would its edge grow dull. For many weeks Agravane rode through the void, and for as many weeks the king watched through the seeing-stone that stood before his throne.
    At last, Agravane found his foe, and the king at last saw who it was who plucked the stars from the aether like grapes from the vine.
    It was a dragon, vast as his kingdom and black as the void.
Balloon FuneralMan spotted getting out of his car to tie a Get Well Soon balloon around the front paw of a dead raccoon. Witnesses speculate the man, mid-40s, white, was responsible for the raccoon’s untimely demise earlier that afternoon. Wracked with guilt, unsure of the moral stain left on his tires when he crushed a small mammal in his path, the man returned to the scene of disaster to extend his well wishes and express his remorse through a plastic, rainbow, loud, GET WELL SOON balloon, before taking a picture and re-entering his car. Witnesses say: “Sucks to be the raccoon. But you've got to admit, the balloon is pretty funny.”
In Nowheretown, Nowhereland, people learn to find news in the dirt by highways, in the stretch of nothing between are we there yet and when can we leave. The photo in today’s paper is magnificent: a body on display, not at all embarrassed to be dead. No mortician taught this corpse how to be polite, how to close its eyes and arrange its limbs to a
wombsi lingered in my mother's belly
like a hunger
five days after i was due 
to make my grand appearance.
it's almost as if i was hesitant to leave the womb,
to break upon this empty sky as dawns do,
spill my colors like glowsticks on this bleak world,
or maybe, let the world
spill its bleakness onto my beauty
a baby
wrapped in cotton and swaddled in fate
as i grew older
i witnessed the other kids losing their baby teeth and 
i wanted nothing to do with it
i let my teeth dangle like christmas ornaments
hanging by a thread,
didn't want to sever the ties i had
the first food i ate went past these very teeth
they erupted from my peach-flesh gums, turned valleys to mountains
the first words i babbled fell into the world, slipped through these pearls
irregular as the flight of a bat
but no matter how scared i felt, my baby teeth still fell
hard white snowflakes, bleeding ruby, meteor showers flowering into the sink,
later plucked up and put into a little box for the tooth fairy
and wh
A une dame creoleIl y a un pays parfumé aux charmes ignorés ;  
Ses fragrances sont marchandées à prix d'or
Et il est dit que ses terres fleurissent sous la nuit.
Le calme des épaves et quelques zestes d'orange, 
Pour les naufragés rêvant d'un port bienveillant,
Ses rivages ont l'amertume de l'espoir.
Pendant qu'un soleil palpite au détour d'immenses collines,
La lumière polychromatise ses chaudes plaines
Qui s'empourprent de vastes coquelicots.
Une troupe de milliers d'inconnus se réunit, s'unit,
Brandit de fiers hautbois d'acajou et guidée
Par ses gestes, entame une parfaite musette.
Dans ses bois enchanteurs aux multiples harmonies, 
Des traces de ballades égarées, deux silhouettes, 
Quelques sonorités vagabondes s'évaporent.
aphrodite throws up in the club and shit goes wildIf a body falls
In the        woods
  No one
Is around 2 hear
Did it really exist
    Was a body ever
             a body ever
             a patch of
 Un touched grass
With no   sex or scratch
   Upon it
Did it ever have a stomach
      in which things grew
            Or were cultivated
Such as mountainous
Or reddened fruit
      was it true
   that old siren before the rocks bashed
Her skull in
   combing grey hairs into
  the vomit ocean
      where gods go to bcome nameless
  my god is spilled milk
And fluoxetine & being a bad person
My alter 2 Her is
 a fallen body
    in the woods
        what doesn’t like 2 brush its teeth

:iconakrasiel: Features by akrasiel

Effects of RadioactivityHorror Scenario
Was this power plant not a big ember,
Ignited through the reactor’s tremendous energies?
Its flaming beam cut the courage of firefighters
In ever-consuming ectomies.
In the firestorm, they saw nothing but sparks;
Again and again, heat waves flood after flood.
What here burned will never bloom again,
No phoenix will be resurrected.
It will only survive the wind and its shrill disphonies.
Even today people in the region suffer from radiation exposure.
Whole areas were contaminated.
Especially children are affected by the radioactive food:
The children of Gomel, just a few kilometers away from Chernobyl.
Help in Need
Since the year 2000, our community allows the children of Gomel
An annual recovery stay.
The mayor takes care of host families in our three small villages.
Gomel students and their teachers spend happy days with us.
Our mayor supports the commitment of the children's aid Gomel, and
Our community has been a partner of the a
Bottled SpiritsThe sage was probably overkill, but enough was enough. Three bottles in the last week alone, and that wasn’t counting the months beforehand. It wasn’t her stuff, but her roommate believed it was her doing. Purchasing replacements was getting expensive, and the looks Tanya kept throwing Emily’s way had bypassed ‘mildly embarrassing’ and were fast approaching ‘grating.’
Emily couldn’t even share her own suspicions about the vanishing alcohol, not without making those looks even worse. As far as Tanya - and most of the world - was concerned, the mysterious disappearance of bottled liquor typically had one or two basic possible causes: either the bottle leaked (unlikely when spread across multiple bottles like this), or someone was drinking it, and barring the bizarre outlying possibility of trespassers who left no sign of their entrance or exit and took nothing except the drink itself, it could only be one of the usual inhabitants.
Tanya kne
anfractuous.and I have so many things yet to show you.
none of this is beautiful when compared to hair whipping out a car window in a night
so deep and far-flung from city lights that you can see by starlight for 
desert grass desert dust sighing in the
wind chasing at the tires and the sky
oh my god the sky oh my god that
sky she calls
for only her wildest children tonight, she calls
for us to gallop against each other against each
other our shoulders brushing with canyons with coyotes like brothers
like sisters she calls
for us calls after us as we pelt free and far-flung beneath her black-blue starified belly pregnant with
planets pregnant with music pregnant with
wilder dreams than these
pilgrimageWe went work-weary, whisper-wrecked,
skin dripping like acid off our necks
– grit, and sweat – our white, pockmarked
sun hanging low in the sky. Stark
even against the dark blue,
silhouetted peaks rose looming
in the distance like a grotesque row of saluting
soldiers. We trembled at the view
with the cold familiarity of mutts
caught too often looting in back alleys,
the whiplash certainty in our soured guts
of being casualties.
We went, our feet as compasses
pointing to "far" and "away", the twisted specter
of the firing squad always over our shoulder,
blurring our sight. We left a trail of ashes
and blistered hope. We left nothing behind:
sorrow-homes and fear and blood
walked along us in the mud
and ahead of us in our minds.
changing leaveswith gold on your fingertips,
you paint the leaves as bright as your bones
now carrying bravery, bright as
the wings on your back, always
abuzz or afloat or alight and never
never backing down - my dear
you are what the tide brought in, a piece
of warm wood, a moment
of sunshine and serendipity and here
we are now, walking the same
bridges of words, of wishing, and you:
elbows painted with garlands, flowering and free
from thorns, soft
strength in the stems alone -
how you grow with the brightness of the leaves,
grow to bury your hands in tall trees,
and carry wisdom tucked into the backs of your knees
- you
step on the snow
and into soft light, your very own world
of ivory and autumn and gold
and i am still in awe at every glimpse of it
you sing with the wind and change with the leaves
your heart still a soft thing glittering
more than any bared teeth
and so i see you
and so i send
all my starlight and birdsong and blossoms
with the wind
to my favourite of fairies
blue fly stuck to black inside a yellow flytrapa blue fly stuck to black inside a yellow flytrap
morning broke in tiny shards    mourning broke my heart 
going blind and dark        said you were good as gold   
said go and good riddance        I shudder dour        I shut the door
the slam broke it off the hinge      I am broken and unhinged
left the door key in attic      left this dorky addict      in a crave    
in a cave        damp and dark      damn this dark    damn these scars             
forgot the black of empty pages    forgot how bad he rages
numb to smack of rage 
The Beginnings That Lie In ClosenessRemember when the flashlight
turned the palm into a canvas?
Brought it into the light
baring bones of fingers
smoothed of their joints,
like an x ray
of the earliest sketch of us,
like the osteal lines
of a neighborhood
beneath the moon
relegated to the idea of itself
as we turn to dreams;  
it was around that time I recalled
how I was wrong about the waves
inside the shell,
not knowing
they were behind my ear,
pouring through my veins
with the same eagerness  
to rush, to hear
what they longed to hear.
A rough sketch
can be anything you want it to be,
a dissipating fog remembering
as it hugs you,
a light in the distance courting the eye.
I tried to bring
my emotional
support world
on the flight
to today
and was told
no way, not even
if I bought it
a seat,
so here I am
without my world,
thinking about
going back
and wondering
what they did
with it after
they made me
leave it behind
infinity plus oneregression to etceteras,
the humming of the dead
      the clutched hands
of our only other heart exploded
      like I like,
the room or house where we are
(that's where I thought that).
   incapable of love
or saying hello to who said hello
to who, to the ends of the earth.
at the end of all things.
          to fuck a ghost.
a tangled messy ghost of hands
alive to touch what I said, I said,
too numb to touch nothing else.
a dumb joke that went and told
the absolute truth to her face.
the immanent unstoppable thing
that was smashed up
   in the trash.
it was the end of times,
   it was the only times.
it laid down on the floor/
    was nailed to a cross
through felt contact with its objects
with its unkillable otherworldly friend
who chose with no choice
    and the end.
    began and ended.
and there were no such things.

We are always looking for more DD suggestions! Self suggestions welcome! Check out each CV's profile for their suggestion guidelines (squanpie's are forthcoming), and help us spread the word about great lit on DA!


Jae Waller
Artist | Professional | Literature
"Heaven sent but hell bent on getting shit done"

I'm very much a multi-disciplinary artist. I have a BFA in fine arts and creative writing, plus I've studied linguistics and Japanese, which might explain my scattershot approach. :B I'm originally from northwest Canada, but currently live in southeast Australia and can't tell which season it is.

My debut novel The Call of the Rift: Flight will be published on April 3.

Stock Account:
Facebook: Jae Waller, Author
Twitter: @JaeWalrus
Goodreads: Jae Waller


:iconllama-plz: Please don't thank me for llamas. :iconllama-plz:
Returning them is the best thanks you can give!


Add a Comment:
Lantret Featured By Owner 4 days ago
Thank you for the +fav :happybounce:
Dario-L-Art Featured By Owner 6 days ago  Professional
Thank you for the DD, Jae! xx
akrasiel Featured By Owner 5 days ago  Professional Writer
wiwaldi24 Featured By Owner 6 days ago  Hobbyist Digital Artist
ThxforFave by wiwaldi24  
safika987 Featured By Owner Apr 7, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you very much for adding my story to your favourites, it always means a lot to me!Blush  
thewriter197 Featured By Owner Mar 21, 2018
Hi, (thewriter197)

--I need help finding fantasy writing job websites.

--All my previous research has lead me to (business writing job websites).

--I am having difficulty finding (fantasy writing job websites).

--Any website you can provide will be appreciated.

--In return, I will give you some (business writing job websites).

--Respond to me on deviantart or by email.

EXAMPLES: (script writing, book writing, small content fantasy writing).

Name: thewriter197
akrasiel Featured By Owner Mar 21, 2018  Professional Writer
I recommend you try It’s the primary index for editors, literary agents, and journals accepting submissions.

Beyond that, I don’t have any suggestions, sorry. Literature doesn’t really work the same way as other industries; publishers don’t tend to list jobs for writers. You have to write the story first, submit it to an editor, and hope for the best. Other industries like video games may offer freelance writing for fantasy, but I don't know anything about entering that market, and it probably requires a pretty particular skill set.
thewriter197 Featured By Owner Mar 21, 2018
The data you offered is bad,

---look, i appreciated the fact you tried, but this is serious business, when you hunt, you hunt for job websites connected to your career, this is life and death, not a video game, you lose you die. This job game is game where you must win or you die. You dont have a choice in it. You must make enough money or you die.

-----Somebody gave me some data to work with.

----Thanks for trying in general.

Here some job websites connected to writing...................... (indeed, flexjobs).
akrasiel Featured By Owner Mar 21, 2018  Professional Writer
I think you misunderstood me. I wasn't comparing a writing career to a video game. I was talking about writing stories and scripts for video games, because gaming is a multi-billion dollar industry, which may well be more lucrative for writers than publishing books.

I don't do freelance writing though, so I don't know anything that might help you. Sorry :shrug:
(1 Reply)
refield Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for considering The Little Knight and The Cave worthy of adding to your collection of favorites; may your treasure be found when it is yours to find.
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