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Lovely Lit Feature #2

Journal Entry: Tue Jul 29, 2014, 6:59 PM
Sorry for this piece being a little later than usual-- I'm getting ready to go out of town for a week. This being said, I've doubled up the deviations featured, just in case I'm not back by the next Tuesday. Enjoy! Remember to read, comment,and favorite the works shown! They deserve it.

   PROSE

Dying like a dog“God damn it, Toby,” Julian says as he tugs at the covers. I’m twenty-one, but I cling to the duvet and groan like a child moments away from throwing a tantrum. He’s stronger than me, but he sees the redness of my cheeks and decides to let me win. “So what, I’m going to have to get the kids ready on my own?”
    I stare past his face because it’s screwed up in anger. Instead, I look at the swirled patterns on the wall paper. He thumps his hand against the set of mahogany drawers. “You promised me you’d try harder.”
    I’m sick of his accusations. I’m sick of his shouting. I’m sick altogether. I roll over to face the opposite wall even though it hurts to lay on my left side. He knows this and he sighs, or groans, I can’t decide which. The light falls in strips through the blinds, and I stare at the postcards we’ve collected on our travels. Sometimes he


The Night Bill Leher Pissed Off The Guardia Civil            When I was a kid, my dad was always telling me stories about Spain. He didn't live there very long, but he loved it, and he talked about it a lot; how lovely Andalucía is, how kind and happy the people are, and how Rota was the best station anyone could ask for in the Navy in his day. No real danger, no real responsibilities til you went back shipboard. Just sun and Spanish charm. ‘You had fun in Rota,’ he’d always say. ‘Nothing dire was going to happen to you there, just sangria.’
            Except things could happen to you there. And that’s why dad was thrilled, but also felt a bit of trepidation when I told him about my exchange program. He'd stayed quiet enough about it, being a supportive parent. But, as we're sitting down at the Grill having a beer, I can tell he's still feeling mixed, because as the last strains of t


The China Apple DishThe china apple dish
(made by a Polish potter with a back bent like a liquid glass rod in the 1960s, bought by a passing American tourist who owned a failing zeppelin company, without a china stalk after a black maid threw it at her master (the American  tourist), chipped after the ex-maid’s son got a hold of it, given as the only weeding present to said son’s wedding, stolen by a racist ballif who gave it to a charity shop, bought by a blind poet who then sold it at a flea market, stayed nestled in car boots until the seller was arrested for LSD possession, given to a police officer’s wife,  lost at sea when The First World Floods hit in 2064, washed up at a synthetic-sand beach in Hawaii, taken by a Dutch conceptual artist to the cloud city of Neo Amsterdam, smashed into pieces by the artist’s sculptor boyfriend, used in a classical example of Antimodernism in the most prestigious gallery, toured around the FMC (Flying Metropolis Complex) for fifty y


FFM 13. FireWhen you burn, your skin feels tight.
Have you ever touched a hot plate, even though your mother warned you that it was hot? And afterwards you had to run your finger under cold water, even though lukewarm water is actually better? Did you blister? Did you feel the tightness of your skin on that one spot and run your finger over that burn for days?
You said you wouldn’t be silly and touch a hot plate again, but something has always drawn you to the flickering flame of a candle or the crackling logs of a bonfire. Maybe it’s the light that mesmerizes you, the jumping shadows cast on the wall or sandy beach. Maybe you remember that time you were five and touched a hot plate and think Maybe it will hurt less this time.
But fire is a hurt that never leaves. It cannot be controlled. You hear about wildfires on the news and families whose homes have been destroyed so completely. They can never get those memories back, those pictures and baby books. It’s not like water


SeveranceI was born to the sea. 
The salty ebb and flood within my veins answers to the same tidal pull that drags the ocean across the shore like a lover’s kiss. My depths contain their own mysteries, their own light. And when the surf pulls sand from under my feet, I have always been drawn to follow.
Selkies, they say, are water spirits that can become trapped on land, if one obtains their skin. Like a creature out of my element, my eyes have perpetually been called away by the lure of the broad Pacific, since my very first taste of ocean water. (“You’d better go get your daughter,” my mother had said, once her scan had spotted me in the foam, barely able to crawl yet — heading straight out to sea. “She’s ocean-bound.”)
The years wore me away in waves, patiently eroding my dreams, my plans, my intentions. Life grew richly in the interstices, the tide pools of my soul. Lost treasures washed up on my shores; tides took o


SynesthesiaI fell in love with a pianist's hands.
They danced across my skin in minuets, his fingers tripping cadenzas up and down my spine. He brushed sonatas through my hair and across my shoulders, pianissimo. I trembled beneath his trills. The primal, earnest rage of Bach swelled in hot crescendos along my throat, beneath my ribs, guided by his hands --- Mozart, coolly logical, raised goosebumps down my arms --- Chopin soothed the fire and finally calmed my hammering heart.
I fell in love with a pianist's hands, listening from the back of the coffee shop while my lungs fought for breath, making wishes until he was gone.


POETRY

The Past Three MonthsI have lived though a summer made
Of lead paint; humid hours
That were salted with sweat and fatal
To taste, days that stained my hands and never wiped clean.
And which
You were probably
Occupying with your own painted beaches,
Your tan-dyed skin, non-toxic and bright; but my days—
Forgive me
They were like tainted building blocks, that left me
So tediously stacked
And so easily ruined.


SaturdayYou draw smiling faces on train windows
because even city transport can’t get away unaffected
by your cheer.
I like you, I like you, I like you
when you’re tired like moth-wings and fresh like spring mornings
and even my worst days are lovely
when you’re near.


the chemistry of softeningyou adopt the melancholy tone,
memorize foreign anthems
vulnerability is a new medium to explore the separation
of voyeur and architect roiling the prefab primordial soup
lead on the eyelashes and glue on the sclera it is hard
to turn away
        in five minutes leviathan will float up fully cooked
this is the flag of a self-proclaimed republic submitting
to the wind of isolation spitting left and right
it is to pull your enemy close
to you and turn the lights out after a polar night of fighting
it is to allow yourself to be hand-
cuffed to bed for a night on earth (you say,)
                  to understand the enemy (you claim,)
to justify your little gastro-mental motions
but they do not exist, or they do
but they're irrelevant to the story you're trying to get
out of your bloodstream. because they are not the cause
of your distress,
                 you're tangled


and the world just makes sensethis unexplained
          interest in a woman
seen through the gap
            between plane seats,
oily skin, greasy
         raven black hair,
mayo breath &
       pastry crumbs under her fingernails;
she allows her (likely) husband
to spoon(fork-)feed her,
whispers kisses into his ear
free from the shears,
free from form.
falling in love with
a stranger on the plane
is the easiest thing
as is
      falling out of love with your companion
whose repeated motions
             suddenly become a chore
                             until
she's a hunched over sparrow
begging to be caressed;
this transient love for humanity
is it all it takes


A Poem of No Onehe tells me
fix it -
i say it has a face
swamps running down in each of its eyes
weeds in its teeth
with needles for veins
it has a pulse like the tide, rolling in its ears
it snaps the necks of daisies and wonders if there’s an easier way to leave a field
it wants to know why god is everywhere but why there’s only one
angel sitting next to it in english - i say, and
it pours in a cup of its soul until the end isn't bitter
loses its heart with its keys and holds itself out in its hands
until love isn't dead-stiff anymore
it listens to clocks rattle like a box of bones
and notices that it sounds like its heart in the night.
{i think you already knew that that rattling clock was broken.}


consensus + AUDIOconsensus
I
i told you that night i would forget, but you
were too busy thinking
of when to see me
then
II
overdosing on bedsheets and sunshine we were salty and guttural tides -
i had all but forgotten the smell behind your ear, the softness
of your throat when it growls in hunger
the comforting shape of your head under my clumsy hands, that
familiar taste on the tip of you, pulling us
apart and together again
III
but we overlooked the bitterness
of candy-coated chimeras
(ignored
the call of their acidic tongues)
IV
next year’s crop should be better, the almanac said;
we chose to believe it
V
go east; the trees whispered
the snow took away their breath leaving me here
with onions to peel and tears to wipe
noticing them you mentioned winter
would last longer
VI
i agreed
-Sophie, january-february 2014
Originally published in issue #25 of "Up the Staircase Quaterly"
http://www.upthestaircase.org/chouinard-consensus.html



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  • :icondahub:
    dAhub
    Donated Jul 14, 2014, 11:54:56 AM
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What do you feel about subscript (such as little text, type text, etc.) in writing? 

37%
7 deviants said I don't mind it, it can be a pain, but useful I guess.
32%
6 deviants said I hate it. It doesn't help the tone and it makes everything hard to read.
21%
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:iconjade-pandora:
jade-pandora Featured By Owner 1 day ago
:iconflowerheartplz: Thank you so much for enjoying and faving my poem "Children at the Gate"!
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:iconourage:
ourage Featured By Owner 4 days ago  New member Hobbyist Writer
Thank you very much for all of your feedback on my works; it was always very helpful and really made me consider my work carefully. You're so supportive of the literature community on deviantArt and a wonderful writer as well. I think you're an amazing person and I'd definitely like to add you as a friend on deviantArt. Heart :) (Smile) 
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:iconsaevuswinds:
saevuswinds Featured By Owner 2 days ago  Student Writer
Oh my goodness, thank you so much. I really do try to give feedback and support the other writers on deviantart, because I believe it's the best way to inspire and help others to improve. It's so kind of you to say I those things about me, and I am truly touched. :heart: Have a lovely day!
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:iconpomohippie7:
pomohippie7 Featured By Owner Edited 4 days ago   Writer
Thank you so very much for the watch. :heart:
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:iconsaevuswinds:
saevuswinds Featured By Owner 4 days ago  Student Writer
It was my pleasure.
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:icontimtehgrey:
TimtehGrey Featured By Owner 5 days ago  Student Writer
Thanks so much for the watch
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:iconsaevuswinds:
saevuswinds Featured By Owner 5 days ago  Student Writer
No problem; some of your pieces looked interesting, so I figured I'd keep an eye on your newer works.
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:iconmemnalar:
Memnalar Featured By Owner 5 days ago
Not much to see lately, but I appreciate the watch.  :)
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:iconsaevuswinds:
saevuswinds Featured By Owner 5 days ago  Student Writer
No problem!
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:iconcruisnick:
cruisnick Featured By Owner 5 days ago
Hey, thank you so much for your constant support. Your comments really make me feel satisfied with my works. Thanks a lot.Hug 
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