She doesn’t step outside, she jumps from the second landing of stairs unto the pavement, her movement is graceful, but contains too much strength, copious resentment. Biting the insides of her bottom lip, the obscure mines of sharpened discernment she uses as optic centers glide quickly from side to side as her feet remain solidly grounded.
Some look her way, retorting with glances and frowns like charged electrons– she is daring them to question her place as core, as the primary source of ardour. Some move away, pushed by the ripples of her presence, unable to handle the weight of her time overlapping their own.
She makes a few
I stop, letting the moment sink.
I look down at my feet on the sidewalk.
I’m standing on a trench in the cement.
Down the street, laughing children slurp avidly the last drops of summer.
The sun is borrowing a stairwell between two cubed shaped apartment buildings. Rays grab on, the light wrings out.
He’s there, a shadow in the corner of my eye. Like an angered crow he soars off, disappearing, one among millions of pitch-black inches, out of my reach yet again.
I peer into myself, holding my tacit gut…No, I don’t seem to mind.
To search a pebble in a quarry is what I was born for.
The moments of rest, I rarely
After years of holding swelling bricks,
Wood drenched in thought, oozing
The passage of time, the successions of debate,
Where ideas began to turn to stone.
I absorbed them all, never shouting out
The etchings of corrupted hopes, behind
Maroon wallpaper, tapestries threaded in gold.
Lanterns, hosts for true spoken light,
Held by mindfully fashioned cherubs,
Let go, a few droplets of fiery revolution,
Sparks, catalysts, free minds, ignore the steel
Structures of assumption and convention,
Sear and tear away my membrane of plaster,
See my verities, dressed in layers of silver grime.
Finally I exhale, control and command in disarray.
Pages tw
I was raised to know each slope and crevice of my island, to understand its movements and temperaments. I have bordered the entire circle of rock more than once, getting to know my home as if it were the visage of a close sibling.
My father first took me on the thirty-day journey when I was very young, in the early spring, describing the land as though we were birds in the sky, as I ravenously absorbed the scenery, drawing each detail on a mental map. At that time, our island, which is really the head of a dormant volcano, Mt. Luetalse surrounded by sulfured water, was still half submerged in the surplus of melted ice and scuttled up the cli
Same house as before, the windows are heavily draped with towels and blankets, there are masses of laundry piles everywhere, especially the stairwells and near the doors.
Distorted forms do uncanny things; mostly show their partial or angry faces.
People talk of things moving out of place and objects disappearing, but they don’t seem overly concerned.
We drive to the beach, but it turns out to be my bedroom. I open the wooden door and the room suddenly has no furniture. It has stormy water, big waves, and a fishnet over the deeper water. I can see huge crabs and fish. I am expected to swim, like one would swim at a lake in the afterno
The Page of Promise: A Winter Solstice Tale by kamalaksh, literature
Literature
The Page of Promise: A Winter Solstice Tale
In 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
I
I've for long known that beauty is not a sum, where units of measurements could consist of physical attributes, or of anything that could be perceived by bodily senses. The vivid, lush green of a finally quenched apprehension is just as graceful and lovely as the wrinkled and sunburnt blues of a distant memory's wall flowers. Beauty is a spectrum of vigour, the fluctuations of ideas, concepts, actions and thoughts, which become their own purposeless musical colours and flavours. No consensus creates allure, only a great, breathless leap into the disarray of affective venture may lead the consecrated energy to emerge.
II
I have seen the li
Wait ahead of me, when I need to momentarily stop. Looking over my shoulder, I need to make sure once again that the truth is catching up. My gaze, molten passivity, slides from the dusty road to the horizon, the oppressing sunset heavy on my brow. My tired feet let the anchor of pain drop beneath the waves of silence; something in my shoulders is unhinged, left hanging. The cold wind slips like cold streams into my sleeves, yet the more I tighten my shall, the more I shiver. The air is eroding my flesh, turning my bones into dust, as a ghost I subsist as a mere receptacle to the elements. My breath becomes still, I stand unmoving in the eter
Sous l'étanche emprise du souffle constant
Nous passons, silencieux, entre les arbres
Vagues de brume, imposantes et opaques
S'étirent, des reflets inondés de vents
Un espoir incandescent nous attire enfin
Pâleur éclairée voguant, libre, sans source
Au cur d'une nuit sans contrée ou ère
Les enfants de la suite, attendent toujours
Le commencement, l'éveil du saule blanc
Gardant en mémoire, l'histoire de la fin
She doesn’t step outside, she jumps from the second landing of stairs unto the pavement, her movement is graceful, but contains too much strength, copious resentment. Biting the insides of her bottom lip, the obscure mines of sharpened discernment she uses as optic centers glide quickly from side to side as her feet remain solidly grounded.
Some look her way, retorting with glances and frowns like charged electrons– she is daring them to question her place as core, as the primary source of ardour. Some move away, pushed by the ripples of her presence, unable to handle the weight of her time overlapping their own.
She makes a few
I stop, letting the moment sink.
I look down at my feet on the sidewalk.
I’m standing on a trench in the cement.
Down the street, laughing children slurp avidly the last drops of summer.
The sun is borrowing a stairwell between two cubed shaped apartment buildings. Rays grab on, the light wrings out.
He’s there, a shadow in the corner of my eye. Like an angered crow he soars off, disappearing, one among millions of pitch-black inches, out of my reach yet again.
I peer into myself, holding my tacit gut…No, I don’t seem to mind.
To search a pebble in a quarry is what I was born for.
The moments of rest, I rarely
After years of holding swelling bricks,
Wood drenched in thought, oozing
The passage of time, the successions of debate,
Where ideas began to turn to stone.
I absorbed them all, never shouting out
The etchings of corrupted hopes, behind
Maroon wallpaper, tapestries threaded in gold.
Lanterns, hosts for true spoken light,
Held by mindfully fashioned cherubs,
Let go, a few droplets of fiery revolution,
Sparks, catalysts, free minds, ignore the steel
Structures of assumption and convention,
Sear and tear away my membrane of plaster,
See my verities, dressed in layers of silver grime.
Finally I exhale, control and command in disarray.
Pages tw
I was raised to know each slope and crevice of my island, to understand its movements and temperaments. I have bordered the entire circle of rock more than once, getting to know my home as if it were the visage of a close sibling.
My father first took me on the thirty-day journey when I was very young, in the early spring, describing the land as though we were birds in the sky, as I ravenously absorbed the scenery, drawing each detail on a mental map. At that time, our island, which is really the head of a dormant volcano, Mt. Luetalse surrounded by sulfured water, was still half submerged in the surplus of melted ice and scuttled up the cli
Same house as before, the windows are heavily draped with towels and blankets, there are masses of laundry piles everywhere, especially the stairwells and near the doors.
Distorted forms do uncanny things; mostly show their partial or angry faces.
People talk of things moving out of place and objects disappearing, but they don’t seem overly concerned.
We drive to the beach, but it turns out to be my bedroom. I open the wooden door and the room suddenly has no furniture. It has stormy water, big waves, and a fishnet over the deeper water. I can see huge crabs and fish. I am expected to swim, like one would swim at a lake in the afterno
The Page of Promise: A Winter Solstice Tale by kamalaksh, literature
Literature
The Page of Promise: A Winter Solstice Tale
In 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
I
I've for long known that beauty is not a sum, where units of measurements could consist of physical attributes, or of anything that could be perceived by bodily senses. The vivid, lush green of a finally quenched apprehension is just as graceful and lovely as the wrinkled and sunburnt blues of a distant memory's wall flowers. Beauty is a spectrum of vigour, the fluctuations of ideas, concepts, actions and thoughts, which become their own purposeless musical colours and flavours. No consensus creates allure, only a great, breathless leap into the disarray of affective venture may lead the consecrated energy to emerge.
II
I have seen the li
Sous l'étanche emprise du souffle constant
Nous passons, silencieux, entre les arbres
Vagues de brume, imposantes et opaques
S'étirent, des reflets inondés de vents
Un espoir incandescent nous attire enfin
Pâleur éclairée voguant, libre, sans source
Au cur d'une nuit sans contrée ou ère
Les enfants de la suite, attendent toujours
Le commencement, l'éveil du saule blanc
Gardant en mémoire, l'histoire de la fin
Athanacios- Amdeflor, Tryn 834 by kamalaksh, literature
Literature
Athanacios- Amdeflor, Tryn 834
Your touch of epidemic light
Is the dew of trust,
Falling on wounds of kinetic time
Take my defiance
As the last heartbeats of a fiend
Finally take it's leave
Making my flesh my own to give.
You've caught a petal in the wind
Torn, dried and pierced
Release me to the depths of Jeffa's obscurity
Comb through the silk of my being
As the waves rise and break
The one you deserve,
Mysterious flora of salt
Reborn.
-Athanacios Year of the Amdeflor, Tryn 834
10 Writing Prompts by DominantDoberman, literature
Literature
10 Writing Prompts
"The purpose of life is to fight maturity." -Dick Werthimer
"Life is something that happens when you can't get to sleep."-Fran Lebowitz
"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed."-Carl Jung
"Sometimes when you look back on a situation, you realize it wasn't all you thought it was. A beautiful girl walked into your life. You fell in love. Or did you? Maybe it was only a childish infatuation, or maybe just a brief moment of vanity. "-Henry Bromel
"Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love." -Jane Austin
"There is nothing
Confessions of a King Literature Contest by Writers--club, journal
Confessions of a King Literature Contest
Our prose and poetry contest is now underway! The theme was picked by our members and you can win hundreds of dA Points, art, literature, and features! There are just under two weeks left to enter.
:bulletpurple::bulletpurple: Theme :bulletpurple::bulletpurple:
Confessions of a King
:bulletblue::bulletblue: Media :bulletblue::bulletblue:
Poetry or prose
There is no minimum length requirement for prose or poetry, but prose submissions should not exceed 7,000 words.
:bulletred::bulletred: Deadline :bulletred::bulletred:
October 1st
:bulletpurple::bulletpurple: Prizes :bulletpurple::bulletpurple:
First Place
250 Points :points:
50 Po
I was raised to know each slope and crevice of my island, to understand its movements and temperaments. I have bordered the entire circle of rock more than once, getting to know my home as if it were the visage of a close sibling.
My father first took me on the thirty-day journey when I was very young, in the early spring, describing the land as though we were birds in the sky, as I ravenously absorbed the scenery, drawing each detail on a mental map. At that time, our island, which is really the head of a dormant volcano, Mt. Luetalse surrounded by sulfured water, was still half submerged in the surplus of melted ice and scuttled up the cli
Are things better? Yes.
Full time jobs are hard and take a toll on a person. They are necessary even if they feel like betrayal to your real calling- if I could only delete any needs I pretend to have, to do nothing by follow the sun day by day an transfer his energy into writing.
Financial stability does feel good. I started this job last fall and have already received too much money, more than I know what to really do with- I can allow myself to dream of things, things I never thought we in reach, but it still feels like selling a part of me to something big and inconceivable. I will be a Proposal Writer soon, it's not the type of writing
"The Coveans" my anglophone current novel-in-the-making is going great- coming together little moment by moment; looking for a trustworthy and private proofreader/ honest critique- it's sci-fi/fantasy, but very grounded, built around the future of the music industry while being a "this-world" introduction to the "elsewhere" I try to introduce in to other pieces. This will most probably never be distributed online (unless it does become a complete failure, absolutely possible) so I need someone willing to be sworn to secrecy. I need someone who is interested enough to develop a somewhat close relationship with me (how else could it work?), wi
I know I tend to always start a new burst of motivated writing excessive with a journal entry, and that I also tend to always not return for another 3-6 months. I'd really like to fall back into the habit of posting, socializing and reading the amazing stuff out there.
Of course, life always takes over and for some reason what I love doing the most always ends up the last priority.
My spiritual view of the universe, which would leave me with no other priorities than writing and enjoying my love life is constantly conquered by the stigma of practical anxiety:  (Taking a break from school, useless but beautiful degree is in the ban
Hi! I revised the second part of the Sands of Ruin Intro you commented on a while back, and thought you might want to see it? It's far from perfect, and I've been pointed out a few spelling errors, but I would like to know if its an improvement or not in your eyes? [link] Cheers!