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Lovely Lit Feature #4 and #5

Journal Entry: Tue Aug 26, 2014, 12:18 PM
Hello! Sorry for missing last weeks Lovely Lit Feature, as I was preparing for college and working to help pay for future expenses! As an apology, I am compiling both the prose specific Lovely Lit Feature missed last week (6 pieces of prose) and the Lovely Lit Feature scheduled this week (3 prose and poetry) into one big Tuesday Lovely Lit Feature. 


Reasons Never to WriteYou’ll want someone exotic, and marry a Romanian. He’ll tell you to dye your hair and you’ll do it, then make chewing on its multicolored strands a habit. You’ll kiss him once and say he tastes like wine. Wine, no? he’ll say with a grin. Only gentlemen drink wine. You'll leave him because you won’t like cliches.
You’ll find a shadow behind a counter (because that’s the only way to describe him). You’ll watch him clashing silverware around in drawers like cold piles of bones, and he’ll give you a free slice of key-lime pie and say it’s the best in the state. You’ll lick up its tanginess on the prongs of your fork and decide that it’s not, but you won't pull away from his eyes that will remind you of your favorite crayon. Then he’ll look you up and down and say, another? You’ll decide to love him because anyone worth loving is worth a free slice of key-lime pie. You’ll make him kiss you even w

The PainterThe waves were still crashing, washing away the remnants of sand castles, long after the town was asleep and dreaming. Even the usual late night strollers were safely in their homes by this hour. The only movement came from the cool, salty breeze, the endless waves and a man. Just one man.
From a distance one might have assumed him to be nothing more than an unfortunate visitor's belonging left behind. He seemed but a shadow, a shapeless nothing. Upon a slightly closer inspection, one would find two things of importance: firstly, there was a rather large canvas placed immediately in front of him which was, as of yet, completely blank. Second, for a man who seemed to only be getting started with unpacking art supplies, he was covered in quite a lot of red paint.
As the wind picked up, the man continued his unpacking and then sat down, quite still. Slowly he turned his head and, it seemed, took in every detail of the silent beach. His gaze seemed to catch the waves and he stared a long w

4 Dead ChordsI’m here, with the darkness embracing me, trying to sleep. My eyes, full of tears, want to sleep, listening to those things that makes me feel bad in the middle of the night, listening to my thoughts written by other mind, but are mine. I know the reason of the sad midnight, when the sky has closed the window and no one can see the spirits, walking lonely roads.
Maybe I took another wrong way, or the wrong way took me, with a beautiful smile and deep black eyes, asking me if I was truly happy all this time without Starlight; I wasn’t, those days were wasted moments in my life. There’s nothing to see inside a womb, where you are isolated and peaceful with yourself, thinking about the day you had.
I’m drowning in memories, and cry, the droplets that my lung has.

eugenics in bulkBy the time she was twelve they had already decided she would marry a man who could run a five minute mile and speak seven languages.  They chose her a husband the same way they had chosen her eyes and her legs and the pale freckles that interrupted her nose - the same way their parents had designed their children and arranged their marriages, strategic.
Her father called her petite reine. He owned an antique chess board carved from ebony wood and maple.  Some days she'd sneak into the library, pry open the old chequered box and pick out one of the queens, and she'd turn it round and round, searching for imperfections. It was a plain, ugly thing, huge and fat in her tiny grasp.  She had wondered if he thought of her this way.  
She wondered the same now.  
Her hands were not her own.  A businessman in a white coat had grown them slender and strong, built her carbon fiber bones and nails like arrowheads.  Her mother reminded her of this when the

everything is temporaryi have never been one to yell, it hurts my throat, or maybe i just lack the passion to get that mad at something. you always did bring out things that i never knew were inside though. we had matching bloodshot eyes, and the same fuck the world attitude running through our veins as if the world owed us something. it didn't then. but it does now. my blood is thick and burning and i want to try and flood it into yours to get the colour back into your cheeks that i just watched drain. i kicked the wall, and opened the window and screamed at the sky-scrappers and i don't know how the world can just keep fucking turning without so much a skipped rotation or a fucking stutter.
you turned small, minor things into giant fucking events that made my chest even tighter. a tickle in my throat, a spreading wildfire on the nape of my neck, a distinct lack of words or feelings to anything more than a lingering heaviness. i lost count of how many times i contemplated stepping in front of that car, bus,

Mature Content

The Airplane CrashedYou are still alive. The most terrifying moment of your entire life just passed and you survived it. Your heart shakes in your chest. You let out a long breath to slow it down.
Your seat creaks as you shift your weight. You test your left arm. It feels sore and overworked but not tight like it was. No heart attack then. Something pinches together in your gut and your insides slosh around. You grit your teeth against the pain and test the rest of your body. Right arm works. Your neck is sore but you can turn your head. Legs don't seem to be functioning. In fact you can't feel them at all.
Somewhere behind you, amid the groaning and crying, a fire burns. You can feel the heat on the back of your skull. You lift your hand and touch your hair, which falls away in a powder. You remember the fireball that ripped up the aisle. You ducked down before it rolled over you.  
The fat man who sat beside you wakes up and immediately begins to scream bloody terror. You try to tell him that

Garden of MemoriesI remember when we used to fold paper flowers from the songs we wrote; humming along to the tunes, and tapping our feet to the beat of our hearts.  The dots always meant more than words.  
We thought we would never fall out of tune; that life's dissonance could never overpower our harmonies.  Perhaps we were always too hopeful.
You took the flowers with you when you left, but the ghosts of the songs we made never faded.  Now I tend to a garden of sound and memories, singing heartfelt melodies to myself.  I only hope the roses never wither.

Zen HumorEat the strawberries.
Like some kind of Buddhist punchline, the stinger to the ultimate cosmic joke, that line keeps ricocheting around the inside of my head: a stray karmic bullet that's expending eons of built up energy by bouncing around my skull and turning my brain to salsa.
For the past three months, I've been coming to this coffee shop or that bar like I'm working two jobs, jobs where I imbibe mood-altering chemicals and make trite observations about the world for spiritual and monetary gain.  In that time, I have smiled thrice: once when I closed my old bank account and shoved what little cash I had left into my pockets, once when my cat wagged his tail at me last week, and once when two drunk frat boys got into a fist fight over some blonde who didn't give a damn about either of them and left the bar before first blood was spilled.  Eat the strawberries.  Zen Buddhists have got a sick sense of humor, which was lost on the frat boys.  It'


compulsive liar.once i asked you your favourite
colour, and you said, "the brown
of your eyes," so i put in one green
contact and told everyone that i
came out of the womb as a factory
defect, half-priced, damaged goods.
sometimes i am from canada and
sometimes i am from england and
sometimes i am from spain.
i've carefully tempered my accents
and plotted out my stories with
yellow and purple coloured pencils
on index cards. my origin changes
like the seasons.
"why do you lie to everyone?" you
"why not?" i reply.
i wear nametags that read "alicia"
and "liana" and "samantha," because
i want to know how it feels to be
someone else for a day.
you make me a nametag with my
real name on it, and i just laugh.
(later i slip it beneath my mattress
and spend the night staring at the ceiling.
see, i've tried myself on one too many
times, and the fit is never right.)
you call me your little compulsive
liar, and i guess that is supposed
to be somewhat affectionate.
or something.
i spin before the mir

biopsyput me under, cover my face, stuff my lungs with your chemical lies.
if they were to take me apart,
slice open my chest,
peel back the skin keeping me whole,
they would find:
a. one heart, slowly ticking.
(they would not find anything,
but they would have to say they did.
after all, girls can't live without a heart.
they forget that i'm not the first:
a score of girls walking even though
they should have faded long ago.)
b. each rib curved so perfectly,
a shield around my lungs.
(a cage, keeping my breath from bursting
out of my skin. know that this is just me,
held together by nature,
unable to lose control of myself.)
c. two sacs of cells, nestled beside each other.
(no first-hand smoke here, no sir.
only second-hand dust, only
things i could not get rid of,
only bits of places i've been,
caught in my body.
postcards of memories i can't see.)
d. a skeleton, still and alive.
(sleeping, with blood cells being produced
in the hollows of my curves.
the rattling of my bones cannot

The Uniform Commute of a Man Seeking Work and God Corrosion set in. my tie gangly
 against the mint vintage attire
   that my children wore to school.
   momma' admitted she washed them 
 with her soaps like role models
 that bore resemblance amongst a
 plethora of troubled detergents
  set to cleanse our hamper/bin(s)
in and out -- spanning a rioter
   a race a king a hip protagonist. 
their incandescent, brash bulbs
scattering philosophical school
houses into mass requiem diners
brooding a titanium feast, cold
with tenure. Bones dropping IQs
in simultaneous expressions for
urban reliquaries now dwindling
now cursing in unison against a
system. I drove a day in search
for god (doubtful) and existent
somewhere between the imaginary
mobile ocean of South L.A, C.A-
the whole of the promised land-
cut off by the pelting pool off
erings which encouraged cowards
to commit coexistent compliance
with other convenient wheelers.
this godless soap vibrating in.
from the foun

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Journal History


The Odyssey

Oh, how the ocean waves bash my ship, but seasickness is nothing when I feel the pain she left in my chest. Life pins me to the ground, beaching me on islands that only serve as distractions. Although I could have any goddess, it is the memory of her warm body against mine that allows me to fall asleep each night. So at midnight, I rise, taking a moment to spell her name in stars, and imagine that she’s curled up in the bed I made for her. She is the one who remembers me, despite admirers swarming her like wasps. In all my moments, the only time I could fall apart was in her arms. The waves may crash into me, and the journey may take away my youth, but I will still ride my way back home to my own personal Ithaca. This is where my lover is waiting for me, smelling like the violets and roses she tends to every morning.

Tao Te Ching

I once knew a man who loved another so much, he did not want to be remembered. He wrote poetry about being so flexible one could never be destroyed, but made the author the one who inspired him. As he wrote, he rested under a willow tree, watching the wind sway the tree’s branches back and forth. A day after meeting him, my love and I ran through the rain, the soft droplets hitting our bodies. Although it was barely a drizzle, our skin tensed, growing bumps as we shivered in the cold. Seeking shelter underneath the willow trees, my love told me I was much too stiff. The willow, she said, was never destroyed for a reason. It is the flexible that live the best life longest, like the ones who lived in that man’s book.

Early Irish Myths and Sagas

Although my love called me stiff, I would rather her call me a warrior. When I was a child, I decided I’d trade a lifetime without fame for just one day of glory. My love whipped her head to me, tears dripping from her cheeks, as she screamed, “You’d go to war for everyone else’s attention, but forget my love for you?” I left her as I took arms, slaughtering villages and armies, and only now do I feel the regret surge into my chest. It hits me in waves, rocking my heart back and forth, and freezing my lungs for moments at a time. Now, plenty remember me, but I wonder if she still hasn’t forgotten who I was with her.


Last night, I received word that she nearly died. She heard of the deeds I did, imagined the snapping of bones, the gushing of blood, the cries for mercy,  though she was oblivious to the guilt I felt. A man from my home handed me a letter, written beautifully in cursive that looked like ivy. She wrote, “I felt like I was going to die, but instead, I made you dead to me. Now, my family, my friends, my neighbors, will not forget me. You will now fade from my memory, just as a wound becomes a scar. But I will not forget you.  But I will not allow you inside my heart. Your sister has begged to give you one more chance. Come home, and I’ll forgive you.” The man said she had tears in her eyes as she gave it to him. She refused to look at him leave, and finding a way to distract herself, weaving a crown made out of flowers.

If Not, Winter

I creep towards delicate flowers and overgrown roses,
daring to touch something that may no longer be mine. My dreams
of milk and honey,
of her,
become something tangible.
Rushing into my home,
heart burning,
I tear off my clothes, and change into the purple robes she wove for me,

only to realize
she was
Gone: Vignettes about being remembered
I thought to announce my return over a journal entry, but that didn't seem right somehow. I received several messages questioning my well-being, and to make matters simple, I am alright, and the year was incredibly busy. Now that it's summer, I hope I still have a place in the community. I had little time to write fiction, but some of the little I did is seen above. 

Thank you chromeantennae and AyeAye12 in particular for your concern--your posts on my homepage was warming to come back to. 

This piece is a series of vignettes, woven together and inspired by the various texts I read this year in my first year of college. It's not perfect, but I think it's appropriate to show you guys what I was up to in my absence from this site. Just for reference, some of the shifts in style is due to references to the style of the translations and writing of the texts I read. I'm not sure if I like it, but it was interesting to write. 

As always, I'd love opinions, critiques, comments, and thoughts.  

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seraphiclungs Featured By Owner May 22, 2015  Student General Artist
Thank you very much for the watch, my friend! :heart:
AyeAye12 Featured By Owner May 4, 2015  Student Writer
saevuswinds Featured By Owner May 17, 2015  Student Writer
Oh my goodness! I wasn't expecting anyone to notice :0 

This past year has been INCREDIBLY busy--my first year at college on top of an assortment of personal happenings gave me little time for either social media or writing, sad to say. Now that it's the summer, I am finally able to get back in the writing groove and try to yet again connect with the community. 

I'm touched that you'd show concern on my page :heart:
AyeAye12 Featured By Owner May 17, 2015  Student Writer
Yussss, welcome back ^__^ & glad you're good!!
saevuswinds Featured By Owner May 17, 2015  Student Writer
Thank you! :)
chromeantennae Featured By Owner Jan 3, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
I hope you're well. Miss you. :heart:
saevuswinds Featured By Owner May 17, 2015  Student Writer
As I mentioned in another comment, life made me put writing on the back burner. I'm incredibly touched that the writing community on deviantart would extend it's concern for a fellow writer, and now that I'm less stressed and busy I look forward to coming back to the community. I am doing much better, and I can't wait to get back to writing! :) 
chromeantennae Featured By Owner May 21, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
:heart: I'm so, so glad to hear that and you're back. :huggle:
saevuswinds Featured By Owner May 22, 2015  Student Writer
I am too! :)
(1 Reply)
BlackBowfin Featured By Owner Aug 19, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Hello there.  Thank you kindly for faving Poor Wooden Puppy.  It's much appreciated.  Have a good one!  :)
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