Fantastic Feature Tuesday #44

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Please this news article so it will reach a larger audience!

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 will never feature the
same person twice (though this gets harder to keep track of
now that we can change usernames), so check out these lovely writers now while you can!





From The Outside"'And with a single, strong yank, Philippe tore open her bodice, revealing-"
"That's just stupid," a man in his mid-twenties pouted, crossing his arms over his chest.
"What? Matt, you like romance novels," the girl argued.
"Well, these things are written with the assumption that the reader would actually desire to wear a bodice, whatever the hell a bodice is. I mean, I like guys and stuff, but I'm not a friggin' cross-dresser."
The girl rolled her eyes and shut the book, marking her place with a finger. "These books aren't specifically written for you, either. They're for 'everyone who has ever desired a passionate love affair'."
"Stop quoting from the back of the book, Kate. It just sounds stupid."
"And yet you still consent to reading these with me."
"Hey! Maybe it's 'cause you're my best friend! Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I-"
"Okay, okay, Mr. Dutiful Friend. I'll stop appealing to your feminine side."
"I don't have a feminine side!"
Kate gave him a serpentPretending to be a lover,
you come to me as a man
to the pomegranate tree,
blind sighted by your hunger
to taste of its
heavy-laden mystery.
Now, a serpent transformed
with darting tongue
sniffing out the promise
of fallen fruit
split by crows taking flight
as you approach
low to the ground, unblinking
stare like tiger's eye
mesmerizing,
when I succumb the weight
of cool scales wrapping round
the membrane, smothering
rubies of luscious red with the
undulations of your legless crawl,
to the heady quench and thirst
between the spongy chambers
of bloodied pith. :thumb370065691:
MooExquisite, black and white
Perfectly formed
Two soft black squares
Morse code on your back
Offset to all your whiteness
Half black nose and
Black triangle head
Touches of black on feet and legs
And still the whiteness
Perfectly balanced creature
Eyes half closed, purring love
The pink of your ears, and
The gold of your eyes
The only chromatic contradiction :thumb332921106: in cold hands and close facessharp and soft, you
are the definition of a juxtaposition. fingers
slide around my sides, curl to the curve, squeeze 
and rest - and i place mine on top of yours.
coffee breath on my neck and you smell like 
venus. you are heavy atmosphere and stormy skies. 
our jaws are touching, my mind is a roundabout.
FataleShe rolls off the tongue like slick marbles,
and promptly crashes into the teeth of lesser men
for the satisfaction of hearing them stutter-
Sways and snaps her hips like a reed
in a scorching summer breeze;
Things that bend don't ever break, 
she told me once,
but the slide of her sleek red lips
made her hard to hear. cosmopoliscosmopolis—
nothing but a cotton farm
centuries ago,
this shining iron empire
was built on chattel-men's backs.
sky-scraping hubris
refuses to kneel, but begs
to be disobeyed.
rebellious manifestos
written in aerosol paint:
there is no such law
which can tally a man's worth
like so much cotton. WanderlustMilo dreams of caves; hundreds of thousands of seemingly endless feet, yards, miles of tunnels that twist and fold into each other like a frayed ball of string. Sunlight doesn't reach the caves, they are cold and dark as an abandoned tomb and even the air breathes thicker as mushroom clouds of dust fall from the ceiling and rise from the floor. The overwhelming feeling is of being buried alive and Milo wishes to beat on the coffin and beg for his freedom. The ceiling is too high to reach though, and rather than silence his cries are met by a cacophonous chorus of his own echoing voice. Milo turns on the spot but fails to choose a direction; all the tunnels stretch on in the same desolate brown making it impossible to differentiate not only path from path but, Milo thinks uncomfortably, motion from stillness. He does walk, though, if only out of fear he will become part of the cave itself if he stands any longer.
As he walks Milo runs his fingers along the cave walls leaving a breadcrum
Sculpting a WorldAnd this, too, we shall temper;
six crimson seeds of seasons,
devoured in exile.
The parting of rivers,
silent stones smoothed
before man and immortal;
echoes of innocence.
And this, too, will pass;
swift spits of flame
yelping across furrowed brows,
and standing, bewildered
where blood pounds and howls.
A ferryman counts his coins,
turns his face to the sun
and rows out once more.
And this, too, is insubstantial,
reduced by hunger, by lack.
We are not made of glass.
We are not painted black.
I breathed in a tempest.

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