Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login

Similar Deviations

Daily Lit Recognition for June 10th, 2014

We are proud to feature today's Daily Literature Recognition!
You can show your support by :+favlove:ing this News Article.

Please comment and :+fav: the features and congratulate the artists!


Featured by: ladyshadowrage

I would like to tattoo
a poem on my skin, or perhaps
only a few choice lines, the important
ones that I'll never forget.
But one line, one poem, would never
suffice; there are so many
more words than that, so many
that have engraved themselves
on my heart.  I would spend every day
scrawling new words, new poems, new
epigrams and witticisms onto my skin, adding
to a history of loves and losses -
a current of words that starts
at my hands and continues up my arms,
coiling lazily around my neck then dropping
to tenderly spiral around my heart.
It would never stop with one.
[and that's the reason
i refuse to let you write your name
on my hand
you are already always
with me]

Litany by Tyrison

This piece is about the love of words
and how hard it is to pick just one to choose from
as the 'one' to get tattooed upon their skin;
then it blends into the reason why the writer
allows another to write their name on his arm.

Featured by: TwilightPoetess
Clock and TimeI hate how the clock ticks,
Leaching away the euphoria I seeded,
And the contradiction of every paradox .
I hate how the clock ticks,
When the wand waltzes in constant cycle,
Every second, every strain; vexes me.
But I love how time passes,
How the clumsy hulk smashes my past,
And how he gifts me bouquet of future times.
I love how time passes,
How I await every comfort after every storm,
And how I never seem to catch its breath on me.
-Clock and Time

Clock and Time by Milk-and-Pie

Milk-and-Pie looks at both the
pluses and minuses of time--and staring
at the clock--in this poem.


Suggested by: IrrevocableFate
Featured by: Naktarra

Alphabet SoupLydia was the only child of a dead mother and the third child of an absent father. She lived in a small house on a small, unpaved side road.
Every day, Lydia would wake up with the birds and wish the sun a good morning before sliding her feet into a pair of slippers that had belonged to her grandmother. She would go to the kitchen, kiss her aunt and make her breakfast.
Every morning Lydia would take the blue bowl and heat up one tin of alphabet soup in the microwave. She would use a yellow spoon and eat the alphabet backwards while her aunt read the morning paper and tut-tutted.
On the particular morning that our story is set, Lydia did not find the letter Z in her soup. She ate backward from Y instead, and when she was finished she kissed her aunt goodbye and left for school.
Lydia was used to walking to school alone. In fact, Lydia was the type of girl who did many things alone and as such, she had grown to enjoy doing things that way. On this morning, however, something unexpected h

Alphabet Soup by introverted-ghost

A story that uses its brevity
to really impact the reader, leaving
them with a sharp, dark ending.

Featured by: SpriteBlayde

For a priceOnce upon time, there was a handsome prince who lived alone in a tower, guarded by three lions – he had grown there since his very tender age, for legend had it that he would grow to rule all kingdoms along with his Queen, if only a brave enough young woman could free him from his prison and claim his hand.
But the young man did not wish to be freed, or to be wed; and so whenever, once every few years, a courageous lady managed to climb up to his tower and momentarily defeat the lions, he challenged her to a swordfight, and killed her if she lost.
For he had everything he needed there in his loneliness and peace; food he could hunt for, and his faithful felines brought back enough game for the four of them. A clear spring trickled down the stones nearby, and in winter there were birds, and stored provisions from the kind months, to survive on.
In clement times he would run and hunt and play with his animals, roam about the mountain and watch the clouds; in winter he would play mu

For a price by DeniseCroy

A fairy tale like story with a twist
ending you won't see coming. A must read!

Foreign Language

Suggested by: DasGhul
Featured by: ArtCrusade

PerspektivenKannst Gold durch deine Venen schießen
Oder Blei durch dein Gehirn
Tollkirschenmarmelade auf 'nem Butterbrot genießen
Betrunken vor dem Supermarkt erfrier'n
Vom Kuppeldach des Reichstags springen
Oder vor den ICE
Tanzen mit den Lieblingsklingen
Im heißen Bad, das tut nicht weh
Du kannst zu Zyankali greifen
Zum Strick, der Wirbelsäulen knackt
Zu anrollenden Autoreifen
Oder Fingerhutextrakt
Großmutters Zauberschränkchen plündern
Die Apotheke überfall'n
Deine Zukunft weitsichtig mit AIDS verhindern
Oder dir spontan den Kopf vom Rumpfe knall'n
All diese Chancen steh'n dir offen -
Sie werden dir auf Silbertellern präsentiert.
Doch du? Bleibst stur. Egobesoffen
Verkündest du, dass keine Freiheit existiert...
Das Ghul, 19.1.2009

Perspektiven by DasGhul
A fantastic piece of free verse dealing
with the freedom of will, depicting it with
a dark sense of humour that I personally adore.

For more information, including how to suggest a Deviation
to be featured, please visit us at DailyLitRecognition.

Thanks so much for supporting the lit community and this project!

~ The DailyLitRecognition Team ~

Prepared by: SilverInkblot

Skin by SimplySilent
Daily Literature Recognition is a group that is dedicated to bringing literature to the forefront of the deviantART community. We attempt to accomplish this by daily featuring Literature artists from around the community that deserve the recognition, but are not getting it.

Each day we will feature 5 deviations from the Literature categories in a News Article. In order to support the artists that we feature, we ask that you :+fav: the news article as well as check out the individual pieces. We understand that each day you may not be able to check out each and every one of the pieces. We just ask that you make an attempt to help support the growing Literature community and these artists.
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

July Literature DD Round Up

Fri Aug 1, 2014, 3:47 PM
Features by IrrevocableFate 

American GirlI have half your genetics.
It’s strange to think, isn’t it, that half of my DNA comes from you, and yet we could walk past each other on the street and not even recognize each other.
If we ever did meet, what would we even say to each other? I don’t speak Chinese, and you probably don’t speak English. But here’s a little about myself:
I’m probably taller than you. The nutrition in America is different than in rural China, so I’ve grown like an American girl, not a Chinese one. I’ve cut off my hair three times now, and each time it feels so different and strange, yet each time it’s grown back in. Hair tends to do that. I love to dance. I love to laugh. I’m going to college soon to study and make friends and have fun and hopefully get a job in four years. I like cooking and baking, and I like to think I’m becoming pretty good at it. I’m very good with children. I can read very fast. I know how to knit. Our hands and
  Ghost ShipYou still ghost ship
My Subconscious.
I've been waiting
For you
To drop anchor.
  how you can manage to know so muchshe's barely an inch taller - but still taller -
squinting at the horizon line and heaving tobacco smoke
through resin coated lungs that should belong to a
fourty three year old smoker, not an eighteen year old
she laughs the loudest when others cast glances
and hushed whispers
and never misses the chance to tell you
she couldn't possibly give less
of a shit
she likes convenience store mints;
the round white ones you'd find
at the bottom of grandma's purse that tasted like
dust and chemically sweetened perfume,
and home
she went to a school where "dyke"
was spat like poison at her feet
but knew exactly what to say when three girls
cornered her, knew exactly how to throw her
words like fists
she gets hives from cats and grass and
practically anything outside her door
so she spends most of her time inside,
only leaving to have another
she listens to tool and radiohead
and smokes half a joint before bed to help her sleep
but she still doesn't; not for long
and she twitc
  Seeking Your StarMarch 20, 2014
Some stars burn so brightly, they burst before they see the cosmos unfold. You shared the warmth of your glow with as many as you could before you rose too high for the sky to handle and scattered sacred stardust across it. Your legacy is seen in constellations.
A few days later
Mom called me to the window today to show me a lone star in a cloudless sky. She said she thought of you.
Mother's Day, 2014
Nana told me at lunch today that she heard footsteps in the room where she keeps your urn. She went upstairs to greet Papa several times, thinking the footsteps were his, but found him sleeping. Our waitress gave each woman at our booth a carnation. Outside, sunlight adorned our skin and held us.
I could have sworn I felt you holding us, too.
June 21, 2014
I took a plane out of Chicago to get back home. The sun set mid-flight, tie-dying the sky in orange and red. As we rose over the clouds, my jetlagged eyes rested upon a lone star pinned against
  Neighbors Through the Glass Revised“Do you know why you’re here?”
A menacing spotlight shone on me from the direction of the ominous voice. I shivered, looking around frantically in the darkness. Where was I and how did I get there?
A sigh emanated from the darkness, and I managed to stumble out an answer in response.
“No. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“We know you didn’t. But you saw something didn’t you?”
I remembered waving to my neighbor from my pod after I’d gotten home from my assigned job as bookkeeper just like I did every day. He was an elderly gentlemen and he lived directly to the right side of me. Our pods were made of glass, like little glass cubicles stacked one on top of the other just like in a skyscraper office building, as the Government described when they first pitched the ideas to the Citizens. They reminded me of a display case for humans. You could see inside each pod on the right and left of your own pod as far as your eye could str
  david and goliath.He passes under
the dying streetlamps'
orange halos,
darkening splashes on his face,
cloud-lungs heaving
against the rooftops.
The tarmac, painted with his footsteps,
whispers, purrs,
white lines of vertebrae
tickle along its back.
Lovely glass, shattered fragments
ruffle the curb of the pavement,
strands of rainwater
whisper along the gutter
in hymnal honesty; and sunlight seems swallowed
by the swollen beast of night.
The stars
prickle at the back of his memory,
a nervous pattern of speech,
syllables of iambic chattering
teeth against the cold:
the hotel window, shining with
the gaze of a thousand tourists' wonderment,
is where his own eyes rest,
as if the world is born anew
and love-songs spike the evening air
his life-tousled hair. He
walks on, passes on,
a stranger in a foreign land;
the moonlight seems
to turn about him, embrace his form,
a lonely touch, not quite animate in its caress,
but his love was the colour
of seawater on gravel,
and he would not take the taste of her brea
  every chance i didn't take IIYou tell him about your cancer on a Sunday,
in the shower of all places, in between brunch plans
and speculations about whether or not the weather
will ever get any colder - hasn't it been the strangest November?
Just the strangest.
You casually mention that somewhere
deep in the secret space between your hips
your own cells are proliferating uncontrollably,
whispering treason and passing down forgeries,
teaching each other the steps of mitosis with alarming intent.
You don't miss a beat as you drop survival percentages
mixed in with tomorrow's rain forecast
and predictions about the game later that afternoon -
easy as breathing, even as counterfeit armies
shred through the soft tissue just below
his favorite place on your spine.
And as you stand there
calmly making conversation
and sharing the last of the soap,
he watches the water
run quiet rivers
through your hair.
  drowning with himthere’s this boy i work with.
he is five.
he wears long sleeves
and shorts with holes in them
that are only kept together with
small clothespins and thin threads.
his hair is always cut close
to his skin, though his bangs are left
just long enough so it covers his eyes
and i know no one can see them.
but i always watch him.
only sometimes i will allow myself
to watch over someone else, even though i know
this boy will only continue to follow me.
he asks me to play,
he asks me to speak,
and sometimes, he even asks me
to hold his hand.
they are always cold and strong,
with calluses and chipped nails
that dig rough into my skin,
and his voice is always hard ice,
roaring like pounding hail through a storm.
but most of the time, he fights.
he hurts the other boys. they are small
and they fight over pieces of chalk,
over shovels and pales and who gets to play
on the swings, but they throw punches
like i’ve seen adults do.
sometimes i look at them
and i see the ripple of muscle,
  to giovanna cenamimother goddess,
your whole deep greens
& your pale yellow slivers of sun
& then the blue sky sleeves
with your open fertile hands blossoming
out of them, small & serene.
your gaze a red innocence, heavy with curiousity
& need.
the white
white veil
won't dare
touch your
cheek bones.
it graces your glowing forehead, forgotten entirely
after the shock of love in your glance.
you know this man's  
profound black browns, his steady eye
the flickering immodest uncaring of calculation
hung over his lids, over the hazy grey
of city sky, this hard bent man stooped
with briefcase in hand, thickly
cloaked, thin lipped, top hatted.
you the warm unnamed bride & he
the sharp nosed Man
you the pleasant & powerful, indulgent
of his every little
lovely evil,
the eternal forgiveness in the curve
of your lips, the unspoken
colour of power. you the patient
the unending source.
  Nine TimesI saw him nine times.
The first time we were both sitting in the room together, getting ready to take the math test that would determine our placement. I was scatterbrained and throwing things around, trying to find the pencils that I had known I would need but had still just tossed in my purse. He was lounging backwards in his chair, looking for all the world as though he didn’t have a single care in the world, including the upcoming test. It annoyed me, that I was frantic and ready to scream, while someone else could be that relaxed.
I tested out of the class.  
I don’t know if he did.
The second time I saw him, it was a few months after I arrived on campus. He was the one rushing and frantic this time, running across the square. He was probably late for class, though I had no way of knowing for sure. I was already lost in my own thoughts and ideas, deciding on my major and convincing people that yes, this is what I really want to do with my life. If they weren
  SolaceShe never slept well in the dark,
not without the children of the sun and moon
to guide her weary lids home.
Guided by the aftermath, she was always two steps behind.
What did the world look like to the girl who had been through it all?
Braved the heaviest of storms,
yet skipping over cracks in the pavement.
They said her eyes were the wisps of clouds before the storm.
To him they were reflections of pages overlooked.
She said it was like she lived the life of someone she had never met.
Laid out to dry, yesterdays news.
He knew her as the girl who was built to never collapse.
He wished he was too.
He loved her more than words could say, and yet her pain was such,
that at times, he feared she wouldn’t make it.
But on nights like these, even when it threatened to consume her,
he became convinced that somehow she would.
  Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
Bo shrugged.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“Of course!”
“How do you know?”
“Because...I just
  if you need help making it through the dayremember:
there are
flowers growing
in gutters
and pavement
cracks where
nobody planted

Features by GrimFace242

Mr. FiveI checked my watch as I strolled down the halls of the Midvane Asylum. My supervising officer hadn't told me what I was walking into, unfortunately for me. A male nurse met me at the building office. His scrubs were smeared with what I assume was saliva, and his glasses were uneven on his face. He had no hair on his head, but there was a black soul patch staring at me from his chin.
"Are you here about Mr. Five?" the nurse scrawled across a clipboard as he spoke.
"Mr. Five?"
"Yes, the patient that we called about. You were told what the situation was, weren't you?"
The nurse sighed and nodded towards the door of the office and walked out. I followed him down the hall, struggling to keep his pace. He never looked up from his clipboard on our trip through the Asylum halls, even when he had to step around gurneys and patients. I kept the brim of my hat tipped forward throughout the walk. Something about the way crazy people stare, it unsettles me. The nurse tilted his head back towa
Saku sono ki
Harukaze ni mau
Yurumeta te
Dakishime tometa
Sagashitemo muda
This blooming tree
Dancing in the spring wind
The hand I've loosened
Ceased to embrace me
It's futile even if I search for it
  What I gave youI unfairly gave you,
Many wonders this world doesn't own
Many pipe dreams I painted for you
The rainbow butterfly of my love
Gentle treasures buried in my very soul
The phial of my affection...
...That you drank in one go
Drying me to my last heartbeat.
You gave me ashes back
Sealed in a mocking funeral urn.
Even bullets couldn't wound me 
As much as your sadistic smile.
Despite leaving me all alone, again
I still forgive you. I still believe in you.
On the gloomy road
And I walk, and I cry, and I feel
A chill of loneliness.
  Heart Sold.i stand before you
my heart drugged
pride swallowed
as all i want
is your ever
 :thumb407777094:   Last WordsIn the beginning you never want to let her go,
and so you don't for a long, long time.
You commit to bobby pins underfoot, mismatched
plates stacked like landmines,
long hairs that circle and clog the drain, filling the tub
with stagnant water.
You tell her something that you love about her
each night before you fall asleep,
until one day you look at her and realize that you
don't know what to say anymore.
“I am not happy.”
You whisper this to yourself once and then try to say it louder,
but the words won't cooperate.
Maybe a whisper is as loud as this thought can exist,
or maybe some words weren't meant to be spoken aloud,
but you still think them, and yes,
you whisper them to yourself
when she isn't listening.
Perhaps this is what you should have been telling her
each night as her hands searched for you in the darkness.
This isn't happening, you think,
unless it is.
You wonder if you owe her something,
like your heart, maybe, your red hooded sweatshirt,
  .Red lips.I see you every night with the same lipstick.
Red lips open and close with the music.
They leave a mark on your empty glass..
The ice is melting slowly, as you wait for him..
You are looking at the crowd with restless eyes.
You don't leave hope behind.
Every night at the same table, patience.
You play nervously with your cigarettes.
I want to talk to you..
But I fear an empty smile out of politeness
Your magic would be gone just like that.
We look like now..
Every night I wait for you.
I look forward to when our eyes will finally meet.
  The Heart Necklace A child sits numbly at a table 
the chairs across from him are empty.
Children race about around him 
and he watches as their attention dashes through him. 
He wears a heart necklace the red of a summer sunrise
and plays with it idly between his fingers. It can be split in two but it stays as one. 
Someday, I'll find someone to wear this with me 
He whispers, almost as if to console himself. 
A teenager sits meekly at a table 
the chairs across from him are empty. 
Other teens text and chat with their friends 
and he watches as one girl smiles at him with honey eyes. 
He wears a heart necklace the red of his blushing face 
and he plays with it idly between his fingers. It is split in two but both pieces are around his neck.
Someday, she may wear this with me 
He whispers, almost lost in his shy giggles.
A man sits proudly at a table 
the chair across from him sits a woman with honey eyes. 
Anyone else w
  Cyclical loveI see a beginning and an end
clasped within the lines of your palms, echoing
in the ripples of your irises;
I remember the apricot april morning
stumbling over your outstretched legs
in the park which I had never seen as
anything more than a cut-through, but
my life changed course and the park
became a destination and I still don’t know
when I noticed that I was waking up
twenty minutes earlier just to
talk to you before work, just to hear
your lilting voice flow through my ears and
fill my mouth with ideas;
And I remember the dew drops kissing my feet
when you convinced me that it was practically illegal
to wear shoes in june and I watched as
the grass pressed hatched patterns into your skin
and for a moment I wished that they were my fingers
holding you in eternal summer lawns, swan choruses,
whirring rollerskates, the smell of peach blossoms;
And I remember you blooming and shedding
the remnants of your cocoon as you pointed out
made-up constellations littering a swelling augu
  Paradigm ShiftEmerging flash of starlight pap
between sunset and ocean cap
colliding spang into my eyes
for once to have me realize
not everything becomes a song,
and I shall sleep before too long.
  [transmissions of a dead girl]i am the
moon: i am
the silver pill
your throat
to weigh down
into leaden eyes--
i am the
moon: lover
of the dark.
the stars are
all dead in their
twinkling dance--
you'll be safe, dear,
as i am the moon,
with all of their
you're alright.
(i am good bye and yet,
you think only of romantic
i am the moon.
i am the crescent
looking dead--
and dead altogether,
i still die.
  Southern modernizationBlack comedy market economy, banana peel political humour, cards with the cartels, the solution free room service and credit the union. Bolivar twist, ding dong dollar under control, valley of the coin desert with no value.  Gangsta paradise, the victims are the people. Big mac and cold conflict interference a part of it all. In little Mexico you’d need a high horse to jump the great border wall that boasts its peak.
Viracocha melts  waters unlike those it rose from, making waves of out of metal oceans to overtake the current south, re-steel, re-take, tech-mechs the entire south into neo-Machu Picchu, cyberpunk music moulding, reshaping old society into an new age, iron dynasty,  fresh coat for an old, ancient look. The coattails of Quetzalcoatl if he were a modern man pull together the merge of future and long passed past..techno temples and the like.
  may as well buy another packcollapse, and breathe into the carpet:
sunday mornings are not
for falling apart, but damn
the amphorics, this
is not an atmosphere.
you fell in love like you always
wish you didn't, made all their
smiles replaceable, interchangeable,
fell asleep with shadows and kept
drinking, just letting yourself sleep
with blue pills
and tried not to scream.
(keep this image in your head:
fire and nectarines, a sudden jerk
of realization, inspiration
breaking your neck and leaving you forever
breaking bones is not so different
from breaking hearts - it's all about
the leverage, the angle, the mode
of attack
(and at least it wasn't personal; 
it can color in your own guilt
for starting lines and never ending
  The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso.  Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back.  There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end).  I reach.  He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye.  When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers.  Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine.  I follow him out the door.
  Bad ShotEveryday 
I try 
to crumble up
the remnant pieces 
of my love for you
and throw them in the trash
but I'm such a bad shot.

Features by neurotype

Senryu Series 121.
adjunct office
even the printer
patio nap
he still wakes up
in Iraq
essay due
his grandmother dies
cult documentary
another gnat
in the lemonade
I choose not to round
her grade
my rent
on the preacher's back,
autumn wind
corporate merger
a new boss, the age
of my son
corporate ladder
the boss graduates
with my son
gossip blog
the same old bats
turning 60
even his shadow
eviction notice
I purchase 10 acres
on Farmville
deep in love
she invades my side
of the bed
meeting her dad
a loose thread
in my sweater
newly wed
until debt
do us part
    VisitorThere is a ghost doing handstands on my front lawn,
wrist-deep in fresh soil. Her hands are birds
in flight.
It's late, but no one comes to take her home.
The pale moon offers a silver smile -
the clouds disapprove.
Too tired to dream, she buries her legs in sky.
Tonight she is invincible, untouchable,
this frail girl beneath the stars
this death in light.
There is a ghost doing handstands on my front lawn,
falling to her white knees. Her stare is a pane
of glass.
The eyes of the living are often murky but
the eyes of the gone
are windows.
   Margieoh Margie, Margie, Margie.
your name sounds like snow.
you remind me of oranges.
you're a Polack
and i call you so.
why don't you call, Margie?
where have you gone?
i tried to keep in touch
but in the end i know
it's me.
i've gone.
you're still home.
all the kids who were our friends,
they are just your friends.
we were all in the marching band
but fuck that, Margie, you know
yes you know how i feel about that.
i miss you,
and i barely even know you!
i wanted to see you
in the summer
in your attic
where we'd wear sweaty clothes
and move boxes by droves
and find books,
real books,
French books,
cook books
that all stank of cloves,
and we'd joke,
and imitate the sweet little voice
of the lady who once lived in your house.
she left her books in your attic
and i wonder if you've gone through them,
or maybe your father burned them.
and you said
you'd be getting a job?
that was the last i'd heard from you.
if you wanted to,
i'd open a parlor for you!
a dance hall with burgers
and you
  daughtersmy 5 year old daughter only wants to run
through the park, loping beside our wolf-puppy,
both lean & fierce, joyful
as she tosses her hair back
& suddenly I see my body
in hers, tireless & certain,
despite my pounding heart
& damaged limbs, I run&run&
then she gives for a moment,
tumbled full-length in the grass,
feeding the puppy from her cupped hands,
& demanding, scratch my back too!
then down her sides & over the ripples
of her ribcage, her leaping heart
& tummy, still baby-soft,
until the shadows reach us & I
must give her back, inch by inch,
a long, twirling hug
my mother will echo with sad arms,
murmuring, you look really good,
here, now, when we stand alone,
which never means,
you lost weight or
that’s a pretty dress
only us, watching her
& suddenly glad
we’re alive
    MaaheWhen the Maaheseum wore off, Onteia knew she was close to death. Her hair had gone white, her eyes were sunken and glassy, her flesh had receded. Those in her pod were the same: decrepit old men and women, none of them older than twenty-five. Outside, the blueshift had pushed every black hole, every brown dwarf, every burst of cosmic radiation from every pulsar in the Galactic Center into visibility. In hyperspace, even someone who never saw the shining beauty brought out by Maaheseum could see what lay beyond the cursory glance that was their lifelong perspective.
The pod was nearing its final destination--the spectacular, unmatched glory of a collapsing star. This was what all Travelers longed to see before their inevitable early death from the drug. Onteia reached into the small container at the center of their pod, where there were enough green-tinted black shards to last a hundred Travelers a decade. She took a piece just over an inch long, and set it on her decaying molars, and b
  Dead ZoneWe met on an art website—you, me, and the Sprout.
Thing is, the Sprout and I didn't really care about art. Only you did. But when I looked online for a school art project and found you two bickering about something pointless in the comments of a picture that had nothing to do with any of us, I signed up for the site solely for the purpose of telling you two to shut up and take it to someone who cares.
So you sent me your Skype contact.
I expected you to start the conversation with arguments or even flirtation, but instead you just asked me how my day had been, as if we'd always been friends and you were just greeting me on a lonely Tuesday night. When the Sprout joined us a few minutes later, haven taken a bit more time to accept contact with the guy who he had been arguing with earlier, his first words consisted of telling you that you typed slower than his three-year-old niece and brought the conversation to the comfortable squabbling that had taken up most of our relationship.
  A Bloody, Stupid Miracle     The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
     But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
     My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
   A Turning Point in the Clockwork WarA war of attrition
depends on supply and drawdown,
how much you have and how much you use up.
With personnel, the balance concerns
the influx of recruitment versus
the outflow of casualties, deserters, invalids.
There is only so much loss
that a fighting force can sustain
and still fight.
Pilot Claude Archer was the first
to challenge his invalid discharge.
"I don't need legs to fly," he said,
patting the healed stumps of his thighs.
"My Osprey runs on elbow grease."
The members of the discharge board
paused and looked at each other.
What he said was true.  
The Osprey-class fighter jets
relied on hand controls,
and a sharp eye and iron nerve.
Fingers flicked through the stack
of discharge papers -- so many, many pages.
So many soldiers lost, never to fight again.
They could not afford to let slip even one
who might be retained, somehow,
to face the front line once more.
Far less could the war effort spare
one of its best pilots.
So they put Pilot Archer back on the roster,
and he
   Teenage TaoismGiving birth is the closest I’d ever felt to dying.
Before that, my near death experiences had consisted only of my silent announcement of pregnancy—silent, being that my social media accounts were all deleted almost simultaneously and I never returned to school in the fall, saying without really saying that I had caught the malicious disease of “teenage pregnancy”. I’m sure the whisper spread in the hallways like the Bubonic Plague. That September, sitting at home on what would have been the first day of my senior year, I imagined friends I’d never talk to again saying “she was only seventeen, and so full of life!” at my absence in the cafeteria tables, as if they were attending my funeral instead of talking about me behind my back.
"Full of life," I had snorted then, folding a never ending stream of what had once been my own baby clothes. "Literally."
I walked around like a zombie for the months of my pregnancy, deciding t

Features by ShadowedAcolyte

Heat AdvisoryWe are an air-mass thunderstorm at the height
of an Indian summer -- a cloudburst colliding
into a cyclone, raising the temperature of any
who wander through our sweaty inversion.
I soar above the earth buoyed on your thermals,
straight into a clap of thunder conceived by
lightning fever. A roiling heatwave travels
across our connection, evaporating the atmosphere
surrounding the eye of our storm. Your humid
breath wisps over the thermodynamics of my skin,
pushing cumulonimbus up the drought in my spine.
Muggy kisses trail down my body like volcanic ash,
a haze blurring the lines between our hurricanes.
And as the barometer spikes, my heartbeat quickens;
I am sucked into the vortex of your tropical storm.
  Stories about our fatherOur father is fourteen in this story
so we must imagine him young and slim
and short-shorted,
bobbing on his toes, the quiver
of his racquet like the quiver
of a cat’s tail.
We’ve seen our father play before,
sitting courtside with our action figures
and paper dolls,
deadened to the minor explosions
of balls striking asphalt.
But we are surprised now by the
animal sharpness
in his face, his eyes moving the tight loop
from court to net to opponent
and back again.
And it occurs to us
that we haven’t occurred to him.
Our father is pre-marital,
pre-paternal –
his world blazes between these
white-painted lines.  
But soon we look where our father won’t:
To the stands where
our boy-faced uncles jeer
beside our grandmother, thin and erect
where we know her
soft and stooped.
She raises a hand to the metallic crest of
her hair and calls out,
David! What’s the score!
And it is understandable to us
that he pretends not hear.
That his shoulders twitc
   a timeless ringshe wears me upon
her withered hand:
an angel's halo
with no beginning or
end —
she didn't like
or goodbyes
but he brushed away the
drops of jupiter
twinkling on her
promising to
return but it was
just a fool's
and now i am
a memoir of
because he is
dead but he is
not, he is
gone but he is
here, he is
a ghost
alive with
a memory preserved;
she wears me upon
her withered hand:
the crown of a
king lost in battle
and she
grazes me with her
lips and
because soon i
will be a
metaphor and
she will be the
  Graffiti Dreams in Black and White            The strokes are dreamt permanent,
the only lasting demarcations of claiming existence,
and the collective artists who painted them majored in Biology,
or Accounting, or English and Professional Writing, or dropped out
            as so many do when they wake up.
The poet paints them into existence with his words:
                        “ideas are illusions, and all words are untrue.
            And we nod our heads and sip our coffees, indeed,
put a price to labors and words and even to thoughts
because we no longer want freedom if it costs us the freedom
of saving face and keeping pace with the ebb and flow
  Red DirtRed Dirt
I eat only because my body demands it.
In the South pregnant mothers eat red dirt
because it gives them what they crave. Their bellies are full moons,
their eyes constellations of what their baby will be.
Forget tossed stones or chicken entrails,
the lines of a palm already scarred
by machinery bits, a barbed wire chicken fence.
I already know what my future will be.
I was given paradise but it did not want me.
They told me if you are not strong enough this paradise will scar you
and it has. I was meant to be pregnant at the age of 16
and believe this child will be different from me.
But I escaped, relentless, demanding. "Do not give into it."
But paradise rejected me.
I am now too slovenly, scared and desperate.
I want to bite myself, taste red blood,
red clay until it consumes me. I belong to it.
I want the red clay until it exhausts me and whatever I may give birth to.
My scars like constellations have told me we are not worthy.
  All Here For A ReasonI turned onto a shady, well-manicured driveway that, for all intents and purposes, looked harmless enough. Maple trees lined both sides of the street, and a parade of Canadian geese marched across the road to a wide duck pond with a flamboyant fountain. There were blooming crepe myrtles and rose-of-sharons, and as I grew closer to my destination, neatly trimmed gardens with neatly trimmed bushes.
I stopped to let the geese pass. They looked at me; one hissed. I honked my horn and moved around them.
At the end of the road sat a collection of grayish buildings and a number of signs directing me to the appropriate parking lot. "Welcome to Ten Creeks Hospital," said one of them. "Please enjoy your stay." I parked in the visitor's lot. Surely I wouldn't be staying.
I was shaking when I got out of my car. I had spent the morning getting high. One foot in front of the other, flip-flop noises, hot sidewalk. Mulberry and magnolia trees, freshly shaved grass. A bench and pan for smokers. A set o
   Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat –
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight –
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
  ViolinI remember the day
you told me violins
were strung with cat gut
and that is why
you hated music
(who says that to a child?)
I followed you
all that summer.
I watched you
grow away from mother -
your whiskey held better conversations
and all she did was cry.
We'd sit cross-legged on the porch
and count the horseflies
settling on our lunch.
You would drown tadpoles
in a bucket
surprised they could not swim
and I would dream
of cherry popsicles.
And when night would gather
on the sidewalk
I'd hold my breath
until a star appeared.
Don't bother making wishes
you'd tell me -
stars are dead weight in heaven
and God has cloth ears.

Keep suggesting :eager: And don't forget to favorite this!
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

Feature - Literature

Sat Jan 10, 2015, 1:28 PM by DailyBreadCafe:icondailybreadcafe:

The art of writing, is the art of discovering what your believe -- Gustave Flaubert

Featured Deviants

:iconbelladonna170:     :iconemptyxreturns:     :iconedges-to-everything:     :iconstreetcamera17:     :iconblackshadow6202:     :iconmarcoemma:

:iconmisslunarverse:     :icontales-of-tao:     :iconbeadgcf17:     :iconladybrookecelebwen:     :iconlucain24:     :iconvivafariy:

:iconinknalcohol:     :iconithaswhatitisnt:     :iconimaginative-lioness:     :icondorianharper:     :icondenisecroy:    :iconweirdandlovely:

Featured Art of Encouragement

Bard's LamentMy steps are attached to the ground that holds your kingdom. I saw you once upon a time, when I first came with my humble lyre to play some joy and some pain, and I never left.
I wonder ; forgotten princess, could the comb you once  held in your hand now untangle the torment of my mind?
I wonder; does the mirror that reflected your eyes still stand unbroken; and could it take me where wanders your mind?
I wonder; did the two thousand steps of your castle porch kiss your feet when you climbed them for the last time?
I wonder; do the walls cry at night seeing you forever asleep?
And I, the poorest of all minstrels, I shall destroy my instrument and use its strings to make a bow. And send my everything to you, on an arrow, since I cannot climb up to you holding on your locks, like Rapunzel, or fighting the dragon like Sleeping Beauty. I will send my most beautiful scores, and maybe the touch of my heart’s ink will at last wake you up.
I will sit under your balcony, on the very spot

By DeniseCroy

Featured Deviations

Pack MentalityLogan stood with his head cocked at the front of the group.  He was questioning the intruder with his eyes.  Loki, his second in command, was standing just to his left; their shoulders touching.  Sunny, the youngest but strongest of the group, was on Logan's right side.  The three males stood phalanxed, protecting the two females behind them.
Looking to both sides first and twitching his nose toward the metal intruder, Logan stepped forward while Loki and Sunny closed together in his absence.  None of them knew what to make of the metal beast with glowing orange eyes.  
As Logan circled around the beast, it moved and mimicked his actions; circling so it was always looking at the leader of the pack.  It leaned closer as Logan leaned closer.  Logan's eyes darted back to Loki for a split second then focused on the intruder again.  His wet nose touched the cold metal of the beast.
Immediately Logan ya
   ShopkeeperI want to bottle this feeling up
And sell it to myself in the morning
Grossly overpriced with no family discount.
For the status symbol it implies.
I want to be selfish enough to buy it.
With the delusion that if it works
Everything will be better.
Buying it will make all the doubt,
Self-loathing, disgust and mistrust disappear......
I want to bottle this feeling up
And sell it to myself in the morning....
When I'm too stingy to cough up the cash.
   Sleeplessshe spends those sleepless nights
caught in her little worlds,
cursed by the moonlight, dying in the twilight –
and the darken figure within her dreams
enslaves her,
and the stories she spins of courageous men
end only in tragedies
       (melodies are lost).
but the little bird which rests in her hands
awakens her from within,
hope fills her lungs, her heart, her soul –
and maybe,
when the time arrives and her bird sings
the softest tune,
she will become imprisoned
by sleep.

Love, AndromedaI’m sorry, Cissa. I had to leave you – I just couldn’t stay anymore. I’m sure by now you’ve heard Mother and Father screaming about betrayal, while Bellatrix agrees with them. Sirius has probably popped up to celebrate another family member who found the right ideas.
And he’s right that I no longer believe everything I used to. But it’s not because I believe in everything Dumbledore does, either.
You know how you’ve dreamed of falling in love for years, and the way we’d chatter at night, hoping that one day we’d both have that?
I found that. His name is Ted and I love him deeply.
I’m sorry to leave you, but he’s that dream we both have.
I hope you find it one day, whether it’s with a rich pureblood (which would be better for you, because you wouldn’t have to leave our family behind) or you fall in love like I did.
   Curious Coffee Break             I’m still not sure how magic came into the conversation over our coffee break, but it managed somehow. It wasn’t so much an unexpected guest brashly deciding to drag a third wicker chair into the middle of our morning; rather, magic entered as an overly-attentive waiter who was clearly aiming for a 20% tip. Little amenities became ours at the tilt of a brow, at the turn of a minute desire. Jonathon’s Frappuccino (butterbeer, with lots of cream) came frothing back up to the brim every time he emptied it—there was never any less cream, either. As for me, my muffin was making faces at the napkin; I was snickering and waiting for the two to kiss and make up.
            “Tell me,” Jonathon remarked as his strudel hovered expectantly near his left ear and whispered, Bite me, bad boy, in breathy falsetto. “How did it
   PromiseThe night was warm and plesant. A gentle breeze tossed the little girl's ebony hair as she watched the stars wink at the moon. All was quiet as she lay there on the roof of the orphanage until the girl heard the creaking of the attic window opening. The girl crept over to the attic window and stretched out her hand. She felt the familiar, timid touch of her friend's hand and she carefully hoisted him up onto the roof. Smiling gently, she squeezed his hand and asked, "Are you alright Jay?"
Jay smiled back and answered, "I'm OK. Jane started throwing a tantrum not long after Miss Thorn started using the rod and since she doesn't like the noise of children having tantrums, she stopped quickly."
"Man, if I knew she didn't like it when children got tantrums, I'd throw tantrums the moment the door closed on the decipline room."
"No. She would catch on eventually and the you would get burned by the rod too. I can't let that happen to you Hannah."
Hannah frowned. "Why can't you let it happen?"


Do you ever experiment with point of view (POV) in your writing? Do you have a preferred POV? Have you tried writing in one of the less popular POVs (2nd person, omniscient, etc), and to what effect?

Spread a Little Love

Share the love around. We challenge you to send a :hug: to five or more deviants and/or comment on some of the deviations featured here today. Remember, it only takes a few moments to tell someone you appreciate them and their work, but the effects can last all day. So go and put a smile on someone’s face :)

Currently Playing in the Cafe

Interesting Video of the Day

Know someone you think should be featured? Drop us a note with their username and preferred art form.

Skin by SimplySilent
The Daily Bread Cafe - Literature Feature
January 11th 2015
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

Membership: Win 1, get 1 free!

Journal Entry: Fri Aug 22, 2014, 7:32 AM
That's right... :iconwooooplz:

Premium Membership


:iconlachoirplz: :iconlaplz: :iconlachoirplz:

In the spirit of my great and awesome return to DA... :dummy: - I would like to give away 10 PREMIUM MEMBERSHIPs. You biz-natches heard right.



Considering that this is the first time I will be doing this giveaway, I'll start with 1 MONTH PREMIUM MEMBERSHIPS. This giveaway is all in the spirit of community, forgivness :forgiveme:, & LOVE. :tighthug: There are just a few rules to follow... so please,


... or evil goblins hungry for premium memberships will come in the night and eat them all up.

:icondeathglareplz: It's true. I've seen them.

:icondplz::iconaplz:            :iconrplz::iconu-plz::iconlplz::iconeplz::iconzplz:
... they must be followed, or the goblins will come. :stare:

:bulletred: You must :+fav: this journal to spread the word. :salute:
:bulletred: Post a comment in this journal suggesting someone else who deserves to win the Premium Membership. (Most important rule.) :turbopoke:
:bulletred: In your comment, include a few sentences about why your friend is SO great, talented, and awesome that they deserve to win. :dalove:
:bulletred: And then chill the fuck out and wait. :stare: JK, fuck that rule. What's fun about chilling? :squee:

Other details you may care to know...


Once there are at least 50 participants, or it is August 31st, 2014, I will randomly choose 5 of those who commented and give a 1 Month Premium Membership to them and the friend they suggested and spoke so highly about.

:iconteheplz: It's called good karma, bitches.

Out of those 5 commenters, I will then choose one lucky person to recieve a 3 Month Premium Membersip. (And their special friend will recieve one as well.) :nuu:

I want everyone to really think about someone who deserves to win something. Someone who has made an impact on you or the community in some way. I want to give back, and I want those who really deserve it to win. :blush:


... and because I've really been meaning to show this gurl some credit.:paranoid:

:iconofonesoul: OfOneSoul says: I think CristianaLeone deserves a premium membership. She is such a lovely, caring person and an amazing artist to commission. She just recently finished my commission, "The Abandonment" (small plug is small):
The Abandonment by CristianaLeone

- and it simply blew me away. She is such a pleasure to work with and makes the entire process that much easier. If anyone deserved a reward, it would be her. :heart:

It's just that easy!


Now, go start commenting with your lovely compliments of your fellow deviants and who knows...

- you might get a Premium Membership out of it!

:iconeplz: :iconnplz: :icontplz: :iconrplz: :iconaplz: :iconnplz: :icontplz: :iconsplz:
... so far. :shifty:

1. 7Demented and their nomination, Letmis.
2. VivaFariy and their nomination, graceeful.
3. Cionie, and their nomination, QuixoticApricot.
4. Arbitrary-Means, and their nomination, gracefulsunshine.
5. DeniseCroy, and their nomination, LN-au-carre.
6. Siocain, and their nomination, Art-JS.
7. nonetheIess, and their nomination, Gossamier.
8. TrainerTimpani, and their nomination, TwiHungerCity17.
9. holster262, and their nomination, AterImber.
10. wesleydog, and their nomination, boooeyyyy.
11. CrimsonSeal, and their nomination, chacusha.
12. Digigex90, and their nomination, ChaudStarpower.
13. BrownieRainbow, and their nomination, Nightmare-Loon.
14. MissButterfly11, and their nomination, StarfireTamaran472.
15. theWitchofGrich, and their nomination, BlueBubbleButterfly.
16. trejowauk, and their nomination, Basher954.
17. Kit8, and their nomination, bannylou.
18. Rainbows, and their nomination, MagicCafe.
19. Midnight--Comet, and their nomination, Insanity-is-who-I-am.
20. FairyGal11, and their nomination, XSreiki772.
21. moulinrougegirl77, and their nomination, RvBPhoenix.
22. KikiAndBri, and their nomination, RosaDunsparce.
23. ShamelessMagic, and their nomination, wrath-kakerou.
24. quee-n, and their nomination, melonerd.
25. toastermadness, and their nomination, TheStalkerBunny.
26. AuroraSkies11, and their nomination, turtle33334.
27. feathery-blue-otaku, and their nomination, MagicBirdie.
28. Pastelix, and their nomination, calamitymasters.
29. slayingallhumans, and their nomination, AgentQStables.
30. Mystic-Wolf-Of-Snow, and their nomination, hiniko.
31. TheMysteriousPoet, and their nomination, Banshee-Scream.
32. rainylake, and their nomination, WintersRead.
33. DrippingWords, and their nomination, DreamingAutumn.
34. amour-raven, and their nomination, A-Shadow-Rose.
35. SpiralingSpontaneity, and their nomination, Aerode.
36. Ritsuuri, and their nomination, Lunarlay.
37. Introvertedghost, and their nomination, schriftsteller.
38. wrath-kakerou, and their nomination, ShamelessMagic.
39. duhmfounded, and their nomination, paIindrome.
40. MagnaDk, and their nomination, Patty-Blau.
41. SkeyeStorm, and their nomination, Muffinluver9000.
42. Miistical, and their nomination, 1Julivia.
43. EquineLullaby, and their nomination, qBATGIRLq.
44. LifeIsToBeHappy, and their nomination, EmotionalTimeBomb.
45. Aerode, and their nomination, SpiralingSpontaneity.
46. qBATGIRLq, and their nomination, EquineLullaby.
47. Sp0ttish, and their nomination, Icevia.
48. xColdWhisper, and their nomination, SoulessMonster.
49. KittyKattara-Builds, and their nomination, Makdragon8.
50. Triplet99c, and their nomination, Rainmaker113.

:heart: OfOneSoul

journal skin by STelari
old paper texture by frameofthoughts
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

In 2009, I planed on completing 50 character portraits from Batman The Animated Series.  I did just that, and completed more than one a week, which was my original plan.  The list below will take you to the posted pieces.

I'm not sure at this point if I will tackle another series in 2010, but given the popularity of this one, I may do that.  I've got a couple of weeks to decide though!

Thanks to everyone who favourited one (or more!) of these pieces, and for all of your comments.  I really appreciate them.



Week 01 -… - Alfred Pennyworth
Week 02 -… - Baby Doll
Week 03 -… - Bane
Week 04 -… - Batgirl
Week 05 -… - Batman
Week 06 -… - Calendar Girl
Week 07 -… - Catwoman
Week 08 -… - Clayface
Week 09 -… - Clock King
Week 10 -… - Commissioner Gordon
Week 11 -… - Count Verigo
Week 12 -… - Detective Bullock
Week 13 -… - Dr. Emil Dorian
Week 14 -… - Dr. Hugo Strange
Week 15 -… - Farmer Brown
Week 16 -… - Firefly
Week 17 -… - Gray Ghost
Week 18 -… - HARDAC Batman
Week 19 -… - Harley Quinn
Week 20 -… - Joker
Week 21 -… - Judge
Week 22 -… - Killer Croc
Week 23 -… - Klarion
Week 24 -… - Kyodai Ken
Week 25 -… - Lloyd Ventrix
Week 26 -… - Lock-Up
Week 27 -… - Mad Hatter
Week 28 -… - Man-Bat
Week 29 -… - Maxie Zeus
Week 30 -… - Mr. Freeze
Week 31 -… - Nightwing
Week 32 -… - Nostromos
Week 33 -… - Officer Montoya
Week 34 -… - Penguin
Week 35 -… - Phantasm
Week 36 -… - Poison Ivy
Week 37 -… - Professor Milo
Week 38 -… - Randa Duane
Week 39 -… - Ra's Al Ghul
Week 40 -… - Red Claw
Week 41 -… - Riddler
Week 42 -… - Robin (Dick Grayson)
Week 43 -… - Robin (Tim Drake)
Week 44 -… - Roxy Rocket
Week 45 -… - Rupert Thorne
Week 46 -… - Scarecrow
Week 47 -… - Sewer King
Week 48 -… - Talia
Week 49 -… - Two-Face
Week 50 -… - Ventriloquist and Scarface
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

BERSERK Timelapse Art.

Journal Entry: Sun Mar 30, 2014, 5:30 PM

Tribute to Berserk!

If you like this videos please subscribe to my channel in this link,…
That  would help me a lot.

. Hope you like it, and next week
I will to upload a new image, greetings!

Theme Berserk tv serie and Ova.

Visit my others videos :).

  • Mood: Joy
  • Reading: El Resplandor
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.


El concurso termina hoy, 11 de Septiembre, a las 11:59 de la noche. Aun tienen varias horas para entregar sus entradas aquellos participantes que aun no lo han hecho :)


El concurso se extiende hasta el Jueves 11 de Septiembre. Es la última fecha para que todos subas sus entradas


Este aviso es para recordarles que el concurso cierra el 9 de Septiembre, por lo que todos los participantes deben entregar sus entradas antes de ese día :).


Bienvenidos a dA Birthday Contest! Fella Fan Art!

deviantART deviantART deviantART deviantART deviantART deviantART deviantART deviantART deviantART deviantART deviantART deviantART 

 Si, el sitio ha cumplido 14 años y muchos usuarios lo celebran realizando diversas actividades especiales para despertar el espiritu festivo en cada uno de nosotros y darnos la oportunidad de ganar grandiosos premios =D. Yo también les dare la oportunidad de conseguir esos premios en mi concurso especial en honor al Aniversario de dA ^^.

La temática principal de este concurso es el Fan Art.

El Fan Art es arte de personajes de Series de TV, Peliculas, Videojuegos, libros, etc. Es decir, arte de algun personaje oficial y conocido :). También puede ser arte de un personaje de un amigo (a). Es arte especial para demostrar tu fanatismo hacía dichos personajes =D. Ejemplos de Fan Art:…

Ejemplos de Fan Art de Fella:

Pixiv-tan and Fella by sakurapanda  Fella Chibi Design by kkitty23 Fella Artist - Reborn by iPhenixia

deviantART Reglas

-Tu objetivo es crear un Fan Art Creativo y Divertido de Fella Celebrando del cumpleaños del sitio o en cualquier otra situación :).

-Si lo deseas tu puedes dibujar a Fella en compañía de tus personajes o de cualquier otro personaje, pero Fella debe ser el protagonista de la imagen porque estamos celebrando el cumpleaños de dA y Fella es la mascota del sitio.

- :new: Puedes utilizar todo tipo de Recursos de Stock (Texturas, Brushes, Packs de PNG, etc) que sean de uso libre. Si se requiere el permiso del artista original para usar un recurso, tu debes pedir el permiso a esa persona. También es importante dar el credito al artista original en tu dibujo.

-Puedes subir todas las entradas que quieras pero solo podrás ganar una vez.

-Debes subir tu entrada en la categoría "Fan Art". Entradas en otras categorías no serán aceptadas.

-No puedes usar una obra antigua de tu galería. Solo dibujos realizados especial y únicamente para este concurso. La obra no puede participar en varios concursos a la vez.

-En tu Comentario de Artista tu debes mencionar que el dibujo es una entrada para este concurso :).

-Solo trabajos realizados por ti. No esta permitido copiar o robar el trabajo de otra persona. Si tu haces esto tu serás descalificado.

- :new: No puedes utilizar imágenes de Google ni las imágenes oficiales de Fella. Como uno de los rasgos principales a evaluar es la Creatividad, es importante que tu seas una persona creativa, una persona que gusta de usar su imaginación para crear dibujos originales y divertidos :).

-Publica en este Journal un enlace a tu entrada para participar. Yo guardare tu entrada en la carpeta especial para este concurso en mi sección de favoritos.

-A divertirse!! =D Spin it good 

deviantART Juzgando

Todas las entradas serán revisadas y juzgadas por mi. Los rasgos a evaluar en las entradas serán:

-Originalidad y Creatividad: Eres una persona con una imaginación tremenda y muy activa?. Si la respuesta es si, entonces este es tu concurso ^^. Es importante que tu entrada sea lo más creativa y original posible. Usa la gran imaginación que posees para crear una obra fuera de lo común. Tu imaginación es tu propia fuente de inspiración. No dudes en explotarla y dejar salir todas aquellas ideas originales que posees.

-Calidad: Que tan bien has trabajado tu obra?. Dominas de cierta manera la tecnica artistica de tu preferencia?. Debes tratar de darle toda la calidad posible a tu entrada :). Para ello utiliza todos los materiales y recursos artisticos que tengas a la mano y que pueden ser útiles. Si eres un artista digital te invito a jugar con los diferentes efectos y filtros de tu programa de dibujo digital. Si eres un artista tradicional te invito a experimentar con tu material de dibujo favorito. Con lapices de colores también puedes crear interesantes efectos en tus dibujos. Nunca dudes en experimentar mientras creas tu obra, utilizando tu sentido artistico.

-Esfuerzo: Para ti ha sido un gran desafio crear esta gran pieza de arte? Tu sientes has dado todo tu esfuerzo para lograr obtener buenos resultados en tu dibujo?. Tus obras también hablan de ti y en ellas se puede notar el gran esfuerzo, dedicación y empeño dados por tu persona para lograr crear la pieza de arte y la satisfacción de un trabajo bien hecho.

Tres aspectos fundamentales en una entrada y obra de arte para un concurso. Sin embargo, no solo debes aplicar estos aspectos en concursos, también en todas tus obras de arte mientras te diviertes creando. Creatividad es el primer rasgo a evaluar debido a que es importante fomentar la creatividad entre los participantes de un concurso. A muchos jueces de concurso en dA les gusta aquellas obras que rebozan de Creatividad y Originalidad, aquellas obras con ideas poco usuales pero muy interesantes. Otros prefieren obras de buena calidad, o Creatividad y Calidad juntas sumadas con el Esfuerzo dado en la obra. Particularmente, a mi me gustaría ver obras de arte que tengan los tres aspectos por igual.

Otro aspecto importante es la Diversión. Tu debes divertirte mientras creas tu obra de arte. No veas al arte como una obligación, debes ver al arte como un medio para divertirte y educar a los demás. La diversión también debe estar presente dentro de tu obra, es decir, tu obra de arte debe ser divertida si el concurso en el cual tu estas participando lo requiere y también si tu prefieres mostrar piezas de arte divertidas a tus amigos :).

En pocas palabras: Usa tu imaginación, talento artistico y motivación para crear imagen creativa y divertida =D

deviantART Premios

Tu creiste que yo me estaba olvidando de los premios?. No XD. Si hay premios en este concurso. Tres ganadores serán elegidos y los premios seran:

1er Lugar

-1 Año de Membresia Premium

2do Lugar

-6 Meses de Membresia Premium

3er Lugar

-3 Meses de Membresia Premium

Nota: Yo he conseguido una colaboración especial de premios por parte de Moonbeam13, la Directora de communityrelations. Yo he conversado con ella por el email y ella acepto ayudarme en mi concurso. Tengo su aprobación para ofrecer estos premios ^^.

deviantART Fecha Limite

Este Concurso finaliza el 9 de Septiembre (fecha extendida). Los ganadores seran anunciados dos o tres días después del concurso, dependiendo del número de entradas recibidas.

Mucha suerte a todos!! =D

Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.