i just kept
stepping a little,
and a little more
every day, until
it came slipping
around my neck.
–it was like when
daddy left and
it wasn’t my fault,
but it
really was.
i just kept
stepping,
until it slipped
from my fingers.
it was my fault,
i just
kept stepping.
i just kept
stepping a little,
and a little more
every day, until
it came slipping
around my neck.
–it was like when
daddy left and
it wasn’t my fault,
but it
really was.
i just kept
stepping,
until it slipped
from my fingers.
it was my fault,
i just
kept stepping.
it was a mistake
all along.
the shape of your
lips, wasn’t
the shape of your
words.
i thought
you would
sing,
but you howled
instead.
i made a mistake
all along.
the shape of your
lips was a grin,
and you
chased me down
instead.
I yearn to
throw soft
moon beams
over the waves
of the Seine,
because I’m
yearning to
lightly caress
the sloping banks,
to see my face reflected
in the deeps and darks.
I’m yearning to jump
and have the quiet
current flow around
my limbs.
I’m yearning to
throw soft
moon beams
over the waves
of the Seine.
she wondered what
kind of girl would she be,
if she
never came blazing through
the Cambrian,
if she
never met Aristotle,
never spent summer nights with
Keats.
would she
still feel the pulsing life
of the cosmos,
would she
still sing with the nightingales?
and when she
slept, would she still
see the wrong face?
and when she
wrote, would she still
write the wrong words?
This Bitch Is Going to Go Down Fighting by ashewalton, literature
Literature
This Bitch Is Going to Go Down Fighting
she coughed
as she told me,
i like to think i’m
strong, like
the amazons, like how
they used to know you
gotta,
drag,
you gotta
give it up.
like how they knew
if you fucked up
it was gonna hurt,
and you just
gotta be stronger
next time.
next time,
i’m gonna be
stronger,
right?
“front lawns,” he
once posited, “are quite
a waste…”
of potable water,
can’t eat it,
pain to mow it
just so you can
run your hands through it
let it tickle you there on
the inside of your thigh
rest your back upon it,
let the clouds pass by
sometimes i feel like
pebbles in a swift river,
like i’m
being worn down by
the currents.
sometimes i feel like
spring comes too soon,
like it
always comes in a torrent.
i feel like
i need a dam, need to hold
back the onslaught.
like i’m going to get caught
up, rushed downstream.
she can't tend to her garden,
couldn't -
can't -
pull the weeds
that are taking the life away
from her perennials.
she can't love the flowers more than the weeds.
but she tries to grow the roses
that sit on her windowsill,
even as they
were -
are -
choked by the pot she keeps them in.
she can't tend a garden, or grow roses.
but she can still love.
- haiku #4 -
the wind howls; the
heart is reminded of the
heat from the hearth
- haiku #5 -
the grass against my
ribs seems an illusion by
a sun-starved soul
- haiku #6 -
the jay heralds the
coming cold and celebrates
his thicket's safety
- haiku #7 -
even the naked
trees wonder if their leaves will
lace their limbs again
i just kept
stepping a little,
and a little more
every day, until
it came slipping
around my neck.
–it was like when
daddy left and
it wasn’t my fault,
but it
really was.
i just kept
stepping,
until it slipped
from my fingers.
it was my fault,
i just
kept stepping.
I yearn to
throw soft
moon beams
over the waves
of the Seine,
because I’m
yearning to
lightly caress
the sloping banks,
to see my face reflected
in the deeps and darks.
I’m yearning to jump
and have the quiet
current flow around
my limbs.
I’m yearning to
throw soft
moon beams
over the waves
of the Seine.
it was a mistake
all along.
the shape of your
lips, wasn’t
the shape of your
words.
i thought
you would
sing,
but you howled
instead.
i made a mistake
all along.
the shape of your
lips was a grin,
and you
chased me down
instead.
she wondered what
kind of girl would she be,
if she
never came blazing through
the Cambrian,
if she
never met Aristotle,
never spent summer nights with
Keats.
would she
still feel the pulsing life
of the cosmos,
would she
still sing with the nightingales?
and when she
slept, would she still
see the wrong face?
and when she
wrote, would she still
write the wrong words?
This Bitch Is Going to Go Down Fighting by ashewalton, literature
Literature
This Bitch Is Going to Go Down Fighting
she coughed
as she told me,
i like to think i’m
strong, like
the amazons, like how
they used to know you
gotta,
drag,
you gotta
give it up.
like how they knew
if you fucked up
it was gonna hurt,
and you just
gotta be stronger
next time.
next time,
i’m gonna be
stronger,
right?
“front lawns,” he
once posited, “are quite
a waste…”
of potable water,
can’t eat it,
pain to mow it
just so you can
run your hands through it
let it tickle you there on
the inside of your thigh
rest your back upon it,
let the clouds pass by
sometimes i feel like
pebbles in a swift river,
like i’m
being worn down by
the currents.
sometimes i feel like
spring comes too soon,
like it
always comes in a torrent.
i feel like
i need a dam, need to hold
back the onslaught.
like i’m going to get caught
up, rushed downstream.
she can't tend to her garden,
couldn't -
can't -
pull the weeds
that are taking the life away
from her perennials.
she can't love the flowers more than the weeds.
but she tries to grow the roses
that sit on her windowsill,
even as they
were -
are -
choked by the pot she keeps them in.
she can't tend a garden, or grow roses.
but she can still love.
- haiku #4 -
the wind howls; the
heart is reminded of the
heat from the hearth
- haiku #5 -
the grass against my
ribs seems an illusion by
a sun-starved soul
- haiku #6 -
the jay heralds the
coming cold and celebrates
his thicket's safety
- haiku #7 -
even the naked
trees wonder if their leaves will
lace their limbs again
January Haiku, Senryru n Tanka by ashewalton, literature
Literature
January Haiku, Senryru n Tanka
- haiku #1 -
the fair-weather flocks
of birds fleeing the frenzied,
frigid northern winds
- tanka #1 -
the steady plink, plink,
plink of ice drip, drip, dripping
from the easetroughs
matches the unrushed rhythm
of the heartbeat's harmony
- senryu #1 -
her eyes are like bruised
winter skies and the gritty
tear-soaked windowpanes
- haiku #2 -
shrill winds shatter a
tranquil streetlight serenade;
twigs trip to the ground.
- haiku #3 -
silver glints - white sun
reflects off creaking swingset chain -
empty playground yard
Piss-yellow light combined with the stench of week-old garbage was enough to take this little alley off the tourist maps. Actually, most of the slums were left off of the tourist maps, but that wasn't the point. At least, I think that wasn't the point, or maybe that was the point exactly.
Whatever.
The smell that emanated from the neatly-packaged throwaways was bad for businesses, especially the kind that ran downtown - no one wanted to be reminded of what trash they were, they just wanted fulfilment, and maybe if they were lucky, they'd even find some little piece of happiness buried in the hookers and coke.
I scratched my arms and did a
Dirty fingers wound tightly around a tiny object and held it stiffly against a slowly rising chest. The eyes belonging to the body were squeezed closed in pain, and low ragged breaths escaped the parted lips of the male. He was lying on the ground in what one, at first glance, would believe to be solitude, but it was anything but that. A heavy breathone to disperse the previous shaky, quiet onesmoaned out in pain as he tried to roll onto his side. He needed to breathe, and it was a hard like this... Especially when all he could taste was the blood pooling in the back of his throat. He was dying slowly, that much was obvious, but i
The night wore the stars like opal drops, bathed in moonlight and starshine. Reaching oaks and firs swayed, tall stalks of barley and wheat danced, and grass bowed in prayer to the Goddess.
During those solitary hours, the mage would appear to work. He was tall and well-built, but his hands and hair were frenzied. He was adorned in silk, silver and sapphires, and each sapphire glinted brilliantly in the nightsun. The mage would light fire that danced and waltzed about the treetops. Then, the mage would set out his tools and begin to work his magick. The mage worked musick that would wrap around his patrons, seep into their blood, and
An artificial wind blew around inside the glass house. It ruffled the leaves and branches of the plants that were growing throughout the perimeter of the small complex. In the centre of the small one-room greenery chamber was a large flowering tree. The rough, gnarled boughs of the tree reached nearly to the top of the enclosure and rocked dangerously in the wind, releasing pollen from the tree and spreading it around the entirety of the building.
The bright sunlight from outside poured into solar panels that powered generators, which in turn gave life to the fans that caused the wind to blow, ensuring the constant flow of the trees po
You can see where the gray concrete and colourless sky simply stop. The sky then continues in brilliant sapphire and the concrete is replaced with grass thats purer than any emerald. The large bay windows of the strange establishment shimmer like diamonds and the doors are always propped open, spilling out warm, humid air.
This strange place isnt anything like the rest of the metropolis. It is... alluring. The minimalism of the perfectly designed cities with their desaturated colours is a contrast to the hectic growth of the plants and the vivid splashes of pastel hues amidst the greenery. The sign above the door reads, E
When she was a young girl she was a curious little thing. Her eyes were a little too bright, her hair a little too short, and she herself was a little too high up in the clouds for her own good. She would sit at home on sunny days and go out to play on rainy days. She would listen to sombre songs when she was happy and upbeat songs when she was down. She would paint with pastels and draw with watercolours. Of course she would grow out of all that, she knew that the world wasn't always the pretty flowers she liked to draw as a girl. She became a pretty little thing who was always there for advice - she'd seen love a thousand times.
There was
舟 (1)
A small boat skipped upon the waves of the Pacific carrying two young boys. One boy was manning a small net out of the front of the boat, while the other was steering. The stronger, elder son, Ichirou, would cast the net and pull it back in when it was full; the younger son, Jirou, would make sure the boat stayed on track and didn't wander too far from the shore.
&
i just kept
stepping a little,
and a little more
every day, until
it came slipping
around my neck.
–it was like when
daddy left and
it wasn’t my fault,
but it
really was.
i just kept
stepping,
until it slipped
from my fingers.
it was my fault,
i just
kept stepping.
it was a mistake
all along.
the shape of your
lips, wasn’t
the shape of your
words.
i thought
you would
sing,
but you howled
instead.
i made a mistake
all along.
the shape of your
lips was a grin,
and you
chased me down
instead.
I yearn to
throw soft
moon beams
over the waves
of the Seine,
because I’m
yearning to
lightly caress
the sloping banks,
to see my face reflected
in the deeps and darks.
I’m yearning to jump
and have the quiet
current flow around
my limbs.
I’m yearning to
throw soft
moon beams
over the waves
of the Seine.
i just kept
stepping a little,
and a little more
every day, until
it came slipping
around my neck.
–it was like when
daddy left and
it wasn’t my fault,
but it
really was.
i just kept
stepping,
until it slipped
from my fingers.
it was my fault,
i just
kept stepping.
she wondered what
kind of girl would she be,
if she
never came blazing through
the Cambrian,
if she
never met Aristotle,
never spent summer nights with
Keats.
would she
still feel the pulsing life
of the cosmos,
would she
still sing with the nightingales?
and when she
slept, would she still
see the wrong face?
and when she
wrote, would she still
write the wrong words?
This Bitch Is Going to Go Down Fighting by ashewalton, literature
Literature
This Bitch Is Going to Go Down Fighting
she coughed
as she told me,
i like to think i’m
strong, like
the amazons, like how
they used to know you
gotta,
drag,
you gotta
give it up.
like how they knew
if you fucked up
it was gonna hurt,
and you just
gotta be stronger
next time.
next time,
i’m gonna be
stronger,
right?
“front lawns,” he
once posited, “are quite
a waste…”
of potable water,
can’t eat it,
pain to mow it
just so you can
run your hands through it
let it tickle you there on
the inside of your thigh
rest your back upon it,
let the clouds pass by
sometimes i feel like
pebbles in a swift river,
like i’m
being worn down by
the currents.
sometimes i feel like
spring comes too soon,
like it
always comes in a torrent.
i feel like
i need a dam, need to hold
back the onslaught.
like i’m going to get caught
up, rushed downstream.
she can't tend to her garden,
couldn't -
can't -
pull the weeds
that are taking the life away
from her perennials.
she can't love the flowers more than the weeds.
but she tries to grow the roses
that sit on her windowsill,
even as they
were -
are -
choked by the pot she keeps them in.
she can't tend a garden, or grow roses.
but she can still love.
January Haiku, Senryru n Tanka by ashewalton, literature
Literature
January Haiku, Senryru n Tanka
- haiku #1 -
the fair-weather flocks
of birds fleeing the frenzied,
frigid northern winds
- tanka #1 -
the steady plink, plink,
plink of ice drip, drip, dripping
from the easetroughs
matches the unrushed rhythm
of the heartbeat's harmony
- senryu #1 -
her eyes are like bruised
winter skies and the gritty
tear-soaked windowpanes
- haiku #2 -
shrill winds shatter a
tranquil streetlight serenade;
twigs trip to the ground.
- haiku #3 -
silver glints - white sun
reflects off creaking swingset chain -
empty playground yard
I do not love you
for your interlocking skin cells.
I love the number of hues that take me from
his olive to your rose.
I do not love you
for your spider-web irises.
I love the distance on the palette that separates
his fawn from your forest.
I do not love you
for your void of melanin.
I love the contrast I must shade from
his darkness to your light.
I do not love you.
I love the space you made between our tenses.
You are far away again, yet you linger on in my house:
the scent of your perfume, the kitchenware sorted your way
and in the mattress: the hollow I curl up to at night.
Spotlight on the GIRL. She is attractive, but stressed: her hair is a mess, her clothes are wrinkled, her face is twisted in worry. She has long sleeves. There is a purse at her feet, zipped shut. She is holding an envelope, which is still sealed. She makes a move to open it, but doesnt. She brandishes it at the audience.
GIRL: So this it. The final word. The grade on the last four years of my life.
She starts chewing on her nails.
GIRL: (to herself) Ouch!
She is startled, and looks at her finger, paying close attention to the nail.
GIRL: (to herself) Its bleeding. Huh- thats the last of them.
She puts her hand down, shak
A cure for Writers Block. by Burningrobotsofdeath, literature
Literature
A cure for Writers Block.
Welcome! Here you will find a new exciting miracle cure for writers block!
1. Print the attached net for a 3d block.
2. Assemble the cube (Apply Ducttape as needed)
3. Get a hammer and smash the block into nothing (Fists of fury work just as well)
4. You have just destroyed a writers block Conglatulations! You have win!
5. (Optional) Be very thankful and send all your money to me
(Warning. May not cure writers block. May waste time, paper and glue. If you feel dizzy while following this tutorial please stop sniffing the glue)
Yaoi Writers: Are your Male Characters MASCULINE? by OokamiKasumi, literature
Literature
Yaoi Writers: Are your Male Characters MASCULINE?
Yaoi Writers:Is your favorite Yaoi characterYOU as a guy -- only BETTER?
Are you committing a MARY-SUE/Gary Stu?
According to Aestheticism.com:
"The Mary Sue ... is the highest form of fannish devotion to a series. You like it so much you want to come play in it yourself. Most fan writers are content to do this by sneaking in under cover of one of the canon characters.
Slipping on my Hakkai mask, I jump in the jeep and set out for the west with Sanzou and the guyz, pretending all along that it's Hakkai telling the story I'm writing and not me at all..."
Except for one BIG problem...
-- Hakkai is a Guy, and he's showing Female Behavior --
Your Novel: A Love Story by TheOtherSarshi, literature
Literature
Your Novel: A Love Story
I've heard it said many times that a book is like an author's child. I've never really agreed with that. People who say it must either not have kids, or not write erotica. Or have a much less graphic imagination when metaphors are concerned than I.
For me, a book is most definitely not a child, because if it were, I'd be much more squeamish around it. There'd be things I'd put in, others I'd be shy about, others I'd alter to look better because, after all, this child is going to represent me in the world, isn't it?
No, I never liked that comparison much. For me, stories are lovers. You catch a glimpse, fall in love, your thoughts return all
Tips and Tricks for Writing Fluidly
Mechanics
No, were not fixing up your brothers car. Mechanics are the little technical bits in your writing; punctuation, spacing, spelling, capitalisation, et cetera. Well start there.
Capitalisation
Different languages have different rules for what should be capitalised. If you speak English, youd capitalise I and leave your dog lowercase. You may find it interesting that German is a bit backwards. If youre German, youd capitalise Hund and leave ich lowercase. Why am I telling you this? Because its simple little things like
Writing Tips - Grammar, pt 1 by ML-Larson, literature
Literature
Writing Tips - Grammar, pt 1
Part one: Parts of Speech
Now that you know how to use a comma and structure a quote, lets really get our hands dirty! Because all those commas and quotes and hard stops dont mean a thing if you have weak grammar. Grammar is huge. Theres a lot of it, so this will only be a blitz course, covering a lot in a small space. Hopefully, you already know most of it, though.
Parts of Speech
Thats right. Were doing sentence diagramming in this lesson. Youre going to need to know the difference between an adjective and an adverb later on, so this seems the logical place to start.
A sentence needs three things to m
Writing Tips - Grammar, pt 2 by ML-Larson, literature
Literature
Writing Tips - Grammar, pt 2
Part two: Tense of the Narrative, and Plural and Singular Nouns
Tenses: No, were not talking about a hard day at work, but rather verb tenses. What, basically, is the time-direction of your narrative? Is the chronicler telling about something that has already happening, is happening, or will eventually happen?
In most works of fiction, the narrative is in past tense. Its already happened. Occasionally, youll find a book in present tense its happening now, as youre reading it and these are usually of the pick your own adventure sort. The ones where you dont
Weve already discussed where to do your research, so now were going to learn how to go about using those tools. Like everything else we do in life, theres a process to it, and once youve learned the steps, finding the information becomes a bit easier (admittedly, some of the harder queries will never get easier).
What do you Need to Know?
Knowing what it is that youre trying to research seems sort of obvious, but there are times when you wont have the first clue about what youre looking for. These are mostly situations when you already have your story plotted out, and now you need fact to work aroun
Writing Tips - Grammar, pt 3 by ML-Larson, literature
Literature
Writing Tips - Grammar, pt 3
Part three: Cases and Grammar Nazi Nit-Picks
Cases
Cases are, in a sort, ways of conjugating a noun that is, defining its role in a sentence. Kind of. Not really. Well, sort of. Its a bit swimmy, because we dont really have them in the English language. Well, thats a lie. We do, but theyre not very prominent. Despite this, were going over them anyway. Why? Because theyre big in some foreign languages and extinct languages. Why do we care? Because there will be a lesson on foreign and extinct languages in the future. But dont worry; we will cross that bridge when we come to it. Those who could
Nothing new from me, except for one poem I wrote a few weeks back.
BUTBUTBUT-
Watch Sylvaky! She's new to deviantART and is starting a novel. It's awesome so far, give it a shot! :3
A little bit late but: my new years resolutions are to: Think only of my successes, and not my failures; I am the only one who stands between me and moonAct more like Philip J. Fry: to love wholly and unconditionally and to always find joy in the mundane(Oh, and also maybe to write a bit more often)
Just joined Tumblr. I really like it, but I'm definitely inept. I've just been posting things I find cool and/or insightful. Also, there's some prose-y bits littered in there.
You can find my Tumblr here. If anyone from dA follows me, I'll follow them right back. Just, uh, comment with your Tumblr I guess?