Fantastic Feature Tuesday #13

hello!


this is a weekly feature of amazing literature that i come by during my
travels across deviantart. this is only a small sample of a vast amount
of wonderful pieces of literature written by absolutely fantastic
writers. each deviation was carefully selected from a writer's gallery
based on structure, impact and word usage. i try (try!) to feature
deviants who get less spotlight than others and i will never feature the
same person twice.

these are truly some spectacular works and i urge to you take a look! i only pick the best, you know! (;
please take the time to read through each one - seriously, it takes five minutes - and be sure to the journal! (:



:thumb318595444: helveticaevery day is garbage day somewhere,
and the birds on my street
line the pavement like soldiers
as friday's tank creeps
down the boulevard,
crumbs of newspaper billowing
from its war-torn mouth.
the crows flutter sultry
in the morning sun
toward headlines trailing the street
like roadkill,
cramming bold-print helvetica
into their beaks
as the ink stains the asphalt. i am an asshere, place the burden of household malfeasance.
heard, the distaff discord, the injustice ignored.
hers, take prescription, sedation - his celebration.  
beer, nice, a keg should suffice.  Bud kept on ice.
cheers! a Sunday of football devotion. i am an ass.
fare, requested, for pizza delivered.  none give their
share. invited, ten guys too many, i guess and confess.
where, i don't know, a pair came from - prison tattooed.
there, Ralph lived up to his name, on the floor.  there's more.
a chair - i sat, in injured interior pique.  i am an ass!
the game was a rout. sadly i wallow in sickness and shame.
blame, it's all mine, in justice defined - my head aches.
name, she won't say the word i deserve to be called.
lame, it would be, to search for some childish excuse.
my dame, hands on hips, knows i know it...  i am an ass.
llp - jan2012 - dA
Terraformingi do not know what to say to the moon when i
wander between the mesa shelves, a cliff
dweller and an unwanted library book
passing from hand to hand and never quite
brown or red enough to hide myself from the
coyotes. i remember something of the south-
west—my hands sticky with desert powder 
and cactus sap, and a feeling i can't explain
without the gleaming scrub brush beetles to
draw my nazca lines. i can tell you, though,
of when i willed myself to fit within the
cracks of canyon walls and tried to sink my
toes down into the colorado river. terra will
not fit my form, so i must longingly fit mine to hers. A Ship Named Gabrielthis is from a girl in a bottle
with a message that didn't involve
genies or wishes and
certainly not white horses:
she wants you to know that
she's made tea; chamomile, the
kind you never cared to try but
her throat was always full of (so that
when you kissed her, she knew that
you would taste calm) but she
wants to make sure that you also know that
she's seventeen and she just bought
her first pair of converses; charcoal
hi-tops, the kind only quirks and
quarks like her would care for, and
she wants you to know that even though
she's drowning in tea and wearing new shoes
she's still the down-to-earth star
who craves a real camera and some
asskicking boots -- it doesn't matter how
high the heel is, really -- and thinks about
you. and even if she is all these things
she's still a girl in a bottle with a message
and it's not like you're going to hear it, are you? :thumb292897013:
:thumb179686179: nervosa.i.
i was six years old the night my mother crept into my room, spread a second quilt on top of me, and began to quietly brush the hair of my barbies. she laid down on the cold wooden floor, one ear down - as if she could hear the small specks of dust moving across the downstairs hardwood.
"we're moving to waterford," she said, staring fondly at my lovingly-kept pocahontas doll. i hadn't seen her swipe it, and she played with the silky ends of the doll's purple-sewn hair in silence.
"i don't want to go," i told her, bleary-eyed and whining, "who wants to live in a place named after water? don't they have anything exciting to name it after?"
she stood with a thoughtful smile, something twisting in the murky brown pools of her eyes.
"water is like magic," she said. "water grows beautiful things."
and with that, she patted my foot, looked me in the eye, and took pocahontas away to the hall with her.
"she is beautiful," my mother told me softly. "i want her."
i closed my eyes i'm still waitingit is an abortion, you
know, something that leaves
us clutching at swayback
skin and innards emptied like
a gourd; for the rest of our
lives we will never look at
goslings with their drumbones
sifting sky and
be able to pretend.
it is a derailing, a seismic shift,
a quiet damnation. you know
how some believe people are
most beautiful at twenty-five
and others think eight;
how i believe we were never
really beautiful
at
all.
Cunning SipsAn echo divine
let's play
an illusion
&
gently move
mountains
over golden silver streams
narrow ass upside down
in twilight soak
through devil's fire
The sky bulges
swells
presses village streets under darling stars
compose a scarlet flower tune
Boisterous starlings! O
this heart rises to my throat
The wine empty disturb
to waken the fridge feet brought forward
in a rush
hurry
kill the glare O more illusions! The second time I went to jail.
the second time I went to jail
I swallowed three teeth
and told four lies.
The yard was toe-mowed
grass and I made a sun out
of hot stones.  I wasn't looking up,
which was oversight on my part.
A broken jaw
tastes like brown skin and
split knuckles, so you know for next time.  
Boston James loved meth
and he taught me more about how
to disembowel a toaster oven
than I will ever find useful.
He had one eye that clouded
like a cesspool when he talked about
Belfast, and he
had never had sex.  
When I came into the dining room
bleeding from my mud face,
Boston James gave me his
applesauce and we talked about
Firebirds.  He learned to share good
from his fat mother,
and I'm secretly glad he did,
because two days later he got a rib or two
cracked for doing it.  
Then I wasn't such a sore thumb.
The second time I went to jail,
it was only for a week.  I say only,
because like summer camp, it's not
a bad place to be.  
Sometimes a broken jaw
tastes like brown skin and split knuckles,
and som


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thank you for reading!



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