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Spring Alliance Contest!

Journal Entry: Wed May 15, 2013, 3:33 PM


:wave: Greetings, luminous Allies! It is my pleasure to announce the Spring Alliance Contest! :party:

:iconlit-visual-alliance:

What is the Alliance, you ask?

The Alliance is a project group intended to encourage visual and literary artists to work together. I've felt for some time that the dA Literature Community can at times be somewhat insular - to its detriment. We in the Lit Community are also sometimes prone to griping about the lack of exposure our work receives when compared to that of visual artists. So in the spirit of ^thorns brilliant Complaint Challenge I thought I would try to do something about that. And so the Alliance was born!


Because I, your founder, have a deep and abiding love for the seasons, this group now hosts seasonal contests, and as the Winter Contest is now over, it is time for Spring. ^^; I know I was a bit late in posting this one (sorry!), but considering how freaky the seasons are acting this year (at least around here!), we're still getting frost! So I'm still definitely in a spring mood and looking forward to all of your springy art! :iconifeelfluffyplz:

The contest starts right now, and ends July 15th. At that time, the Summer Contest will begin. :la:

The rules of the contest are simple: create a work of art, centered loosely around the theme of Spring, based on another work of art (literature based on visual artwork or visual artwork based on literature, in keeping with the theme of the group). The theme is very open to interpretation. I have provided some examples in the feature (though as always, you are allowed to use any spring-related deviation you choose). There are many spring-related themes from which you can choose: flowers, animals, warmer weather, spring rain, bees, bunnies, eggs, birds, the rebirth of light and warmth to the earth. Springtime holidays are also acceptable: St. Patrick's Day (past, I know, but still spring!), The Vernal Equinox, Easter (or Ostara) naturally, Beltaine (May Day), Earth Day, etc. I'm sure you'll think of something!


This does NOT have to be a new piece! HOWEVER, what I really don't want you to do is find an old spring poem or painting and then search for a corresponding artwork that you think kinda sorta goes along with it. That's cheating, my dears. This contest and this group is all about being inspired by different types of artwork! Also, it's unlikely to help you win. 
Entries will be judged on the following criteria, in order:
 :bulletyellow: How well the deviation ties into the inspiring piece.
:bulletgreen: How well the deviation ties into the Spring theme.
:bulletyellow: Impact
:bulletgreen: Quality
:bulletyellow: Creativity


PRIZES:


1st: 100 :points: + feature by LadyofGaerdon and Lit-Visual-Alliance

2nd: 75 :points: + feature by LadyofGaerdon and Lit-Visual-Alliance

3rd: 50 :points: + feature by LadyofGaerdon and Lit-Visual-Alliance

Deadline: July 15th
Entries are unlimited! Go wild! :iconlawooplz:

Please submit entries to the Spring Contest folder. 

To help you guys get into the spirit and start those creative juices flowing, here is a feature from our brand new Spring Inspiration favorites folders: Please note that the inspiring deviation does not have to be one of these! It's just to give you an idea. More Spring Inspiration can be found in our Favorites Folders and you are free to suggest Spring-themed pieces as well.


SpringtimeIt is winter on my breastbone,
Across my nose,
Down my arms,
Snowbanks of pale skin
At my shoulders, elbows, knees.
But a sudden spring emerges on my hipbone,
A rioting vibrant mass
Of blue-black-purple-green.
Brought on not by the warming of the weather,
Or a gentle rain,
But by a forceful collision with a table.
This bloom will wither soon,
Just like the real daffodils and irises.
The colors will fade,
And my skin will return to the tundra.
  aphroditeclambering lips tumble over each other like
little deer stumbling into the headlights, where
blushing cupid's bows snap shut at the slightest
whisper of a touch; as summer's broken blossom
whistles into moss, suicidal and free-falling at a
twist of the wind, dripping through honeyed-hands and
trickling down wrists. words nuzzle breath, the air
staved of acoustics that choreograph faces closer; watching as
quivering eyes thrust new-born hope, where
restless hearts knock beneath a web of ribs,
screaming silently as bodies are poured into the
stitches of aphrodite's venomo(us) fly-trap.
  Clair de LuneSometimes I imagine
That when Debussy penned this movement,
He hesitated with the title.
"Clair de Lune"…moonlight.
Perhaps he didn't have the courage
To add an "E" to the end of her name,
Immortalizing her in music.
The gentle chords pouring
From his piano describing
The peace with which she slept.
"Claire of the Moon."
She was the embodiment of dreams.
Indeed, with her hair spread out
In messy ringlets across the pillow,
The pale, spring-time glow
Of the moon hanging heavy
In the April sky
Gently casting its cool light
Through the half-open window,
Onto her faintly blushing cheek.
She looked ethereal,
Like a flower that opens for moonlight alone.
Imbued in this music is the tenderness
With which he desired
To move a stray curl from where it lay
Draped across her brow.
As the movement sweetly closes,
She gently wakes, smiling,
As I gently wake from the scene I created.
This exists in my imagination only,
The romantic in me dreaming
With the fictional Claire.
  RosesYou love too much, I am told by a man with a briar heart, thorny sinews and collapsed ventricles bearing down on him, hardly beating in his tight chest. He looks at me with flat, slate eyes, chipping and eroding. His hands are dark with cigarette burns and rough with calluses; I feel them on my shoulders as he looks down at me, face collapsing in at his eyes like a dead man's.
For the first time, I realize he is dead. His briar heart dried up when winter killed his rose; my father, he is all thorns.
He squeezes my shoulders, too tight. You look like your mother, you know, he whispers, eyes shifting to the garden, to the yellow rose I planted for her. It is a rambler, sending shoots to the sky that sink back down. We never gave it a trellis. I loved her too much. And there are tears in his eyes, wet, heavy things that slip down his cheeks and on to the grass below us.
I don't know what to say, so I think of the rose, of her. I think that I'd like to send this
  BloomIt's normal, you know.
Bruises flower under skin like lilies in a garden
Tears find their place just like water in the soil
They seep into the black
Nurture seedlings
And hurt grows so green and natural.
Pearl skin is supposed to go purple
It's as right as the rain.
So don't worry, don't fret
I'm art, you know, cross-stitching on the wall
An ivory piano key
Just as I should be
Because battered things are beautiful.
Feathers torn from silk pillows
And stick figures on balance beams
Aren't as loved, nor as adored,
Nor as beautiful as me.
  cypress lady.Lost in a fog, a stranger walks.
Dressed in shadows,
she creeps.
Alone, she whispers
nondescript words in a language
no-one hears,
for no-one cares to listen.
In the shade
of an ageing cypress tree,
she lies beneath the boughs.
In the soft, soft grass,
she sighs as she dozes.
The sun hides behind a cloud,
and the quiet shadows grow cold.
As she opens her eyes, she shivers,
her grassy bedding turning to ice
as she is lost to the pleasantries
of dreams.
She looks out,
and from the realms of her shadows
can see a faint light
past the leafy threshold.
Standing, she walks
slowly to the edge,
staring out.
She stretches her hand out,
testing the lighter air.
Gasps. Flinches, snatches it back
into the darkness.
Despite the hidden sun, the air is warm.
(Yet why do I not burn?)
She is in wonder.
Although she yearns
to illuminate herself,
she hesitates to step beyond the shade.
Not once
has she stood in the full bright beams
of the sun,
not once.
Fear –
What will happen
  PersephoneI fed her
pomegranate kisses
and she cried
at every frozen sunrise
for 180 days.
With cracks in my heart
and souls
caught in my hair
I counted 180 more.
  Stealing WednesdayJust this once,
let it be an angel plume
floating on the borrowed breeze.
Something living but also alive.
A bouquet of forget-me-nots nestled
in the arms of Alzheimer's …
the hands of hatred.
We aren't asking for a field-
No gardens.
The strength to take back tomorrow
Just this once,
Give us something we deserve:
Calm seas
The hidden dirt road
A chance
  Grating RaspsIt courses and winds like air through veins,
Falls languidly through space, red as wax, drips
From barren branches full with leaves,
From sighs and outstretched fingertips.
It howls in silver song from the moon-top
Grips like ice and as ice does, lets go.
Stars and hollowness gently fall,
As it's all that nothingness will ever know.
It shudders and shatters in scarlet decay,
Breaks like waves of unblemished sound,
Until scattering, piece by crystalline piece
To the dusty, earth caked, green-strewn ground.
It leaves forms laying in beds of growth,
Traces rivers through rock before treading back.
It resonates through choking and grasps hungrily at light,
Extinguishing black for greater, water soaked black.
        And it comes as easily as it goes,
        Goes as though it never came.
  Tree Of Rotshe is but the
         remnants
              of
     the tree
    (of life)
that she
    has
  blossomed
    for so
   many years.
she was
(once upon a time)
graced with
  beautiful
   golden leaves
but now
    they have
browned.
supple, young
   flesh,
the eye
   of so
   many
is now the
  home of
  fungus
(addiction)
and
decay
(broken dreams)
she was once
        the
       tree
      (of life)
but now
  all that
   remains
     is
   mold
  InstructionsWear dreamsong like a gown
wear rainscent like a cloak
no shoes, your bare feet know the way
in and out the twisted place
tell them you don't know your name
yet don't dare to actually forget
listen to the honey light fiddle
but forbid your feet to dance
for the music is enchanting
and your feet won't stop
when you want to leave
sing a homesong, follow your feet
through dark forest, over fragile bridge
unknown paths, an open door
you will never find back.
  strawberriesdrops of rain explode
into colors on your outstretched hands,
blossoming as roses
like bright ripe strawberries.
and when you roam enchanted gardens,
nothing is ever as it seems…
one moment a blade of grass
and the next one of many feathers
on the wing of a bird
about to take flight.
no matter how you try
gravity is wiser,
and you are bound to come down from the clouds.
millions of heartbeats like yours
all search for the same thing
and will find each other someday.
  Elegy Of A Lost SeasonI am the fall.
Broken in June, buried in August -
haunting September from the boughs of hazel,
where not even the rain could reach me.
How my limbs ached to feel its soothing caress;
but my limbs felt nothing, and I felt nothing.
And the season moved on, without me.
Once, long ago, I was spring,
delicate and pure; fragile as willow seedlings,
believing themselves strong, as they stretch toward the sun -
before the wind breaks their stalks, and they fall
defeated, drained, limp upon the ground;
crushed and forgotten as tears.
But no, I was summer -
when I looked into your eyes for the first time
and forgot to curse the sun.
Tiny beads running down my neck;
hateful, so hateful - ignored, as you ensnared my senses.
You were summer, too
cradled in the branches of oak,
bright enough to burn my eyes and scorch my skin,
but never close enough to touch.
Until in your arms, I became summer,
and the sun could not outshine us.
But now I am winter -
numb and cold, faded, stripped and desolate;
a s
  Born AgainThe river, awake again, slips through the countryside,
violently vibrant like all things in the spring
as it drinks the snowy banks and swallows
the roads that did not read the caution signs.
The water heads for the coast in celebration
of the return of the warmth of the sun,
cause to laugh again, and dance barefoot in the grass.
The spring celebration is masked in religious pretext,
but the pagan appreciation for everyday rebirth
cannot be denied as even the most pious bare skin
and enjoy the sensuous flesh of the fruit that speckles
the lush green canvass with reds and blues,
The sweet taste has returned to the land,
the Holiness no longer entombed in ice,
divinity inhaled with each breath of air,
the land is baptized by the floodwaters
and all the sins of winter are forgiven.
  CamelliasThe carcasses
of pink camellia blossoms
litter the sidewalk,
a school of tropical fish
escaped from their captors' net
and gasping
for air.
I wait for them to rise
into the sky,
a flock of bright angels,
fins turned toward the clouds.
They will bloom again tomorrow,
this I know.
  Atlanticyou were the ghost
who made the apple fall.
.
and no,
it's not you,
sometimes the seeds
turn into trees
or flowers, strange
incarnations of
the strangest force,
and, at other times,
the wind lifts them away
so they never
touch the ground.
there's nothing left but course.
.
of course you are, but i must know;
do you go door to door,
knocking on the stars?
reality: just
an architect's answer
to a philosopher's question.
.
over the atlantic you sing
like the end who just learned
he was a beginning.
over the atlantic you sing:
"god is an ocean,
and you can only pray
by kneeling on the ground."
  Apple BlossomYour blush is fading;
windswept, you shudder gently
fragrant petal tears
  One Day I Shall Lay Down And Dieone day i shall lay down and die
and so for now here is my kiss, my golden-ness,
my forehead pressed against yours
like two strange animals lost on a plain of
red sand. one day i shall lay down and die so
now here, let these birds pick me apart,
show you it all, the torn underwear
and the girl gazing at the soft glow
on trees, the ferocious lion-love
weeping under the kitchen table. one day
i shall lay down and die
so for now i feast on beaches, your breath,
the flutter of my dress sore against my skin
someday i will find that peace,
plant a spring-flower deep in my heart, land one last cool kiss
on the bow of your mouth and slip away, i know that one day
i will lay down and die but for now
feel your fingers spread across my heart,
feel my roar in the night
 :thumb202708923:  Only as Old"Frail bones predict what fragile minds can't detect,"
He trailed off slowly, "And my bones are achin'."
The air around me hung low and depressed,
Sticking to the back of my throat like a stormy syrup
I'd tried to swallow down.
I peered out the kitchen window
And caught an inklet of patched-over-grey sky;
I wondered what was in store for the day.
Impartial to the gloom outside, we stepped out onto the back porch;
Grandpa wobbled out with his cane in hand and we waited.
In the hushed stillness the trees traded birds—
Robins, swallows, whippoorwills, and cardinals.
If you squinted hard enough at the sullen shrubbery,
You could spot the caterpillar creeping to the underside of the leaf.
That's when I looked at Grandpa,
And saw through his eyes nature receding
At his prescience of a storm.
"Grandpa, how do you always know?"
He chuckled and simply said: "The world tells me."
It was left at that, but years later I have found
That the world is only as old as the person to whom you speak.
 

Heart by Davidjulianlopez apple tree by AndreyBobir Shine so bright by ziggy90lisa ka tyou zou getu by PassionateSnuff Mutually assured destruction by Acrylicdreams what way is up? by WorldWar-Tori Angels by NicolasEvariste The Path by stevegoad Orbs of Water by AtomicBrownie the Garden by Corviid Daybreak by patriciabrennan Rest in peace by WiltingBlackRose Double Rainbow by Celem The Waters and the Wild by mpadgett Citydryad by drachenmagier Butterflies and Fairytales by FriendFrog :thumb186101661: robin by nakitez Spring flood by szorny-stock Ember by anndr Flying away by CristaliaART Mother nature by BettaArtusiArt :thumb202396708: Under Protection by sekhmet-neseret Rose's Morning Rinse by DaphneNg Spoiled by enayla Hellden by zardo Coming Home by MorkelErasmus Twisted by Vineyard86 poised to blossom by m00nchild313 Spring Blossoms 10 by livetodream215 Parenthood by LucieJirankova  Mother Nature by justanothersomeone Nature's Art by AnthonyPresley Courtship Dance by FForns What? Up there? by Egil21 Sneak Attack by Nate-Zeman :thumb210226812: Bonded by Picturingit Rainy days by BogdanBoev flowers and butterflies by sinvia a lover's dance by ariseandrejoice Twitter by faisalh Jewel by DaisyDinkle  Hey Dude..... by thrumyeye Roses of Spring by la-sera P1040628 v by VlatkoPG :thumb203566578: Die, Winter, die by Vasylissa The Spring Summoner by iluviar To brave the Snow by RowanLewgalon  Time Suspension by SteffiSTEREO :thumb227171442: Earth Day by ToolKitten I Wish I Could Fly... by AimishBoy Spring by ElvenstarArt Tarot - The Maiden - Card 2 by ravynnephelan trapeze artist by dralik :thumb207507853: we are family by Digi-M Pieris rapae by SelvaggioRocker Blackbird Spring by JenniferWeiler Sparkling Shamrock by RowanLewgalon Spring by Jennyeight Converging by IvanAndreevich Spring's soft light by CatherineNodet Fauna by PinkParasol Fairies-nurses by Fantasy-fairy-angel Silent lullaby by Anna-Marine  rain or shine by mj-magic stranggled by Alicechan Spring is coming .. by KariLiimatainen Contemplating Spring by rooze23 Viridian Window by riysse Blooms in the heart... by PassionateSnuff Spring Melody by alexa-asta SPRING by yaamas Spring by agnes-green NAL Contest: A Spring's Promise by Sieskja Spring by Si3art Nymph of the forest by clair0bscur Naked Spring by AkubakaArts

Now go and get creating! :eager: 

The :iconlit-visual-alliance: Team: :iconladyofgaerdon: :iconevlydia: :iconazizriandaoxrak: :iconquiestinliteris: :iconvigilo:


P.S. Re-upping our Super-group subscription pretty much killed my :points: collection....^^; So any prize donations you guys can offer would be deeply appreciated. :worship: :D




:iconbummyballoonplz: Today is the birthday of my good friend Kat, and so I am taking the opportunity to feature her new Facebook page for her book series! 
:party:

Here on deviantART, Kat goes by

:iconmindlesspuppettoy:

Tralala: New DA ID by mindlesspuppettoy
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:

Kat is the author of 


This series is many years in the making, and Kat is working diligently to finish it up and release so we can all gobble it up. Just look at all those notes! :faint:
T.K.S. Paper Piles by mindlesspuppettoy
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:

The first book, Child of Thrae, is nearly completed, and so Kat has opened a Facebook page to allow all her adoring fans to follow her soon-to-be-illustrious literary career! 
:icondoctorthumbsupplz:

When Kat's page reaches 50 likes, she will be hosting a contest, the nature of which is super-secret but doubtless will be lots of fun. So please check it out! 
:squee:

deviantARTist medders is the cover artist for The Kimareah Series, and you can see some of his illustrations here
:dance:

As stated on Kat's Facebook page:

The Chronicles of the Ethrelian Era follows the story of a young human girl named Kimareah, who is kidnapped from her homeland by a group of rogue elves. She is taken to a mysterious new world which is in the midst of an ancient war. Kimareah soon discovers that the multiple warring parties are fighting to either control her or kill her. Upon her arrival, Kimareah must decide which side she will choose to fight for if she wishes to return to her homeland. Thus is ushered in the first novel of the Chronicles of the Ethrelian Era: Child of Thrae.

I can't wait! 
:iconpenguinhappyplz:

Now, I shall feature a sampling of Kat's work here on dA, so you can get a taste of her awesomeness:


Which Color, Which?What do you see?
I see everything: vivid, entwined, breathing; growing.
Every drop of radiant color sings to me a new song.
Let me breathe, let me sing; let me shout in exaltation!
Let me bleed, let me burn, let me fall; let me die.
Keep me from my fate and keep me from my life.
Hide me from their light; hide me from their darkness.
Can you feel them? Can you feel the colors?
They are separate, so far away!
Let them blend together, let them paint my picture.
Let them merge to tell my story before I fade like they do.
I can feel all of my colors aching inside:
Red is my lover – passionate and burning.
Orange is my warmth – glowing and still.
Yellow is my sickness – growing and aching.
Green is my mother – safe and warm.
Blue is my heaven – untouchable and high.
Purple is my vain – envious and hidden.
Pink is my image – smeared and broken.
Black is my killer – livid and powerful.
Gray is my mourning – present and dark.
White is my end

A poem written from the 
perspective of Kat's main character.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:

Can I Ask Your Secrets?Secrets... Will you trust them? Can you? I can answer that... Don't turn around.
Can I stare at you? Of course... I smirk and you know why I'm smirking.
Can I look into your eyes? Why not... I see what's behind them.
Can I touch your arm? Why... I know why you're so warm.
Can I ask why you're so nervous every time I touch your skin? No... Your goose bumps amuse me, they make me smirk. They tell me I'm closer.
You see, you know I know everything... Everything about you, inside and out.  
I know what you hide, I know why you hide. I see why you cringe when they speak; I hear what you say when you sleep, when you swallow; when you moan. Do you not know who I am to you, what I am to you? You know I can tell them everything about you, everything about your past, your present and your future. I can see all, I can tell all; I know all.
I can see you shudder. You're a shell of a man, and you know that I know that. This is why you hide here, inside your min

A piece from a villain's perspective.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:

Righteous Baest: Introduction"Should I become what I was in my past, let me wilt away to the earth and die in shame.
Should I be persecuted for who I was in my past, let me stand against the torrents of doubt with unfathomable determination.
Should I allow such history as the past to craft my future, let me then become one more to the many who walk the beaten path.
Should I shame my elders with what I have become, let me turn away from their stares with pride and become persecuted.
I am who I am now, not who I was before, and let no one pass judgment upon me until the very works of time reveal what I truly have become.
Only when we remember the past do we remember to learn from our mistakes.
One life, one beginning; one end before a new life has begun. This is the way it shall always be."

Aeltrex smiled the widest grin his face could hold, as the last of The Oath fell from his scaly lips with perfect diction and timeless recitation. Under the soft glow of candlelight, the framed parchment which held the wor
  Creator: TDW Round IIIDay thirteen. Time unknown; place known and yet unknown.
I just broke through the Fourth Wall a mere four days ago… I hope they'll let me back over it when I'm done here. I can see it now, my characters all secretly plotting in that corner over there – in the back of my mind – to tie cinder blocks to my feet so I can't climb back over. Look at me and my imagination running ramped again. They haven't been hostile like I thought they would; especially when I stated who I was… Traveling with the others has been quite the experience; I can only write so much but experiencing it is another thing: a pure and exhilarating joy. However, I am perturbed by the warnings that the scouts return with. News of their enemy brings dread to the armies; so I must build their morale. I know I am no to meddle; yet I feel if I don't the entire congregation will simply melt away in a single pool of sorrow. Their world will bleed out and I will have been the one who allowed it to happen

An intriguing pair of stories in which
Kat meets her own characters.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:

:iconclappingraccoonplz:

And just a sampling of Kat's work that I particularly like. She's a talented photographer and digital artist as well. :)
To See What You Are by mindlesspuppettoy Flawless by mindlesspuppettoy  How Did I Ever Let You Go?Dear Long Lost Friend,
I know you're not real; I know you don't breathe, but to me you're alive in every way possible.
Wherever you are, near or far, I miss you dearly; I truly do.
I know not what has happened, but I know you're not gone; you haven't left me forever.
I'm in despair for I've forgotten, there's a world somewhere where I used to be loved.
A world you used to show me, full of castles and dragons, towers and maidens; space rangers and starships; pirates and vast seas.
I really miss you; I truly do. I would never lie to you because you'd never lie to me, so this is why I must write this.
You taught me pain, happiness, empathy and so much more. You showed me how to cope with what I felt and you proved to me that forcing the end is never the answer.
Your honesty was what made me fall in love; your adventures never ending and stories always captivating.
You are truly a thing of beauty, a creature I will never understand.
Cover like a door, waiting to be opened so
 For You, Milady by mindlesspuppettoy Child of the Forest by mindlesspuppettoy Inspiration Isn't Always Good by mindlesspuppettoy Take A Seat by mindlesspuppettoy What Did You Want From Me? by mindlesspuppettoy
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:



Thanks for reading and please go check out her page! 
:iconpenguinpleaseplz:




CSS credit goes to:
Stock: Dragoroth-stock, little-spacey, mimose-stock, Dralliance-Stock, Dracoart-Stock, gaiastock, CAStock
Brushes: MouritsaDA-Stock
Coding & graphics: kuschelirmel-stock

Lit-Visual Alliance Allied Artwork Feature #7

Journal Entry: Fri Jan 18, 2013, 11:17 PM


 :wave: Hello my patient Allies! It's  (past) time again to showcase more of the excellent Allied Artwork pieces that have been making their way into our 


:iconlit-visual-alliance:

What is the Alliance, you ask?

The Alliance is a project group intended to encourage visual and literary artists to work together. I've felt for some time that the dA Literature Community can at times be somewhat insular - to its detriment. We in the Lit Community are also sometimes prone to griping about the lack of exposure our work receives when compared to that of visual artists. So in the spirit of ^thorns brilliant Complaint Challenge I thought I would try to do something about that. And so the Alliance was born!

This article features pieces that have been submitted to our Featured Folder, which is reserved for literature that is based on visual artwork on dA, and visual artwork based on dA literature.

As usual, this feature is the result of the member poll which asked you, our lovely members, to vote for your favorite Allied Artwork submitted to the Featured Folder to be spotlighted in the article as the best. :w00t:




There was a tie for first place. So our first first place goes to EstrangeloEdessa's atmospheric interpretation of Antony-Hell's enchanting photograph.


Birth of the Moonlight GoddessThe date had gone well.
She wore her prettiest purple coat, the one her sister had given her, brand new and pressed clean.
He picked her up at the right time, and he kissed her during the movie.
Afterwards, they wandered for hours through the city streets, gazing up at the pitch black sky.
I'm so happy right now, he said.
I feel so… alive.
She had nodded.
She wore her prettiest purple coat, the one her sister had given her - her sister loved purple and pink.
Five years old, bouncing on the bed, her sister grabbed the puffy dress-up dress they shared.
I get to be the princess!
Four years old, cross-legged and still, she pulled up the crinkled white sheet and wrapped it around her shoulders.
I get to be the goddess.
It worked for both of them.
I feel so alive, he said.
You're beautiful.
You, in that coat.
You're so beautiful and alive.

His arms were inside her coat, wrapped around her waist, and she looked over his shoulder.
The sky wasn't p
inspired by Birth of the Moonlight Goddess by Antony-Hell




Our second first place goes to nightshade-keyblade's humorous ruminations of a rueful knight, based on Mirz123's adorably detailed stamp.





Next is Owari999's emotive poem, inspired by Jordan-Roberts' gorgeous photo.





Wordeea's romantic French prose, inspired by SylveryFox's exquisite photo of San Francisco's streets.

San Francisco n'existe plus (prose) +AUDIO by Wordeea inspired by In the streets of San Fran by SylveryFox




trip-to-zion's thoughtful six word story inspired by Charmed-Ravenclaw's paper valentine.





Oniksu's literary interpretation of Detkef's haunting image.

inspired by Test tube mermaid by Detkef




Goldenwolf's illustration of JZLobo's character.

Samson Phoenix by Goldenwolf inspired by 




Followed by:

ShadowFox
She has the courage to fight fate,
to stay strong through lies and hate.
No tears will fall from her eyes,
hidden beneath her beautiful mask of disguise.
A quiet lonely fox in a forest of trees,
shadows darkening all that it sees.
With hair black as freshest ash,
waist bound by a thick leather sash.
Head draped with bands of beads,
with intricate patterns only a mother can weave.
Gazes follow her as she slowly strides,
she will do anything for the future of her tribe.
This time she will not escape,
not another failed marriage left in her wake.
The tribe leader has picked her and her alone,
to marry his son and be heir to the throne.
How she wanted to turn a deaf ear,
the  end of her childhood was so very near.
Not a gaze that peered at her could see the despair,
no one near or far even seemed to care.
Her bright Shadowfox will return within,
the darkest chapter of her life is about to begin.
inspired by Sun and Moon by Radittz

Cheated Hearts by AllynDupe by Xx-Angel-Sherubii-xX inspired by Cheated Hearts - ICheated by the opposite of love...
The solidity in her eyes is making me feel naked.
It seems as though her pupils, rock hard and perhaps storing of endless knowledge, are burrowing through my skin like screws. I am bare and exposed; my emotions hanging out on the line to dry in the gentle summer breeze.
Perhaps her eyes are so frighteningly probing, because they once swung hate my way, like a punch to the jaw, with each glance she tossed. Perhaps they are hiding some sort of mind blowing scar that I can only predict and never really understand.
It could be neither of these things, but all I know is that somewhere along the timeline of a few weeks, something changed. Something that seemed before unchangeable, a storm that had been raging for centuries.
It was me and my friends against her and her's. Typical scenario, and it made my life very normal. Everyone has their enemies. It felt as though our ancestors and our ancestors predecessors had fought the same battle, generation a


KouKou, Fly on The Wall by AllynDupe by Xx-Angel-Sherubii-xX inspired by




Our next poll will be out soon, with another feature to follow! The more you guys submit, the more features there will be! :eager:

And to get your creative juices flowing, a sampling from our Exceptionally Inspiring Literature & Exceptionally Inspiring Visual Art folders:

Totems and Godhoodi. As a child, confronting giants.
I take the pine tree as my totem,
learn to love the nakedness of its nether-regions
and its northerly fibers stretched and waiting
for the weft to its warp.
Girlhood is still a part of me as the
learning what I am. In the end,
I haven't climbed a tree in a long time;
I am small, and scared, and ringed round with walls,
and I beg the moon to teach me
to use my pine trees as a ladder.
ii. In the way only young love can.
You, sir—
you are pine chips, and I carry you
like a fetish in my mind.
You are the first vampiric sweetness
to suck the breath from my body:
unknowing, the feeling of yearning;
I am fibrous—celery stalk,
pale and clutching my thread self together.
iii. Transmogrification.
Watch as I petrify,
stretch until my bones
will not bend to let me drink.
With age I become a god,
brittle-boned and cackling; with age
the osteoporosis will leech my fibers dry
and my pine sap blood will freeze in my chest
to keep me warm in winter.
My finge
 Contest: Steam Punk by CAHess  The Mating Season
The copse was luminous and inviting.
Balmy winds shifted and the leaves swirled in tuneful coils.
He crushed the vivid ambers and yellows with grimy boots;
Feet scuffing the supple earth with each enthralled step.
She inhaled a surging gust
and spread her arms in temptation.
Her warm breeze thrust him in
and he clung to her, obsessed.
Undeniably beautiful was she, that he didn't comprehend
the brambles that curled around her legs
and the twigs that rose in the deep red of her verdant hair.
Her lips were soft and her touch bewitching,
like the undisturbed soil next to a water's edge.
That's where he laid her down
and took all that could be given.
Through slumber he was not aware what soon would be returned.
Damp mists and darkness engulfed the quieted creek;
the ambers had drained and washed away the essence of the marsh.
Cold awoke all visitors - disenchanted.
Gales were silenced and the darkness moved only for one sound;
the breathing of a heavy beast whose power
 Write... by kemal-kamil-akca  The Page of Promise: A Winter Solstice TaleIn the depths of a night that's about to begin
with the feeling of snow as it melts on your skin
and it covers the land with a dream so intense
that it returns us all to a child's innocence
And then what you'd thought lost and could never retrieve
is suddenly there to be found on Christmas Eve

-Trans-Siberian Orchestra
The sound of her boots breaking the snow is delicate and light, like meditated, unhurried piano notes. She walks gracefully between the pine trunks, their needles making a cover for falling snow above her head. Her face, a frozen petal of porcelain, eyes of crystalline frost, is framed by the hood of her white, fur-lined mantle. The air is still, the cold a pleasant hindrance, as Lumi is able to wander gloveless, touching each gigantic pine in thought. Each tree speaks to her in a unique way, telling of the earth and the sky, of what speaks the wind, what whisper the animals nuzzled against their roots, or perched among their branches. She hangs, on all of them a
 The Defendant And The Plaintiff by veinsofmercury  Red Death IV by kemal-kamil-akca  Wail of the Welsh DragonThe dragon bowed his head in pain,
He'd fought many a battle and not been slain,
Neither sword nor lance could end his reign,
But now his time was ending.
Life had been a simple thing,
Patrol his lands on the wing,
In the mountain stronghold he was King,
And no one dared to doubt it.
But now the nights seemed so cold
And his flame was not so bold
Even dragons do grow old,
And he'd never felt so weary.
For many a moon he'd not been out,
A subject the peasants talked about,
And though they all may run and shout,
In their way they loved him.
Yes, they may have fled and hid,
But cruelty was not his to bid,
He just did what dragons did,
And never killed for pleasure.
He chased their girls and ate their sheep,
And took their gold up to his keep,
But he knew inside their pride ran deep,
"Our Monarch", they had named him.
But no longer does he rule the skies,
Breathing fire to terrorize
The villagers and maidens cries
Are lost to him forever.
A dragon sleeps with one eye open,
But now he close
 :thumb332824210:  Acid Girl 04She once told me that Mexican nights were shorter
With enough pills, October can be one long day
Those eyes never promised calm waves or Novocain
There's tequila in our mouthwash
The problem is I don't see this as a problem anymore
Nine out of ten dentists recommend swallowing the worm
An air conditioner is smoking somewhere downstairs
I breathed in the cold second hand and the minute stopped moving
We're only alive part time- cashing our rain checks in rubber boots
On the weekends, she doesn't know that it's the weekend
I'm always aware of footprints in the mud and snow
If they take the trash, it's Thursday
The puppy calendar on the fridge says 2009
Someone drew dicks on September's golden retriever
But this way, it's always three years before the Mayans ruin everything
The kitchen ants drown in the kitchen sink
One sheet of fly paper hangs from a horseshoe in the doorway
The stove can only been used to light roaches
A needle in the night stand makes a guest appearance
The liquor cabi
 Totem: Medicine Man Bear and Trickster Rabbit by AzizrianDaoXrak  Beautiful DayThere are some days that are inherently beautiful.
Hot green-yellow days in August-- or July, but never June-- where everything seems still, like you're the only person in the world, because all the normal people are inside with their air conditioners, and all the birds are resting, and you lie down on the grass and it feels like it's just you and the great growing plant world that surrounds you, and it's utterly still, the only moving air caused by your breath, and for a minute you know what peace is. And then the air stirs, and you hear a lawn mower in the distance and smell the fresh-cut grass, and some laughter or shouts in the distance because some kids are playing something, but it's still quiet in your empty space of green, even when a car goes by, even when suddenly a pair of twittering birds flies overhead, two dark spots against the blue bit of sky overhead.
Days in the winter when the clouds are thick and heavy, like a flannel sweater over the world, and they're shaking down
 Dreaming Water by CarmenFoolHeart  The Wailing: TeaserPart I: The Sirens
The sound of the sirens is what has stayed with me. I remember the explosions, the engines of the Messerschmitts, the screams of men trapped beneath the rubble. Of course I do. But it is the wail of the sirens that yet haunts my dreams, settles that same cold sickness in my gut, that same cold slickness on my palms. It is the banshee shriek of coming death.
The night was cold and clear when that sound prickled along my arms like so many icy fingers reaching out from behind the drapes.
Rowan stilled her hands at the typewriter and ripped the sheet from the machine, lest some unscrupulous eye should take advantage of her temporary absence. She snatched up a grey cardigan, a torch, and the requisite gas mask, and had nearly gotten to the door before she turned back to look at me. Her dark eyes were as empty as ever.
‘Are you coming?’ she asked as she stuck one arm into a cardigan sleeve.
‘I’ll follow later,’ I said. ‘
 the wail of the banshee by RossanaCastellino  SymbiosisApnoea reigns,
and love
is death in a mirror,
when a cold candle
lungs
for her burning breath,
and her fiery heart
strives
for his sacred chest.
Waxen tears bleed,
as immortality
breaks the mirror,
cursing them forever.
 Dream On Little Dreamer by AnaNevesArt




Before I close, I'd like to remind you all about our Winter Alliance Contest going on right now! Deadline is March 1st. We need more entries, so please check it out! :please: I've also added more PRIZES! :squee:

I'd also like to bring your attention to a Story Illustration Contest being held by Alliance regular JZLobo. :D



That's it for now, guys! Thanks so much for being a part of the Alliance! :w00t:

For more Allied Artwork, please check us out at :iconlit-visual-alliance:

'til next time,

The :iconlit-visual-alliance: Team: :iconladyofgaerdon: :iconevlydia: :iconazizriandaoxrak: :iconquiestinliteris: :iconvigilo:








:wave: Hello, dearest members! LadyofGaerdon here to continue our series:

Featured Deviant of the Month 


 for

 :icontalentedwritersguild:

 January's Featured Deviant is..........:eager:

 
:iconstardivider1plz::iconstardivider3plz:

TalentedWritersGuild is a literature group committed to the encouragement, collection, and archival of high quality prose and poetry works. To find out more about the group, please click here.


 Here at TalentedWritersGuild, we encourage deviants to select only their best pieces of literature for submission. As judges, we look for pieces that simultaneously move us, challenge us, and inspire us as readers; pieces that stimulate us emotionally and intellectually; and the pieces that display true technical skill. When we vote, we consider all these things, and let only the pieces we deem up to snuff through to our gallery. This pushes our submitters to excel, challenge themselves, and improve their craft, and provides our readers with high quality literature to read. 


The Featured Deviant of the Month is a member whose submissions meet and surpass this criteria.   

:icontalentedwritersguild:

winterkate is a new and highly promising young addition to our literature community. Her words are filled with passion and utilized meticulously, to create thought-provoking, highly satisfying poetry.

 winterkate has 15 pieces in our gallery to date! They are all wonderful and I encourage you to check them out.


MEi. I fell in love with a girl who catalogued darkness,
sat in her room with the blinds closed and wrote down
187 ways it felt
in all of the different times she couldn't see.
My name was one of them,
#143, ash velvet, and I didn't know what she meant at the time
but the only description she wrote beneath it
was good night for stuffed animals
bad night for worn pillows.
And I'm sorry I made you dream of the rivers.
ii. I fell in love with a girl who never looked in the mirror
but dressed to perfection, somehow
in her blue skirt and black socks
white tennis shoes
and a smile crooked as the bottom side of Indiana –
yeah, I fell in love with a girl
who could never quite get it straight – but hey,
that's alright,
I've never been 100% straight either,
and the one corkscrew curl you have
opens me up like fine wine
each time I see you smile in that cracked bathroom mirror.
Makes me half-drunk,
near-giddy.
iii. I fell in love with a girl who was depressed by Paris,
but loved Italy beca

In the words of LadyofGaerdon:
A brilliant ode to self-acceptance
and loving everything you are,
winterkate's words are hopeful
and inspire us to do the same. 
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:  


to a womanYou see it coming from the men.
You see the ways their eyes linger on you
When they're looking around the room
The way their bodies brush yours when you're walking through the hallways to class
The way they stutter and look away when apologizing for the accidental contact of skin to skin
You see it coming from the men.
You never see it coming from me.
God, was the world not complicated enough already
Without causing me to notice the interplay of textures in her hands
The calluses like mahogany mountains carving ridges of stone
Into her palms softer than Impressionistic sunlight?
I'm not supposed to feel this way about another woman. I'm not supposed to sit here
With a star around my neck and daydream about the way her tongue could taste like cinnamon,
Like my grandmother's home, like gingerbread cookies and the dawn of Christmas morning
These words are blasphemy, so I call upon God to give me a reason for my emotions.
Wasn't the world fucked up enough already without this?
Cut the coff

In the words of SCFrankles:
A piece about unexpected and mostly-unrequited love.
This blew me away. The maturity of the
writing, the evocative imagery, the
contained emotion. Very, very moving.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


Astronauti.238,900 miles away
the Earth gleams in the darkness.
A cat's eye, opalescent blue
flecked with terra verdant,
fifty-two cream colors
of cloud.
Under a heavy lid of night,
it glares. Angry.
Baleful.
As if to say to the Sun:
I was dreaming
of all the fish
in my seas.

As if to ask why
it had to be woken.
ii.
Thoughts are protozoan here;
with glass-thin skin
transparent as the first lie
he ever told as a child.
No,
I didn't steal that candy bar.

He can see the mechanics,
the workings,
the insides.
They divide like dreams,
impossibly smoothly,
Whole and unbroken
as they tear apart. If
he could stretch far enough,
he could pop his home planet
like soap bubble.
Even now,
he's too small
to make much
of a difference.
iii.
238,900 miles away,
there is a small click.
A tiny latch
catching
as his 14-year-old daughter
slides her seatbelt
into place.
She's learning how to drive,
and how to feel a new kind of terror.
Haunting thought
of collision. Of bone
or brick breaking,
of sound
a

In the words of LadyofGaerdon:
A stunning ode to Ray Bradbury.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


:thumb308315699:
In the words of AzizrianDaoXrak:
This piece is about a topic that is very close to MY heart,
and though other members of the trans community may
find that it doesn't quite hit their experiences on the nose,
there are moments, to me, where she gets it exactly rights:
To keep scrubbing till you could pick locks with my tibias, till
my bones are small enough and sharp enough
to sew myself back together with

And above and beyond these moments of terrible, painful beauty,
she treats the topic with respect, compassion, and a
sense of being kindred spirits, and for all this I am grateful.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


Artist Discretionbreak
Oh,
Muse,
Please
No.
I don't want to I can't let me go leave me alone Ican't Ican't Ican't not knowing
all of the things
He will do
to make me
a beauty
all of the things
He will do
to make me

In the words of LadyofGaerdon:
Poor splintered-up poem! A creative look at the
way a poem might feel about the rather brutal
treatment it often receives at the hands of its creator. 
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat –
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight –
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp

In the words of thetaoofchaos:
It is not a locale that has magic, danger, depth or purpose
as much as it is a catalyst to shake those things alive within us.
With this poem, the writer delivers such a place, both
outside and in, and with rare skill. 
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


what if this was the song of myself?1. god laced your eyes with opium
stitched them shut with cotton fog. wake, love – cough
like a gunshot, breathe
like the blood eagle
has been carved into you. time didn't mean
to blind the moon's great eye, to
collapse it into the static horizon.
my lips can no longer pronounce the word mercy. wake,
love. please.
just breathe.
2. the days crack like porcelain dolls
under my father's boots. there are skulls
hidden in the cabinets, & shadows too, hung in the closet
like thin-pressed coats.
like suicide.
3. razor, rohypnol, rope. bathroom,
bedroom,
basement. if i touch all three
before i leave
i won't pick one up when i
come back.
4. there is newsprint
moving underneath
my skin; the serif fonts
lock & jumble
like nephilim stretching
*-tipped wings
like barbed wire babies
crawling through my veins. this is
the same disease
you died of. without you here,
i understand.
5. razor, rohypnol, rope.
razor, rohypnol, rope.
your picture smiles,
showing skin. that summer
we were always young.

In the words of LadyofGaerdon:
This is horror in the best way -
the creeping, psychological skin-crawling way.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 



In the words of tonepainter:
This is raw, take no prisoners stuff.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 



In the words of LadyofGaerdon:
Wow. Just wow. Also damn. Damn.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 

:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


THAT POEM (Writer's Block)I sat down at my computer last Thursday night
with the full intention of writing THAT POEM. Oh, don't
play dumb. You know what THAT POEM is. We all know
what THAT POEM is. You with the cigarette train-tracks
charting your eternal drift to nowhere
on the insides of your arms, you
with the sludge of alcohol dripping thick & brown through
veins swollen & slow & pussy as zombies, you
with the eight children whose faces you can't remember
& the husband in the Hamptons whose name you sometimes forget
& the lover who never seems to come around as much as you pay him to – you
all know what THAT POEM
is. It's the rhythm beating a dull staccato in your skull
when you've taken something to take the edge off, the weary shadows sinking senseless
into the black-slung cradles hiding underneath your
bloodshot eyes. It's the weight of the gun & the way its metal feels
when you push it against the squelching skin of your skull – not to kill yourself, just to feel it,
to know you could. This wa

In the words of Beccalicious:
Best read aloud.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 






CigarettesMy New Orleans muse smiles;
Bourbon Street quick-grin.
Mona Lisa Lolita; she splashes
through the stained-glass
of oil-slick puddles
wearing combat boots dark
as a Halloween new moon.
Her machine-gun lips are
half-drawn around dusk.
Cherry-red smile,
shimmering green jade eyes.
She can see through the clouds
if she casts them herself.
Dragon mouth against paper;
the serenade of the skeleton.
She burns stripped phalanges,
swears she's sucking down
Christmas.
Red wool, a bonfire;
she breathes all the warmth
she has never known.
Lungs of the phoenix,
blistering black;
breath full of gray ash.
One day she will wake hacking,
spitting poison spiders.
Tonight she inhales summer;
mouthful of fireflies.
She tilts her head back,
cat eyes triumphant.
She'll never be a constellation,
but she's stolen Orion's left foot.

In the words of allsparra:
Frightening imagery, vivid metaphors, powerful.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


Stephanie - Collab(I wrote us in free verse over every inch
               of your tattered surface ).
you were the beatific grin
of a kindergartener high off oxygen,
mouth stretched wide as the entrance to hell,
black tongue bleeding virtuous sin like ichor.
(You taught me praying was for the weak
      as I fell for your gypsum nails,
               white teeth scrabbling over my chalkboard frame).
               
scribbled flesh tells no love story
but three layers of skin
worn thin along the length of our feverish bones.
(Garden flowers tucked away worms and dirt,
      my ribs hoarded misspellings of my mother's name).
dipping your origami limbs into my ink,
you lost yourself within the dark tangles
of my labyrinth roo

In the words of LadyofGaerdon:
A gorgeous example of a well-executed
collaboration, in which each artists' skills
and styles blend into and complement
each other in perfect synchronicity.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


Please check out our Featured Gallery, which shall be hosting all of winterkate's submitted works. Please also peruse her gallery for yet more awesomeness and remind her of what an amazing writer she is. Oh yes, and please :+fav: this article to spread the word!


 Until next time...

The :icontalentedwritersguild: Team: :iconladyofgaerdon: :iconangeljunkie: :iconazizriandaoxrak: :iconnngross: :iconoritpetra: :iconladylincoln: :iconquiestinliteris: :iconvigilo: :iconemocinderella: :iconangelstained:


Winter Alliance Contest!

Journal Entry: Wed Dec 12, 2012, 8:22 PM


:wave: Greetings, fair Allies! It is my pleasure to announce the Winter Alliance Contest! :party:

:iconlit-visual-alliance:

What is the Alliance, you ask?

The Alliance is a project group intended to encourage visual and literary artists to work together. I've felt for some time that the dA Literature Community can at times be somewhat insular - to its detriment. We in the Lit Community are also sometimes prone to griping about the lack of exposure our work receives when compared to that of visual artists. So in the spirit of ^thorns brilliant Complaint Challenge I thought I would try to do something about that. And so the Alliance was born!


Because I, your founder, have a deep and abiding love for the seasons, this group will now host seasonal contests, and as the Autumn Contest is now over, it is time for Winter to reign. :aww: 

The contest starts right now, and ends March 1st. At that time, the Spring Contest will begin. :la:

The rules of the contest are simple: create a work of art, centered loosely around the theme of Winter, based on another work of art (literature based on visual artwork or visual artwork based on literature, in keeping with the theme of the group). The theme is very open to interpretation. As you can see from the rather ridiculously long inspiration feature below, there are a multitude of winter-related subjects out there. Just a small sampling would be: snow, ice, cold, holly, ivy, Christmas (and the associated stockings, Christmas trees, Santa, elves, reindeer, tinsel, ornaments, presents, etc,), all the other various holidays that occur this time of year - Hanukkah, Kwanza, Yule/Solstice (actually the Solstice can be a winter subject separate from the Pagan holiday, just as the shortest day of the year). This contest is going until March 1st, so Valentines Day also counts as a winter holiday for the purposes of this contest, and is an accepted subject. These are just ideas, however, and I've no doubt you can think of things I didn't. :D


This does NOT have to be a new piece! HOWEVER, what I really don't want you to do is find an old winter poem or painting and then search for a corresponding artwork that you think kinda sorta goes along with it. That's cheating, my dears. This contest and this group is all about being inspired by different types of artwork! Also, it's unlikely to help you win. 
Entries will be judged on the following criteria, in order:
 :bulletred: How well the deviation ties into the inspiring piece.
:bulletgreen: How well the deviation ties into the Winter theme.
:bulletred: Impact
:bulletgreen: Quality
:bulletred: Creativity


PRIZES:


1st: 200 :points: + feature by LadyofGaerdon and Lit-Visual-Alliance

2nd: 150 :points: + feature by LadyofGaerdon and Lit-Visual-Alliance

3rd: 100 :points: + feature by LadyofGaerdon and Lit-Visual-Alliance

Deadline: March 1st
Entries are unlimited! Go wild! :iconlawooplz:

Please submit entries to the Winter Contest folder. 

To help you guys get into the spirit and start those creative juices flowing, here is a feature from our brand new Winter Inspiration favorites folders: Please note that the inspiring deviation does not have to be one of these! It's just to give you an idea. More Winter Inspiration can be found in our Favorites Folders and you are free to suggest Winter-themed pieces as well. Soon I will be opening up folders for the other seasons that you will be welcome to submit to also. 


perpetual decemberwould you give me your december?
i am holding out my frail plywood wrists
and begging you for something
too heavy for either of us to hold
[though you are somehow cradling it
in your fractured celestial mind].
would you sing december to me?
would you play it in thirds
and mold it into something i can see?
i would give the dying bamboo
on my window sill to feel you again
[like when you cut your hands on raw selenite
but they don't bleed].
december is slipping out of our reach.
she is slipping quietly out the door
and i have my hands held high
like sentinels of the sky
and my eyes closed in patient rapture.
but you?
you are slipping quietly out of my reach,
out the door
[you did not want to interrupt me;
me and my goddamn emotional revolution.
slam].
i am awake and it is not december anymore,
but there are dead leaves on the kitchen table
and it is time for me to go
[i am left with falling in love with people i don't know,
and wishing,
maybe
i will see you again].
  I Have Always Loved WinterI have always loved winter
With its caressing touch of icy-bright fingers
That stroke past my flesh with a tingle that lingers
A crystalline splinter
I have always loved winter
She was constantly cold
Her skin was of porcelain, her hands were of snow
And timidly soft into my hands they’d go
But her lips were more bold
She was constantly cold
Like embers her kisses
That latched onto mine like a coal hotly dropping
Down fast onto ice sheets without sign of stopping
And sputters and hisses
Like embers her kisses
But I liked the cold best
That bit of her most like a clear, frozen shard
And it pleased me to see her grow pallid and hard
More than the rest
I liked the cold best
And hard she did grow
When the winter’s invidious, envious chill
Slipped into her heart and set out to kill
That angel of snow
And hard she did grow
I crept into her tomb
Before they could padlock and shut the door fast
I crawled quietly in for a parting look last
At her in her room
I crept into her tomb
They
  Of treesDeep ghost-groves of freckled aspen
burn white beneath the winter sun,
whisper hoary adulation,
canticles for the Holy One.
And in the trees, the spirits dance
betwixt the motes of starry snow
illuminated by the lance
of lightning flash and candle glow.
All lights within this place combine,
reflect in splendour, white on white,
and mingle in a trance sublime
that breathes in peace through winter night.
The lofty heads of stately pine
rear up and brush the lowered sky
as if they could, by straightened spine,
so please the God who built them high.
Their incense needles, fragrant, fall
in silence to the chapel floor
and still above, they shade the hall
where ghosts who come by night adore.
Black on black, and brown by green,
create a hush bereft of light
where one may linger safe, unseen,
and sleep in peace through winter night.
   Winter's Kissi saw winter dancing
nude
so i grabbed her
wrist
and pulled her in for a kiss.
with a sweet, slow
retreat
i swept her off
her feet,
and carried her down to summer.
   to be born in the rainThe sky's cold tears fall
mingling with the salty trails on my face.
I am born with a winter's rain
caressing my newly formed cheeks,
stiff limbs taking first steps through puddles -
tiny oceans gracing black pavement.
So this is what it feels like
to
b r e a t h e
fresh, cold air floods tender senses,
tingling and full of a thousand new smells
connected with sights and sounds.
Birth is a cold, fresh, marvelous thing
pulsing and swaying to the discordant music
of new life.
  Frozen MemoriesBy accident,
I found her tombstone.
It lay buried beneath snow,
encased in ice,
under a canopy of white held aloft by the trees.
I had been walking,
focusing,
as I often do,
on the clouds of steam rising from my mouth,
and what they meant to me,
when my foot caught hold of the crumbling cross,
and sent me tumbling down...
down...
down...
I caught myself on hands in a sea of crystal white,
flesh stinging from the cold,
my foot aching in pain,
burning hot in the winter wood.
Why would there be a grave here?
What poor soul would be forever lost in this hollow?
Carefully,
in the cold,
throughout the fading light,
and into a darkness of falling snow,
I worked to unmask the grave,
and reveal the name of the damned.
I toiled for hours,
until my fingers went numb and bled,
spilling red upon the white,
a contrast so stark in hurt my eyes,
but in such beauty that was not lost on me,
until I could reveal the faint carvings that were letters.
Her name was as beautiful as I'm sure she was in life,
  December BuddhaDecember cracks open like hazelnuts,
crinkled brown and brittle, dry from the fire,
cold-crisp and crunching as needles of pines.
As usual, wisdom comes just in time,
reminder to hold on to my forest,
to my stories, to make myself buddha.
I am lacking, no quiet rain-buddha,
born, as I was, a tight-curled hazelnut,
but I do send roots into my forest,
and in summer spread Colorado fire.
I find that more and more I pass the time
among the kings that are my totem pines.
In North Carolina, December pines
not for sun but for a softer buddha,
a figure to remind the month that time
ends not with January; hazelnut,
it curls in on itself, warm with the fire.
It is my roots, winding through the forest.
Some days I wait for rain in my forest.
I love how it trickles down my crown-pines
to soften days and keep away brush-fire.
In the spring I am not a flame-buddha,
want only streams for floating hazelnuts:
all my riddle answers are, "time, time, time."
The mackintosh flesh marks the passing time:
it
 :thumb279281658: :thumb276854256:  Peace On EarthFreedom is not free
                                     Love, it never lasts
Forgiveness has its limits,
                                               We are trapped within our pasts.
After
all the bodies fall,
After
all the blood is shed,
Where is the  " g i f t "  we fought for?
Is there a reason that we're dead?
And one tin soldier watches
As cities
                And bodies
                
  Santa versus AtnasAtnas the bad, mysterious, sly
Travels the world on his sleigh in the sky.
Santa's old friend, now inglorious foe,
This age old story is something to know:
They started out well, as partners in crime
Until one Christmas when Atnas got time.
Santa and Atnas were felons you see,
They robbed, plundered, stole - things so dastardly.
The plans were devised and thought out by Old Nick
As getaway driver he drove oh so quick.
The strong and fit Atnas brought life to the schemes,
And there was the set up of our daring team.
Their usual targets were the rich, banks and stores,
"We have little money, you won't miss some of yours"
This was the thought behind Santa's bad ways
(And he says he'll regret for the rest of his days).
Atnas was greedy, unbelievably so!
He suggested stealing from children, but Santa said no.
They argued and argued 'til blue in the face
Santa shot off enraged but Atnas gave chase
They flew round the world at neck breaking speed
Shouting and bawling but neither'd concede
The
  Christmas DollIridescent pearls slid along
silken strands of ebony lock
Garland and feathers enhancing
The fragrance of pine encrusted misery
A young girl sits, back arched,
Hands clasped, nails preened
Christmas ruffles and bows
Encompass her small form -
A merry little doll of seasonal fluff
Her eyes, limp, with sullen pout
Her smile a painted decoy
Santa looks down at the child,
"and what would you like for Christmas?"
The camera flashes; her eyes glinting -
A seeming merry sparkle.
She just asks for the picture.
   why i'm scared of ghostsdear ghost of christmas past,
it's christmastime.  christmas eve, to be exact.  i can't look outside without seeing the shimmer of the snow, like tiny fireflies etched into each flake.  glistening strands of colorful bulbs christen the neighborhood, like they're declaring us worthy of a little light.  
i'm shivering like i got caught in a snow bank, and i'm blinking like i'm hoping my eyelashes will tangle together and pull my lids closed.  
i was wondering; if dreams are so pretty, why do they shatter like sherry glasses against tile as soon as we open our eyes?  maybe they aren't meant for us to hang on to, cause the most beautiful things are only ever viewed at a glance.
(any more than that, and you start to notice the bloody color of the sky and the way the roses smell more bitter than sweet.)
and i was thinking that's why snow gives itself over to the wind so easily, cause looking too closely at your hand linked through m
 :thumb275943526:  The Thin HoursI.
Those of us here in this skeleton time,
this time of the year when the nights are thin
and dark, and dark with anxiety, peeling
as layers of an oyster shell, brittle and effaced
and somehow iridescent.
When the bell tolls out the time the sound is thin
and reaches into fractured air and softly
seeks the spaces between the atoms and
misses the vital Os and CO2s in a lasting,
failed pinball. The bell sound dies in
some space between midnight and thereafter,
and each tock tock of slipping cogs is
a repeat and not a moving on.
The air is filled with each dull sound,
each tock a repeat and a repeat again. And the
slip between this old year and the new is the
slip of ice on ice, a thing that will melt and
lose its meaning before the sun can rise.
These dead hours can spin out with
no regard for time, and
no regard for the drub of a beating heart
and – no regard
        none at all.
II.
The moth at the window is a silent ghost, but
the wind has
  we should celebratei.
i tried to think of pain as a flower,
first it blossoms
  and then
  it wilts away.
but i won't let myself disappear
along with it,
i won't
give you that.

(it's not the agony that makes
me scream, it's the flavor).
ii.
and you whispered softly
"i'll rip your heart out and replace it
with a song,
it's christmas soon, and
we should celebrate".
  you've always used my scars
  as a calendar,
  as a way to remind yourself
  "today is tuesday
  and i still exist".
iii.
(it's morning now because
i can see
the sunlight
through my eyelids
and imagine
a bright summer day,
the flowers are
beautiful,
so
damn
beautiful).
  Phantoms Of Another UniverseLook.
I'll tell it like it was.
black.
cold.
wretched.
Static clung to the air
like ornaments on a Christmas tree
and we were graced with the odd arced lightning.
Oh, it was cold.
so cold.
I remember not seeing,
my fingers frozen off as
feeling receded from them
like waves on a beach.
how could I even be sure
they were.
still.
there?
the forgotten memory of a sunset
lay imprinted on my brain,
and its absence made the night
emptier than ever.
we waited.
we waited for the moon to rise,
for the clouds to shift,
for the e-lec-tri-ci-ty to stop
(like lost travelers stumbling
in the desert waiting for an
oasis mirage to shatter their
re-a-li-ty)
we waited, questioning our existence,
questioning this formation of
carbonnitrogengalaxy,
questioning the light that remained
unseen.
(like questioning "how in the world did
I lose that!" and it turns out you hadn't—
you'd been waving it, flailing it, even,
(incredulously) in your hand)
we waited.
and one year later,
one eternity l
  EnoughI'm holding on to secrets so tightly my hands start to burn.
Winter has come full-force, wind sending the windows quivering against their panes and snow blanketing the Earth in an ivory sheen.  We're all bundled up inside, pressed together for warmth to maybe give a bit of it to the not-still-living locked up in a metallic casket no bigger than a shoe box. The mix of flowers –yellow roses, her favorite– and the musty smell of the funeral home permeates everything, makes my nose crinkle up and eyes sting, spilling over with tears.
The sea of nameless, faceless acquaintances part as I walk forward, cold hands on my back and muted, guilty I'm sorrys assaulting my ears, prolonging my mission. I meet the table, watch my Aunt sniffle and move on her way, pausing to wipe her tears on my shoulder and hug me tight.
I take my turn, all eyes on me. They know,
they know.
Her face stares back at me, a dozen pressed beneath glass, her hair in a bob the color of driftwood a
  Stories From the Psych Ward (2 of 3)I'm so cold I feel it down to the bones,
sitting in the dining hall trembling
over my cup of tea. A huge Christmas
tree twinkles merrily beside me in red, blue, silver, pink and gold.
Patients huddle together outside to talk,
but I'm forbidden to join them,
trapped inside the ward on a category four.
They're all strangers to me, I've spoken to no one.
Smoking their cigarettes in faded pajamas,
looking tired and worn down,
lips twisting into smiles as the smoke
curls down into their lungs.
Nurses find me hiding from evil spirits in the cupboard.
They let me stay inside, safe until the panic stops and
the shadows disappear, give me blankets
to stay warm, until they take me by the hand and lead me out.
Two psychiatrists come to speak with me
While insects pour from my lips
And satellites speak of the death of stars
The voices scream at me
But I talk.
They want me to trust them
They want me to stay alive.
A nurse takes six canisters of my blood,
a deep frothy red. It pours out of my
veins
   Sojourner III.
The icicle crests of pine-needle tiaras
Had settled onto the crisp craniums of pale
Rouge and foundation-frosted pinecones.
The multi-faceted snow-tipped noses were open
To the hushed aria of breathing with undertones
Of whispers suggesting: sway… shatter.
He registered ashen snow and Fibonacci sequences
In the scales of the pinecone, in the evergreen
Needles, and in the steadily increasing flurries.
At a stalemate for minutes past dusk and hours
Until dawn, the evening's lunar fluorescence had
Peaked in reflective moonlight and begun to dim.
Skyward flurries took of frost as he overtook
Diminishing footprints; the soil had lost its warmth.
Presently the frangible flakes were solidifying.
Tireless sets of footprints, encrusted by an iced-glaze
Like a frozen sheen of sweat and dead grass parted
Like a middle-aged man's baldness, were visible
Beneath the conifer's knotted limbs and the
Tin-to-the-touch snowflake-threaded needles.
Photonegative greys and gossamer silver ton
  FrostbittenWinter is her favorite time of the year.
It's beautiful. Silver and blue dance around with one another in a waltz of freezing passion as snow and ice douse the land in a blanket of boreal glamour. Glass windowpanes become easels for falling snowflakes, frost etching into the smooth surfaces in intricate and unique patterns.
Winter has always been her favorite time of the year, and it always will be.
It is not because of Christmas--no, even though she loves the holiday, it is not what sparks her strong fondness for the star-colored blanketing across the land. Her infatuation with the snow and ice and everything cold has to do with something that most people don't truly believe in.
A boy.
A boy whom she met long ago.
She still remembers the day like it was yesterday. Running around in the forest, laughing and tasting the snowflakes as they fell down into her parted lips and melting immediately on her tongue. All bundled up as a precaution, even though the winter has always been kind to h
 :thumb214099159:    The Angeli am no winter.
~
walking behind tombstones
so i can't see the names
i try remembering
this place
from before.
~
someone indebted to me stands on the far side of the water.
i watch them as they lift their hand to me, then turn away.
they no longer owe me anything.
~
i trace in blue
a white seashell.
~
to look at myself
i must look down.
i am a notion
inside myself.
after a few years
i look back up.
~
the river floods every spring,
the water doing the impossible, taking every path
at once.
~
the wind flattens my clothes against me.
emptiness comes and pulls away.
~
too intelligible
to merely exist
we have our own lives.
~
the snow touches the field.
not endless,
    but beyond reach.
~
something like a harp
sits at the window,
sipping out of a cup.
~
"resuscitate the sphere:
     touch the circle."
the Book of Shapes
never gets read
or written.
~
what has become
is never undone,
just buried.
the snow replaces the moon
as what you might confid
 :thumb291735197:  Winter's SongMy grandmother used to tell me that on a clear summers day you could find the colour of everyone's eyes in the surroundings.  I could never find the colour of mine, on those beautiful days where the sun spun my hair into gold and the wind tickled my cheeks.  I could never find the exact shade, but I didn't tell her.
At dusk today I found the exact colour in the sky.  I have winter song eyes.  They are the colour of the sky when the birds have sung their last note and tiny snowflakes have just begun to fall.  Snowflakes so small that you can never catch any; if you did I'm sure they would taste of magic.  Maybe winter songs only come along once every decade, only when you need to feel that the world is at peace.
I have eyes the colour of winter's song, maybe you can find your peace there.
  DecemberMy hands are
black with soot
and shiny with grease;
the embers lie low.
The air grew teeth.
We sit alone
in our separate dreams
and entertain the shade
of what was lost.
Our fingers will twitch
with phantom pain-
our mouths will run dry.
Everything I am,
outweighed, overcome
by a fistful of
words with teeth;
as heavy as gold,
as poison as lead,
and I can't write poetry
because I said I would
leave you alone
and you never leave the lines-
you are there between them,
every one.
  WinteringIt's a canvas of mouthings,
of open throats, that wave of grey.
Storm clouds pass like sails torn,
loosing their limbs to the wind
with each stroke of the brush.
There's a symphony in the rush
of them, howling their wolfcry, O -
breathings holes into the fabric,
Lethe leaving their lungs. And low,
tugging at the hymns that line the sky,
the moon, sister of a stone,
rises, rises with her hood of bone.
  ghostin cold air
breath lingers
like a ghost
  AirYou do not have to be empty.
Go, now, to the high places, the thin spires
of mountains and skyscrapers
the roof of your house, tipped with snow,
and fill yourself up with the air.
Drink it in, taste it, roll it around
on your tongue, feel it settle
in the caverns of your lungs. Feel the dust
and the ice crystals and the scraps of newspaper
brush your lips, and fill yourself with them, too.
Fill yourself up with the moonlight, the frost,
the dusky rose of the rising sun,
the night, the morning, the calls of birds,
the sillhouettes of telephone poles,
the shadows of people and clouds and alley cats
that dance across the pavement.
Fill yourself with the feel of your lover's hands,
the smell of the cold wind (mint and forests)
the taste of afternoon tea, the sight
of birds pinwheeling in the snow.
You do not have to be empty.
  l'hiver.(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
the grand church of dizzying space - )
and the trees are yellowed in cowardice, raking the sky
to the ground and around and around.
listen to your organs: the almost grand piano of the
churches i'd never attend.
and never mistake the courage of the sky for the cowardice
of the ground. never frown, never frown.
listen to your palms: the salty swing of the old snow
burning up on silk and splendor.
and visit the dying snow birds in their graves of the
ground, and they drown and drown.
(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
a grand church of dizzying space will reply. why. why.
would my white birds die.)
  the promises of winteri will wear gloves from
now until march.  this is something
i decided last year and i am
determined to stick to it.
if there is anything to which i will
adhere, any self-set rule i will follow,
this will be it.  and i will
know myself better for it.
when i am handed a
hot white mug of peppermint tea
i will not be burned because of
these gloves.  and when there is
snow all over the place, when the
streetlamps are cold with it,
my hands will be
ecstatic with heat.  
my only fear is the wearing-out
of fabric.  my hands are put to
good use every day and i can see this
becoming a kind of problem.  i will
have to guard my hands very carefully
from now until march.  i will
treat them as glass.
 :thumb277651414:  Radioactive Snowflakes                                         Oh boy, boy, boy
For the last shall be,
and that arctic disposition will melt away in time
written on a hearth rug, read it and then
turn the dial back and tune into Goodbye FM
                                        "Oh boy, boy, boy
               Goldilocks should have been clad in HazMat,
               bear in mind the Gouda enacts the rat trap"
For the last shall be,
when fractals free fall from the sky
thickening icycle eyes, cementing prisms with time
...and I
measured it all in half-life
                                          Oh boy, boy boy
That arct
 :thumb197580834:  Memoir Of A Summer GirlI've been called an ice princess.
A frigid queen that couldn't shake the icicles dangling from her heart or even melt the first crust of snowy powder along these veins long enough to feel something... anything at all.
And every time someone would say these things to me I would smile sweetly, numbly because I couldn't feel.
But yet, their eyes dance over my breasts as if to a staccato tune only they can hear, and their tongue wets their lips as if tequila were thrust in front of a recovering alcoholic that is still thirsty.
Again I tilt my head and smile, unfeeling, knowing their eyes are burning holes into my skin.
The seams of my clothing unraveling around me, fabric combusting, leaving me standing before them naked - a mass of invisible scars and bruised flesh where their lips once kissed me too hard.
I know they only see puckered nipples or the near-dampness between my thighs.
Not the girl in here.
Not the summer girl I had once been.
Their fingers splayed across my ribcage as if fe
  December RainDecember Rain
1.
So it was the end of December.
There was a steady rain touching the peaks
of our eyes' tiniest lashes
to shroud them in cracked drops
that would ice over as your breath did.
(why was it so cold?)
It was to make them as strong as steel,
though they crumbled like dust, nearly
collapsing from the wind flurrying around.
(I could trace it from the rain and
carcasses of leaves that stuck to its sound)
And each and every note that left your pharynx
was the color of a dead blue, blending in
so it was invisible under all the noise in the background.
2.
And I stood, waiting for the time your mouth would just stop and
for you to understand how much time could hurt
when abused and left out to dry like a towel in the sun
on a day like today.
With each tick of the clock I rocked on these nearly-new feet
and tried to taste the remnants of autumn wafting from the lawn.
(that was my favorite season, though it won't come again)
Though when I saw the lights go out in your eyes,
I
  FrostI am devouring chaos,
chasing it down with winter's chill.
Spare me your fingerprints,
summer's lovechild.  Those knowing owl eyes
have me second guessing the wild churning
in my bones. You are the sleep that sweeps
my eyelashes, drowning me in my own daydreams.
When was it...
that you plastered yourself to my ribcage?
  Th' Braw MountainsCome to the wild places, the high and lonely places.
Inhale beauty, in the form of icicle air and pine dust.
Touch it, the cold mountain soil, and rejoice.
Let the wind fill you and find the point inside all of us,
Where you reach out over the forest,
And fly without leaving the ground.
Sure and proud, like the eagles around you.
Let your hair lift and whip, flushing your cheeks
And awakening your bones. Spin at the peak of mountains,
Glorying in the cold clean height. Laugh for it.
And when you are tired from the air,
Come and rest on the rough hills, amongst the brown and gold gorse
And feel sunlight thaw the wind-seeds. Watch the loch and love it.
Not for the beauty but because it is there. The comforting age,
The bedrock of your soul.
Stand in the bitter river on sharp stones and know you live,
That the land loves you for its Maker's child.
Exult in the cold and the warmth and above all the immensity
Of the weight of the world around you.
Wrap the landscape around your body,
  thawingmy love,
i swear, there is a ghost beneath my bones.
she slides around the rungs of my ribs, gentle like a lover's hands but cold, so unlike yours. i lay in bed at night, days after you have gone, your jacket and seven blankets struggling to keep me warm -but her arctic touch seeps deeper, slides its way past my lips and settles in places i swore only you could touch. and i am left gasping, arching, desperate for a body one hundred and thirty eight miles away, a voice that doesn't seem nearly as warm after traveling through the airwaves, a spring that only exists in your arms.
because i miss laughter, i miss your eyes, i miss the feeling of thawing after forty days in the tundra of my own heart, and two in yours.
 


Path from autumn to winter by Aydra Winterheart by EmberRoseArt :thumb184001878: Winterspell by GingerKellyStudio SNOW by lisans Blossoms of the Frost by AkubakaArts My Last Breath by moondragonwings Snowflakes with Amurshaya by Eltasia  Nightly Kiev. Unreal by AlexGontar Foreshadow by scenceable Christmas wonder by Fantasy-fairy-angel Forgotten Melodies by EnchantedWhispersArt The Frozen Witch by EnysGuerrero Take A Seat by mindlesspuppettoy The Wheel of Time by dark-spider To brave the Snow by RowanLewgalon A Princess of His Own by maina So High. by GoldenCadillac Pieris rapae by SelvaggioRocker :thumb338022727: something in the way by arbebuk :thumb197538036: Winter Dreams 2 by theancientsoul Solitude... by MmagPL Winter Warmth by ForestGirl Day 39 by FramedByNature seasons greetings 20076 by AvantFae Aurora by LenoreScarecrow after you by propan3 Father winter by alexson1 Oh, Christmas Tree by rednersalonga :thumb268078572:  Snowy Perch by Nate-Zeman The goddess of Christmas by EmberRoseArt Am ur present..you lucky guys by blondepassion Rudolph by AkubakaArts Winter fire by Lita-in-depress Breath of Life by SageLupus Dresden Striezelmarkt 2010 by Torsten-Hufsky Solstice Gathering by Ironshod :thumb144493463: On the ice by Pervandr I've been sick forever by MrsCullen violet winter III by quadratiges Mistelkranz und Kerzendocht by MiaSteingraeber Coldfinch by thrumyeye Snowmaiden by KnyazevSergey Small Messengers by ldiehl .:My Last Breath:. by Aelathen Diamonds aren't forever by XavierJamonet Luminous Ice Phenomena in the Park by Tolkyes Iceroad by SilkPiggy Little Empress of Lynxes by mary-petroff Winter Tale by Thaess Good Morning Sunshine by KariLiimatainen Spellbound by Flingling The North Wind by mllemia :thumb191365909: w i n t e r . by urbania13 Winter Walk by Kameolynn Midnight Travelers by ElvenstarArt Midnight Messenger by Ironshod The Spirit of Yule by RowanLewgalon Tree Of Light by lowapproach "Forsake of Winter" by AliceMeichi Winter fairy by tanya-and-coffee :thumb190118468: La Lumiere by Foxfires Winter Wonderland by silvermoonnw Snowy Winter by PirateRu-Ru Holly by brandrificus ornament by DaphneNg Crazy Kitty Time by MeredithDillman Winter's Prayer: Cardinal by plantiebee Eternal by Nicolas-Henri :thumb291568285: Let Me Fly by yeevon Winter Lights. by andokadesbois Ice Maiden by dark-spider Story by Lady-Ghost Moonlight2 by markotapio Pure White by DeadLulu the Joy of waiting by wchild Spirits of Winter by JLGribble . December 1 . by Mokinzi Unfroze by vacuumslayer - Cyanocitta cristata - by Losenko Winter by elanordh Bath by AkubakaArts Wish by EErieFaery Ice rose by Static-ghost :thumb285923984: the tracker by sandara Silent snow by Blooomberg Cernunnos by oione All That Glitters by LeashaHooker Holiday Octopus by SeaOfCreations Pain in the Wintry Wind by KnightChan  come back tomorrow by MrsCullen Laced In Frost by davidrichterphoto Winter fairy-tale by KnyazevSergey Dolomites in Flames by niccolobonfadini Angel of Ice by Irulana Where they live pheasants by tomsumartin Winter Wallpaper III by SvenMueller Andralys by alexandre-deschaumes Drawing the Night by MarcoBrambini Yule by Ariel87 Nature's legacy by JoInnovate Winter by Si3art Shadow Creek by Nelleke The Touch of Frost by AkubakaArts Winter awakening by sinhalite Tarot of Ices - 2 - The High Priestess by RozennIlliano Darshiva by MarcSimonetti Christmas Card 2007 by Meek-o-bits Winter's Nest by ldiehl Snow walk by Dream-traveler Mid-Winter's Night by Iardacil Winter Light by AnnMarieBone Snegurochka (Snow Maiden) by Morgainelefee Is this wonderland by KariLiimatainen Frozen by michellemonique Winter Sun by laverinne Snow time by Dyxtreme Frosty by WaitingForTheWorms +Cold of Winter+ by larienne Le cristal dore by jjuuhhaa the day by propan3 water and ice by Rohwen cold by sw0nk :: Winter Sonata :: by dewanggapratama push away the darkness by baspunk Fire and Ice by michaelanderson Winter's Temptation by Ameryn - Dawn over medieval cloister - by UNexperienced :thumb207507853: Cold Soul by smaragdscherben SnowDark by Capricuario Flowers in December by siamois Frozen by mashamaklaut Fate of the Fallen by Questavia :thumb156351830: Awakening Giants by KristinaGehrmann Winterhearted by Juli-SnowWhite Crater Lake, Winter by MarcAdamus A Sliver of Sunlight by allendouglasstudio Oradea City by Szilard-Ioo Here it's december everyday.. by SomnolentImages somewhere only we know by islandtime Winter Roses by YvonneVetjens river view by KariLiimatainen Sleeping Beauty by RozennIlliano frozen forest by mikedw96 Wynter by Jennyeight beautifreeze by Edarneor Winter's heart by Kechake :thumb334568365: Winter Time by sternenfern crybaby by oione Soft by AkubakaArts First snow. Last flowers by Bathoriya On the turning away by realityDream The Script by SebastianKraus Lone Rose by SecretStich Winter by milenkadelic A Light in the Darkness by EnysGuerrero Twitter by faisalh Sun at Heart by Mogrianne She goes her own way by endlessnight-m Winter Reflection by porbital Look, it's snowing... by MirachRavaia Christmas by kiiw The Deer princess and the prince by Costurero-Real Haunted Road by 55thmouse Woman in fjord by laura-csajagi Holly by freezinka The Snow Queen. by nymphs-and-the-wolf :thumb104575694: Winter Princess II by Annie-Bertram Up by KariLiimatainen Snow Queen Realm by MikeMS :: let it snow :: by hellfirediva Winter Wonderland by PrincessMagical Ice Spell by Maxa-art Warm cold winter sunset by RomGams Winter Landscape by 88grzes lights and shadows by FrantisekSpurny Rocket Tail by TheYellowstoneWay :thumb275444854: The Face of Winter by MCKrauss come in II by maximila When You Believe by incolor16 Snow Fox by thrumyeye Loney Winter by JVarriano on a cold winter's day by quadratiges Winter Unicorn by SuliannH Winter Morning Redux by Nate-Zeman Galactic Frost. by hybridgothica Winter Remembrance by DeingeL Snowy Owl by david-harris .:Icy Crab Apples:. by RHCheng Simplicity by pro-non Frozen World... by A301P :thumb194572621: Catch a falling star. by NikolasBrummer Life buoy by SilkPiggy 6992 by KariLiimatainen Abrek by Olga5 Troubled Water by KariLiimatainen Winter rhapsody by KatrinaStranger Winter Beauty by el-mateo Early Winter by girltripped Winter has come to play by FrantisekSpurny Winter Story by Aisii Christmas heaven... by freezinka ice. by Eunelia Winter Tale by Oer-Wout Cold As Snow by Corvinerium Winter fairytales by DarkVenusPersephonae Lunar by PorcelainPoet Winter Exile by xHee-Heex Winter Beauty I by zairia
Now go and get creating! :eager: 

The :iconlit-visual-alliance: Team: :iconladyofgaerdon: :iconevlydia: :iconazizriandaoxrak: :iconquiestinliteris: :iconvigilo:


P.S. YES there will be new features and polls published soon! So keep submitting to the Featured Folder all you like! As always, if you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask! :D


Results of the Autumn Alliance Contest!

Journal Entry: Thu Dec 6, 2012, 11:22 AM


:wave: Hello my beautiful Allies! It's time to announce the winners of our Autumn Alliance Contest! :la:


:iconlit-visual-alliance:

What is the Alliance, you ask?

The Alliance is a project group intended to encourage visual and literary artists to work together. I've felt for some time that the 
dA Literature Community can at times be somewhat insular - to its detriment. We in the Lit Community are also sometimes prone to griping 
about the lack of exposure our work receives when compared to that of visual artists. So in the spirit of ^thorns brilliant 
Complaint Challenge I thought I would try to do something about that. And so the Alliance was born!


Your judges: :iconladyofgaerdon: :iconazizriandaoxrak: :iconevlydia:


We didn't have an extraordinary amount of entries, but the entries we did receive were extraordinary. 
We had a tough time choosing the winners, but choose we did. And here they are. :)




In First Place


 
 
 
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:

 
based on 

 
moth 5 by LialiaD-stock
 
 
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:

The judges agreed that the author really 
took the original photo and made the idea their own, 
wringing every last ounce of imagery and inspiration 
and weaving it into the poem.



In Second Place


I, Autumn :Contest Entry: by Missvirginia
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 

based on

:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:  

The judges felt that this image was very evocative
of the inspiring poem, had a similar feel,
 and that the influence of the 
poem was readily apparent.



:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 

The judges were impressed with how well the author
interpreted the inspiring image, especially
in a fixed form.



Honorable Mention


:thumb335648165:
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:  

based on

:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:   

The judges loved the originality in form and style
in this image, and how it captured the dark 
atmosphere of the inspiring poem.



Our other entries were also fantastic! And so we shall feature them here as well. :aww:

Alive by AeternusVotum
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:

based on

Hello, Autumn.                              'Hello, Autumn.'
Once upon an autumn night, I felt a soft, hissing breeze, tangling the hair around my cheeks.
I heard soft splashing rain as it fell on my eyelashes, creating small beads that reflected light of the distant stars.
I saw flame-colored leaves deserting their branches as they covered the wet ground like a child's cluttered toys. As I looked at the now-bare trees, hunched under grey clouds that blocked the moonlight from reaching earth; I was reminded of obnoxious ghosts--trapped souls begging for mercy with their screams.
And as the rain kept pouring, emptying the black sky, I was reminded of summer times on a rooftop's broken ledge. I would pretend that the drops on my forehead were salty sea-water; that the wet mud was hot sand and as I let my memories take over, falling leaves would sw

:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:   

This piece has such a wonderful fall feeling. 
The original prose piece obviously 
inspired the artist greatly.



Autumn SorrowStill dark water flows by, dotted by autumn leaves. The orange has faded, now, wilted, turned brown as the season has passed. Trees stretch their dark, naked arms towards the sky, praying for sunlight, for warmth, for life. But their prayers will go unheeded for months to come as snow and frost cover all in a thick, cold, soft blanket. The world stands at Winter's door.
Silent steps descend the stairs, the sound hidden by the mournful singing of the small river. Naked feet, red with cold, step on grey stone painted with frost. Dead, brown grass crunches and breaks as the person, dressed in robes of grey, kneels before the wailing statue by the river.
Mourning grey. That is what the color is called, the one the person's robes are. They cover everything but hands, face and feet, rag-like and torn. They cannot hide the shaking shoulders as the mourner prays to the statue, the grey stone frozen in grief, both hands covering the face.
Naked feet, red with cold, step silently onto the stone.

:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:   

based on

Autumn sorrow by AncientKing
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:   

The whimsical, fantasy style 
of the drawing is lovely; much of the 
poem made it into the image, while the artist 
still made it her own interpretation.



fall colors by Auzureii
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:   

based on

:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:   

The artist took inspiration from both 
a visual and a literature deviation 
to create this vibrant image.




Thank you so much to everyone who entered! We are thrilled to see our members inspired by one another and hope that you'll continue to create inspired art 
and submit it to our featured folder. Our Winter Contest will be announced in a few days! :eager:

Until next time...

The :iconlit-visual-alliance: Team: :iconladyofgaerdon: :iconevlydia: :iconazizriandaoxrak: :iconquiestinliteris: :iconvigilo:


TWG's Featured Deviant of the Month - Nov. 2012

Journal Entry: Sun Nov 11, 2012, 5:54 PM


:wave: Hello, lovely members! LadyofGaerdon here to continue our series:

Featured Deviant of the Month 


 for

 :icontalentedwritersguild:

 October's Featured Deviant is..........:eager:

 
:iconstardivider1plz::iconstardivider3plz:

 
:iconnichrysalis:
 
Nichrysalis 
 
:iconstardivider1plz::iconstardivider3plz:

TalentedWritersGuild is a literature group committed to the encouragement, collection, and archival of high quality prose and poetry works. To find out more about the group, please click here.


 Here at TalentedWritersGuild, we encourage deviants to select only their best pieces of literature for submission. As judges, we look for pieces that simultaneously move us, challenge us, and inspire us as readers; pieces that stimulate us emotionally and intellectually; and the pieces that display true technical skill. When we vote, we consider all these things, and let only the pieces we deem up to snuff through to our gallery. This pushes our members to excel, challenge themselves, and improve their craft, and provides our readers with high quality literature to read. 


The Featured Deviant of the Month is a member whose submissions meet and surpass this criteria.   

:icontalentedwritersguild:

Nichrysalis is not only a dedicated leader of the Lit Community, 
but a brilliant writer himself. His words always prompt the reader to think harder, to ruminate 
on the themes and messages he presents and come to our own conclusions. Constantly pushing 
himself and his writing to evolve and grow, he inspires us all to do the same.

 Nichrysalis has 20 pieces in our gallery to date! They are all wonderful and I encourage you to check them out.


Red ShiftI. Stasis i.
"I need to hide a body,"
The crispness
Before a question is asked
Is interrupted
"Yours."
I. Stasis ii.
I hang up on him
And hesitate;
Wait for vivisection
By vibration;
Wait for him to call back
To confirm
What he heard.
I can hear him
Go back to sleep.
II. Intravenous i.
He is alive.
Photos of him
Have a distant red shift
In his eye.
Photos of me
Have an approaching blue tint
In the iris.
I wait for him to call back
To confirm
What he heard.
II. Intravenous ii.
I'm digging
For the others
I had hid a town or two away.
The shovel
Won't break the cul-de-sac asphalt
Where forest floor
Had been.
II. Intravenous iii.
I am postcards away
When a dissected victim
Addresses me.
"Nic,"
His tone is brisk,
As if his lips were scissortips
Splitting his tongue
"We're still attached to each other."
"Yah Ed, we are."
I was a phone call away
Apparently.
II. Intravenous iv.
At the church
I

In the words of LadyofGaerdon: 
As the author says "Red Shift is the theory
that stars with a reddish tint are drifting away
from us, and those with blue tints are coming
towards us". This metaphor is skillfully employed
to create an absorbing,  moving narrative.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:  


:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


HeadfirstHeadfirst is the only way to fall when you're the barrier between unconsciousness and brain cells. Lungs contort— my breathing won't come— doesn't come fast enough. My aorta scoffs at me, tsk tsk, and I can perceive that I am so acutely aware with what is left of my five senses and of my surroundings that I cannot register— cannot assess the situation. Everything is now, and now is for everything that will continue to be now.
I pick myself up.
Blood: I taste it and it smears dry on my facial features. I have no sense of vision; it is not that I see black; it is that I imagine I must be viewing black to have no sensation of light penetrating my corneas. Beyond the squeak-squelch of the hinges of my eyelids my hand is shakily navigating syrupy air conditioning.
I make contact with the tile, headfirst.
The crack of tile on skull resonates for a second, like the whip-like crack that mothers have in their voice when they say your middle name. Pronunciations are

In the words of angeljunkie: 
The first line plunges you in without hesitation
and each line after locks you into the narrator's
experience, pairing rhythm, description and narrative
to give an unflinching insight into personal experience.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


Retrograde          Scents from inside the suit intertwined their intentions with the sights of tangled and tessellated hair illumed by firefly LED's, spiking my circulation with memories and murmurs of dopamine.
          I took her by the gaze; she steered her sight away from mine. I led her through a glance that involved no scuffling of hands.
          She was one of two wayward strangers passing in the cosmos; two separate glances met as objects in motion tending to motion. People aren't the same however.
          Drifter was the term we were known as, people cast off of vessels and ships, mostly by accident, condemned to trudge about the universe until starvation kicked in or their oxygen-starved filters were finally incapable of operating. My unplanned departure from the mysteriously flaming

In the words of LadyofGaerdon: 
A strikingly original concept, written
in an abstract yet captivating style,
this piece paints strange, vibrant
pictures in your head, which linger
with you long after reading.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


SojournerRevisited 10/28/2012 - Read by disrhythmic HERE.
I.
Salt in the cemetery licked at the lacking and
Lacquered ribcages of centuries old hulls—
Hulls and albatrosses overhead like
Broken ribs and severed sternums.
Masts akimbo and off-kilter, wood stained
To the marrow by the fresh saltwater from the shore
Of the Aral Sea; beached, sunk in the speckled
Sand, like the words of a guilted verdict,
A flotilla of past-flown ships and craft
Plunge further into the pebbles and topsoil.
The decay of humanity and humus emergent,
Each vessel was a well-rested relic reliant on
The sun to circumnavigate the pearlescent skies,
For the vessels could no longer circumvent the
Dusk that plagued each day.
Coerced to acquiesce and reacquaint with
The night, the marquee moon beams upon
The shoreline where sea-stricken ships offer
Shelter, like a lightn

In the words of thetaoofchaos: 
The striking alliteration and consistently
wonderful aesthetic quality to this narrative poem
leaves the reader with the sense that they have
dreamt of a fantastic voyage in wild colors.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


Sojourner III.
The icicle crests of pine-needle tiaras
Had settled onto the crisp craniums of pale
Rouge and foundation-frosted pinecones.
The multi-faceted snow-tipped noses were open
To the hushed aria of breathing with undertones
Of whispers suggesting: sway… shatter.
He registered ashen snow and Fibonacci sequences
In the scales of the pinecone, in the evergreen
Needles, and in the steadily increasing flurries.
At a stalemate for minutes past dusk and hours
Until dawn, the evening's lunar fluorescence had
Peaked in reflective moonlight and begun to dim.
Skyward flurries took of frost as he overtook
Diminishing footprints; the soil had lost its warmth.
Presently the frangible flakes were solidifying.
Tireless sets of footprints, encrusted by an iced-glaze
Like a frozen sheen of sweat and dead grass parted
Like a middle-aged man's baldness, were visible
Beneath the conifer's knotted limbs and the
Tin-to-the-touch snowflake-threaded needles.
Photonegative greys and gossamer silver ton

In the words of AzizrianDaoXrak:
The technical skill visible in this piece is just amazing.
The imagery is just breathtaking, with everything from
nature imagery to rival Wordsworth to pictures that
ground the piece in things we experience everyday.
Though it's a long piece, it is well worth sticking with it to the end.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


Only as Old"Frail bones predict what fragile minds can't detect,"
He trailed off slowly, "And my bones are achin'."
The air around me hung low and depressed,
Sticking to the back of my throat like a stormy syrup
I'd tried to swallow down.
I peered out the kitchen window
And caught an inklet of patched-over-grey sky;
I wondered what was in store for the day.
Impartial to the gloom outside, we stepped out onto the back porch;
Grandpa wobbled out with his cane in hand and we waited.
In the hushed stillness the trees traded birds—
Robins, swallows, whippoorwills, and cardinals.
If you squinted hard enough at the sullen shrubbery,
You could spot the caterpillar creeping to the underside of the leaf.
That's when I looked at Grandpa,
And saw through his eyes nature receding
At his prescience of a storm.
"Grandpa, how do you always know?"
He chuckled and simply said: "The world tells me."
It was left at that, but years later I have found
That the world is only as old as the person to whom you speak.

In the words of Halatia: 
Nichrysalis presents a well-detailed
snapshot of a life-altering moment,
and has a truly wonderful closing line.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


The Other ColorWith an inhalation of breath and mind he realized
He had always found it effortful to depict
And portray the apperception of the paints
And the ethos of the ink to another
Individual who had wandered out of room.
But they were not out of mind, and the premise
To call their presence nearer was an undeniable
Determinant in his whirling to look behind him,
Finding nothing but the morning dust lurking like
A ghost that had misplaced its haunting.
But the dust offered no criticism, response,
Or interpretation. He turned back to his work,
And the music that eavesdropped on his inspiration
Traipsed on, changing tracks.
That was when the color came into conception.
The ashen blue hues were singed by coral cinders,
With streaks of cinnamon strokes chilled by cerulean streams.
But his work needed another. When he went around the
Color wheel the hue he envisioned on his painting seemed
Of a dissimilar tone and texture.
It was strange to him how the color enveloped
Him, his mind, and was much simp

In the words of LadyofGaerdon: 
The author dedicates this vivid, enveloping
piece "to all the artists who have ever
worked with color, and who know what a
blessing or a curse it can be. If only we
could just find that other color."
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


CompathyI've been told it's irrelevant;
An acquaintance is a friendly face
Whether I reckon I hold them
As confidant or coincidence.
An acquaintance is a friendly face;
I hail friends from crosswalks
As if a confidant or coincidence,
In reference or in reverence.
I hail friends from crosswalks
Whether I reckon I hold them
In reference or in reverence;
I've been told it's irrelevant.

In the words of angeljunkie: 
This elegant example of a pantoum 
(a tricky thing to pull of in itself) 
echoes the often sketchy 
definitions of human interaction.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 

The Cuts on the Back of my HandsOn my Saturn-ringless finger
I have an accidental cut identical to one
that was indexed on another knuckle;
the cuts heal at different rates.
On the finger I point at couples with the cut
from cuticle to wrinkled knuckle now has
the seamless texture of skin, but with
the mark on the finger the ring slides,
the marriage of incision
and post-op still lingers.
The digit I point with is always busier
than the ring finger I plan to use,
someday, every day.
And whether it is the scientific method
or a quirk in my hallucino-genetics
that has inflated my interest
in the cuts on the back of my hands,
I consider the possibility
that healing doesn't come with time,
it demands action.
And the far more active I become,
the faster I will not recognize
the clean-cut look on the back of my hands.

In the words of LadyofGaerdon: 
An original, thought-provoking
metaphor exploring scars,
healing and the passage of time.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 

The Gospel in the GroundTaos hum hymnals
With banjo twang,
Pick-guard scratches
And raspy voices,
Tambourine hip-hits,
Muffled mumbling
Of backing vocals
And bare-knuckle
Bone-clap hi-hats.
The skeletons can't sit still
When the gospel in the ground
Is the only sound in the sod.

In the words of AzizrianDaoXrak: 
The use of sound and rhythm in this
piece is simply delicious. I just love
the use of alliteration. Such a
delightful, rich piece in such few lines.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


Let the Sparrows InI.
Blackbirds rest on the power lines,
their silhouettes form the notation
to a dawn song set on the sheet music
of telephone poles contrasted by the sun.
Curled leaves are land mines littered
on the lawn where imprints of twigs
and a nurturing robin's tracks collect.
Branchlets and leaflets stem from
porch step railings and mailboxes;
the numbers read odd on the east,
even on the west side of the asphalt:
seven-seven-thirty-six.
The engraved letters on
the siding reads, "Davis."
This house is home to family
so let the sparrows in.
The house,
with its branching hallways
and
overhanging décor
and
furniture rooted to the floor
is home
to
family, friends, the occasional
neighbor's kid
locked
out from home.
Let the sparrows in; let
the finches
follow.
Let the door's
deadbolt
loosen—let the door stand ajar
and
be let open
to
the night owls and
morning
larks;
let the doves
alone
to pirouette
in pairs in the iridescent
quiet.
Let the sparrows in.
II.
Framed on either side

In the words of LadyofGaerdon: 
Subtly brilliant, with imagery crisp enough
to taste, quiet yet forceful emotion, and
a gentle, pulling rhythm, that pulses
throughout like the heartbeat of the poem.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 



In the words of TwilightPoetess: 
Blending beautiful language with an intense tale
of the pressures that young romances put upon
us, Nichrysalis takes readers down a trail
that many relate to easily, and reminds us that
even the people we dream about aren't perfect.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 

Drift SestinaDoce me quod est verum; quis amat in amatores?
Before the sun has stretched its rays I have drifted
Upon her. My eyelids fall open and note her palms
Are curled in crescents as if a lighter and its fluid
Needed sheltering from a breeze or breath. The balm
On her hands shimmers a lunar blue; I'm kindled
To awaking her by the twitch and vague resistance
Of my calf twisting around her heel. I cautiously resist
Brushing the bristles of seductive words into her drifting
Dreams and speechlessly talk her awake with kindly
Offerings to cup her hands in my curling palms.
Drawing my knuckles into her in spirals, the balm
On her fingers feels cold and flammable, like lighter fluid.
Matchstick fingers grasp the flask of lighter fluid
On the nightstand's edge; she has taken steps to resist
Fumbling for a candy cigarette: the sweaty balm
On her hands becomes a wax and her breath is drifting
Inward, exhaling the cotton-flavored candy into palms
That cradle the smoke as if to make signals with

In the words of LadyofGaerdon: 
A wonderfully ambitious and effective use
of the sestina form, where subject and
form perfectly compliment one another,
seasoned with intriguing use of Latin. 
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 

Disposable KitesI don't wait for
Tomorrow morning.
Kites are sheathed
In moth ball plastic,
Unanchored
To reels and wrists,
Breezes and drafts.
Attic musk
Wafted through
The lived-in rooms
When the kites
Are retrieved
In the early evening.
On the backyard patio
Kites daubed with
Finger-grime
Are constructed
From kits.
Moth-nibbled fabric
Is stretched over
A spinal framework,
Tinker-toy sticks
And hexagonal-
Holed spools.
Porous, the kites
Are acutely aware of
The barometer's breath;
I handle the mast
And sails like steering
Wheels in a skid
When a breeze propels
A kite and I towards
Patio steps, expediting
A passerby parent
To exhale—
Exhale,
Rubberneck,
Smile and
Continue watching
A familial crew re-
Construct a childhood.
Porch lights are turned on;
Circumnavigating moths
Are motioned closer to
Porch lights by a non-
Sensical sensation
Of a sun still
Rising.
Past the patio
Kites are banished
To the night breeze,
Tethered by a
Reel, makeshift
Bracelets and
Shoestrings.
I run until I'm far enough

In the words of angeljunkie: 
With his trademark line brevity, Nic leads
the reader through a nostalgic reminiscence
that delivers its punch smoothly and
unexpectedly with the last three stanzas. 
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


Paper Trains          The streets were accommodating strangers. Commuters proceeded by the station entrance, guided by markings on the ground. Two men held distinct thoughts about the people and the things around them. They were strangers passing in the street whose two separate glances had met, nodding to the other. The brief, disconnected exchange of ideas was inimitable.
          They parted from each other, leaving for their man-made trains.
          David,
          I'm leaving the east coast. New York has shown me its lights and its rooms, it is time I look for lights further than a city block and a roomier expanse than the apartments that tolerate each other. The skyscrapers are flimsy in winter David; they're like toothpicks with a paste foundation. I haven't felt as safe as I have been u

In the words of LiliWrites: 
Nic employed a series of letters to show how
wanderlust, homesickness, and the need
to belong often clash together all at once.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 

Paper Trains          The streets were accommodating strangers. Commuters proceeded by the station entrance, guided by markings on the ground. Two men held distinct thoughts about the people and the things around them. They were strangers passing in the street whose two separate glances had met, nodding to the other. The brief, disconnected exchange of ideas was inimitable.
          They parted from each other, leaving for their man-made trains.
          David,
          I'm leaving the east coast. New York has shown me its lights and its rooms, it is time I look for lights further than a city block and a roomier expanse than the apartments that tolerate each other. The skyscrapers are flimsy in winter David; they're like toothpicks with a paste foundation. I haven't felt as safe as I have been u

In the words of LiliWrites: 
Nic employed a series of letters to show how 
wanderlust, homesickness, and the need 
to belong often clash together all at once.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 

Paintwritten WallsI.
Militant files in manila folders
are shelved with the piano
and accordion binders.
The book ends and stacked
documents are scaffolding
on the shelf that is propped
against the cubicle wall.
The walls need to learn
to stand up for themselves.

He is sure of this.
The resonant hum of flicker
and fluorescence is a hymn
from the hymnals of Tesla
and a psalm from Edison.
The hum, he claims, will
careen him into carelessness.
So paint poet, paint.
The pages are
empty,
grotesque from aging,
and when he
returns
home from
a career but not a
calling he will paint
the barren pages
in
Prometheus’ and
Dante’s smudged hand-
prints;
he’ll
speak with
textures
that extend off
of the
tongue.
He’ll stain
and
smear his hand-
writing,
burn and tatter the edges
of pages
until taut
and crisp—
until
he has taught these walls
to listen and talk
back.
Paint us a poem, poet— paint.
II.
She cradles the creases in her
clothes carefully. Her charred
fingernails sw

In the words of reflectionsinwater:
It's a complex poetry with the relationship of both the artist 
and poet between thoroughly explored. The interchange of the 
imagery and structure are absolutely brilliant.

Hayling (Teaser)The clunker satellite was within his grasp. The gloves of Rise's space-suit rig sent signals to the neural relays attached to his head as he grazed the side of the satellite. The metal felt brittle, and he expected that from a two hundred year old satellite. What caught his interest, however, was the hollow feeling that resonated from his gloves to his head. Satellites were compact and filled with the electronics necessary to equip them with for their job. They were most definitely not hollow.
Rise acted quickly; his shuttle would be out of reach in a few minutes. Clambering around the outside and pawing at the peeling heat tiles-- heat tiles did not belong on a satellite-- he began looking for a handle or a latch of sorts. The metal had felt hollow, but not enough to warrant a sizeable space on the other side and if the satellite was similar to his shuttle that would indicate a panel. Curiosity had always been an undeniable trait of his, and he was determined to investigate further an

As put by the author:
Hayling, the title of our story set about two hundred years in the future, 
centers around a satellite repairman, Carter Riaz (Rise), who deviates from his 
tasks one day to investigate why one satellite has never been put in to be repaired, 
despite its state of disrepair. What he uncovers sends him into a realm of an 
abandoned project turned experiment which he will not be able to escape 
without the help of Hayling, whoever or whatever they may be.


Please check out our Featured Gallery, which shall be hosting all of Nichrysalis's submitted works. Please also peruse his gallery for yet more awesomeness and remind him on his profile of what an amazing writer he is. Oh yes, and please :+fav: this article to spread the word!


 Until next time... 


The :icontalentedwritersguild: Team: :iconladyofgaerdon: :iconangeljunkie: :iconazizriandaoxrak: :iconquiestinliteris: :iconladylincoln: :iconnngross: :iconvigilo: :iconoritpetra: :iconangelstained: :iconemocinderella: 




 :wave: Hello my admirable Allies! It's time again to showcase more of the excellent Allied Artwork pieces that have been making their way into our 
Featured Folder  over at Lit-Visual-Alliance


:iconlit-visual-alliance:

What is the Alliance, you ask?

The Alliance is a project group intended to encourage visual and literary artists to work together. I've felt for some time that the dA Literature Community can at times be somewhat insular - to its detriment. We in the Lit Community are also sometimes prone to griping about the lack of exposure our work receives when compared to that of visual artists. So in the spirit of ^thorns brilliant Complaint Challenge I thought I would try to do something about that. And so the Alliance was born!

This article features pieces that have been submitted to our Featured Folder, which is reserved for literature that is based on visual artwork on dA, and visual artwork based on dA literature.

As usual, this feature is the result of the member poll which asked you, our lovely members, to vote for your favorite Allied Artwork submitted to the Featured Folder to be spotlighted in the article as the best. :w00t:




 First, DrippingWords presents a poignant interpretation 
of a popular image on dA, based of course on the iconic myth of Hades & Persephone.:

  On the West WindI caress her cheek, my fingers grazing her silk like skin. Her breathing is light, and she murmurs in her sleep, almost too quiet to hear. I smile, but it doesn't reach my eyes; instead, it beckons the tears that are threatening to overflow. I fight them back as I reach out and cradle her to my chest, moving slow like a snail so as not to wake her. Her bosom rises and falls, and I feel her heartbeat pounding in rhythm with mine, creating our very own symphony. Our images flicker in and out of sight as I close my eyes. After what seems like an eternity, our figures have become transparent, and we move unseen through the dark palace. As I pass through my realm, I can hear the tortured screams of the damned as they beg for mercy. I brush their screams off; they deserve the torment for what they did. We glide past, seen by no one, but the noise disturbs her slumber, and she shifts in my arms, slight but restless. I move faster, almost flying, and the wind blows our hair behind us. The stra inspired by hades and persephone 2 by sandara




Next, a brief yet memorable narrative gleaned from the work of burdge:

:thumb170362955: inspired by all i ever wanted by burdge




Next comes a witty, darkly comic narrative poem on the perils of rabbit revolts from SubjugatedSandwich:

The Revolt of Ruckulus Raggerton RigglesThere's a quiet in the clearing
as the rabbits gather 'round
and one behind the other
they all wait without a sound.
And in that eerie silence
they're all wondering away
at what he has in store for them
and what he has to say.
"And who is he?" you might be asking
a question most absurd,
why it's Ruckulus Raggerton Riggles
the one hundred and seventy third.
He's the head of the royal treasury
the keeper of the hoard,
the one in charge of every carrot
the king has ever stored.
The silence breaks as he appears
and climbs upon a stump
while the rabbits of the forest
all huddle in a clump.
"You might be asking one another
why it is that you are here
and I promise you that soon enough
I'll make it absolutely clear."
"You see his majesty our king
has done an awful deed.
He has eaten every carrot.
He has eaten every seed."
At this an awful cry arose
a loud and clamorous din.
"If there aren't any carrots left
what will WE be eating then!"
Ruckulus raised a paw into the air
until the crowd had q
 inspired by meeting by KalaNemi




Companion art for JZLobo's Fan Fiction:

Gunslinger and his new protoform by Bluetabbycat inspired by Fire With Fire
Part 1: Life and Death
Many often spoke of the price of life. Philosophers in nearly every civilization had dedicated their entire lives to speculating on it. One race had even attempted to build a computer the size of a city in an attempt to quantify it. But whatever the price of life was, one thing was sure: It was steep.
It was sometimes easy to forget just how precious life could be after gaining immortality and leading a life of warfare. The Maximal who called himself Gunslinger was not only gaining a lesson in perspective, but economics. Security work paid dirt, even in the slums where guards were paid relatively well. Nevertheless, he had been scrimping and saving for the past thirty years, working until he had enough energon to build a new body one part at a time and grant it the gift of life. He had even sacrificed maintenance on himself and his blue and yellow paint job was mostly worn away. Though, it was hard to tell in the shimmering violet and blue hues of light pr





agramuglia offers a gleeful, quirky narrative for resuki's image:

:thumb318984391: inspired by Hug by resuki




Followed by:


 inspired by Lauryn 2 by zenfidelity

A Long Day of Questing by Underbase inspired by

Doodle: Phoenix by Ben-G-Geldenhuys inspired by

Gunslinger and Betsy by Canalus inspired by Fire With Fire
Part 1: Life and Death
Many often spoke of the price of life. Philosophers in nearly every civilization had dedicated their entire lives to speculating on it. One race had even attempted to build a computer the size of a city in an attempt to quantify it. But whatever the price of life was, one thing was sure: It was steep.
It was sometimes easy to forget just how precious life could be after gaining immortality and leading a life of warfare. The Maximal who called himself Gunslinger was not only gaining a lesson in perspective, but economics. Security work paid dirt, even in the slums where guards were paid relatively well. Nevertheless, he had been scrimping and saving for the past thirty years, working until he had enough energon to build a new body one part at a time and grant it the gift of life. He had even sacrificed maintenance on himself and his blue and yellow paint job was mostly worn away. Though, it was hard to tell in the shimmering violet and blue hues of light pr



Our next poll will be out soon, with another feature to follow! The more you guys submit, the more features there will be! :eager:

And to get your creative juices flowing, a sampling from our Exceptionally Inspiring Literature & Exceptionally Inspiring Visual Art folders:

Different worlds by devilkate  Polishing VenusI wear a blue plastic retainer at night. It's painful, tight on my teeth, as if my mouth has outgrown it. I don't put it in often enough, so the shape of my jaw twists and changes, until I remember how much I despised braces and consent to slip it in, and I lie awake at night, loathing the imperfection of my teeth and the ache that pulses there as my mouth readjusts to the wires and plastic that force my jaw into the correct position.
I wear glasses too – ugly things, dark maroon on top, with a thin, squishy plastic wire on bottom instead of another rim. Not many people know I have them. When I was a kid, I had the rimless kind – some part of me believed them to be less noticeable. I'd pop the lenses out and tell my father I slipped on the gravel at recess so I could get away with days without the slippery plastic ridge balanced on my nose, and the glances I got for being the only nine-year-old with glasses. Nowadays, I use contacts, and I slip my glasses case under my pillow
 The Gate by chvacher  The 100 Things That Rammstein Left Behind - 01The 100 Things That Rammstein Left Behind - A Rammstein Fanfiction
Let's face it, you learn a lot through life. Mistakes are lessons too, of course, you learn the best from mistakes.
But really. You'd rather learn without the pain, wouldn't you?
One hundred vignettes of six lives woven into a single story. Till POV throughout - mostly. This is as of June 2012 the darkest thing I've written and is honestly not for the faint of heart; I won't pretend that this isn't offensive. If you don't like death, for one (out of everything else discussed), this fic is not for you. Contains a lot of concepts and incidents that will make you feel uncomfortable. Proceed with caution and read all warnings.
Warnings: Till/Richard, meta concepts, slash, depressing content, political overtones in some, possibly unsavory depictions of real-life people within the families of the band (although not to children), severe angst, screwy formatting, heavy German usage at parts, possibly confus
 The Right Moment by AnaNevesArt  The Hottest 30 DaysThe traffic never bothered him until he had nowhere to go.  
It took two hours to get across town and he forgot the applications.
There wasn't snow on the ground, so he pulled over
and parked in a tow away zone.  He walked around
the center of that city and thought about his father standing in line
with him at the Hartford shopping mall twenty  seven years earlier
in the town where he grew up.  
Middle-nowhere, Illinois.
It's Christmas time and all of the other children are
pissing themselves with anticipation.  
Over the scent of plastic evergreens and candy canes,
his father still smells like motor oil and top shelf bourbon.
The closer he gets to the obese man in the red coat,
the more he shakes with fear.  Tears well up in his eyes.
Right before it's his turn, his dad pulls him out of line and
they walk quietly back to the car.
His dad doesn't turn the heat on or bother looking in the rearview mirror;
"Don't make me leave w
 In Dreams We Belong by balaa  Tanka Ia swan, snow-feathered,
you seemed, until you molted
to reveal a duck
with feathers like the mountain:
snow melting, lilies blooming
 ka tyou zou getu by PassionateSnuff  Appetite Comes with the Eating1. The real horror of October
is the winter, the rising darkness.
It's said they caught him weeping,
heard him babbling about the steam in the snow,
the brown mass that had been a person—
his little girl, dead from the cold.
He ate his wife and daughters.
And when the villagers came for him,
he let them take him—to the tree
in the center of the square, where he hung,
discolored with frostbite and gangrene.
They called him Wendigo,
gave him to the spirit of the Dying Season,
and hoped that he would rest.
2. My ancestors had a word for his kind—
Strigoi.
They would have cut out his heart
to stop him from feeding.
He walked again.
Ate his fill of the town that killed him
and marched south, slept every spring
to wait for the Season of the Dying
to come again.
3. I saw the flesh-eater once, in my youth
in a Massachusetts town
near Boston, out on a frozen pond.
I saw his face beneath the ice,
saw his teeth bent with bone-crunching,
before he disappeared into the black w
 The Mechanism by pandorasconviction  Bless the AutumnLet us lie among the autumn leaves
And listen to the whispers made
By the slow-flowing hearts of trees.
Give thanks for fire and woodsmoke
And clandestine caresses under blankets
Piled high beneath the naked oak.
Bless the waning sun and warm chocolate
And the heat of lovers' hands and hearts.
 Mt. Gaia by Phons08194  Nightdance and ShadowplayCome on, all you ghosties – let's make one last stand.
Dive through the mirrors of our hands,
wonderland the way we script our souls
into the spine of each woman we love
like an arpeggio, like a broken chord
splitting the night sky of New Orleans
two months after Katrina painted the town.
Blue as the cracked and jagged line that snow-
shuddered mountains draw in the memory of sand
between sky and shattered, the calligraphy of the earth
we lie and say isn't our own, come on, all you ghosties.
Let's pretend that when the glass menageries broke,
they didn't become snow, that every time
the sky writes you a love letter, you don't feel evergreen
needling guilty beneath your holly skin,
a calligraphy we lie and say isn't our own.
She hikes stone hands against mountains,
a sharp cursive of shattered glass.
Come on, all you ghosties. Run.
Blue as lightning racing rain.
 Melting Sun by bibarry Temple Guard by CAHess  WaldeinsamkeitA murder of ravens
spits black
on a vermillion coloured day,
as a spine of leaves
crumbles under the pressure
of ghostly weight;
Its pieces of autumn,
borne by a whirling breath,
brush a lonely thought:
This winter will be cold.
 Myosotis : forget me not. by Tony-STORM 


Before I close, I'd like to remind you all about out Autumn Alliance Contest going on right now! Deadline is December 1st. We've got some great entries already but we can always use more, so please check it out!

I'd also like to bring your attention to an exciting project TimberClipse is holding called The Visual Narrative Project. The project invites writers to pen a 2-15 page script that will then be filmed! This is very exciting so I hope you all give it a look.

Finally, vegarBlack is holding a Tell Your Story: Fiction Challenge. The challenge encourages writers to write about a series of sci-fi illustrations and the prizes are excellent. Please take a look!

That's it for now, guys! Thanks so much for being a part of the Alliance! :w00t:
For more Allied Artwork, please check us out at :iconlit-visual-alliance:

'til next time,

The :iconlit-visual-alliance: Team: :iconladyofgaerdon: :iconevlydia: :iconazizriandaoxrak: :iconquiestinliteris: :iconvigilo:






Lit-Visual Alliance Allied Artwork Feature #5

Journal Entry: Fri Oct 12, 2012, 11:30 PM


 :wave: Hello my glorious Allies! It's time again to showcase more of the amazing Allied Artwork pieces that have been making their way into our 
Featured Folder  over at Lit-Visual-Alliance


:iconlit-visual-alliance:

What is the Alliance, you ask?

The Alliance is a project group intended to encourage visual and literary artists to work together. I've felt for some time that the dA Literature Community can at times be somewhat insular - to its detriment. We in the Lit Community are also sometimes prone to griping about the lack of exposure our work receives when compared to that of visual artists. So in the spirit of ^thorns brilliant Complaint Challenge I thought I would try to do something about that. And so the Alliance was born!

This article features pieces that have been submitted to our Featured Folder, which is reserved for literature that is based on visual artwork on dA, and visual artwork based on dA literature.

As usual, this feature is the result of the member poll which asked you, our lovely members, to vote for your favorite Allied Artwork submitted to the Featured Folder to be spotlighted in the article as the best. :w00t:



 First up, is, as the author puts it "a silly little rhyme about a serious little cat". Pure, for-the-fun-of-it, inspired poetry:

  The Octopus CatIf ever you were to see our clinics
never would you find a group of cynics
as depraved as those in mutagenics
who created the octopus cat.
A collection of men from our fair city
all thinking themselves to be so witty
that they grew from scratch this evil kitty
the horrible octopus cat.
It looks at you with knowing eyes
is deaf to all your frightened cries
a creature you had best despise
this menacing octopus cat.
It crawls on eight disgusting tentacles
each of them tattooed with pentacles
be wary of the dread cylindricals
of the deadly octopus cat.
And should you hear within its jowls
the beginnings of its feral growls
or else its otherworldly howls
then beware the octopus cat.
For if you hear these sounds behind you
it's certain we will never find you
I hope we won't have to remind you
look out for the octopus cat.
 based on (old version) Octopus Kitty by aeryael




Next is a somber, Tolkien-inspired tanka based on a stirring drawing:





A rich, vibrant interpretation of a rich, vibrant image:

 based on ... by Child0fBodom




A poignant poem based upon a simple yet elegant drawing:

based on Just the Light Matters-Sketch by ghostfire




An enchanting collaboration between PondDreamer and creativemikey:

Oh Willow by creativemikey based on Portrait: Willow and PondTo paint a portrait with mere words
the honest heart removes the girds
the pen a brush of wary skill
to this artists unflinching will
The scene a landscape serene and yearning
a willow tree, a pond, a twilit heaven burning
The first star twinkling in the baleful sky
reflected in the pond, like a tear in her eye
On the bank a willow bends ever reaching
the desire to join with the pond a reality nonbreaching
Sad and forlorn the willow weeps
alone, the pond quietly sleeps
O willow, rooted in your place
can only gaze longingly at the ponds grace
Mulling the thoughts of this strange attraction
resenting the inability to take any action
Yet drawn by the ponds cool promised embrace
to sink beneath her surface and damn the disgrace
To be submerged within her entire
consumes the willow with disdained desire
A breeze playfully dances over the dreaming pond
the willows branches wave over her like a wand
The light on the ripples spark like a wink
drowsily she sighs for the willow to take his drink





Followed by:

:thumb320269957: based on 

 based on 2009: Honesty by QueenOfCostumes

Blood and TearsI've got scars and
Many two way streets of broken hearts,
I'm just a shell of a woman
I'll be labeled till I die.
I've seen hell and death
And blood and tears
And yeah i've caused them all
One time....
I may have lost myself
But I'm still me.
Drowning in myself
But I'm still me.
Sometimes I hate myself
But I'm still me.
I want to crawl inside myself
But i'll still be me.

I look in your eyes
And see my torment reflecting back at me.
Sometimes it seems that you're
Exactly me.
You've walked the road
I've been painting
And it gives me hope,
As your still here to tell the tale
You say it's all you wrote.
I may have lost myself
But I'm still me.
Drowning in myself
But I'm still me.
Sometimes I hate myself
But I'm still me.
I want to crawl inside myself
But i'll still be me.

I've been carousing
yeah I've done mine and their
Shares of running around.
Oh I've lost myself in the bottom
Of a bottle
Too many times to ever count.
And I hate myself
When I realize
I'd rather take you
Ov
 based on time may change me by scottchurch



Our next poll will be out soon, with another feature to follow! The more you guys submit, the more features there will be! :eager:

And to get your creative juices flowing, a sampling from our Exceptionally Inspiring Literature & Exceptionally Inspiring Visual Art folders:

A New Kind of Fashion by EstrangeloEdessa The Twelve Dancing Princesses by Himmapaan Into Dreams by creativemikey Of Virginia WoolfYou filled your pockets with stones,
a seed-sower sowing nothing,
nothing to cast away.
It must have been cold as you went down.
The bite of March water
must have brought blood
rushing in panic to your skin.
A gasp, perhaps,
as your chest submerged.
(Were you beyond gasping?
Were you so far behind the veil?)
And then the silence.
The hiss of water against the ears,
the stirred up mud against your startled eyes.
The water cold in your palms
and cold in your unravelling hair
and cold through your clothes
to your naked skin. And
the weight inside would hold you,
stronger than stones.
You stood, perhaps, for a time,
a naiad in the depths,
hair taken with the flow
until you sank full-faced and weary
into the soft silt bed.
 Trust by AnaNevesArt  Divination as a Means of Finding a Way Back             1.  I say nothing I am thinking.
For twelve years I have wanted
to do exactly this, but suddenly
pronouncing my own name calls up
the question of who it belongs to
in the same breath Like
Solomon I was born a singer
but in the wrong key and my
chords will not carry me, will not
summon the wolves to me only
packs of hungry dogs
stupid with domestication
but nearly feral And like
a hungry ghost I have learned
not to speak against those
who will give me food
             2. A sketch of myself.
                                 He says I must have been born
in the wrong culture, he says. I got a taste of
the crackling heat here, heat to drive you crazy,
and suddenly I open my wide arms for
New Orleans, find myself needing the wind from
the Great Plains. Like a buffalo I have the spirit
of the Sun and I carry it with me. I am a plant
of burnt umber,
                                 brown, ready and waiting like
sage bushes, like the hill you go to that is best
for collecting jun
The harpy by Junedays  Of Half-Filled WordsShe is not a flutterbird.
Her fingers are skittish,
her smile is not.
Do not fear that you will
drive it away.
Sadness is her fumbling limb.
It is unwanted, yet
necessary.
When it is January
she will tell you,
"I am still struggling.
And I am becoming so many people
all at once.
A conglomeration of beauty that
I have managed to mangle.
Please, do not be sad for me."
Sometimes her sorrow is
meant for you. But mostly her.
Those specks and spots
of ocean storm lulls
reveal her truths:
ones she does not want
to extract from herself.
Her heart is not a rabbit.
When it beats
faster, faster, faster,
you need not
run harder to catch it.
Seven deer by ForestGirl Message by Bird by irethkalt city on the water by evenliu Waiting.. by Volkair FAKE. by youngyeller Autumn Magic by ldiehl :thumb316946785: Midnight Travelers by ElvenstarArt CausticYou wish you had
a caustic tongue. Sharp?
Yes. I don't deny it.  
You could separate the layers of light
and slice up a rainbow
with the flat side of your cant,
though you don't -
you just try
to pry the diamonds
from men's wedding bands
when things don't go quite
as you planned,
half-cocked
and too passionate again. Does it sting,
your singing? Perhaps. I'd sooner French
a black scorpion
than suck that snake
sliding between your white teeth.
Sharp and stinging,
but caustic? No - not quite.
For all you've tried,
you've never caused anything.
Sorry.
 Commission : Sin by AnaNevesArt  The Greatest TreeWhen I was just a tiny seed,
     my mama said to me
That I could grow my rings and soon
     become the greatest tree.
I listened to my mama's words,
     and I was very good.
I tucked into the soil at night
     and photosynthesized my food.
My mama said that God had wrote
     instructions just for me,
Written in my cells on how
     to be the greatest tree.
I grew a sapling, small and slow,
     no larger than a twig.
I figured I could wait some time
     before getting to be big.
She planted me along a hill
     where ashes blew dull gray.
She said that sometimes fires helped;
     it'd be good for me to stay.
It was lonely in the summer months,
     the world dull and hot,
And scary in the autumn months,



That's it for now, guys! Thanks so much for being a part of the Alliance! :w00t:
For more Allied Artwork, please check us out at :iconlit-visual-alliance:

'til next time,

The :iconlit-visual-alliance: Team: :iconladyofgaerdon: :iconevlydia: :iconazizriandaoxrak: :iconquiestinliteris: :iconvigilo:





TWG's Featured Deviant of the Month - October 2012

Journal Entry: Sat Oct 6, 2012, 10:19 AM


:wave: Hello, lovely members! LadyofGaerdon here to continue our series:

Featured Deviant of the Month 


 for

 :icontalentedwritersguild:

 October's Featured Deviant is..........:eager:

 
:iconstardivider1plz::iconstardivider3plz:

TalentedWritersGuild is a literature group committed to the encouragement, collection, and archival of high quality prose and poetry works. To find out more about the group, please click here.


 Here at TalentedWritersGuild, we encourage deviants to select only their best pieces of literature for submission. As judges, we look for pieces that simultaneously move us, challenge us, and inspire us as readers; pieces that stimulate us emotionally and intellectually; and the pieces that display true technical skill. When we vote, we consider all these things, and let only the pieces we deem up to snuff through to our gallery. This pushes our submitters to excel, challenge themselves, and improve their craft, and provides our readers with high quality literature to read. 


The Featured Deviant of the Month is a member whose submissions meet and surpass this criteria.   

:icontalentedwritersguild:

ExistenceWeSummonYou does not simply stitch words together to build complex imagery and intricate wordplay - he makes you think, makes you consider every word, every cadence, every overarching theme. A brilliant wordsmith and philosopher, ExistenceWeSummonYou is always challenging himself and his readers to think harder, further, more.  

 ExistenceWeSummonYou has 11 pieces in our gallery to date! They are all excellent and I encourage you to check them out.




:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 



In the words of archelyxs: 
A pristine example of the delectable paradox 
and rich, philosophical nuance that characterizes 
much of ExistenceWeSummonYou's corpus.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


Over Three Stories and a Complete DiscordanceThe serious intent of a mirror wakes the world. Of the mirror that makes the world we know very little. Just rumors of an open mouth vibrating up and up to the clouds. So the bright grey cracks the dull grey and something, we'll call it the sun, reaches through and grabs us by the skin.
:::
The members of an invisible happiness swim colors between one another. They cannot tell the difference between windows and mirrors, light coming and light going, places where the light has been. They hold the air with both hands and speak with sounds of trees, their language a lifting flock of hallelujahs.
:::
From beneath tongues, mirrors exhume light.
:::
The world is a muddle of mirrors. Reflected from reflection by reflection, we wait. We are intent on getting serious just as soon as vibrating clouds wake the dull grin.

In the words of LadyofGaerdon: 
This poem is the very definition of inspired. 
The author took reference from a visual image and 
built upon it to create something deeply profound 
and intriguing, a thoughtful piece that will surely 
inspire the reader.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 
Captivating in its intricate simplicity
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


The Insanity of Reason in the Age of HistoryAs I was thinking these thoughts, I slipped on the slime of someone else's verse. Take out your eyeballs came the gruff voice of their own impossibility. Shutup I snapped back. O, I knew I had to get out of there. So with lungs flapping hard, I flew; I flew and I flew until I found, crouched down real creepy like on top of the clouds, my External Organs. They spat and they splattered their own awful oozes everywhere, as they conspired to consume the sun. My External Liver gave an impassioned speech: "We'll do it with a hovering confusion. It will vein its villainy through the air, like super slow lightening. When it's done, everyone's heart will be beating in unison. And they'll stare up at a moon emitting its own light for the first time ever." But that's when my External Pituitary Gland heard me blinking. They all turned towards me, and began shouting; "he's heard our plans!" and then "let's get him! Throw him into the sun and make him burn for it." So I dove back down
In the words of Sigma-Echo-Seven:
 Endlessly fascinating, both in concept and execution.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


The Poet Is Sentenced to Death by ObscurityThe rhymes that have now made me fit to die,
those crimes that lift me with prophetic error,
have chiselled my mind into a stony why,
and all the world sprawling, laughing - none the clearer.
The dictators of definitions tense
as to the gallows they me quickly bring
for taking of languages accidents
to corrupt to madness our true, brave kings.
"To the whirring world our words must agree.
The mechanics won't change at your behest.
Doesn't reason deserve our loyalty?"
So goes the fearful cry of all the rest.
But when reason melts the verse will flow
to wash away wisdom so new meaning can grow.

In the words of LadyofGaerdon: 
A charming yet darkly accurate
use of the sonnet form to
describe the perils writers
often face in the quest for recognition.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 
The words are smothering and swaddling 
and cooling all at once. Beautiful.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


A Correspondence and a Theory before TruthDear Language,
Between this undifferentiated mass of meaning at the center of my heart
and these wrenching reasons emanating from the center of the sky,
I am rendered full of motion, passing by
or passed by, admitting ocean.
O Language, Where do I begin and why do I end?
With the long shadows you leave behind, let me tell myself a story:
In mild regressions
we
  fall
   to flowers; we find play.
With wild reasonings
we wrangle the
  words, the
   ones we feel can hold the weight of our want.

Am I doing this right? More and more often I feel quite nihilistic about the whole enterprise.
Your student,
Justin
-------------------------------
Dear Justin,
As with everyone, there is something inside of you. You have felt it before, no doubt, pushing against your chest. You have given it a name - anxiety or excitement, perhaps. No matter; tomorrow it comes out. Your body, as with everyone's, must split open. This thing must find the

In the words of thetaoofchaos: 
Wonderful correspondence with our fond Nemesis.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 




Please check out our Featured Gallery, which shall be hosting all of ExistenceWeSummonYou's submitted works. Please also peruse his gallery for yet more awesomeness and remind him on his profile of what an amazing writer he is. Oh yes, and please :+fav: this article to spread the word!


 Until next time...


Autumn Alliance Contest!

Journal Entry: Sat Oct 6, 2012, 1:29 AM
All right, boys and girls, and variations thereof (woo Doctor Who reference...:woohoo:....note to self: don't type up contest blogs while hyper!) :typerhappy:

Yes, that's right I said CONTEST BLOG! :iconpanicatthediscoplz:

To try to make up for my most woeful absence of late (and also because it will be FUN) I have decided to hold a Lit-Visual-Alliance contest. Contests, actually. Rotating contests based upon the seasons.

:iconlit-visual-alliance:

What is the Alliance, you ask?

The Alliance is a project group intended to encourage visual and literary artists to work together. I've felt for some time that the dA Literature Community can at times be somewhat insular - to its detriment. We in the Lit Community are also sometimes prone to griping about the lack of exposure our work receives when compared to that of visual artists. So in the spirit of ^thorns brilliant Complaint Challenge I thought I would try to do something about that. And so the Alliance was born!


I love seasons, you see. I love to watch them change and revel in them and my very favorite season of all is Autumn.

So this group shall now have rotating contests, beginning with our Autumn Contest, which starts today and ends December 1st, at which time the Winter Contest shall begin! :la:

The rules of the contest are simple: create a work of art, centered loosely around the theme of Autumn, based on another work of art (literature based on visual artwork or visual artwork based on literature, in keeping with the theme of the group). The theme is very open to interpretation. Autumn is many things. It is the changing of seasons, the coloring of the leaves, cold air, pumpkins and the Harvest. It is also back-to-school, Halloween, Thanksgiving and many other things I probably haven't thought of. So Halloween-based entries are very welcome! As are entries involving typical Halloween entities such as ghosts and witches and demons and vampires and bats and so on.

This does NOT have to be a new piece! HOWEVER, what I really don't want you to do is find an old autumn poem or painting and then search for a corresponding artwork that you think kinda sorta goes along with it. That's cheating, my dears. This contest and this group is all about being inspired by different types of artwork! Also, it's unlikely to help you win. 
Entries will be judged on the following criteria, in order:
 :bulletorange: How well the deviation ties into the inspiring piece.
:bulletorange: How well the deviation ties into the Autumn theme.
:bulletorange: Impact
:bulletorange: Quality
:bulletorange: Creativity


PRIZES:


1st: 100 :points: + feature by LadyofGaerdon and Lit-Visual-Alliance + poetry commission from robostorm

2nd: 75 :points: + feature by LadyofGaerdon and Lit-Visual-Alliance + poetry commission from robostorm

3rd: 50 :points: + feature by LadyofGaerdon and Lit-Visual-Alliance + poetry commission from robostorm

Deadline: December 1st
Entries are unlimited! Go wild! :iconlawooplz:

Please submit entries to the Autumn Contest folder. 

To help you guys get into the spirit and start those creative juices flowing, here is a feature from our brand new Autumn Inspiration favorites folders (yes, I also found a use for our Favorites section! I've been busy!) :w00t: Please note that the inspiring deviation does not have to be one of these! It's just to give you an idea. More Autumn Inspiration can be found in our Favorites Folders and you are free to suggest Autumn-themed pieces as well. Soon I will be opening up folders for the other seasons that you will be welcome to submit to also. 


Transylvanian Reveries
You’ve been here before…
The mist is rolling in,
Curling over the crests of distant hills.
You know this place already…
A chill is setting into your bones,
The smoke of a dying fire sweeps across the fields.
You have dying embers laid out before you.
They’re crackling,
Cackling.
Deep crimson flickers through the charred blackness.
This land knows you already…
A chorus of mournful howls begin.
The air comes to life with the haunting cries.
They’re chanting your name…
The fog gets ever deeper,
The howls come ever closer.
You’ve been here before…
Your imprint is ready-made in this scenery…

The embers no longer warm the air.
Occasional spouts of blue flame are entirely helpless,
Before the thickening gloom.
Now you know you’re not alone.
Phantoms dance in the nearing mist.
Everything’s waiting for you…
Longing possesses your soul.
What are you hunting for?
Why is it you suddenly want
  I am as autumnI am as autumn,
dropped barefoot into some fleeting role,
self-destructing in the sterile cold
while passersby note only
the colours,
their ephemeral beauty.
I was meant
as an actress, diaphanous and
wraithlike,
bridging the small gap between
summer and
winter:
I was born to wither and
die
without blooming,
to sink and
drown
without struggling.
obedient as a child,
I tried to die
in that space before snowfall,
that melancholy breach—
but there must be something in me
that is not yet dead,
that refuses to rot.
when the snow finally came,
I was stale and stagnant,
wretchedly vernal
when all else was newly
cold.
now, in the dim half-light before
springtime, I am thin
and fragile, waiting only for
another chance
to
try
   sonnet of a changeling childstale pumpkin spice and cinnamon alight
upon this cold expansion of damp air
this untouched day before it trips the snare;
what simple turns can mark the fae's soft flight.
and of this changeling child on wheat-bare earth
who'll flit from fold to field at merry whim?
a swaying dance upon a tree's high limb
will beckon over every call to hearth.
today a brisk and rapid north gust flings
him from his perch within the sweeping oak:
a fallen boy with bruises fresh, and yet--
what mother's hand can pin his fledgling wings
when swath in autumn's auburn leaflined cloak
he'll flee: a seed, a passing silhouette.
  offerings of a ghostand there was a vague veracity
in the whisper of your touch
that faded like feathers of frost
before the fevered kiss
of my breath.
winter settled slowly
down the curling knots of my spine
the same path
where your lips once burned
like candles in the night,
shadows tossed high
as autumn leaves riding reckless
on the wind.
at times i feel
this cup of bones
will crumble, blood and ash
and only that
and heavy hearts too full to bear
will break against the cool,
upturned cheek of earth
bare of greenery
but veiled in sinking snow.
your every echo is a curse
limned in regret
and the sting of dark hair whipping
in my brimming eyes
carries the coldest winds
across whitewashed memory,
the bite of ice built
upon a wasteland.
even a shiver cannot shake
the ringing feeling
that your absence speaks
a greater truth—
that you were never here
at all.
  the pumpkin patchshall we head to the pumpkin patch this year,
parade the candy-free costumes
we picked up this afternoon?
even though it's a drive up north now,
a sharp turn off the highway
next to a
caravan,
painted jack-o-lantern peeling
over its rusted ankles;
even though we're all grown up now,
sifting through
superwoman and scullery skanks,
bartenders and Lolitas in the
"young adult" section?
shall we head to the pumpkin patch this year,
past the Halloween Depots with their
fifty dollar loincloths and
hundred dollar sheets,
calculated stitch by China-stitched stitch,
and call sweet nothings to a great, great pumpkin
all-loving, immortal and never-changing --
even though those words do mostly
speak for someone else?
even though we're all grown up now,
even though there are HDTVs and
daddy would rather watch the cracks in the ice in
the hockey match --
we could head back to the pumpkin patch,
without elaborate costumes
to come back with long-forgotten treats.
  AfforestLast darkness will fall like autumn leaves
(wandering)
Dusky ground covered with many coloured twilights
(do you see all the lovely greys?)
Underneath which ghosten happiness lays buried
(spring was too far away. Alas)
Last darkness is falling like autumn leaves
(wondering)
Dusky ground covered with beaten light's corpse
(do you see all the dimmed colours?)
Underneath which darkened May Day lays buried
(spring is too far away. Alas)
Last darkness has fallen like autumn leaves
(withering)
Dusky ground covered with still-frozen time
(do you see all the solemn blacks?)
Underneath which deadened Freya lays buried
(spring will be to far away. Alas)
  Dark MotherBleed your colors to the ground,
let them swirl in the vortex of your breath.
The gathering chill escaped from your lungs
whispers the green earth into death.

Dark Mother, keep the spirits
you hold within your hands.
Souls eternally bidden,
soaked and seeped into the land.
Dark Mother, keep your fury
quivering deep within the ground.
Harm us not, but let us hear
the power of that sound.
The wheel is turning, always turning
as the sun falls from the sky.
Mother can you tell me,
oh can't you tell me why?
Dark Mother, stir your cauldron
deep living waters of rebirth.
Wash clean this wretched wreckage
we have wreaked upon the earth.
Dark Mother, shall we reap
all that we have sown?
When spring returns will you be there?
to light our path toward home?
The wheel is turning, always turning
as the seasons slowly die.
Mother can you tell me,
oh can't you tell me why?
Will you exhale a merciful breath,
to warm our world once more?
Or stop the wheel from turning,

leave us trappe
  ghostin cold air
breath lingers
like a ghost
  Leaves and LeavingTurning leaves remind me that some people change along with the seasons.
Leaf. Leaves. Leaving.
-
Hush. If you listen real close, you can hear leaves laughing as they let go of the twigs that adore them. They flutter quietly to the ground, their graceful suicides silent to everyone except their beloved branches.
-
Look, the world is orange and jagged and rusted. It is decadence and leaves and leaving. It is home, it is heaven, and it is hell.
-
One by one, the trees ignite themselves and we watch their soundless self-destruction unfold. Whole forests seem to go up in flames without smoke. Sometimes we take pictures.
-
We are only left with black and brown skeletons that patiently wait to be buried under white.
-
I spend my entire autumn watching things die.
  L'OMBRE I - SHADOW I (+ audio reading)
(English adaptation below) version audio ici
Pour Neura
L'ombre I
Quand vous verrais-je au sortir des songes et des tombes il ne reste que des lisières
Frangées d'or et d'herbe coupez vos désirs d'au-delà lorsque l'écume affolée efface la tempête et
Si vos yeux glacés sur mes mains stupéfaites j'aurai voulu vos chants sous des feux de
Tambours et l'ombre de vos danses enroulée sur mes cuisses un éclat de vermeil la
Ménade mâchant le coeur de nos combats des tonnes de serpents silencieux sur le sol et la crête
Des dunes rayée d'horizon morne votre bouche à la lune reste la nuit vacante et mes rêves
Blanchis l'automne est déjà là dans les pétales fauves et les pleurs oubliés
Frantz, octobre 2011
...............................................................................................................................................................
For Neura
Shadow I
When will I s
Retraction of ChlorophyllLonger nights,
                 and shorter days,

Sinking towards the horizon,
the sun stretches itself against
pulsating veins – retracting
from margins to petiole
to stems –
           unmasking
                     green
                           from orange
              to gold,
                       to vermilion
                
  When the World Begins to DieDo not leave me,
Like the golden dreams of summer.
September escorts her out and
they part as ageless friends.
You will feel our freedom,
As it retreats from this land
and fight to retrieve it.
Please, let it go.
Let it rest and take my hand.
We can still be beautiful,
in an autumn sunset.
More so when we realize,
every crimson leaf,
is a brand new twilight.
Do not leave me when our breath,
dances across the morning breeze,
for it is proof that we are living.
Celebrate this harvest like the
brave, endless love we have created.  
Share with me a glass of cider,
As warm against your pallet,
As the memories of sun against your skin.
Do not leave me when the earth begins to die,
For I will need you to help me bring it back to life.
  30th October 1999Slice.
Fingers shock cold. I pull the knife
from the pumpkin and open my hand.
Bella mouths um like
I’m in serious trouble now.
Mum’s back is turned
at the kitchen counter.
“Mum?” I nudge her arm,
“I’m stupid,” and she sees the blood
and drags me to the car and
the pain starts.
  The Third SeasonFall, the annual
carnival of gold and red,
leaves gilded and stained.
They partner the wind, dancing
in their bright funeral robes.
  SeptemberSeptember's but a whisper,
a curl of autumn
on your cheek
or a wanton leaf
left lazing
in the tawny gold
of dusk;
and the amber scent
of pears,
succulent and slumbering,
slips idly
off your skin
and sends my restless senses
yearning...
  Radioactive AutumnRadioactive Autumn
Draped in maple leaves and white gold,
her somber eyes hidden from the mounting ash.
Lack of contact labors a mutual threshold,
restless desires bred amongst odious machinations.
Staid throat drunk on her ambrosial sap,
more reverie to dirty all our neurons one by one.
Guttural cries rattle through shared visions,
depicted in blossoms and ignoring the damage done.
Autumn Renaissancesilence--
as loud as a bee
to a sunflower
          >::<
orange crest glowing;
the stench of fire
heralding in the season
          >::<
before the deluge;
dust devils dancing
in the twilight of their lives
          >::<
morning fog condensing--
beads of cold sweat
on parched leaves
          >::<
leaves fainting from their hosts
perish on the way down...
their purpose ended?
          >::<
a suggestion of rain
matting the forest ground
of its dead
          >::<
golden sunset,
autumn's robe--
her crown, a silver moon
          >::<
silhouetted wolf call;
steam
rising from a ridge
          >
  Witch TrialI believe I was a ginger headed poet in a past life,
who wrote love through magik spells—
burning candle wax, whispering incantations
under a full moon and painting pale,
naked flesh with dirt and ash.
Dancing with ghostly ravens through flames,
to the thumpthumpthump of my storm heart,
as it became one with the earth.
I roared my passions and my glory
to the heavens above, laughing
like a crazy eyed crone for the sake
of those who feared me.
My witches tongue, hissing, 'Come hither!'
as heat licked my shoulders like an old lover,
come home.
  Witch of SalemThey brought me from the West Indies.
They feared the night of my skin
but came to me for their love potions, anyway,
for their charms of luck and wealth.
Many doves and chickens
lost their lives at my hands.
I always had white feathers for my pillows,
pale flesh for my belly.
I could not call the De'il by his name,
but they sent me down by hellfire, anyway.
They burned my tongue
to silence its secrets.
They breathed sighs of relief like a cloud—
lifted my ashes into the eaves
of their houses.
Here, I rest,
here I keep all the sweet little children company,
drip belladonna dewdrops in their eyes,
make all Mummy and Daddy's secrets look like stars.
When the De'il comes to call
he looks like a faery man from the woods.
Don't follow Mummy and Daddy
to the apple orchard—
No, come with me
to gather hazelnuts and toadstools.
Know me, children,
smile at the bird with the scarlet breast
and I will show you the way home,
always.
  Like a Leaf on the Wind...He exhaled slowly,
his lungs tangled in October air,
his mouth like a wrinkle
in the hospice sheets.
His granddaughter reveled
in bringing him lilies;
they sat on the windowsill like a memory.
Half-dried in their vase,
they were pungent as mortality.
Those flowers were dying
and so was he;
what was this room if not a vase,
his wilting on display?
He sat, a drooping bloom,
contemplating the Maple by his window;
how its foliage resembled anything
from God's golden mercy
to hellfire.
They whispered secrets through the open pane,
about dropping from the branch to dance again;
how it must feel like being in love.
He remembered his wife,
who loved him more than Autumn,
who he liked to imagine was waiting for him.
He missed her.
When the next leaf leapt
from its former home,
he closed his eyes
and went with it.
  she, withshe with her
dress of autumn leaves
woven together like
a sheath of feathers
once alive,
radiating scents of
rain and breathing earth,
swaying with cascading
crackles.
she with the
snowflakes in her writhing hair,
feral and boundless as it dances
beneath the pale sun,
and from pale lips
she whispers in sighs
and sings in moaning gales.
and she, with the hissing flames
at her hearth.
  Autumn KissKiss me softly in the autumn,
For Indian summer's glare fades too soon,
And the wolf-wind winter
Is fast approaching your eyes.
A Kiss of SidheA Kiss of Sidhe
In the amber rush of autumn glow
down mossy paths through crimson groves
the fireflies like faeries float
Her footsteps faintly lead on
Through pinion seeds of cottonwood
That dance with leaves from thinning hood
of canopy brushed gold and blood
She calls me deeper within
An arbor lined in Ash and Thorne
hides a witching well and cup of horn
in loneliness, her whispers mourn
and beckon me to drink
She presses chalice like a kiss
Indulgently, I take a sip
like nectar from her honeyed lips
Ambrosia coursing within
With glossy eyes and sinking feeling
The cup spills blood and sends me reeling
The maiden fae shown beast unseele
And I her blooded consort
She calls Wild Hunt and bids me ride
into the nightmare, by her side
with hounds of hell, and her my guide
Forsaking the mortal world



Autumn Mantra by Oer-Wout L'automne by AkubakaArts la lecture by gillesgrimoin The Witching Hour by dark-spider Autumn Glow by RebeccaTripp Autumn II by SerapStock Novikov's Mansion by Zhen-Yang H by anotherwanderer fall on fire by LarsVanDeGoor Wake her up by feainne ground of hope by ildiko-neer herbata by antonina-w-ogrodzie Reunited Ritual by KerriAnnCrau Lampion by Katarynaa Sidrabina Upe Tek by ELK64 Nuclear autumn. Apocalypse by LadyElenaNaylor homeless by gillesgrimoin Harvest by thienbao The First Of Autumn by Nelleke Eternal Autumn by LVAMPAR Feallan by TwiggyTeeluck The Offering by FrozenStarRo :thumb144518793: Autumn Day by fernandda A taste of autumn by hoschie - Remains Of Autumn - by the-sparkling-light This house is empty by rosaarvensis  until the end of the times by tonysandoval Bloodstained Fall by ahurashirashtiani Lost Hope by Sugargrl14 The Spell by PrincessMagical Autumn sorrow by AncientKing Shapeshifter by Kaelycea Beneath the Ice by GingerKellyStudio Leaves by MrsCullen


Now go and get creating! :eager:

The :iconlit-visual-alliance: Team: :iconladyofgaerdon: :iconevlydia: :iconazizriandaoxrak: :iconquiestinliteris: :iconvigilo:


P.S. YES there will be new features and polls published soon! So keep submitting to the Featured Folder all you like! As always, if you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask! :D



Skin by alealara

Look! An Actual Update! From Rain!

Fri Sep 14, 2012, 12:16 PM
Profile | Gallery | Favourites

Pretty pretty skin, huh?

Hey guys. I haven't done a journal update in FOREVER, I know. I'm still here, of course, sometimes posting work and doing tons of featuring of people. I know I'm doing a terrible job at replying to comments and such, and for that I'm incredibly sorry. I really don't want to be that person who never replies to comments, but I think I'm becoming that person who just takes forever to reply to comments. I read them all immediately though! And cherish them! I swear. 

My replying will be getting a little worse because I'm going on vacation this week! To Maine! I leave Saturday and return Monday the 24th. I am so excited! I've never been there before and I'll get to see the ocean! It's been way too long. Feel free to leave me comments and all, I will read  them all immediately and reply at some point. Promise.

Also, hello to all of my new watchers! :wave: Happy to have you here, and please forgive my haphazard updates, deviations and comments. Your support really means a lot to me. :heart:

I have a few poems and prose pieces in the works. All about half-finished. Not feeling terribly inspired lately, but I think the change of seasons will likely help me with that. Here's hoping.

I suppose I've been trying not to delve too deeply into my psyche because I'm rather devastated by the fact that my Grama just died. Great-Grandmother. She was 101. I tell people that and they say "Oh, well that's great, isn't it!" And I just think "Well yeah - until she died. I do realize that most people never make it anywhere near that age, and that considering she was 75 when I was born, I'm lucky I knew her at all, but honestly that doesn't make me much less sad. She practically raised me. She's just...always been there. And now, she's not. It's hard to adjust to. I'm lucky that I've never really lost anyone I was that close to before, but it still really hurts. 

For me, strangely, the worst part of it is that she wasn't even sick. She was just old. I was kind of in denial about it, because how can someone die just because they're old? We always thought it would be so awesome when she turned 100 - instead, what did she get for it, except death? My mother says, however, that that is how it should be. Everyone should be so lucky as to simply die of old age. And she's right, I know that, but I still haven't made peace with the idea.

On a happier note, there is a kitty sleeping next to me. :meow:

I feel like I should have more to say but I can't think what that would be. So here, have some pretties, many of which are fan art from my recent obsessions: Doctor Who, The Hunger Games and Vampire Academy/Bloodlines.

Playtime by artsangel Laissez-la partir by Ioneek ..:Real or Not Real:.. by kara-lija I've Forgotten Why I Shouldn't Blink by alicexz Cat Thief Stealing Hearts by cellsdividing Alchemy - ImagineFX issue 87 cover by oione ..: here's my dA :.. by porcuMoose Release Me! by IkaikaDesign Owl Song by rodluff The Truest Tale by winterkate - Korolevna - by Losenko .:Message:. by EVentrue The Quenchiest Stamp by CubieJ Shadowna by Songes-et-crayons Sleeping Beauty by KaterinaChadoulou Midnight Travelers by ElvenstarArt The Doctor's Daughter by GillianIvy This is my burrow, so get OUT!!! by woxys In Dreams We Belong by balaa Paint the DreamsEvery night, on the insides of my eyelids,
I paint the Universe with the ink set of imagination
And the charcoal sticks of memory,
Then flip it upside down and the wrong way round
And let it snag into focus-
On my sleeping synapses, the branches of the Inspiration Tree .
In my ivory skull-box of random echoes,  
Every melody, every voice, is re-written and rescored,
For a symphony of electricity, crisscrossing nerves ,
And running down, like liquid lightning
Into the ears of the dormant soul.
Here, this is that part of my chaotic desk
Where I re-write physics to suit myself,
Redesign monsters and angels to my own specifications
Until the lines between them are blurred out of recognition.
In this drawer, I keep my nightmares
Under layers of fine, crinkled tissue paper, bound with laughter
And interspersed with the dead bodies of silk butterflies
This rack, here, holds the satin ribbons and velvet strings
Of the slipping, crackling madnesses that only come out when I call
And t
Blessed with the Nature by Antony-Hell :thumb310928425: Man of ScienceOne day, brilliant men and women, with full minds and gray hearts, will redefine the meaning of life.
A Tibetan monk will rise from tending his garden to meet the mail courier. After six decades of daily meditation he will learn that humanity has reassigned the roles of abstract thought.
I picture myself being asked to adorn an unbecoming lab coat. I don't own a shirt that isn't black, so I'll put up a fight. But, when my fist hits the sterility of refrigerated logic my knees may bend.
I have one more chance to kiss the hand of Professor Petri Dish. I remember lips tasting like strawberries. Now, as I bite my own, they taste like bleach.
The Possible Future-
They calculated how long it would take to hunt down the refugees. All of the abstract thoughts fled into the countryside. God and Love committed suicide under the last cobblestone bridge in Jacksonville, Florida. Dream was black bagged and thrown onto a train. They keep her in a maximum security facility and every time she tries to
I'm the Mockingjay by Chuchy5 The Sleeping Maiden and the Raven by Madalinka the girl who waited, the boy who waited... by trustahope Myosotis : forget me not. by Tony-STORM Busy Bee by Whisperwings I am a cat, I support same-sex marriage by ThreeRecedingDots -Broken but Loved- by naochiko Moonstruck by raevynewings Fly or Fall by Pailei :thumb250495842: Brigid by JessiBeans Dragomir + Ozera by jeminabox Please... Pick Me by mictones The Promise by Dolokun The Fire by MaliciaRoseNoire Make Slime, Not War by AimishBoy The Roar of Our Stars by alicexz Two Souls of the Universe by Exileden Shadow Kissed by emmav On the Nature of Time by oboe-wan Home is where the tardIS by Thiefoworld

I reply to all my comments by black-yoshi



TWG's Featured Deviant of the Month - Sept 2012

Journal Entry: Wed Sep 5, 2012, 12:19 AM
:wave: Hello, dearest members! LadyofGaerdon here to continue our series:

Featured Deviant of the Month 


 for

 :icontalentedwritersguild:

 September's Featured Deviant is..........:eager:

 
:iconstardivider1plz::iconstardivider3plz:
:iconavallynh:
Avallynh
:iconstardivider1plz::iconstardivider3plz:

TalentedWritersGuild is a literature group committed to the encouragement, collection, and archival of high quality prose and poetry works. To find out more about the group, please click here.


 Here at TalentedWritersGuild, we encourage deviants to select only their best pieces of literature for submission. As judges, we look for pieces that simultaneously move us, challenge us, and inspire us as readers; pieces that stimulate us emotionally and intellectually; and the pieces that display true technical skill. When we vote, we consider all these things, and let only the pieces we deem up to snuff through to our gallery. This pushes our submitters to excel, challenge themselves, and improve their craft, and provides our readers with high quality literature to read. 


The Featured Deviant of the Month is a member whose submissions meet and surpass this criteria.   

:icontalentedwritersguild:

~Avallynh weaves her words with thread like gossamer - her poetry is breathy, gauze-like, fragile - yet her imagery is so strong that it will remain in your mind, leaving you a heart swelled with longing. 

 Avallynh has 13 pieces in our gallery to date! They are all phenomenal and I encourage you to check them out.



In the words of LadyofGaerdon: 
Soaked in sea-swept imagery and rich 
with heartbreak, this poem will leave you 
with a glowing, nameless longing.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:  


Like a withered lullaby, this poem
speaks of childhood wonder lost,
but still glimpsed, just out of reach.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 



In the words of ~teenyxtinyxtina:
Dropping memories across the page, this short 
story strings together random and seemingly 
unrelated images. In doing so, it mimics the 
way in which memory works. An interesting 
look at moving memories onto the page. 
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


name-keeper.she remembers other lives:
fragments of myriad pasts
that might once have been her own.
they shift, like shards in a kaleidoscope;
catch the light
and s p l i n t e r a memory
into bright and broken chaos
of galaxies spun
from shivering mirages of worlds long-gone
and the glitter-glass symphony
of wind-chimes, gently stirred
by passing ghosts
wakened from unslumber
and dragged, blind and weary
cross time-worn trails, forever trapped
in a music-box waltz
to her wretched sigh[and someone else's elegy.]
and she's the girl watching, holding fast
by silken, poisoned threads
by a plea, a promise
to let go the silvered whispers
she keeps in little glass jars
when she's done searching
for a heartbeat. [one. just one.]

In the words of LadyofGaerdon:
It is truly astonishing to know
that this poem is Avallynh's
first attempt at poetry, when the
way she plays with words and rhythm
and cadence form a brilliant representation
of just what poetry should be.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 



In the words of Halatia:
With quiet, lyrical word choice and stanza structure, 
in aeternum by ~Avallynh captures all the 
mystery and misery of the sea. 
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 



In the words of LadyofGaerdon:
You can feel the soft rhythm flowing
through the words. The breathless quality
of the writing and the masterful use of
alliteration make this an enchanting read.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


leavetakingi.
the world is brighter where
dregs of strangers' revels remain --
i keep this half-light for my own.
ii.
i'll stay until the wind sighs a scotch-and-smoke
cliché, til the Muscadet's slipped from the lip
of my wayward
hello.(i know you're there before you do.)
iii.
your night is told in
patchouli-pulse wanders; mine,
in whorls of liqueur-breath. come
close and i'll find the warp
through the weft, the trails telling tales
in synaesthesia --
Platinum Blonde's been 'round and gone.
iv.
(-- closer, find syllables strewn
in an exhale's wake; stolen from my throat-
ful of careless farewells, spin and sway
and beg you stay.)
v.
time enough for a kiss-
and-never-tell, for a stumbling waltz
to the dissonance of crystal-shatter odes
to the summerlong i knew you --
we were(n't) meant for more than this.
vi.
morning goes right through you,
and breathes a thousand fortunes in-
to shards of (our) stranger starfall.

In the words of the-photographicpoet:
This is one of those poems where the overall impact 
is heightened by the semantics, the use of intricate and 
beautiful lexis, and the imagery throughout which leaves you 
almost breathless. It's wonderfully written, with the format 
and structure again leaving the reader feeling sensitive and touched.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 
 a half-remembered dream.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


Please check out our Featured Gallery, which shall be hosting all of Avallynh's submitted works. Please also peruse her gallery for yet more awesomeness and remind her on her profile of what an amazing writer she is. Oh yes, and please :+fav: this article to spread the word!


 Until next time...


Lit-Visual Alliance Allied Artwork Feature #4

Journal Entry: Thu Aug 16, 2012, 12:29 PM


 :wave: Hello my dearest Allies! It's time again to showcase more of the amazing Allied Artwork pieces that have been making their way into our 
Featured Folder  over at Lit-Visual-Alliance


:iconlit-visual-alliance:

What is the Alliance, you ask?

The Alliance is a project group intended to encourage visual and literary artists to work together. I've felt for some time that the dA Literature Community can at times be somewhat insular - to its detriment. We in the Lit Community are also sometimes prone to griping about the lack of exposure our work receives when compared to that of visual artists. So in the spirit of ^thorns brilliant Complaint Challenge I thought I would try to do something about that. And so the Alliance was born!

This article features pieces that have been submitted to our Featured Folder, which is reserved for literature that is based on visual artwork on dA, and visual artwork based on dA literature.

As usual, this feature is the result of the member poll which asked you, our lovely members, to vote for your favorite Allied Artwork submitted to the Featured Folder to be spotlighted in the article as the best. :w00t:



 First up, is this deeply thought-provoking piece from angeljunkie

  based on Pencil Vs Camera - 57 by BenHeine



Next up is this intense interpretation by Alliance newcomer 
agramuglia

:thumb317231653: based on The Arrival by AeternusVotum



Next is this fearsome illustration by smilinweapon

Phoenix - Commission by smilinweapon based on 



Next up is an invigorating interpretation by our very own AzizrianDaoXrak




Next is a lovely haiku/photo collaboration by CelestialMemories and FinalLegacy1




An eerily beautiful take on a gorgeous image, from writer agramuglia and painter Taiyo85

:thumb317092970: based on Of dreams and nightmares by Taiyo85



Enchanting collaboration between afterthelastday and BellumX

Born Too Early - Gone Too Far by afterthelastday based on .Cruel Summer. by BellumX



Followed by:

Urevagen Peninsula Map by Januairie based on  The Campfire Stories - ProloguePrologue~
The Universe is a complicated place, filled with countless abnormalities that no one can be prepared for.  To live one's life trying to avoid death is pure folly, because in the end they never live.  Life is about companionship, experiences both good and bad, and the continuation of generations.  
Across this great planet there are many wondrous sights to behold both simple and grand.  On the Urevagen Peninsula, there is a convergence of many species that have populated the world.  You see, the Peninsula wasn't always a peninsula; it was an island.  I lived upon it for many years, until it formed with the mainland, providing entry to all the world.  For now, I just want to tell you a little about some of those species.
The Humes, a complex race that populate certain regions of the planet, also follow the simple, yet overarching role of life.  However, compared to other primitive beings, Humes tend to get more out of life, despite their rough surroundings.  They stay toget


Samson by GraphicManga based on 

Apex Predator by Keira-Bui based on 



Our next poll will be out soon, with another feature to follow! The more you guys submit, the more features there will be! :eager:

And to get your creative juices flowing, a sampling from our Exceptionally Inspiring Literature & Exceptionally Inspiring Visual Art folders:

Good Morning, Mr. Magpie by AzizrianDaoXrak  Paint the DreamsEvery night, on the insides of my eyelids,
I paint the Universe with the ink set of imagination
And the charcoal sticks of memory,
Then flip it upside down and the wrong way round
And let it snag into focus-
On my sleeping synapses, the branches of the Inspiration Tree .
In my ivory skull-box of random echoes,  
Every melody, every voice, is re-written and rescored,
For a symphony of electricity, crisscrossing nerves ,
And running down, like liquid lightning
Into the ears of the dormant soul.
Here, this is that part of my chaotic desk
Where I re-write physics to suit myself,
Redesign monsters and angels to my own specifications
Until the lines between them are blurred out of recognition.
In this drawer, I keep my nightmares
Under layers of fine, crinkled tissue paper, bound with laughter
And interspersed with the dead bodies of silk butterflies
This rack, here, holds the satin ribbons and velvet strings
Of the slipping, crackling madnesses that only come out when I call
And t
Gold of the depths 2012 by ilona-veresk  GameAnd here I am, holding on for dear life
(but since when is my life dear to anyone, anyway?)
while you roll the dice one more time.
"Two," you say, and I sigh in relief because I'm number four. Number two gets dragged on the floor towards you and you kiss her on the forehead
(with a bullet)
and she falls to the ground and the men carry her away to the pit.
A new number two comes forth and she's prettier than the last one. But I look away. There's no point in finding beauty in this.
I actually heard the future being preached sometime before it happened.
"The gods are angry," the old priest said, "they'll turn against us."
And they did, alright, when they gave conscience to our robots and made them overtake humanity, that they enjoy torturing.
I know this is not your fault.
You're probably suffering even more than any of us
(after all, you're the one holding the gun)
but I don't know if I can forgive you.
Yet, I loved you once. It was a pretty and shiny dream. But also a crazy one. I was
 Dreamer by KnightChan  Exhale, AmaryllisMid-summer heatwave,
I push through humid air,
like dreams of swimming, graceful,
through the streets. 
Chest aching, I
inhale heavy, tangible air
thick with scent of summer's bounty.
Honeysuckle vines tangle in my lungs, 
perfume my breath.
My sighs exhale nectar
past my lips;
words glint in sunlight.
Berry brambles twist into my veins,
thorns prick for blood from inside-out;
honey-suckle oxidized breath,
painting white blossoms red:
My heart was a pure-white bloom once,
but I inhaled arrows of golden sunlight
and bled forth Amaryllis.

 Path of Enlightenment by Jonsama  Keep Going by AnaNevesArt  Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat –
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight –
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
 
Giant Wave by A2Matos  Hunger-Second VersionFire in the wild isn't the color you think it is.
It's all amber and terra cotta,
one  great  roaring  tower  of
orange  like the Wrath of God
in a chestnut tree.
I  can't  go  back   again  to
Devil's   Hollow,   the   small
rock - vale,   all    cinnamon
and nutmeg and  dried  pine
needles,  where we used  to
dance—-just  like  so  many
wolves  old   Nick  will  wait
for    my    return,    blazing
burnt  sienna   and  shining,
all teeth.
I am not ready to  give  up
the ghost  yet;  I  am  still
waiting    for   an   excuse
to    travel    the    galaxy
empty-handed. I  want  to
see those  bronze  nebulas
gleaming like  forest  fires.
Oh, lover—I have watched you swim volcanic
craters,  have  seen  your
flaming  eyes  amidst  the
snow drifts all brown with
dirt, your eyes that  mean
you live the element  that
is inside you. Dragon mine,
you bring the mists in the
morning, set the roads  to
smoking after the evening
rains, and
you first came to me as
a henna dawn once when I
 Freedom by Selenada



That's it for now, guys! Thanks so much for being a part of the Alliance! :w00t:
For more Allied Artwork, please check us out at :iconlit-visual-alliance:

'til next time,

The :iconlit-visual-alliance: Team: :iconladyofgaerdon: :iconevlydia: :iconazizriandaoxrak: :iconquiestinliteris: :iconvigilo:



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You can log in or become a member for FREE!

TWG's Featured Deviant of the Month - August 2012

Journal Entry: Fri Aug 10, 2012, 9:59 PM
:wave: Hello, lovely members! LadyofGaerdon here to continue our series:

Featured Deviant of the Month 


 for

 :icontalentedwritersguild:

 This month's Featured Deviant is..........:eager:

 
:iconstardivider1plz::iconstardivider3plz:
:iconvigilo:
Vigilo 
:iconstardivider1plz::iconstardivider3plz:

TalentedWritersGuild is a literature group committed to the encouragement, collection, and archival of high quality prose and poetry works. To find out more about the group, please click here.


 Here at TalentedWritersGuild, we encourage deviants to select only their best pieces of literature for submission. As judges, we look for pieces that simultaneously move us, challenge us, and inspire us as readers; pieces that stimulate us emotionally and intellectually; and the pieces that display true technical skill. When we vote, we consider all these things, and let only the pieces we deem up to snuff through to our gallery. This pushes our submitters to excel, challenge themselves, and improve their craft, and provides our readers with high quality literature to read. 


The Featured Deviant of the Month is a member whose submissions meet and surpass this criteria.   

:icontalentedwritersguild:

Vigilo's poetry does a tremendous job retelling and referencing myth and fantasy, while always making it her own. Whether she employs traditional forms or free verse, her words come alive with a rare vibrancy that permeates everything she creates.

 Vigilo has 18 pieces in our gallery to date! They are all most definitely worth your time.


ScornHer restless heart cries, Love! I am here to be found,
Everywhere - here - following voices of all in Greece,
Yet from her mouth, there is no sound.
A fair nymph's merry voice once rung from sky to ground,
Until the cerulean-eyed Queen gave it cruel release –
Her restless heart cries, Love! I am here to be found.
And vainly she, swift of wind, silent of voice, follows round
Her beloved, who scorns her with lips of cerise – 
Yet from her mouth there is no sound.
The wind carries her silent lament, for he himself is bound
To one who wears his scornful azure eyes and vain fleece;
Her restless heart cries, Love! I am here to be found.
Surely she knows Eros has struck her beloved's heart deftly around
with passion for a brook whose laugh slays a heart's peace.
Yet from her mouth there is no sound -
The fair flower, who holds Echo's heart, pines as a lover drowned
in longing, for the murmur of his river lover will not cease.
Her restless heart cries, Love! I am here to be

in the words of LadyofGaerdon:
A brilliant combination of the
Echo & Narcissus myth and the villanelle
form, that could only come from the mind
of the illustrious Vigilo.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


On Ariadnethe loom of lust:
In the heart of your ears,
and till your outstretched feet
the spinner of mad red has corrupted,
her fingers like dragonflies threading
bark and twined grass into your hair
around your sure wrists, your angled feet
'this is love, my shining bride-to be,' you whisper,
and disappear with her among billowing black sails.
the abandonment of Ariadne:

He wooed you in a labyrinth of spinners,
and wed you in black sails, beneath jealous skies.
'Sleep and tomorrow you shall be Queen of Athens,'
Ariadne, sleep, tomorrow the sun will shine,
and the sea will ebb sympathetic away from
these deserted sands.

the death, or descent:

Spin, my hanging nymph,
sleep and let the dryad-tree's shadow
ease your descent.
Bacchus' bard:

The spinning nymph for our mad lord,
the gentleness for the grapes of wrath
and the delight for the madness,
come. Drink, be it ambrosia or wine,
be it mother and son, or nymph and lord.
Spin, lady, and drink, lord,
and I will breat

In the words of AzizrianDaoXrak: 
Many of the pieces in Vigilo's gallery are exquisite,
but this one particularly stands out to me. She is
able to seamlessly weave together ancient myth
and a rich earthiness through her amazing descriptions.
Even if you don't know the myth, she tells the story
in such a way that it becomes yours.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


Rapunzel: A RecountingAsk nothing from the azure sky, and the
blinding sun that burn bronze locks to gold, and
corrupted me with candlestick and sunlight.
Do you recall the child you delivered and deserted?
Exile, I entered, and you left me to my evermore.
Father, did you falter, when you followed her - my
good mother, the witch? (Gather ye rapunzels and go.)
Halt there, hurrying prince,
in my ignorance, you steal my bliss.
Joker, surely you jest?
Kings and kin - kill me now if I am ever
late - late! in love, in lie, and in line!
Men are mountains: mote to crumble away.
Never will the tales near normalcy:
Omniscient is the overlord, and the
princes tried patience and pleasure; never
quiet in quests. Quoth the Queens, the ladies,
Return Rapunzel: relieved of her religion.
So sever'd the Soul from its seams and
turned the tide towards the tower,
understanding the
vanity of
waiting.
{xyz}

in the words of LadyofGaerdon: 
It takes skill to make alliteration look good, but 
Vigilo does so much more than that. 
She has made it an art form itself.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3:  


Ode to a TrainI am a stop sign. Old and aged, I stand upon earth.
You are a geometric line - tearing away from earth.
I do not know the charm of gentle rust, only peeling paint,
but I have known you and held you dear as my earth.
Desert wind found me, found me weatherworn.
But when water will fall, I will behold earth.
You are patient, for all that you race to and away,
dreaming of quicksilver flight, yet bound to earth.
I am all yellow jealousy for what the ground hears,
the beats you tattoo away, a drummer of the earth.
How must I tempt you away? I have no language, and in vain,
I insist on loving. The sky cherishes bitter, bitter earth.
I am the archaic tourist of a road, and you are a train,
wayward, an assured woman of this sprawling earth.
We were not meant for passion. I can hear you, blithely, you,
hurtling away, until all I hear is the echo of your breath upon earth.

In the words of angelStained: 
Vigilo has poetry that weaves webs in my mind-
and stunning ones. There are subtleties winding through
it from the rhymes to the repetition and the voice is
quietly magnetic.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


CoppersmithI caught a sun gold.
Trembling old in my cupped palm, quiet copper,
as my rage on our queen, for so crippling me.  
And how too did I rail –
against you, Cyprian beloved?
Understand: I grow too old
for bows and arrows, Eros.

In the words of LadyofGaerdon: 
Multi-layered mythology in less than fifty words.
The author employs impeccable rhythm and warm,
brittle longing to imbue each word with the
power of hundreds.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 



In the words of LadyofGaerdon: 
The nursery rhymes many of us grew up with
are often quite disturbing when we hear them
again as adults. In this vein, Vigilo presents
an eerily rhythmic - indeed, the rhythm pulses
throughout, like the steady heartbeat of the poem -
new nursery rhyme about a most disturbing topic.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


Three SinsTreachery: the act of betraying.
Jealousy: the feeling of envy.
Disloyalty: to break faith.
Tell me, tell me, which is the greater sin?
For he spoke of treachery so sharp,
And she told of jealousy, grass-green,
And he sang of disloyalty of the worst type.
And he said:
You think I do not know? Treachery so violent,
A thousand rose thorns would have stung less.
I close my eyes, and two faces appear behind my eyelids,
O! Beautiful face, gallant heart: why have you conspired against me?
Tell me! What have I done to deserve such unfaithfulness?
If it is truly my fault, say the word and Excalibur will turn against me.
Tell me! What have I done to make you turn from me so?
One word and if you look me in the eye, I will live no more.
And she said:
You think I did not try? Oh! But the air betrayed me,
It was stolen away and I felt the loss more sharply.
You think I did not resist that beautiful face? Oh, how could I,
When you yourself, strong heart, could not deny him anything?
Te

In the words of Kassi-Kamira: 
I do like the Arthurian
references. The piece in general is a strong read provocative
use of lexis and form to reinforce the thematics and context. Brilliant.
:iconfineevehelp1::iconfineevehelp2::iconfineevehelp3: 


Me Men o' th' Land and SeaMe man o' th' land
is a fair and true lad,
but I love better me man o' the sea.
Me man o' th' land
has hair o' gauld like th' sun,
but me man o' th' sea loved me lang.
Me man o' th' land
has een o' bauld blue,
but me man o' th' sea has een o' bonnie, bonnie green.
But oh, but oh, me man o' th' land,
if yer heart brak', lit it nae be for me,
lit it nae be for th' weary wurld.
But oh, but oh, me man o' th' land,
I love ye sae, but I love me man o' th' sea mair,
for auld lang syne, I will min' ye,
me man o' th' land, but oh,
but oh, there my true love bides,
an' I love better me man o' th' sea.
Dae tell, my bairn, dae tell ye Father,
say I say, Farewell tae thee weel,
but I loved better me man o' the sea.

In the words of norui: 
This poem is based on an old Scottish
tale and delightfully includes the dialect.
The ideas it portrays wonderfully and the
rhythm suits it well. The addition of the
old words works to make it more interesting.
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The Salt of the SeaI.
The sovereign man has sunk bitterly;
he opened his mouth calmly
and swallowed the salt.
Swallowed it all.
I expected – fresh waters.
My hat flopped about;
like a goldfish, I was
crowded and troubling.
The word on the street for writers:
for my sake, put some words in my mouth.
II.
The King drowned the pillars in brine.
He knows the tiredness of the terra:
the tension hides in his shoulders,
his shoulders are pillars for the blue yonder.
Still his salt mill grinds.
Still the seas are brittle.
The pillars have become
skeletons of shipwrecks,
but as tall as mountains,
and as swamped as salt is bitter.
III.
Salt away. Jargon is
taken with a grain of salt.
Fault me for it –
lamenting,
mouth to eye,
siren-to-sailor wise.
Lamenting-wise.
IV.
Language has
embittered
the sea.
Submerge my breath. I wish to leave for the dream.

In the words of AzizrianDaoXrak: 
This piece is really the happy medium between
"pillars of salt" and "salt of the earth," and yet
somehow manages the be about neither of them.
Beautifully tactile, this poem makes me think longingly of the sea.
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In the words of TwilightPoetess: 
Using the technique of prose-poetry, Vigilo takes
readers on an intriguing journey through the pages of
her favorite books.
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The Dream Song of AnonymousThis is based off The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot. It might help to read Eliot's poem first, if you haven't before.
   Shall I stay, then, alone,
When the dawn is straying from the sky
Like a child roaming the sea;
Dare I stay – amidst parades of kings,
The rising revolution
Of tranquil days in silk-spread beds
And colours of mayhem in blacks and reds:
Wind chimes that jingle without judgement
Without affront –
And follow the questioning wind, without answers –
Oh, do answer, "Why not?" and
Let me stay, and dream of a candle you lit.
   On the beaches the men wander alone
Driven speechless by siren song.
   The house fairies lie beneath the windows.
The sunflowers that house imps hang above the windows
Droop their petals precariously earthward at dusk
And hide from the night sky in cement cracks,
Hinder gravity come dayspring and soar sunwards,
Stir from their pot, rise fr

In the words of AzizrianDaoXrak: 
For anyone who has ever read T.S. Eliot's
"Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," this piece
is a must-see. =Vigilo has both created a
perfect reflection of the original piece and
written an elegant and meaningful poem in its own right.
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In the words of LiliWrites: 
Great rhythm, fluid imagery, and a tragic
tale make this poem a must-read.
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Summer WomanWoman, you are my burnt sienna sculpture on Sun-days.
You are hiding my strength in rufous hair
and I feel you: russet-flushed to the touch,
jagged collarbone curving into neck,
easing into shoulders, into breasts;
woman, you are the warmest stone –
you are summery stone
to my water-drenched hands.
Woman in deepest reverie, you are hiding
my strength in pacific oceans of titian;
in running veins. My grasp
slips from skin slopes of sun and stone,
slips from you.
Woman of ragged flint and oil,
in sleep, your wind-kissed stone-neck drifts,
surges into a soft arch in air –
and does not meet ground;
and does not bow.

In the words of AzizrianDaoXrak: 
"Summer Woman" is really lush and tactile, both in
terms of images and sounds; it is a really beautiful
story created for another deviant's sculpture!
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