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A Coward's HeartWere confidence placed in boundless joy
and night airs sweetly scented…
dancing to a rhythm band
reveling  in senses,
then gentle,
hopeful heart's desire
would ease my
looming
dread.

For sparrow I had kenned her,
dreaming tender love;
yet she a raptor
    - nothing taming;
bearing talons,
passions
matched in kind.

A coward's heart I grimly bear -
from peace estranged;
this blighted soul
sore lacking.

For giddy love
    - within my grasp,
it's sensual clamor bending;
now felled by fear,
then ravaged there,
and cast adrift
at last.
By the HighwayThe trees were all dead. No leaves, bare fingers stretched towards the sky in a twisted sort of prayer. The houses below them had no prayer – not even one coming from a tree – that could save them. They were ramshackle, they were peeling paint and broken pipes. They were forgotten glass shards embedded in a crying toddler's foot, or cold wind blasting its way through a broken window. They were everything that a house should not be, hazardous and inhospitable and ugly.
They spared the families embarrassment, though, the houses. They were all the same, the same despair, the same inescapable, cavernous appearance. They were nothing to
AntesWe are We, the Hunters of greatest knowledge and spell-blood. We use spell-words to hunt and to Change our bodies to rocks or trees. It has long been forbidden to Change to other Hunters or Hunted, or to kill others of We; yet it happened, and without it We would not be living.

This is that tale.

This is a tale from before the Fire, before the Dark, when the world was still green and the sky was still blue.

We had a Pack in the north, running free under the moon. The hunt was good. The Pack was strong and the prey was weak. The prey was a Hunter, a small running-Hunter; and so he turned, hissing spell-words, but he was claw- and tooth-stro
EulogyThe dream-catchers are handmade
but each bear the same mark of boredom.
On the reservation,
the dirt is red and separated from the turquoise on sale.
The tops of the mountains have been scraped off
like whipped cream from pudding cups
of beautiful alien rock.

"Plateau," my mother says.
I am not sure if it is a name
or a command.

The lightning storms are brighter in the desert.
I sit perched on the horizon,
the edge of one loss to another—
given up my love, all my bottled water.
The mountains carry their own babies in the muddy puddles,
against the wind they huddle,
but their semi-circle somehow is just one great smile.

What's Left to Be Said
 I want to bang my head against the wall, but that would be dangerous. Instead, I pound the basketball against the wall, letting it drop down and bounce back to me. I don't know how long I've been sitting here; I'm barely aware of what I'm doing with the baseball cap pulled low over my eyes.

I had planned to go outside and shoot some hoops, but the hammering rain pours down over the house, running over the rooftop and streaming down the window panes. Instead, I'm walled up inside a dimly lit room, waiting for the storm to pass or for me to go crazy, whichever comes first.

Just as I'm thinking this, I hear the door slam open and turn to se
Naming Orbiquet, Commonwealth of Gaulica, Summer 1912

Wil stepped outside, leaving his aunt still shouting inside. He could still hear her. He walked further into the overgrown field behind the house, wanting to get away from the scolding.   'You're such a rude boy, Wilfred Merrill. No wonder your diplomat father's ashamed to keep you in the city.'

The city. Wil imagined he could see it: the thriving metropolis where everything took place was just over the horizon. If only he was a little taller, his eyes a little sharper, then, then he would be able to see it in all its glory: Automobiles; busses; trains; people; cathedrals. It was a p
-Poem- A Thief's TaleRide the chilling wind,
across the burning sand;
along the trail of life --
with it in your hands.

Items made through bloodshed,
seven for the priests;
with their magic powers,
to bring upon the peace.

Rage for fallen comrades,
scarred by darkened times;
revenge, his only wish,
to make up for the crime.

Defeat brought in battle,
but denied his death;
instead, trapped inside,
to await his final breath.

Millennia of silence,
until a new time came;
to possess a boy's body
and rule a Shadow Game.
Debacle on 34th StreetI was only standing there for a few seconds, but those few seconds was all it took for her to change my life.

It was Christmas Eve and I was on my way back to my lonely apartment to hole up with my usual bottle of Jack Daniels and turkey sub. No rocking around the Christmas tree, no mistletoe and wine, no chestnuts roasting on an open fire. What was the point with no one to share in the festivities.

So there I was standing on the bustling street corner, my faded jeans and jacket saturated with the freezing rain, my scruffy mop of wet brown hair clinging to my face and my brown paper bag almost disintegrated. My Christmas cheer had long gone
CartwheelsI stood on the front porch, heart racing. I clutched the railing with white knuckles, my fear fresh from the latest of many panic attacks. I struggled to breathe, slowly in, slowly out, just like my counselor had instructed. The therapy wasn't helping so far, and that scared me more than anything.

Slowly I started to hear the voices of people walking by, and I relaxed slightly. The normalcy of their conversations calmed me more effectively than anything else I knew. I kept the radio on 24/7 for that very reason.

When I started to recognize faces, I knew the worst was over. Mrs. Krane knelt studiously over her flowerbeds across the street, a
Newspapering and Postcards1.

Yellowed autumns crinkled under thumb
as I picked away at language long lost
depicting us on a boat run.

I was stuck in an infinite regression-
memories twisted and turned and
denoted turbulence of last excursions.

The authorship is creased,
writing spirals into
regressive loops.

2.

I have come back from the end of the world,
accompanied by the sounds
of a soft murmur and the ever-pressed newspaper clippings
of an expeditions trek into an October breeze.

It was of a black winter morning I returned to the sights
of London north, the besmeared and hazed brickwork
embracing the steam coddled galley of our
sea-ferry.

Off
Me and My Shadowi.

My shadow slips to silence among the aquatic acacias. Even here, leaves abound, draped over the fuzz-curves of his figure as he soaks up the moonlight. Papa's soft voice turns my gaze to the moon. Remember, Carlos, our shadows are but imprints of the moon. Remember the Eclipse. I shiver and hold onto an acacia branch. I'm careful not to let my shadow near the shoreline where sea meets sand. That's why acacias are aquatic; they drowned their fate with the sea, Papa says. We cannot, we must not let it be our shadow's fate. We are nothing without our shadows. And yet the tide sweeps towards my toes as the moon charioteers across the silver n
Mural In The GlassFall once fell in colors here,
   you could hear the rust whistle
on  playgrounds,
        merry go rounds
still spinning,
     swings
still swinging from the hurried departure.
            But they are sounds of another time.

Today
          my reflection
is lost in the grey

         as rain falls
a heavy patter, a baby's bare feet tapping--
I see the mud tracks fade on the kitc
Happy BirthdayWhen I breathe into the empty blue morning, my breath fogs up in the too-cold-for-this-time-of-year air and I wish I could pull it back into me. I'm not quite awake and not quite asleep, but I'm conscious of the day and the time and the rain that prickles my face through the open screen window. I wish you a quiet happy birthday under my breath because I might have lost the right to make you happy, but I'll still wish it forever.

Your name on my lips hurts and it's a struggle to move the air past my vocal cords in a way that will actually produce sound instead of a whisper. I keep you so close to my heart that every time it beats it touches y
Long Love       "He's dead," the voice rang out over the crowd, and I felt the cold press of the wall on my spine. I could feel the splintered wood catch on the silk of my dress. I was sitting on the gritty floor, sparkles and dirt, glitter and make-up, fallen from the hundreds of party goers stuck to my palms. The classical sounds of a slow song continued playing; the only pure sound in a room now filled with sniffling and wailing.

        I looked around the crowded room -there were women on their knees and men who wept openly. The panic that had created a cacophony of noise
AberrationHe runs down another dark alleyway, throwing glances over his shoulder to squint into the pouring rain. There's nothing behind, though that does not mean they aren't there. They're still coming from somewhere. It was almost impossible to hear the shots through the roar of the downpour.

Another corner. A dead end.

"Dammit," he growled, punching at the wooden wall with a fist. His scratched knuckles throbbed slightly as small dots of blood welled. No matter.

The shots were closer. In a brief look around he yanked himself onto one of the fire escapes, clamoring up the steps. Light flashed on beneath him as he ran up though he was gone into th
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July 16, 2010
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:iconver0niquita:
I wrote this from what my friend 'Fargo' ~asianandpwning [ Who's art's beauty almost matches that of her own personality. ], told me about her dream of a perfect city. But, it turned out a little darker than expected.

I love it.
Comments?
EDIT:

Thank you so so SO much for the Daily Deviation, it means more than you can imagine! :heart:

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Daily Deviation

Given 2010-11-28
As the suggester says, A Modern Elizabethan by *OrgXIIIWannabe “tells the story of a particular city that could be the story of any city, with all its beauty, grit, hope, and despair.” Suggested by ~SadisticIceCream on behalf of *DailyLitDeviations. ( Featured by `Halatia )
love 4 4 joy 0 0 wow 0 0 mad 0 0 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:iconkiwi977:
Mood: Love ~kiwi977 Feb 12, 2012
The way you told this story flows so well, your organization from one small detail to the next to the next is beautiful!
Reply
:icondailylitdeviations:
=DailyLitDeviations Dec 31, 2010
Good News! Your work has been featured in Celebrating Quality: DLD to DD (Vol. II)! Please take a moment to :+favlove: the article. Congratulations on your Daily Deviation!
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:iconptdahood:
~PTDaHood Dec 2, 2010
From line one, your wording had me hooked; absolutely hooked.

The cycle there...such a thing has occurred to my mind before, and others, I am sure -- but you showed us what it is, right there; from the bum to the girl.

You make the city such a gritty place, but wholesome and imperfect, just the way one could want it.
Reply
:iconlunamacato:
~LunaMacato Nov 29, 2010
mmm.
And nearly perfect too.
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:iconmysticross:
~mysticross Nov 28, 2010  Hobbyist General Artist
almost no flaws :D
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:icona-symmetry:
~A-Symmetry Nov 28, 2010  Hobbyist Writer
this flows with raw elegance and its ending is its beginning and it is beautiful.
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:iconstarwarsgal12:
~starwarsgal12 Nov 28, 2010  Student General Artist
This is the work of a real writer. The words draw you into from the first sentence, practically begging you to read more. It's simply...amazing. Great job and congrats on the DD! :)
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:icondasnowmiser:
~DaSnowMiser Nov 28, 2010
This is a beautiful piece of work. :) I love how you made it so general, yet so detailed and specific to the certain place. I also loved the way you described the poker scene. :heart: Really nice job.
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:icondreamsare4ever:
~DreamsAre4Ever Nov 28, 2010  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Congratulations and...
EPICSHIT, MAN. EPICSHIT. :iconffffplz:
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:iconevilpixiea:
Mood: Love ~EvilpixieA Nov 28, 2010  Student Writer
Simply I see this as a thousand stories without having to be told. I don't know if that makes any sense but that is what I get when I read this. Powerful, moving and profoundly true. I am very glad you wrote this and that I was curious enough to flick through the DD of today and spot it among all the other glittering gems.

Out of curiosity (for I am the ever wondering type) how long did this take you and did you write it with your friend "Fargo" that had the dream or just about the dream?

I love it. Thanks again for writing this!
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