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Submitted on
November 11, 2012
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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 



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



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.   


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
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.
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
II. Intravenous iv.
At the church

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.


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.

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.

SojournerRevisited 10/28/2012 - Read by disrhythmic HERE.
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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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:
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
overhanging décor
furniture rooted to the floor
is home
family, friends, the occasional
neighbor's kid
out from home.
Let the sparrows in; let
the finches
Let the door's
loosen—let the door stand ajar
be let open
the night owls and
let the doves
to pirouette
in pairs in the iridescent
Let the sparrows in.
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.

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.

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. 

Disposable KitesI don't wait for
Tomorrow morning.
Kites are sheathed
In moth ball plastic,
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
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—
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
Past the patio
Kites are banished
To the night breeze,
Tethered by a
Reel, makeshift
Bracelets and
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. 

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.
          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.

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.
          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.

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
grotesque from aging,
and when he
home from
a career but not a
calling he will paint
the barren pages
Prometheus’ and
Dante’s smudged hand-
speak with
that extend off
of the
He’ll stain
smear his hand-
burn and tatter the edges
of pages
until taut
and crisp—
he has taught these walls
to listen and talk
Paint us a poem, poet— paint.
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: 

#TalentedWritersGuild's Featured Deviant of the Month for November is ^NicSwaner.
Add a Comment:
Sammur-amat Featured By Owner Nov 18, 2012   General Artist
Hooray for ^NicSwaner!! :squee:
LadyofGaerdon Featured By Owner Nov 18, 2012  Professional Writer
Sammur-amat Featured By Owner Nov 19, 2012   General Artist
mellowghost Featured By Owner Nov 14, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Much deserved!! Excellent feature! :)
LadyofGaerdon Featured By Owner Nov 14, 2012  Professional Writer
Happy you approve. :)
doughboycafe Featured By Owner Nov 12, 2012  Professional Writer
Nic is fantastic. He puts a lot of time and effort into the community here and I just wanted to take a minute to tell him thanks for that!
Nichrysalis Featured By Owner Nov 20, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
LadyofGaerdon Featured By Owner Nov 12, 2012  Professional Writer
He does indeed. :nod:
brassteeth Featured By Owner Nov 11, 2012
One of the best going around. Congrats!
LadyofGaerdon Featured By Owner Nov 12, 2012  Professional Writer
Thanks for checking out the feature. :)
Add a Comment: