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EPIC: they make outThe wineglass slid out of his fingers to break with a crunch on the foot of the table.
"Oh, come on," she said, exasperated. "Now we're going to have to clean--"
Robin didn't finish her sentence before he lurched out of his seat and towards her, and she had time for one squeak of protest before he grabbed her waist and kissed her.
Appalled, she said, "Matthew!" and tried ineffectually to shove him away, but then suddenly she tasted the wine on his lips, and any resistance she'd felt melted away into a heady haze. She could feel his mouth insistent on hers, his tongue on her lips, the wine-laced tang of his breath. His hands were hot at her sides, firm and possessive, and she reached up to touch his face. He was, suddenly, unspeakably handsome. He hadn't always been so good-looking, had he?
Matthew, breathing hard, wrenched away from her and pushed her back a few steps, until she was up against the edge of the bed, prevented from falling only by his hands on her waist. He pulled her hip
Freedom(Open-mindedness is not a power.)
Hold up your hand.
Straighten it and make a fist. That arm is a solid structure, a column of cells, a staff.
It's simply a cylinder, and that is all.
(Open mindedness is not a force.)
Go up to a trashcan, place your hands on its side, and shove as hard as you can.
Try it. Watch the trashcan fly, its lid clanging open and its guts spilling over the pavement.
You did that. Notice the veins bulging from your arms.
Do you feel at peace?
(Open-mindedness is not a form of knowledge.)
These I know to be true: the sky is blue, blood is red, and the Earth is round.
"Do you deny sunsets, then? Do you expect only oxygen, and disregard calculus?"
i dont want to be wrong, its embarrassing
Now go outside.
Imagine yourself immersed in sky, wrapped in the great blue blanket.
There are thousands of clouds above you, some heavy with rain and others bursting with sunshine, and seagulls dip and dive around yo
Don't Let GoHold yourself tightly
let your nails draw blood
from material stretched too tight over shattered bones
sharpened points ripping at the seams
cutting away the last of his finger prints
embedded into your skin
When the ground starts to shiver
jump on the nearest passerby
feel for any grip possible
climb your way up his cracked spine
See the street that has trapped your memories under its pavement
feel them rush back to you in tsunamis, breaking the cities under your eyes
crush your feet into the sidewalk
don't look back
Look at the mangled face staring back at you
it's 4 a.m. and you can still see the names he called you
as if they were tattooed on to your face
stop your hand from reaching into the medicine cabinet
go back to bed
bury your pain in the sheets
Hang on to his smile
don't look down, don't let go
push yourself up and find safety in his eyes
no one will find you there
Sew bones back together with heart strings
it will never be the same but it's still something
EPIC: in which they are short a bed"Oh, for heaven's!"
Robin, straining with her shoulder to the massive wooden door, managed finally to shove it closed and wedge the rusted latch into place before turning to see what had prompted Matthew's exasperated outburst.
"They only gave us one bed," he explained with a helpless gesture. "Again."
Robin shut her eyes briefly and tried to breathe slowly. "Why," she said, "do they always assume we're together?"
Matthew scowled and kicked a bedpost. "Given how often we try to kill each other, you'd think they'd get the hint. Alright, fine, I'll sleep on the floor."
Robin let out a most unattractive snort that she tried, belatedly, to pass off as a cough. Matthew, not taken in, thumped her on the back with unnecessary gusto, making her actually cough. "You're just going to wake up in the morning whining about how cold you were and how sore your back is and how you couldn't possibly walk for another whole day after huddling miserably on the floorboards all night," she said, with
Caged Birdi am not my own.
i've known this
for some time,
my life has
been Your bidding
i walk in-
side Your footprints
my voice is always
You have become
and i am Your
Do you know what I hate?Do you know what I hate? The question: Who are you? Everyone knows of those prompts in school where the teacher expects you tell your life story in so many words. They anticipate a list of experiences, a bald statement of facts. They think that knowing these things will help them get to know you better or the class if it is an assignment you must read aloud. They say that you need not reveal anything too personal, that if it makes you uncomfortable then do not talk about it. But what they do not realize is that not everyone can look at a blank page and pour shallow, impersonal truths upon it.
They do not realize that to some of us, the question of 'Who are you?' is painful.
And when you do not give them more than a few elusive answers to their prompting, they poke for more detail. "Detail," they say, "I do not feel as if I know anything more about you." What if I do not want you to know more about me? What if the way I answered was the only way I knew how without trudging up old h
dear deviantWRITERS...Dear deviantWRITERS, allow me to offer you some advice. While I realize that you may not want that advice at all, I will cheerfully ignore that, because really--I think dA's literature community could use a bit of setting straight.
The reason writers like you and me are on deviantART at all is because we want people to read our stuff. No one would argue with that. So the way you do things should help get people to read your writing, not run away screaming.
That being said, the preview image that dA gives each literature deviation is your best friend. It gives you about 110 characters of text to impress anyone who might be randomly browsing through lit deviations--to catch their eye and make them want to read more. So! A few tips.
Before that, though: I am not saying that every reader on dA agrees with the suggestions I present here. These are things that I think are important, and that I recommend. Conceited, maybe, but I believe that good readers would agree with most of
MarionetteThe strings dig deep into her veins.
She moves with them,
To dull the pain.
A painted face,
With a printed smile,
Her emotions left unversitile.
She dances alone, secluded,
Forlorn and deluded.
And only for her twisted master.
A mental crafter,
A vile bastard.
but this is a show.
the people can see it
the people they know,
this is no secret.
their eyes glazed over
like shes no longer there
ignoring her existence,
she finds comfort in despair.
welcome to the show.
on stage, a girl
who you might as well know.
Only I can see the tears,
And only I know all her fears.
I flick my fingers to the right,
On my command she stands up right.
I flick my finger to the left.
She'd murder all the ones she left.
she dances with a smile.
that does not reach the eyes,
it looks so sick and vile
a soul that believes its lies.
Maybe its love,
i've heard it's supposed to ache.
Or maybe she's insane,
because even the strong can break.
I don't know the reasons,
Or why she's bound and cha
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More