The Breathless 2-2-The Breathless 2 by leyghan
Mama married Daniel today at a church in Daniel’s home town of Gilchrest.
The church was packed. Mostly Daniel’s people. He comes from a large family, the majority of whom live right here in town. On Mama’s side it was just me, Allie, Aunt Helen, my Cousins Julian, Tristan and little Sadie and Mama’s coven Sisters; Simone, Louise and Hanifah.
Everyone loved the decorations which is gratifying, considering all the work we put into them. The theme was the four elements with a nod to our African roots. The church has four seating sections divided by columns and each section got a different element while the front of the church, where the altar and chancel is, incorporated all four.
The ceremony itself got mixed reactions. Judging from the comments, it was a lot less ‘traditional’ than people here are used to. I heard things like ‘Well, that was interesting.’ And, ‘Bet she’s a liberal.’ I also heard that Dan
The Breathless 4-4-The Breathless 4 by leyghan
I am a trapped and wounded blackbird. Beak broken, unable to make a sound. Panic presses down upon me. It has a shape and weight that I pray to forget. I'm not a bird after all, just a little girl and the lips on mine are taboo. The net tightens where I am neck bound―can't breathe! Darkness seeps into my tears . . .
I wake up gasping, my fingers scrabbling at my throat. But there's no constriction. Nothing to feel but my own sweat-slick skin. Dreaming. I was dreaming. It takes another moment for the realisation to sink in.
My room comes into focus. Hazy afternoon sunlight light and the ceiling fan spinning sluggishly overhead. The frantic pounding in my chest eases. I let my limbs go slack and wait for the last vestiges of the dream to dissipate, for my body to stop shaking.
It's not just a dream but a memory. One that has haunted me on and off for years. When Allie and I were eight years old, our father
The Breathless 3-3-The Breathless 3 by leyghan
Gilchrest has an online Newspaper called The Informer. I find Seth’s death notice dated December 10th after less than a half an hour’s search.
Seth Ignacio Thorn aged nineteen, deceased December 3rd 2008. Born November 19th 1989 in Aberdeen, South Dakota to Mika Owens and Paley Thorn also deceased.
He is survived by his uncle, Dennison Thorn.
A short memorial service will be held on December 11th at the Ackerman Funeral Home at 1pm.
I know it’s him because of the photo that accompanies the notice. Time slips sideways for a moment as I stare at his face.
It's not a recent picture. His hair is longer for one thing. Shaved at the sides but styled in locs that reach just past his shoulders. He looks skinnier too, the breadth of his shoulders apparent but not quite yet filled out. A boy on the brink of manhood, brimming with potential. His
The Breathless Chapter 1-1-The Breathless Chapter 1 by leyghan
Grandma Melisandre is dead and I’m not sure how to feel.
I know I feel something but I can’t quite call it grief. We didn’t have much of a relationship, you see. She’s been estranged from the family for years.
I’ve lived in awe of her all my life though. She was not just my grandmother but a Wise Woman, and a direct descendant of the legendary Puissant, Audrey Duplessis. It is a lineage to be proud of despite our family’s dysfunction.
What’s strange is that she asked to see me the night she died. I suppose she was feeling lonely in her last hours and wanted company. But why not Allie or Julian or any of her other grandchildren? Why only me?
I’ve replayed that visit a thousand times in my head but I still don’t have a clue what my grandmother really wanted or why I feel that night was significant in some way I’ve yet to understand.
NebulaNebulaNebula by chromeantennae
I’ve never been closer,
To the permanent entity,
Before in my life,
As I have been now.
This isn’t somethin’ you come to grips with,
Nor is it somethin' you handle,
With a wave of a hand, flick of the wrist,
Or bat of an eye.
You’re more like having a bat’s eyesight,
Near-blind because you can hardly see,
What’s coming to be
Nor what may arise.
It’s so fast,
Unrelenting in its pursuit,
And unwavering in its impact.
Shaking anyone who comes into contact,
With the whiff of death that consumes the air,
And constricts our breathing passages,
As you see someone you love,
Go down in flames and fadin’.
In (and out) the nebula of smoke.
Death isn’t so scary.
Just say goodbye,
(I love you.)
Before you die.
Daily Lit Deviant - @sadisticicecreamDaily Lit Deviant is an article put out on a daily basis throughout the year that is devoted to showing the work and accomplishments of one writer per article and presenting exemplary pieces of their work. It is based off of bowie-loon123's series of articles of the same name.Daily Lit Deviant - @sadisticicecream by Nichrysalis
Join me in welcoming SadisticIceCream as our Daily Lit Deviant for January 15th, 2014.
Nominated by LiliWrites
"Kate always has lovely, helpful comments and her guides to publishing are invaluable." says LiliWrites
A phenomenal prose poem that explores a controversial and deeply personal topic.
What deviants are saying about this piece
This is quite beautiful. It's honest and unapologetic in the doubt, yet reverent still in light of the doubt. Since the subject is very controversial, I appreciate yo
RightHere's the bad news:
there will be a bird
on your doorstep.
Dead or dying, you think
it has something to do
with me. It does not.
There's the crux
you always think
the bird should rise up
and proclaim its killer,
its savior, should point out
which cat only watched and which
opened its mouth; which cat
is not a cat but a storm
or a window or another bird
and to be honest,
I would like these things too.
But it owes us only its death,
incapable of shaming
our compulsive involvement,
our need to make the bird
You want to be jury
in an empty room. You want
to hold court
for every little thing
that makes you feel.
The good news:
walking in the woods,
You-phonyIt never used to be like this, the way my shoulders move with just a few beats, the way my skin prickles, goosebumps its way into a map I will never understand, the insanity of wanting to close my eyes no matter where I am, the rush of the wheels and the whistle of other cars passing not even enough to make me reset, fear for my life, this no fear brightness, this lift, this airplane window cotton candy clouds rush, flowing through my veins, tapping my feet, bending my lips, baring my teeth, cheeks lifted, mind luminous, gaze positive
It always used to be like this, the melodies scouring through my veins, brightly cleansing every particle as my fingers drew away the notes, the sighs, the song from you until I could almost weep with the echoes that lived and breathed with our hearts beating in 4/4 time, a mutual syncopation you never felt.
Golden trumpet notes require pursed lips and steady breathing and even though I knew how badly sadly madly you wanted me to play you
YardarmI'm sitting in an alpha male's
piece of shit old car. Lunch break,
30 degrees in the shade,
the sun's burning down our arms;
and he's right pleased with himself,
you can tell by the way his hands
are touching the wheel
and the way his mouth is touching
his hand-rolled cigarette.
Impassive jaw, he looks away.
Hand to mouth,
mouth to hand,
my fleeting gaze.
Bright, smoked and ugly
the bush is flashing by -
I'm all those things and more,
there's a wolf's curve to my spine.
Modes of InteractionHe comes to class without his jacket.
I miss the introduction,
too busy staring at the sharp
angles his shoulder blades
make through his pale yellow shirt.
Too busy trying to conceptualize
the change such a minute detail makes.
I almost don’t notice the sling.
Then he shocks me again
when he snaps into teacher
mode; remote, professional,
yet charismatic as ever.
The distance closes as the lesson
wears on, and vanishes when
the last student leaves, and I find
my friend, still there, waiting to walk me home.
Types of IntimacyHe told me he sleeps in a t-shirt –
and only a t-shirt. The image
won’t leave my head; this body,
so familiar to me, yet barricaded
by layers of fabric – I have never seen
the joints of his elbows, the slope
of his spine, the terrain of his
stomach – but I have felt their presence
through wool and cotton, known
their warmth in brief moments
of contact. And there’s a strange
intrigue to modesty, knowing his
psychology but not his physique.
I have found strength in his words
and wisdom in his hands; I have plunged
these depths past fondness and into
familiarity and found, here, in the dark
of his ocean, that I can see better
than ever before.
Lesser ExpressionsThis ache defines my body –
crosses, uncrosses my legs, traces
fingers along curvatures unmapped
by foreign travelers.
This want defines my time –
turns sleep into daydreams, matches
my schedule to yours, walking
beside, one shy footstep at a time.
This love defines my life –
shapes my body to be softer,
my time to be flexible, my heart
to be richer. The ache and want
become sharper, but calmed, content
in being lesser expressions
of something far greater.
Nocturne IIA steady ground layer of mist in place
when the funeral procession arrives.
Over the people, an opaline glaze
through the forest's blackened limbs, alive
and fluid. Aurora-like. Two boys raise
their smaller sister high, to catch a look
at some man, bearded spectacle, ablaze.
O, the pyre's crack. O, hymnal brook,
your clearblood and siltstone. O, ever-crazed,
noetic smoke and flame, feather-upward
brushwork in oil and wood, new birthplace
of a forgotten. Faintly, a songbird.
Faintly, the remnants of bodies changing.
Morendo, poco a poco, al niente.
The Witch-Child and the Silent SongHe knew his savior only as the Hero. She was given no other name.
He thought of her as she as much for the ease of it as for truth: she wore swords instead of skirts, and she never sang the silent song. She was called the Hero because that was what she was. She went wherever she was needed, wandering the world in search of great deeds to be done and people to protect; it was thus that she came to vanquish the Dark King, and it was there that she first saved his life.
He had been trapped in the form of a lizard by the Dark King's madness. She took him with her, and when she returned to the village the lizard-shape broke and washed away, and he was once again a boy – though his mind was still a lizard-mind, filled with memories of only the Dark King's castle.
She brought him to Mother Harsh and Rosie-Anne. It was the middle of the night: when they heard her they roused, and Mother Harsh said: “Put more wood on the fire.” Rosie-Anne did so at once. In the rising f
Say It With HumansThe Cultivated Flower Amateur Dramatics Group was putting on a performance of The Three Little Daisies.
The first little daisy had chosen to make its home in some soil that had a worryingly meagre water supply.
The lupin stalked on. “Little daisy, little daisy, let me share your home!”
“No!” cried the daisy. “Not by the nutrients in my mildly acidic loam!”
The lupin drew itself up to its full height. “Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff— And I’ll divert your water supply entirely away from you!”
“Aaaargh!” cried the daisy, and scampered off stage left.
In the audience, a rhododendron leant over to whisper to a hollyhock. “Should we make like a tree and leave?”
“Let’s hang on a little longer,” the hollyhock whispered back.
The second daisy had chosen to make its home in the shade of a Brownie hut.
“Little daisy, little daisy, let me share your home!” declaimed the lupin
No Place Like HomeJane wasn't quite sure what it was she'd hit, but she knew for a fact that hitting anything at relativistic speeds was probably going to put something of a dampener on her day. However, she was currently struggling to focus on this: her whole world was spinning.
Her whole world at the moment encompassed the Pegasus, an attempt at a manned mission to Titan that, needless to say, hadn't exactly gone as planned.
'Pegasus,' Jane said, 'what happened?'
After a few moments, the ship's computer replied, 'we've hit something. Calculating new trajectory... ah. Jane, I've some bad news.'
'We're not going to make it back to Earth.' Her voice was flat; empty. She'd never see her wife again, never find out who won the superbowl--
'No, no, we will,' Pegasus replied. 'We can slingshot around a couple moons, get back there with enough fuel to slow down and everything, although we won't really be able to land. Trouble is that collision knocked out all our antennae, so we won't be able to let anyone kno
A Big Night for a DragonThe kingdom had been terrorised by the dragon for months.
“Father,” said the Princess one Sunday. “You can’t just keep sending our maidenly subjects off as sacrifices to the beast. It has to stop!”
“Yes, sweetheart…” said the King vaguely. He furrowed his brow over his list. “What about Miss Hetherington? I know she’s 73 but it still counts, doesn’t it?”
The Princess squared her shoulders.
“I mean it, Father! Before I let you send any more sacrifices, well—you’ll have to send me first!”
The King looked up and beamed.
“Excellent idea, my angel! That would be marvellous PR.”
He wrote her name at the top of the list.
“That wasn’t quite what I…”
The Princess shook her head.
“Look, before you send me off to my certain death, why don’t I try advertising for a knight to come and save us from the dragon?”
And so the next day a herald was sent out
Quick on the DrawThey had been heading towards this showdown for a long, long time.
Jocasta the Kid and Wild Tarquin faced each other unblinkingly. The moment that would decide just who was quicker on the draw was rapidly approaching.
Their hands twitched.
And then they grabbed their pencils, turned to their respective pads and began furiously sketching.
Thirty seconds passed.
“Done!” declared the Kid.
She held up her finished picture.
Wild Tarquin snorted.
He held up his own picture.
“But we were supposed to be drawing weapons.”
He jabbed a finger at the Kid’s work.
“That isn’t a weapon.”
The Kid frowned. “But it’s a candlestick. Candlesticks can be weapons. They have them in Monopoly.”
“You mean Cluedo.” Wild Tarquin rolled his eyes. “God, you’re so stupid. And that isn’t even a candlestick—look, it’s a candelabra.”
The Kid laughed sarcastically. “A
House H(a)untingThe apparition raised its translucent arms and began to wail.
“I come from Hell! From Hell! From— Bloody hell.”
The spirit of Edmund Aspinall grabbed at his shroud as it headed downwards. He pulled it up round his shoulders again and wrapped it around his body.
“You don’t half feel the chill once you’re away from the flames of eternal damnation.”
Miss Amelia Gould, medium-slash-estate agent, nodded sympathetically and entered ‘Hell’ into the address box on the form.
She looked up to see Mr. Aspinall still rearranging his shroud. He smiled weakly.
“I apologise for the rather revealing attire. If I’d realised I was going to be wandering around like this for all eternity, I would have made sure my nearest and dearest had known to bury me in a pair of drawers.”
“Please don’t worry about it, Mr. Aspinall. I am a professional.” Miss Gould put the form to one side. “So, I take it you’r
Shikibu and the Cat That Could Walk on WaterPrincess Shikibu walks along the bank of the river, watching the clear water glide silently to the sea. She stops in the shade of a giant willow to rest, and would like to sit, but her robes encumber her, so she leans against the tree instead. Her cat, a Siamese named Jâo Yǐng, who is little more than a kitten, emerges from her sleeve and runs out onto the surface of the river, chasing gull shadows.
Jâo Yǐng has always been able to do this, though Shikibu was horrified the first time the cat jumped from the bank. She soon became accustomed to the sight of a cat that could walk on water, but still always watches in stunned fascination to see Jâo Yǐng running on the water, her tiny paws sending out ever-widening ripples.
One day, however, she finds herself more stunned than fascinated as a fish swims up from the depths and inhales Jâo Yǐng, to then disappear, leaving only the ripples on the surface; what does a fish know of miracles, a cat that can
How to Write Fight Scenes One of the biggest and most frequently asked questions that I get is this: “How do I write fight scenes as good as you do?” I actually got one of those yesterday, but to be fair, he changed it up a bit and asked, “How do I keep from being repetitive in my fight scenes?” As I typed out my long-ass answer for him, it occurred to me that this was the perfect topic for my next writing tutorial. So, thank you, random dude on FanFiction.net, for the sudden spark of inspiration.
So, fight scenes:
So much win!
As with nearly every other writing skill an author has in his/her repertoire, writing fights is a skill that takes a lot of practice. Sorry, kids, I know you wanted some gloriously simple answer, but there is none. I can’t just sprinkle magic Street Fighter dust on your head and make you a good writer of fight scenes. If you want to ge
Brian Kesinger: Character Driven
Disney Artist Brian Kesinger on Creating Story through Character
Foreword by techgnotic
It is with great pleasure we welcome BrianKesinger as a guest writer to the Today Page Editorial Team. Considering his authentic citizenship within the deviantART community, his thoughts and insights will be of great value to all aspiring artists, illustrators, writers and others involved in any creative endeavor. For over 18 years, Brian has worked for Walt Disney Studios on films like Big Hero 6, Winnie the Pooh, Tarzan, Tangled, Wreck It Ralph and
Current Residence: St. Kitts
Favourite genre of music: Anything that moves me
Favourite style of art: Fantasy, gothic
Operating System: Vista
Skin of choice: His
Favourite cartoon character: Batman FTW
Personal Quote: In matters of taste, there is no dispute