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SeparateYou are on the opposite side
of this window.
Press your palm against the pane,
The heat of our fingers will
fog the glass,
and in this mist we create,
we will finally meet.
GodGod is in her rocking chair,
wood creaking as she hums back and forth.
I want to climb onto her sun-warmed lap,
breathe in the smell of air dried dresses,
May breezes caught in her floral-print skirt.
Her hands are gentle as they stroke my hair,
her knitting going still when I rest my head
on her knees where her yarn was.
She holds me as I cry.
AcheIt comes and goes
like an unwelcome houseguest,
leaving me with messes I don't need,
and it never shuts the door
to keep the cold out.
I tried shutting off the lights
and closing the blinds,
twisting the key in the padlock
and boarding the windows,
but as long as light can
seep through the cracks,
this shadow will follow
and dig its fingers into my shoulders.
I bruise easily, it knows,
and it revels in watching
me shift in discomfort
while it grips me.
Like a ghost,
it won't let go.
The TimekeeperI am the hour-counter,
collecting time like water caught
on the bottom of a glass.
The wasted minutes you exchanged
for blue-sky dreaming,
the seconds on the porch with
your song-bird smile,
they're all here:
stuck to the sides of my hourglass.
The windowsill paint
has faded where my elbows rested,
my breath-fog a permanent mist
on the drooping pane.
like the emptiness after snowfall,
They slip through the slats
in my wicker basket
as I try to collect them.
Strung OutConsider me hanging on the line,
a dress without a body waiting for the sun,
vibrant when she's not heavy, waterlogged.
As a child, I enjoyed making orange smiles,
while wondering why we didn't have
a clothesline stretching from tree to tree
like I'd seen on the television.
I admired the way skirts became birds,
picked up by the wind they adored,
while sheets grabbed the wind like a sail,
and the clouds were always made of cotton,
and the denim sat like lead.
Now every time I put myself out to dry,
the sky gets heavy and breaks on me.
I am halfway towards being ready,
and then the rain rips me down again.
Maybe that's why we bought a machine
to wring the water from our clothes,
because there was no risk of bad weather inside.
HeavyWhen you let me go
by the side of the road,
please remember the string
that you tied to my soul.
I'm the balloon you inflated
just to let go;
the night is too cold
and I'm sinking so slowly down.
Why'd you have to cut this
the thin wire trailing
from my heartbeat to yours?
Remember the science of
the desolate sky,
because the night is too cold
and I'm sinking so slowly down.
A Slower Way to DrownCry me an ocean crashing,
its sultry blues rolling.
I am tumbling through the deep,
and I've forgotten I can't breathe.
Salt in my lungs, rattling.
I am buried up to my neck,
my head facing the tides that
come whispering in.
Blink and You'll Miss ItThe wind reminds me of
the empty space to my left,
which I swear you filled
only minutes ago.
But if I rested my hand
where you were sitting,
it would be just as cold as
the realization that you're gone.
The Last SunsetMy broken shadow stumbled on
and left me dragging like the sun.
The twisted branches snagged the sky...
how skeletal, their fingers stretching.
The earth I knew choked on the last
of yesterday's dried and cracking dreams,
now I am stumbling through the dust
chasing my spirit through withered leaves.
Everything I Want To BeI want to write something poignant and moving.
It will make you cry and make you laugh.
It will win awards and give me prestige.
It will change someone's life.
I want to write something hilarious and heart-wrenching.
It will make and break relationships because of realizations of truth.
It will make you think differently than before you cracked open the first page.
It will make you want to read it again and again and again.
I want to write something that means something.
It will be translated into language after language, copy after copy published.
It will be read in schools, but the kids will actually enjoy it. Even after the thing is analyzed to death.
It will make them stop to think.
I want to write something real.
But don't we all, I suppose?
Cheating FateSherlock isn't sure what he thinks when he sees a man in a brown coat and suit walking alone on an empty Baker street from his window. He wonders why the other is alone during the holiday season. He looks like he'd be the type to have a girlfriend or spend Christmas with his family.
He tries to read the other; he tries to deduce at least something from the man's life, as he has piqued Sherlock's interest.
Sherlock flees the party in order to get a better look at the stranger. He's an odd man. Sherlock can't read anything from him, and he feels disturbed. There have been very few people he cannot read, and he dislikes letting the number rise above oneor two, actually, if he counts a certain time travelling alien.
The man is pacing across the street, muttering to himself and making gestures to the air. It's like he's talking to someone, but Sherlock is sure the man knows there's no one to talk to. Then he spots Sherlock, and Sherlock gazes at him impassively. The man is tall, with
ContradictionsMother Nature dreamed of
Life, cool and glowing,
Vibrant strains of ethereal, caramelised melody.
And she wanted to wear life,
Cover herself in it,
Embalm herself until she glowed too.
And so she clothed herself in flower petals,
Ripped leaves off of trees to make
She tore the wings off of butterflies and
Laced them through her hair,
Pinning iridescent beetles to her collar and
Plucking spring buds to wind around her wrists like
She suffocated her skin in that which had been living.
Mother Nature dreamed of life,
And in her quest to find it
She ignored Death,
Forgetting that even the most
Delicate, coloured butterflies
Must cast shadows with their wings.
And so Death did not exist in her mind
As she killed and killed in her quest to find beauty,
Until she and it were the same.
Awake (Art trade with LSTU)Those who know Dr John Watson know that he's recovered well from his best friend's death. They know that after a two-month slump, the man went back to work at a surgery, that, a year and a half later, he puts in hard hours and lives a normal life. That he has moved on, because he is strong and that is what he needed to do, and Sherlock Holmes remains a fond but fading memory.
Sometimes he even thinks so, too.
But everything changes when he falls asleep, something no one else could know and something he could never tell them. His subconscious hasn't forgotten how much missing Sherlock Holmes hurts. When he first returned from Afghanistan, it was the nightmares that made even his days a living Hell. This is something much, much more painful.
The day had been bright in that autumn way, with cold pale light and wind hammering against the windows. Now it was twilight, and John was on his way up the stairs to the flat. He could hear something- the soft wailing of a violin. It couldn't be.
The SnakeBoredom was universal.
Temptation was only felt by a selected few.
Eve, for example, was tempted by an apple and the voice of a handsome snake. So persuasive that snake: so sly and silky, picking the angel Eve from her sweet Eden as easy as plucking a blackberry off of a thorn-less bush. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
Moriarty could relate to the snake. It was a wonderful creature; he'd taken notes, pretending to be on the side of the angels when really it still had a toe in the devil's parlour, keeping its place at the head of the table in time for tea. As he sat in his hideout, Moriarty smile to himself. How foolish people can be, he thought. How quaint. Aren't they funny?
The computer that perched at his fingertips glowed, the screen still active. It was uploading something. A series of zeroes and ones streamed like a waterfall: green on a black screen. They reflected in Moriarty's eyes. It was a key. A key that didn't even exist. He smirked to himself again, delighted with
If You're the Bird Today while I was driving home, I looked out the window and saw two birds, a hawk and a smaller bird, of whose type I was unsure. The two of them were flying together, the smaller one above the hawk.
It was interesting to see, the small bird flapped and flapped its wings frantically, but in that way it was able to go just as high, if not higher, than the hawk. It was also able to fly just as fast.
The hawk, on the other hand, flew in lazy circle, hardly flapping its wings and gliding for most of the way.
It was interesting. I wondered about it for a while.
Birds of a feather flock together.
Or do they?
Where the heart isn't--Impossible to hide the lies
So take a breath and shut my eyes
"It's where the heart is, home!" she cries
She never saw I'm dead inside.
An empty hollow, dug out rest
A void within my heaving chest
"It's where the heart is, home" she stressed
But I haven't one and she never guessed.
BaptismFollow you down to the red oak tree
As the air moves thick through the hollow reeds
I will wait for you there until someone comes
To carry me, carry me down
Third star to the right,
straight on 'til morning,
Follow not weeping violins
nor crooning of angels' voices
but the breeze's whisper
to the bay
to die and rise again
Fields of Golden WheatMy fingers travel through your hair, fields of golden wheat
Your lips have the taste of an ancient salty ocean
My childhood dreams of blue birds and their heartbeat
The delicate fragrance coming from eastern lands
The softness of a delighted soul and your sunlight
The black wings of a sad night and my heart in your hands
I listen to you, the language of birds, the mystery tone remains
I hide you, inside my eyelids, between the layers of my heart
Where you choose to live; mixed with every color in my veins
A Cold RenewalMake me pure,
like today's unmarked snow.
Windows are glowing with warmth,
soft amber lighting that casts itself in
stained glass fragments across these
I want release to color me
in that same way,
relief washing me out and
re-painting me in golden tones
that only letting go could understand.
I unclench my tired hands and
trade bitter sighs for peace.
Blood BrothersBrookie always holds my hand when we cross the street. She's never given a reason for it, she just does it. It's become this unspoken rule with us that whenever we cross the street together, she slips her hand in mine and I lace my fingers through hers and we walk hand-in-hand until we reach the other side and she drops her hand and we both wipe our palms on our jeans. Brookie's a little scared of crossing the street. Her poppa died in a car crash when we were six. He was a pedestrian. She's never gotten over it.
Brookie is my best friend going on sixteen years now, which is pretty impressive considering we're both sixteen. We don't have some cute little story about how we were born in the same hospital on the same day or about how our mothers were best friends long before they were pregnant with us and somehow passed on that bond while we were still in utero. No, Brookie and I met the same way ever
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More