dArama - ISSUE ONE - Love.
The dynamic between core staff, volunteer staff, and the community can at times be pure quality dArama.
It's worth noting that for years I've worked pretty hard to remain neutral on community politics. Today, I'm going to shatter that concept.
Needless to say, I am extremely politically aware of the inner workings of the deviantART community. I read *a lot* of journals, comments, forums, chat rooms. I have fake accounts. I spy.
But I don't spend my time talking politics, instead I focus internally at deviantART designing technologies and implementing understandings with core staff to address the issues I see pop up.
It's time to take a moment to be a bit more petty.
In the inner workings of our politics exists the soul of deviantART. What is this place? What was it meant to do? What does it do? What could we do better? And it's the politics that give insight into how well the greater plan is running.
There's $core staff who are employees or contractors and work 8+
Under the UmbrellaThats me under the battered umbrella, the one with the Technicolor dreamcoat and the hairstyle thats decidedly undecided. Im avoiding looking down, I expect, because Id like to be one of those confident people that smiles and says Afternoon! to everyone they pass on the gum-dappled pavements, and not someone that puts all their energy into considering abandoned takeaway packaging and coins glued to the floor by psychology students.Under the Umbrella7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Im probably thinking about poetry, or one of many arrogant young men that occasionally give me a look that could be mistaken for something meaningful. Maybe Im just wondering if the rain would sound so much like gunfire if I put the umbrella down. Undoubtedly Im so focused on my thoughts that I would jump if you said something to me. Id be embarrassed that Id jumped, so then I would snap at you, even though you were only trying to be friendly. Possibly Im thinking about that, although I
Tommy 1337Dahl, your death was a tragedy,Tommy 13377 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
But I'm almost glad you didn't see
The rising of the new way to
Make your kids' minds melt into goo.
I talk, of course, lest we forget
Of the abhorrent INTERNET.
None of us could contain our joy
When this delightful little toy
Made little Tommy shut his trap
(Much quicker than a lunchtime nap)
And seemed, at first, to educate
Rather than brain-assimilate.
But years rolled on and our new friend
Became the source of ghastly trends
And Tommy, now at age thirteen,
Became rather absurdly keen
On women half cat, with huge breasts,
And arguments on which was best:
The Potter books or sparkly guys
(Those weird gay vampires in disguise).
The vulgar porn and RP games
All make TV look rather tame.
Over 9,000 pedo-cocks,
And fan girls milling 'round in flocks,
Dramatica and DeviantArt
Will slowly blacken any heart
And dull your eyes, and dull your brain
Until you'll never speak again
Save in a strained and beastly growl
As we eliminate the vowel.
Seasons of Violet.We called her Violet, and she was.Seasons of Violet.7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
We knew her when she was young and pale, during Fall
And when we'd climb old trees, their brittle branches
Like welcoming arms
Would snap in two
And we'd cascade to the earthy ground
Carpeted with golden and red and orange
And as we fell,
Secretly, she'd wish with all the goodness in her heart
That she were a leaf as well
That like a leaf, she could be swept away to some distant place
In arms that would not break
In arms that belonged to people who truly loved her.
We called her Violet, and she was.
And with the changing of the seasons,
Winter had taken away her smile and replaced it with the cold blank
A frown that could only belong to a soul like hers
To a soul that had wished to be a leaf
But had became only the scent of pomegranate and midnight
Perhaps people would embrace her only to get drunk on her scent
But my love was sincere, and it mingled with her berried essence
As I would try to will life and warmth back into her.
A gift sh
Confession.I sold hope.Confession.5 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
Out of stock.
i am falling with youi.i am falling with you7 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
there is no need in this, only want.
i fear for my safety, and you know this.
i dont know if i should be disturbed by your telling me that you would kill them if they ever hurt me, and yet you are nearly a man too. i am disturbed by how far i let you in and i am glad you cant see how you are the one who could hurt me most of all, and
only the trust i have in you will prevent that eventuality.
i have always been an obstinate creature. my mother spent years telling everyone who asked how i spent days clinging to the inside of her womb, unwilling to come out with the rose-tinted, nostalgic wisdom of infants. maybe it was obduracy. maybe it was fear.
you are the only one who could undecide me, and you have. and i am.
you watch me open the door to you in my dressing gown, warm from the water of recent showers. are you sick? you ask, taking me in as i let you in, because you know i only ever
Dear Honorable Mr. HolmesDear Honorable Mr. Holmes:Dear Honorable Mr. Holmes8 years ago in Humor More Like This
I bring to you hearty greetings from across the pond. However, as you likely have already surmised by the small smudge on the address bar of the envelope undoubtedly caused by a bead of my own sweat, I also deliver a quandary for the likes of your finely honed skills.
As you may know, a survey was recently conducted of 3,000 of your fellow Britons, asking whether certain figures were real or fictional. When your name came up, Mr. Holmes, 58 percent said you were real.
Isn't that preposterous? That means 42 percent believe you're a fake! I can only think that such hoodwinkery be caused by some sort of slanderous propaganda scheme.
The chigger of misinformation digs even more deeply into the skin of your fellow countrymen, sir. When asked of Winston Churchill, 23 percent believed he was made up. Am I, with most sincerity, being asked to believe that a staggering 77 percent of Britons actually think Churchill was real? The same Churchill who lit his cigars with
ThiefThe man with the umbrella smileThief7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and bright crooked eyes
strips down the daylight
like a hunter skinning first kill
He lurches under a darkling moon
tucking kite string under his coat
where the wind gathers tears and leaves
and scatters you in bits and pieces.
He has cold hands without gloves
and loves to touch you secretly
when he thinks the moon is not watching
and your lips are stitched shut
by a mother's weary hands.
His sighs are solitary shades
growing in a damp knot
under the stretch of your dress
where he baits your breath
and forces you to hold it
until you turn blue.
He offers you pieces of stars
and pretty things to wear
places promises on your tongue
that hang like cloaks in dark closets
and presses you to keep secrets
arched between your thighs
tucked up inside your belly.
He unpins night from the sky
and rolls it up under your bed
tucking it in safe and secure
in the corners he hides from your family
disguising the abomination
that calls itself sanctuary.
The WoodcutterThe WoodcutterThe Woodcutter7 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
Hunched over against the freezing wind and driving snow, he shifted the oversized pile of kindling into a less uncomfortable position on his back. Hed noticed just last winter that these days, there was no truly comfortable position.
Youre getting old, Josef, he sighed to himself. Its time for the boy to take over the deliveries.
Hed had a donkey once, but it too had grown old. He well remembered the fuss the bad-tempered beast had caused the day it died, smack in the centre of a busy thoroughfare, as if determined to be stubborn right up to its last act. Predictably, that too had been upon a deep, midwinters day, and it had taken him four trips by foot to clear the wood from the road, though he couldnt help noticing that the heap was just that little bit smaller each time he returned. Hed twice spotted local matrons, hurrying off with their hands clutching something unseen before them, but being basically
RaskolOur son and his wife sleep in separate rooms. They are painted the same colour and bear identical scars but are separated by a hall so long that by the time I walk from one end to the other, I am too tired to compare and know what is different.Raskol7 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
That is the convenience of an oversized house, I think, that we did not have in our small one-room apartmentthey never have to see each others faces. You remember the nights when we were given no choice but to lie next to each other, against the hard corner, when we were seething in each others anger. How wonderful it might have been to stare at a blank wall, letting the heat of our hands seep into the plaster until we forgot each other, and how to be angry.
I never told you the fear I had inside my heart every time we tore apart and came back together again, that we would forget how closely we fit, or that in the short intervals when we were apart, a piece of the puzzle would come loose against us like a grain of sand, until w
Presenting: Community VolunteersA BRIEF OVERVIEWPresenting: Community Volunteers4 years ago in Deviant Events More Like This
Over the years, we've been proud to offer the opportunity to volunteer with deviantART. We believe that our volunteers play a crucial role in helping our community develop and grow in positive ways.
The Gallery Moderator (previously known as Gallery Director) and Message Network Admin (MN@) teams have become a much loved and appreciated role, with many volunteers proudly detailing their experience in applications to enter into successful careers with companies who all recognise the value of volunteering in such a vibrant and eclectic community. Did you know that some of our now full time Staff were once volunteers? fourteenthstar, Moonbeam13, Pachunka, aunjuli, y2jenn, damphyr, Tachy-on, dxd and Ikue all volunteered in various roles -- and we are all very proud of that fact!
Over the past few months, we've been taking a close look at the volunteer experience -- what's worked, what hasn't worked a
DT 2011 Army Barracks Raccoon-ConDT 2011 Army Barracks Raccoon-Con4 years ago in Personal More Like This
dt developer group is 100% remote. We wrote about it in We're all remote before. Well, what we did not mention is that once per year, we get to see each other (often for the first time), and work in the same room on exciting new projects.
...so we all decided to go to this place!
(it looks much nicer in HDR)
Among the many sights: A rare action shot of Pachunka racing swiftly to the conference room at night, shooting beams of light and magic and rollerskates
Ah, Sunny San Francisco!
Ten years ago, a crack commando unit was sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn't commit.... Wait, no. That's not us. We'
ManuscriptI have written us down, typed us up, and sent us out.Manuscript8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
they will edit us, and say some parts are no good.
but I want your run-ons, your lack of punctuation; and you are so easy
on my weak binding, my damaged spine.
ScrutinyAnd when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,Scrutiny7 years ago in Open More Like This
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
~ T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
I am going through the keyless gate
to watch and wait,
to wander here and there among the proud,
among the white and old whose wisdom rots, repressed, untold:
the soporific royals wreathed in leaves of gold.
And to them I shall read aloud from the Book,
read of the sins their lips have took
and upon me they shall look and patiently reflect
I am lost in my own depth, I will say
in a slight, impartial way
(for I lack violets and an antic princes love)
and they, floating through their channels deep
dare to drown me in my sleep and in their orisons remember
So shall I be a queen bone and ash,
of crawling worms and sullied, melting flesh.
Kissed by death, I shall burn upon a pyre
knowing only distance and desire and, rising from the fire,
I shall step with soft, unfettered feet
Measured in YearsEliza is six and theres something unusual about the morning. The day seems to have forgotten to wake up. Its black outside the windows except the silver pools the streetlights leave on the pavement. She can hear a faint, familiar noise: her parents alarm, an ongoing stacatto rhythm that usually ends just after it begins. She goes downstairs in feeted pajamas, one warm thing in the dark house, one pink smudge in the somber white living room with its vaulted ceiling. She sees her mother sitting on the sofa in her nightgown, part of the pale triangles that lace the shadowed room.Measured in Years8 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Eliza stands in the center of the carpet and her mother doesnt move and the alarm doesnt stop. At some point, her mothers head comes out of her hands. Sweetie, why are you up? she asks. Eliza crawls into her mothers lap, but she doesnt find the comforting circle of arms and steady heartbeat she expects. Instead there is a strange communicable urgency in
The GiftThe GiftThe Gift7 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
They were his constant companions these days, though he knew little about them other than that they ate only the softer, juicier leaves produced by Table Woods' trees and called themselves Shikul. Where they lived or what functions they might perform in the Woods, he had no idea, for 'Shikul' was the only word he'd ever managed to decipher from the strange, singing noise they caused inside his head when a swarm finally succeeded in completely surrounding him.
He might not have known what use they were to the Woods, but Josef had quickly learned their use to himself, because they always fled whenever the Keeper approached, clad in his cumbersome metal garments and always preceded by an odd, greenish fluorescence. The Woodcutter was quick to follow their example, for he knew what fate held in store for the Artisan, who would inevitably follow all his meddling predecessors to an early grave. He 'd seen their bones many times now, and had long since ceased wondering at
The Umbrella LettersDear Mr. and Mrs. Umbrella,The Umbrella Letters8 years ago in Socio-political More Like This
I'm writing out of concern for your son Charlie. Since he first started in my class I have noticed odd tendencies in his behaviour. I know Charlie is a special boy, but the way these tendencies develop is beginning to worry me. He seems to be having troubles communicating with others. He rarely plays with the other children and does not respond when I speak to him. His writing is beginning to stray from the alphabet. Last week he even refused to partake in morning prostration! I took him to see the school nurse but he remained silent for the entire time and did not subject himself to examination. I therefore ask you to bring Charlie to a doctor in order to find out what is causing these problems.
Miss Edna Umber, Umbrellium Primary School
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Umbrella,
After the examination of your son, we have been able to establish that he is not suffering from any apparent physical illness or dysfunction. There appears to be nothing wrong wit
The DiscoveryThe DiscoveryThe Discovery7 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
Commissioner Fastolder had a problem ... with the strange object securely locked away in his safe, he now knew who was behind the abortive attempt to obtain it, which had lead to the death of the girl in the Park. He had two miscreants in custody and lacked only the third ... the mastermind behind it all.
And that was the problem, because the gentleman he needed to apprehend possessed one of the sharpest minds in Wind City - which was why Fastolder was currently closetted deep within the Artisanian, presenting his case to some very strange people indeed. From the time he'd entered the grounds to where he currently sat, he'd encountered perhaps thirty of them, all identically garbed in black, hooded robes, tied at the waist with a silver cord. And yet he'd seen not a single part of any actual person; not a hand, nor a foot, not even a toe or a finger. They all spoke in a similar fashion as well ... slow, measured and quiet to the point of whispering.
'So, Commissioner ...
Metastasis98.00Metastasis3 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
Autumn is the season when everything dies.
The leaves shrivel up and your lungs go with them, tiny dejected organs drying out inside your sternum, crinkling under our footsteps. The doctors pronounce their diagnosis as the leaves fall, listing medical terms and percentages and something about medication options.
The disease is metastatic: it has bored its way out of your lungs and into your bones. Dissatisfied, it's going for your organs, your liver, your heart. The prognosis says Christmas is a pipe dream, likely as the sun ceasing to set.
You promise it anyway.
November comes and I am a fish, breathing through makeshift gills carved into my hips, lopsided and crude.
I make fresh ones twice a day, slice myself open once in the morning and once at night in hopes the air will come a little easier each time. I make three and count them off:
and hope my heart stops.
The leaves have been carted away, pummeled into dust, and blown away in the wind.
The MakingThe MakingThe Making7 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
For quite some time, Table Woods had stood essentially empty. The Artisans had finally discovered a way of restricting them - well, of course they had, or Wind City would have ceased to exist - but the glyphs that created them had corrupted with them, so there were no means by which they could be undone.
Strictly speaking, the term 'Woods' was inaccurate, as the entire structure had arisen from just one piece of timber and was in fact, a single living organism. Its creator hadn't done it on purpose, naturally; Faulawd's original intention had been to prove his prowess to his detractors by making an awe-inspiring piece of furniture - a table, to be precise. Unfortunately; being foolhardy to the point of recklessness, he'd well and truly overreached himself, inscribing the tabletop with glyphs that a student of his inexperience had no hope of mastering.
Growing at a frightening pace, Faulawd's rampaging monster had swallowed a substantial portion of Wind City overn
RoommatesIts really not the poltergeist I mind-Roommates6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it intriguing to see ones energy
bouncing like ball lightning from wall to wall
in an encapsulate cubiculum of space.
Analytically, its entertaining,
after all the debunking, EEG,
and other skeptic quests are satisfied
and you master the not-looking-looking.
I see what I see; its easy for me-
it takes no more thought than it does to blink.
Its never been another way, although
no two people ever see the same thing.
A faceted phenomenon, for sure.
The knocks and moving things amuses me
its never frightening as a general rule
but somethings not quite right about the black
shadow thing, human- like and spherical
as a buzz-cut little brother skulking
along the hall outside the bathroom door.
Friday nights, Im always home alone-
the guys go out. Im more of a house mouse
and its so nice to control the remote,
push the off button and crank up the tunes
-in the living room instead of m
A Crab Eyeing A TouristA Crab Eyeing A Tourist9 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Find out what you are,
Where you are headed.
Find your own moon and land on it.
A chair scraped across a vinyl floor and made an embarrassing sound.
"My name is Alex and I have a problem."
Someone waved their hands. "Does this problem involve an actual child actually being raped?"
Alex thought about this. "No," he decided.
"Then continue," the group leader said, bowing her head.
"But this child who was definitely not raped, and not by me, his name was Thomas."
All around the circle, a gentle ripple of applause broke out.
"Thank you, Alex," smiled the group leader, "that was very brave. You can sit down."
Alex sat, being careful not to make the chair scrape this time. Next to the group leader, a man nervously raised his hand and said, "Erm, if I may, can I ask, uh, a question. A question to Alex."
"N-" said the leader.
"Sure," said Alex, smiling, "I think we should be totally open. After all, anything I have to hide must be illegal, right?"
The group leader smiled falsely and
words that don't connecti am writing apologies on napkinswords that don't connect6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and love letters on park benches.
(i am defacing public property
and all of the clean surfaces of my heart)
my fingers are cold (like ice, like yours,
like saturday nights) in my pockets
and my palms are itchy and empty
with sweat, or nostalgia.
and this is not a poem
and this is not a letter
and this is not a story
and this is not enough.